“Does he know you’re trying to release your leopards?”
“He knows we’ve established camp—he left two young cubs there when he slaughtered the mother. I doubt he’s realized we’re uncollaring individuals yet.” And he’d be pissed. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “For all I know, he could be a local man who knows our every move.” She grimaced. “I don’t think so though, and we haven’t spoken about releasing the cats on the radio. Not even the Trust knows what we’re doing…” She trailed off. She was jabbering. She didn’t jabber.
There was a power to silence—one her father had taught her from the cradle. One she usually used to her advantage. But her eyes kept trying to close no matter how hard she worked to keep them open. She wanted to lay down on the bare earth and go to sleep. Suddenly her eyes sprang wide. “We could set a trap.” She whirled to face him. “Stake out this collar and wait for the poacher to show.” She caught the flash of white teeth in the darkness and knew that he’d already thought of it. He was waiting for her to catch up. And she’d thought she was the smart one.
“It’s risky,” he said. “You’ll be tipping him off that you’re on to him.”
“How are we going to do this?” Axelle sniffed against the deepening cold and dug in her pocket for a tissue. “Why are you helping me?”
“We’ll pick an exposed position to place the collar. Say the entrance of a shallow cave on the side of a cliff. I’ll contact my squad—”
“There are more of you? What the hell are you doing here?” It would be a disaster if conflict moved into this impoverished region—the people and wildlife already lived on a knife-edge of survival.
“We’ll set up some observation posts and hopefully your problem will be solved by this time tomorrow.”
“If you radio your buddies, he might intercept your transmissions.”
“I’ve got a sat phone.”
“What if he’s using the satellite signal to track the cats?”
“He won’t pick up our signal. Trust me.”
Trust me? I don’t think so. Her night vision was sharp enough now to pick out the crease in his cheek when he smiled. No way was she trusting him, or that attractive smile.
“He’s the reason you’re here. Isn’t he?”
“We’re looking for someone,” he admitted, less smiley now. “It might be the same guy. I may as well check it out and perhaps help you out while I’m at it.”
“Okay, let’s go do this—”
“We need to clean your wounds first.”
“No. We’ll do that later.” She started marching away but when she turned around he was still kneeling beside his pack, not going anywhere. “What are you waiting for?”
“You. Wounds. Sit.” He pointed to a rock. “Now.”
Even though Axelle couldn’t see his expression from where she stood, she recognized stubborn when she saw it. As tired as she was, she couldn’t out-stubborn him right now. Not when she needed him. Her boots crunched deadweight back down the path. “Fine. But we’re wasting time.”
“Getting an infection in a place this remote would be wasting time.” He cleaned the cuts on his arm with an alcohol swab and smeared antibiotic cream over his skin.
“I’m not going to get a goddamn infection.” She sat on the boulder with more force than necessary and refused to wince as her butt connected with solid rock.
She was being childish. She knew it but everything she cared about was in danger and she didn’t know how to get control back.
“Well, you look like shit.”
She glared. “Maybe I always look like shit.”
“Take off your shirt.”
The terse order made her laugh.
He reached forward and whipped her headlamp off her head. Pulled it over his own short-cropped blond hair as she eased out of her jerkin, fleece, and shredded shirt. Now she’d stopped moving, it hurt. She tried not to wince, but her stiff movements probably gave away how sore she felt. He snapped on the light and she squeezed her eyes closed and turned her head away from the glare.
He knelt in front of her and stared from beneath lowered brows, eyes intent on her face. Something about the way he stared made her think he’d be intense about whatever he was doing. A tremor rippled through her flesh that had nothing to do with cold—it was an awareness she hadn’t felt in years. He kept his expression neutral except for those eyes, which even in the dim light glowed with unspoken emotions before he made them go resolutely flat.
She looked away. Soldiers were off-limits. Period.
It was freezing, sitting there in her tank top. She grabbed the blanket and draped it over her shoulders. The smell of leopard reminded her exactly what was at stake. This wasn’t about her, or the soldier. It wasn’t about memories or fleeting moments of desire.
The wind swept down from the mighty heights above them and funneled through the narrow canyon. The scent of snow tainted the air, reminding her humans were vulnerable and puny among these vast peaks.
She watched him work, the light from the headlamp casting a yellow glow to his features. A warrior’s face trapped in frozen darkness. Handsome enough if you liked sharp planes and blunt features. She didn’t. She frowned, trying to remember what she did like. He wasn’t her type at all, but he reminded her she’d once had a type, and that was a first in a long time.
***
Dempsey tore open alcohol swabs and sucked in a breath as he took in the six-inch gashes that raked her skin. Blood streaked her body. Though the injuries were superficial, they must sting like hell.
He concentrated on her shoulders first, moving the blanket, cleaning each scratch thoroughly, as clinical and professional as an ER doc. He’d done a stint in an ER once. The nurses deserved medals for dealing with all the pinheads that came in. Axelle Dehn wasn’t being a pinhead. She wasn’t making a sound of complaint now he’d finally got her to cooperate. He had to move her bra strap to treat one scratch, and his thumb brushed the petal-soft skin of her collarbone.
He ignored the pleasure that simple touch gave him. Cleared his throat. “That cat shredded your hide.”
Some of it would scar. He had the feeling she wouldn’t give a flying fuck about scars.
He pressed the gauze harder to a welt, and she sucked in a breath.
“Hold still.” He used his firmest voice, the one that told his soldiers the joking was over and it was time to get down to work. Even half-dazed, she raised a fine brow that told him she wasn’t used to taking orders. He hid a smile.
One of the cuts on her shoulders was still bleeding. He put on a plaster and continued to clean her up, pretending she was one of the guys and he’d never seen her naked. He smeared antibiotic cream over the cuts.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.” He didn’t want to linger over that smooth skin. Maybe he shouldn’t be bothering at all, but he needed this woman on his side. Plus, he liked her. Not in a let’s-get-married-and-have-babies sort of way. But he liked her determination, her grit. You needed a barrel load of both to get in the Regiment. More to stay in it. Her job was as demanding as his, and who could fail to admire someone who dedicated their life to protecting wildlife? Who could fail to be moved by the passion she obviously felt for her snow leopards?
He shifted position. Passion wasn’t what he should be thinking about with her bare skin beneath his fingers, but it had been a while since he’d touched a woman.
Back home there were a lot of women who wanted to get off with Special Forces soldiers. SAS groupies who hung around the local bars, getting turned on by the mere whisper of Who Dares Wins. But he hadn’t gone for that type of woman in a long time. He preferred women who weren’t looking to add him as a notch to their bedposts, before they compared notes on his performance with their BFFs. He’d rather face enemy fire than a bunch of drunken women on a hen night back home in Hereford.
Done with treating Axelle Dehn’s shoulders, he went through his pack, thrust a thermal shirt at her, followed by h
er fleece and jerkin. When she’d pulled them on, he settled the blanket back around her shoulders.
Nothing for it. He took a half step back. “Drop your trousers.”
She didn’t hesitate, and he blinked.
Something about this woman reminded him of a soldier. Her utilitarian nature. The set of her shoulders, shit, even the way her long, shiny hair was pulled back in that practical ponytail. She pushed the trousers down and he knelt at her side feeling like a perv because he was rapidly revising the way he liked her. The woman had legs. She shouldn’t have looked sexy with her trousers slouched around her ankles. But she did.
His skin prickled as his body reacted. Who was he trying to kid? He was attracted to every inch of her whether he wanted to be or not.
A row of five-inch long gashes stood out on her thigh, reminding him she was probably in shock and pain. He was dirt. Dog meat.
But the situation was achingly intimate as his hair brushed her thigh. She jumped. Jesus. He forced himself to concentrate on the rivulets of blood that ran down her legs, rather than the black cotton panties and elusive feminine scent. He shook his head, disgusted with himself. Nice. She was injured and vulnerable. And he was getting turned on.
You’re a stellar human being, Tyrone Dempsey. His mother would be proud. Except she wouldn’t. Ever.
He grabbed the tube of antibiotic cream and smoothed it over her skin with clinical precision. Applied butterfly bandages on two cuts.
Abruptly he stood and turned away. “All done.” He handed her an extra pair of pants to pull over the shredded canvas of hers and added a pair of thick wool socks for her boots. At least they were clean. Which was a frickin’ miracle under the circumstances.
He shoved his supplies furiously into his pack and turned to find her staring at him with an odd expression on her face, parted lips and high color burning across her brow. He didn’t kid himself that she was feeling lust for his manly body. Fever? He felt her forehead and dug out some Paracetamol and handed them to her along with her canteen.
“Thank you.”
He grunted in response.
She climbed to her feet and eased her other arm into her jerkin and pulled her hat lower over her ears. It was starting to dip from a wee bit nippy to holy-fuck freezing. He found his night-vision goggles, pulled off her headlamp, turning it off before handing it back to her. He took the bits and pieces she’d been carrying and stuffed them in his bergen. He stood, shouldering the weight with ease after years of practice.
Through his NVGs she had a green tinge and a worried edge. He stuck out his left hand, leaving his right free for his pistol. “The easiest way of doing this is to hold hands.”
She snorted, then realized he was serious. He watched her hesitate before reaching to take his hand. She didn’t ask for promises to keep her safe. Her long, smooth fingers slid over his palm and then gripped him firmly. She trusted him because she had to. But at least she trusted him.
This was about survival and the mission. And for this mission to be successful they needed one another. There was a man out there with a hunting scope and the training to use it.
Dempsey’s target was one of the most ruthless terrorists in the world, a man who’d taught explosives to extremists, knowing exactly the sort of death and mayhem he was going to inspire. Hatred drove these men—hatred and vengeance. Dempsey had a personal relationship with both, and had spent every day since his sister had been murdered trying to make up for the atrocities committed by his father. Catching this old Russian bastard might finally even the score.
***
Wakhan Corridor, Afghanistan, May 1980
“Kapitán.”
Dmitri was already slipping stockinged feet into his boots when the young soldier stuck his head through the tent flap. The fire had gone out and the temperature easily matched a Siberian winter. He shrugged into his greatcoat and pulled his bearskin hat over his burning ears.
“What is it, Serzhánt?” he asked. He’d been stuck in this valley for four weeks while his Spetsnaz unit protected key facilities from the mujahedeen further west in Badakhshan Province. He’d been in Ishkashim, helping protect a bridge vital to the Soviet supply line, when the former commanding officer of this remote outpost blew himself to pieces playing with what he thought was a dysfunctional butterfly mine. Mudak.
Dmitri was the only officer who could be spared and that was because he was supposed to be on leave.
“Your replacement has arrived, Kapitán.”
“Thank God.” He wasn’t trained for this slow attrition of the enemy. He was used to hitting them hard and fast, and moving on to the next target. Killing women and children was not his idea of warfare. It was cowardice and he’d made sure everyone on this outpost knew it. He pushed out the door and squinted at the pink rays of dawn as he looked around their fortified position. “Where?”
“At the lookout.”
Dmitri was pleased. The man was keen to get on with the job, which meant he’d be free to rejoin his unit, might even be granted the leave as originally promised. He jogged the narrow path and through the tunnel they’d constructed through this part of the mountain to give their men safe passage. He had to duck his head and nodded greetings to sentries who regarded him with wariness. He was used to it. Maybe even proud. Spetsnaz had an almost mystical reputation and Vympel were the premier unit within Spetsnaz.
Dmitri had discovered years ago that reputation was often enough to win a fight without firing a single shot, which was fine by him.
He saw a group of serzhánts clustered around an impatient-looking man. He saw the large single star on the man’s field uniform and slowed his step. “Mayór.” He saluted.
Slowly the man turned and Dmitri felt the first hint of alarm pierce the dawn. The man’s eyes were small and round, a gleam of malice sparking from their black depths.
“Ah, you must be our famous Vympel Kapitán, Dmitri Volkov, graciously taking care of our infantry.”
Dmitri ignored the jibe and bowed his head. “No doubt you will do a much better job of it than I, Mayór.” He just wanted to get back to his unit or his wife.
The mayór eyed him without blinking. Dmitri kept his head bowed. He might be Special Forces but he knew how pissing contests ended in the military.
The mayór nodded approvingly. Egomaniac. “I am Mayór Valisky. Come with me.”
Frowning, Dmitri followed the man down the slope of the hill toward the sniper positions dug into the hillside. The man hunched over and cowered from possible enemy bullets. Dmitri walked tall. They were out of range, and death did not scare him.
He followed the mayór inside one of the bunkers and his eyes widened when the man took one of the long rifles from the starshiná. The major nodded in the direction of the other rifleman. “I hear you are a crack shot? One of the best in Russia?”
He inclined his head slowly. “I once had that honor but—”
“Come then, Kapitán.” The major’s voice boomed into the clear quiet dawn. “We will have ourselves a little shooting competition.”
Dmitri could just make out figures on the opposite side of the Panj River, dark points against the bleak snow. Tiny, they snaked their way down the mountain carrying pots and pans.
“You have not killed a single mujahedeen rat since you took over the camp.”
Revulsion moved through Dmitri as the other man sat and sighted his rifle.
“I’ve captured plenty.”
“Captured.” Valisky spat. “So now we have to feed the vermin. What kind of soldier are you?”
Dmitri stood a little straighter and kept his eyes on the wall above the man’s head. “They are only children, Mayór.”
The man turned to him with indignation. “They are the rats who feed the enemy, who then shoot down our helicopters and kill our troops.”
Dmitri met his superior’s gaze. “They are children. I will not kill them.”
“Would you shoot them if they were English spies?”
D
mitri blinked with sudden understanding.
A look of satisfaction settled on the mayór’s features. “I’m thinking you’re not such an impressive marksman, eh? Not such an impressive patriot?”
A core of anger started to burn in Dmitri’s chest. “I serve Mother Russia, Mayór, and no man has ever dared say otherwise.” He stared hard at this man who wanted to grind him into the dirt for no reason.
Except he knew the reason. The blond cherub of a man he’d captured in the Wakhan last summer had told him he’d make him pay for his humiliation. Dmitri wished he’d put a bullet in the swine before he’d known they were on the same side. Now the bastard was dancing in the shadows and showing Dmitri exactly how much he liked to call the tune.
“As your superior officer I command you to prove your loyalty by destroying the enemy, otherwise I will have you court-martialed and shot,” Valisky threatened.
The idea of killing children in cold blood repulsed him. “According to the Geneva Convention”—Dmitri pointed his finger at the valley floor—“they are not soldiers and therefore not the enemy.” Dmitri couldn’t believe what was happening. He’d gone from having a dream about making love to his wife to being fucked by a commanding officer in the space of five minutes.
The mayór’s cheeks suffused with the color of wrath. “Starshiná! Arrest this man for insubordination and cowardice.”
No one moved.
Perhaps they’d felt the wave of fury that moved through Dmitri at the suggestion of cowardice. From this little pig of a man.
“You have no authority over me.” Even so, Dmitri took the rifle. He had no choice.
The mayór’s lips peeled back. “You are not leaving this camp until you have shot ten of the little bastards, Kapitán. Or my order for arrest will stand.”
Ten? His heart imploded. Crumpled to dust and disappeared. Dmitri wanted to close his eyes and howl, but he was a professional soldier and he knew how to do his duty. He knew how to kill.
This was his punishment for capturing the spy, for spitting on him and making him reveal his true identity. This was his punishment for being better at his job that the other mudak.
The Killing Game Page 8