Taking Fire

by Radclyffe

  “Where’s Max?” Rachel asked.

  “She said something about reconnaissance. She went out twenty minutes ago.”

  “Alone?” Rachel grimaced. “Of course, alone. There’s no one else here. How long have I been sleeping?”

  “Not long. An hour, perhaps.”

  Rachel sat up on the side of the cot, and the throbbing in her head disappeared in a rush of adrenaline. “She shouldn’t be out there without backup. Why didn’t she wait for me?”

  “She’s a soldier,” Amina said softly.

  “She’s a doctor.”

  “And you’re already seriously dehydrated. It’s still a hundred degrees out there.”

  “I’m going after her.” Rachel loosened the tape on her wrist, closed the port on the IV, and pulled the needle from her arm.

  Amina rose, opened a paper pack of gauze, and taped a folded square over the IV site on Rachel’s wrist. “I don’t think you should. We are not soldiers.”

  “I think we are now.” Rachel hugged Amina quickly and let her go. “Look after Grif. I won’t leave the camp, but I can’t sit in here waiting.”

  “It will be night soon. It will at least get cooler.”

  “I’m not worried about the temperature.” Rachel didn’t want to say what they were both thinking. When night fell, they might be rescued. Or the rebels might return. She didn’t know, and there were no answers. All her life, she’d sought answers—why her father cared more about power and prestige than happiness, why she never met a woman who would risk social status for love, why no matter how much she achieved, she still felt restless and dissatisfied. Suddenly the questions seemed self-indulgent and the answers didn’t matter any longer. What mattered was what she could do in the moment. What mattered was now. She shook her head as she took her assault rifle and stepped out into the camp. Max was turning her into a soldier after all. As she searched the camp and couldn’t find her, the tension in her middle swelled. Shaking off a wave of fear at the thought of Max in danger, she wondered what else Max was doing to her.

  *

  Max stopped in the first clearing she could find where she could actually see the sky through the dense canopy. The sun was an angry red eye in the west, and she estimated another hour before dark. She tried her sat com again.

  “Foxtrot Charlie, this is Fox MD2, requesting immediate extraction. Over.”

  Like all the other times she’d tried from closer to camp, she got only static in response. She repeated the message and waited.

  …D2…repeat…

  Max gripped the radio, her pulse jumping. “Foxtrot Charlie, this is Fox MD2, requesting immediate extraction. Over.”

  …status…

  “Four to transport. We have wounded. Over.”

  Static.

  Max squeezed the radio, wanted to scream at it. Steadily, clearly, she said, “Foxtrot Charlie, come in. Over.”

  Nothing but dead air.

  Max waited another ten minutes, repeating her message, and got no further response. She checked her compass and set a course back to camp, her fatigue and hunger and worry fading a bit. That fragment of contact, the sound of a friendly voice from home, was almost as heartening as the drone of rotors drawing near. The troops in Djibouti, her family far more than the mother and father with too many children and not enough means or interest to care for them, knew she was out here, and help would come. She’d never doubted it, but the insidious feeling of being isolated and abandoned lurked inside her, emerging when she was at her weakest. Not knowing when or if another attack was coming had gnawed at her all day. She’d told Rachel it didn’t matter what was coming—all that mattered was to be prepared and face it head-on. She wasn’t worried for herself. She would never feel the round that took her out, but she had two civilians and a seriously wounded sailor on her hands and at least a few more hours to wait until the birds returned. If there was a race between the Black Hawks and the rebels to get to them, she put her money on the Black Hawks.

  The attack that morning had been a disorganized raid by a few rebels who’d likely stumbled on the camp by accident. The small scout force might have attacked without knowing the identity of the Red Cross contingent. She doubted the insurgents would have cared about the neutrality of the aid workers even if they had known, considering they assaulted the locals whenever the villagers or herders came close to rebel territory. The main rebel force was probably still miles away. The rebel survivors would have wounded, and by the time they reached their base, even if another attack was planned, it would take time to organize the forces and return. A return raid might not even be a priority—unless they had a specific target. Just like she’d had. Rachel.

  Two Black Hawks had been sent to extract Rachel specifically. Rachel had avoided talking about herself, but someone with power had arranged something like that. If she’d been the focus of the attack that morning too, the rebels were likely to return for another try. Max blew out air. Thinking about Rachel in the hands of the rebels short-circuited her reason. She needed to concentrate on what she knew and what she could do. She’d heard from base. Help would be on the way, and until it arrived, she had to be ready to fight again. She started back for camp, glad to be bringing good news to Rachel. To Rachel and Amina and Grif.

  The footpath was hardly recognizable at first, barely wide enough for a hyena let alone a human, and she’d stepped onto it before she’d realized it. The trail ran parallel to the camp, about fifty yards into the jungle, and was only one of hundreds crisscrossing the area, traveled by hunters, herders, and nomadic tribes—and, in the last few months, by rebel forces using the jungle as a sanctuary from aerial and ground attack. This was probably the route the rebels who’d raided the camp that morning had taken. From the looks of the trail, it wasn’t a major access route. Nothing suggested mechanized transport or even a large volume of foot traffic.

  Stomach crawling with dread, she stood absolutely still and looked for signs the ground around her had been disturbed. Intelligence gathered from the Somalis indicated the land all along the jungle trails was mined. If she lost a foot or leg out here, she’d die of exposure, animal attack, or infection if she didn’t bleed to death first. Amina and Rachel would probably survive without her until help arrived as long as the rebels didn’t attack again. They were both tough and resourceful, but Grif was already critical. He could go south at any second, and without a medic he’d never make it.

  She backed away slowly, carefully retracing her steps along the route she’d taken from camp. She could just make out the first break in the canopy indicating the edge of camp when branches swayed directly in front of her where no breeze could penetrate. She ducked behind a tree trunk and aimed where she’d sensed movement. Five minutes. Nothing. She crept closer, mouth dry and heart hammering. Had the rebels circled behind her? Were they already in the camp? Had she been wrong about everything? Had the rebel forces been closer than she calculated? Had they returned before dark? Were Rachel and Amina and Grif already dead?

  She halted just at the edge of the jungle and scanned the camp. All quiet. Keeping low, she ran to the side of one of the smaller tents, using it for cover. Stones crunched behind her and she spun around. Rachel knelt by an adjacent tent, her assault rifle angled across her chest. She glared at Max.

  “I could’ve shot you, you know,” Rachel said.

  Rachel’s bravado was so genuine, Max’s anxiety evaporated on a swell of relief. She grinned. “Getting pretty cocky, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t say it would only take one bullet.” Rachel straightened, her narrowed eyes still flashing. “Are you all right?”

  Max shrugged, annoyance resurfacing now that she knew Rachel was safe. “Of course I’m all right. What the hell are you doing out here?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.” Jaw tight, Rachel stalked toward her. “What are you doing, going off by yourself into the jungle?”

  Max felt her eyebrows climb. “I thought it might be a good idea to mak
e sure our perimeter was reasonably secure.”

  “And what would you have done if you’d wandered into the middle of a bunch of rebels? Fought them all by yourself?”

  “I would’ve hightailed it back here. What was your plan if a dozen of them stormed into camp while you were out here playing patrol?”

  “What you taught me. Point and shoot. A lot.”

  Max smothered another grin. Rachel had done just what she would have done. Grabbed a weapon and gone out to check. All the same, she was prepared to die. Maybe Rachel was too, but she wasn’t going to let that happen. The thought of Rachel being hurt roughened her voice. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “I’m not a patient,” Rachel snapped. “And you’re not Rambo. Stop taking chances.”

  “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

  Rachel’s teeth ached from clenching her jaws. The woman was infuriating. Did she really think she was invincible, or did she just not care if some sociopath shot her or, worse, dragged her off to torture her first? Just about every scenario she could imagine had passed through her mind while she waited for some sign of Max. Only Max’s warning earlier not to stray into the jungle because of mines had kept her inside the camp. That and she hadn’t wanted to leave Amina alone. When Max had slipped out of the jungle, she’d wanted to shout with relief and run to her. Now she just wanted to throttle her. What if she’d never come back? What if she never saw her again? The sinking feeling in her stomach was far worse than the fear she’d felt at the idea of the rebels returning. She had a rifle—she could fight. The one thing she could not fight was death. Max took too many chances, and that scared her in a way she’d never been afraid before. “You didn’t worry me. You just pissed me off.”

  “Well, that’s nothing unusual.” Max glanced up at the sky as if searching for something. When she looked back at Rachel, the startling blue of her eyes pulled Rachel in, and for just an instant, the war and death and fear disappeared.

  “Did you find anything out there?” Rachel asked, determined to break the spell. Max de Milles might be an attractive woman—okay, an amazingly attractive woman—but she also had a God complex that was likely to get her killed. And she was controlling and authoritarian and just plain frustrating on every level. So forgetting about her incredible blue eyes and gorgeous grin was a very good idea.

  Max hesitated. “A trail runs pretty near the camp. I think that’s the way the rebels came in this morning. No sign of them now.”

  Rachel sighed, relief tinged with annoyance. “Damn it, Max. You might have run into them.”

  “I also got through to the base.”

  “Oh my God! Why didn’t you say something!”

  Max laughed. “I would have, but you weren’t finished dressing me down.”

  Rachel gripped Max’s arm. “Are they coming?”

  “I told you they were,” Max said. “The transmission was broken up, but they know we’re here. They’ll come.”

  Rachel’s joy dampened, and she glanced toward the tent. “No word when?”

  “No. Are Amina and Grif okay?”

  “Yes. Amina says his vital signs are stable. He was still asleep when I came outside.”

  “How about you? How are you feeling?”

  “Hungry, but the thought of another packet of preserved chicken doesn’t really appeal.” Rachel realized she still held Max’s arm and let go. “And I’m still pissed off at you.”

  “Uh-huh. We’ve got a little light left and the area is clear. Will it help if I stand guard while you take a shower?”

  Rachel studied her. “I’m not sure two minutes under a trickle of lukewarm water is going to be enough to drown my annoyance.”

  “It’s a start.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Rachel stepped into the three-by-three-foot square plywood enclosure and tilted her head back. A nozzle hung from a pole above her face and warm spray drenched her like gentle rain. The makeshift stall was open to the sky, and if she didn’t think about Max standing guard with an assault rifle, didn’t picture all that had happened, she could almost believe when she stepped out into the encampment, her friends would be gathered around the fires preparing for supper. Maribel would be recounting some story of Paris, her mellifluous French-accented voice floating above the low bass background rumble of Dacar and his men, while the conversation of Amina and the others filled in the melody, and the jungle night sounds provided a chorus. Pumping a handful of liquid soap into her palm and spreading it over her skin, she could almost believe life as she knew it would continue—night would fall after a long hard day, bringing the peace and satisfaction of a job worth doing. She might even imagine a shower such as this one, and indulge in the fantasy of the sensuous flow of hands skimming over her body. Fantasy, she admitted, rather than a pleasant memory, the fiction a reminder that she’d rarely been touched with love. Lust and desire, yes. Love and passion, not that she’d ever recalled. Not that she’d ever missed until the specter of death haunted her every moment.

  She tilted her face to the blood-red sky again. Sunset would soon give way to the dark. Water sluiced through her hair and down her body, bravely etching inroads into the dust caking her skin. She’d left the wooden half-door open, needing an escape route if the enemy suddenly appeared. Through partially closed lids, she saw Max standing with her legs widespread, her rifle canted across her chest, her back to the shower. She’d seen the body beneath the armor that afternoon as Max dug the foxhole, and now she pictured the stretch of her thin cotton T-shirt across her sculpted shoulders, the tapering of her muscular back to her waist, and the faint flare of her hips. Beneath the uniform, Max was sensuous as well as strong.

  “How much longer?” Rachel asked, rinsing away the last bit of suds.

  Max turned and their eyes met. Rachel stilled, her hands cupping her breasts, water streaming down her torso, over her belly, and between her thighs with the sensuous glide of a lover’s skin on hers. Max’s gaze moved lower, then slowly rose and returned to hers.

  “Two minutes,” Max said, her voice rough enough to be angry, but her eyes weren’t angry. Her eyes were flame. “I want you and Amina secure before sundown.”

  Rachel let her hands fall to her sides, unembarrassed by her exposure. Max had seen her naked in far more important ways than this. Max had seen her terror and grief and anger, all the things she usually kept hidden behind a façade of control and unconcern. “Yes, all right. Is there time for Amina?”

  “If she hurries.”

  “I’ll get her.” Rachel twisted the clamp on the water line closed and shook out her dusty clothes. Max’s back was turned again, and as she dressed, she tried not to think about the way her nipples had tightened under Max’s perusal or the twisting in the pit of her stomach or the tingling between her thighs that pulsed even now. She’d been looked at by women before, by women she’d taken to her bed and by those she hadn’t. She’d seen appreciation, seen longing, sometimes even envy. She’d thought she’d seen desire, thought she’d seen hunger, but she’d been wrong. She knew what hunger looked like now, and she doubted anything less would ever stir her again. She drew a ragged breath. “What about you?”

  Max turned around again, the blue of her eyes as black as the ocean beneath a storm-tossed sky. “Amina first. I’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you.” Rachel fumbled the buttons closed on her once-white shirt, stiff and yellowed with ingrained dust.

  “Gather up the weapons and pack any loose ammo in one of the backpacks.”

  “I will.” Rachel strode toward their makeshift base without looking back. She didn’t need to ask why. When night came, they’d have to be ready for anything.

  Max watched her go. The water had turned her auburn hair nearly black, and the dark strands curled around her neck and face with careless abandon. Her face showed signs of a light burn from all the hours in the sun, but the skin on her chest and abdomen was smooth and creamy. An image of her oval breasts and light tan nipples rose in Max’s
mind. She should’ve looked away, but she couldn’t. She’d been in the desert for months, and for years before that, she’d existed in the desert of her life—working, spending nights alone, letting her achievements fill her needs. She hadn’t touched a woman in almost two years, and she’d barely been present for that. After an OR party she hadn’t been able to avoid, she’d passed a few hazy hours of mutual desperation with a nurse who’d been flirting with her for half a year. Never mind that the nurse was married with two children, except, as the nurse was quick to point out, she and her husband were in the midst of a trial separation, so technically the sex wasn’t cheating. Max hadn’t asked for details. She’d had one too many drinks to hear the inevitable tale of disinterest, distance, and disillusion, and the nurse was not so drunk she couldn’t be responsible for policing her own marriage. There’d never been a repeat, although the nurse had indicated she would be more than willing.

  Max could barely remember now what the woman looked like, if her breasts had been large or small, her stomach toned or full, her hips narrow or wide. She couldn’t recall the texture of her skin or the scent of her hair. Just a glimpse of Rachel had awakened all her senses, as indelibly as if they’d touched. Her fingers tingled with the glide of silky skin beneath her hands, her breath hitched at the firm press of a nipple against her tongue, her skin heated with the slickness of desire spreading over her thigh. She should have looked away, but she didn’t want to. Her body came alive when she looked at Rachel, and the sensation was so foreign and so exhilarating, she couldn’t let it go. Not yet.