by Rachel Grant
Cal’s gaze scanned Morgan before he turned to face the road. “Damn, Pax, you had one job. What the hell sort of babysitter are you?” Then he glanced sideways at Pax. “And I hear you hit a guy in the nuts. Do we need to send you back to remedial shooting school?”
Pax rolled his eyes. “I was aiming for his balls so he’d live and give up Desta’s lair.”
“Right.” Cal put the Gator in gear and gave them a brief rundown of his encounter with the sniper as he drove them to the CO’s office. He buzzed with energy and looked ready to run a 10K, which was how he usually burned residual adrenaline.
Pax usually went to the gym and beat the hell out of a punching bag to dispel it. But today, proximity to a foul-mouthed fairy had led to a different adrenaline reaction.
Put simply, he wanted to fuck.
He’d get through the meeting with the base commander and head to the gym. Showering would have to wait. He needed to get the adrenaline out of his system before it made him completely stupid.
Morgan tilted her head back and filled her mouth with the vile blue stuff as they neared the CO’s office. The nausea was gone, and the doctor had given her a strong painkiller for the headache. With aches and pains at bay, her body wanted a different sort of release.
Damn adrenaline. She’d experienced this type of rush before, but it was after white-water rafting, not after shooting a man.
Jesus, she’d shot a man.
And now she wanted sex.
What kind of monster did that make her?
She studied the Green Berets in the front seat. Cal seemed hyped up. Floating on adrenaline. Pax turned and met her gaze, but his expression was shuttered. Locked tight.
No doubt both men knew how to deal with this adrenaline ride.
She sucked in a deep breath and told herself sex was not an option. It wasn’t like she was rocking the bloody, sweaty, disheveled look. She needed to focus on the upcoming meeting with the base commander, then she needed to return to her apartment, pack her bags, and catch a flight.
No way in hell was she staying in Djibouti after today. Not even for Linus.
She’d have to move back in with her parents and face her father’s crowing I-told-you-so lecture. He hadn’t been supportive of her decision to major in anthropology, and when she’d decided to quit her job at a large architecture and engineering firm so she could work on her PhD full-time, he’d vowed she’d regret going into debt for a useless degree.
She and the general had difficulty getting along on a good day. It sucked even more when he was right.
It would only be made worse by the fact that he’d finally praised her when she’d landed this military-related contract. He’d gone so far as to say her education might not have been a complete waste of time, given that her work would make it possible for the US Navy to expand the boundaries of Camp Citron and thereby increase the capacity for rapid-response deployments throughout all of North and East Africa.
But now she’d be going home with her tail between her legs and carrying an even greater debt load. Her one-woman archaeological consulting firm would declare bankruptcy after only six months in business, and she would be the only PhD serving wings and beer at Double D. The chain restaurant’s name was supposed to refer to drumsticks and drinks, but everyone knew what the Ds really stood for.
Her father would burst a blood vessel, but hopefully he’d lay off the scorn when he understood that someone had tried to kill her.
Again, her gaze fixed on Pax. He was the type of man her father had always wanted her to bring home, which was why Morgan had gone instead for the soft-spoken poet type. The peacenik environmentalists, those were her people. Plus, they irritated the hell out of the general, which made them even more attractive.
So she was shallow and out to piss off her dad. At least the guys were nice, and they always respected women. Some were even stauncher feminists than she was.
They were caring and determined to prove they understood the discrimination she faced and always went above and beyond to ensure she came first. The sex was good, and they pitched in for birth control and volunteered their sexual health history. Some of them would probably take on the burden of menstruating if they could. But sometimes she hated to admit she might be attracted to a guy who wasn’t so insistent on being understanding. A guy who admitted to liking guns because it was scientifically proven that just touching one upped a guy’s testosterone level.
Just once she wanted to date a guy who was as pro-testosterone as he was pro-estrogen.
She wasn’t about to dis estrogen—some of her best friends were loaded with estrogen, and some might say she had more than her fair share—but she was also a fan of testosterone.
A big fan.
God, she missed testosterone.
The way Pax had carried her while wearing a heavy pack and body armor in a hundred-and-five-degree heat. That required some serious testosterone.
No. Absolutely not. The general would approve too much.
“Morgan?” Pax asked.
She shook her head to clear it. They’d reached headquarters, but she’d been too lost in thought to notice. Okay, so maybe she was more rattled than she wanted to admit over the day’s events. She took a last gulp of the Gatorade and set the bottle on the seat, then climbed out, taking Pax’s proffered hand, trying to ignore the jolt his touch gave her.
Contact testosterone. Lovely, lovely testosterone.
She was led through the front offices directly to the base commander’s door. The man’s aide asked her to wait, while the two Green Berets met with the Navy captain first. She dropped into a seat and closed her eyes. The explosion flashed in her mind. A viper slid over a boot. And she pressed her hands against a man’s bleeding groin. She’d washed her face and hands in the medical clinic, but her clothes were still covered in dust and blood.
Why had a bomb been planted under her rental car? Was this about Linus or something else?
Finally, she was admitted to the captain’s office. Captain O’Leary greeted her with a handshake and bade her sit in the lone visitor’s chair in front of his desk. She glanced back to see Cal and Pax remain standing, flanking the door. Their blank faces resembled the soldiers she’d first met a few hours ago on the road.
She described in detail the arrival of Desta’s henchmen at the site and everything that had followed after. She also admitted—to her chagrin—that she’d tried to save the fossils. She glanced over her shoulder and met the gaze of the man who’d saved her life and again apologized to him.
The Navy captain sat impassively and listened. When she finished, she asked, “Has there been any word on the condition of the militant who was shot? Is he going to be able to provide Desta’s location?”
Captain O’Leary shifted forward in his seat. “He’s in surgery. He lost a lot of blood, and he’s malnourished. The surgeon didn’t give good odds of him surviving the night. Only time will tell.”
If he didn’t survive, it would mean the bullet she’d fired killed him. On one level, she knew she didn’t have a choice, but on another…she’d never had a man’s death on her conscience before. She cleared her throat. “Now that I’ve told you everything I know, is there more you need from me?”
“For today, no. You’ve had a difficult day. You should rest. For your protection, you’ve been assigned a private CLU here on base.”
“Clue?” she asked, wondering if she’d misheard him.
“Containerized Living Units—Camp Citron’s housing. It’s not safe for you to return to Djibouti City. You’ll live here on base while you complete your project.”
She startled at that. “That’s very kind of you, sir, but I was planning to return to my apartment in Djibouti City and start packing. I’d like to fly back to the US as soon as I can. I’m done here.” She placed her hand against the empty pouch at her belly and glanced back at Pax. “Do you have my phone and passport?”
Pax remained silent until the Navy captain inclined his head, giving
him permission to speak. He pulled both items from his shirt pocket. He stepped forward to give it to her, but the captain stood and said, “I’ll take the passport.”
Pax didn’t break stride and handed the commander her passport, then he gave her the phone. She grimaced when she saw the screen. Busted. It must have hit the ground when they’d rolled after the blast. She tried to power it up without luck. Another item for the list of things she’d lost in the blast.
She faced the commander. He studied her passport, then tucked the blue booklet into his desk.
Alarm shot through her at the simple gesture. What the hell?
“You’ll get your passport back tomorrow. You’re in no condition to leave the base tonight.”
He was keeping her passport. With the embassy closed, he was effectively trapping her in Djibouti. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Captain. Am I being detained?”
“Not at all. I just want to ensure you give your decision whether to stay in Djibouti or go home serious consideration. You’re rattled after the day’s events. Naturally, your first impulse is to leave.”
“A bomb was planted under my car,” she said, allowing her anger and frustration to enter her voice. This man wasn’t her superior officer.
“I understand how upsetting that must have been.”
“I was shot at by militants. That doesn’t happen often in my line of work.”
O’Leary smiled. “Finding a three-million-year-old hominid with tools doesn’t happen often in your line of work either.”
His words gave her pause, but all she had to do was close her eyes to see and feel the heat of the blast that should have killed her. “I’m a one-woman consulting firm. I can’t take on a warlord’s armed militia.”
Captain O’Leary sighed. “You signed a contract, Dr. Adler. You promised the governments of Ethiopia and Djibouti you would survey the two proposed routes. There is no one else available to do the work, and the railroad can’t proceed until your project is done.”
“A bomb was planted under my car, Captain.”
“You were made aware you could be targeted when you signed the contract.”
True, but she hadn’t really believed it.
The captain leaned his elbows on his desk. “The US Navy has a vested interest in you completing your contract. You know this. We’re assisting the local government with the expansion of the port and expediting the work on the rail line. In exchange, we’ll get to expand Camp Citron. This base is strategically important to the War on Terror, but we’re packed in and unable to advance our operations because we don’t have the land we need to conduct the necessary trainings and build our own airstrip and control tower. Air traffic control is a joke at the Djibouti airport. It’s only a matter of time before US military personnel die in a civilian-caused air traffic accident. If you leave now, those deaths will be on your head.” He fixed her with a glare. “Do you really want that kind of stain on your soul?”
The man’s words were a low blow. So low it practically knocked the wind out of her. She simmered with rage even as his words found fertile ground in her mind.
Her stomach rolled. Military personnel wouldn’t die because she didn’t finish her survey, they would die because a warlord was gunning for everyone who had a role in making the base expansion happen. The warlord was the enemy, not her.
But right then, she felt like the enemy.
She cleared her throat to deny his point, but the officer interrupted before she got a word out. “You need time to think about it. You’ve been assigned a single wet CLU—a luxury many of my sailors would be grateful for—for the duration of your time in Djibouti. My aide will show you to your quarters. I’ll expect an answer from you at sixteen hundred tomorrow. You are dismissed.”
She gripped the arms of the chair. She’d been commanded and dismissed her entire life, but she sure as hell wasn’t part of this man’s chain of command. She was a civilian and not employed by the Navy. “I’ll call my father.” She’d never, ever played the general card before.
“General Adler? Wrong branch of the military.”
So. He’d done his homework today. She narrowed her gaze. “He has friends at the Pentagon.”
The captain shrugged and picked up his phone. He punched a button and said, presumably to his aide, “Get General Adler on the line again.”
Again?
Fuck.
Moments later, the captain hit the button for the speakerphone, not bothering to hide his smirk.
It wasn’t yet dawn in Fairfax County, Virginia, where her parents lived. But her father was wide-awake and gunning for her with the same ferocity as Etefu Desta. “Dammit, Morgan, if you’d been born with balls, you wouldn’t be trying to turn tail and run. That project was the first time since you were eighteen you were actually doing something right. You think you can abandon your project and hightail it home? Think again. It’s about time you used that wasted education for something worthwhile.”
Her belly churned. This was dear old Dad. “General,”—she’d stopped calling him Dad when she was eighteen and still wondered if he’d noticed or even cared—“they placed a bomb under my car.”
“All the more reason to fight back! Christ, girl, if every soldier went crying home after someone tried to shoot them, we’d all be speaking German right now.”
“I’m not a soldier.”
“Damn right, because you don’t have the balls.”
Her face had flushed with his first insult, knowing the two Green Berets overheard her humiliation, but now she’d passed embarrassment and moved into rage. Since she was eighteen, she’d gone for rebellion instead of outright telling her father off. No more. “Why would I want balls?” She tried to get a grip on her anger as she adapted her favorite Betty White quote. “Have you ever seen a woman taken out with a simple kick to the crotch? Hell no, because a vagina can take a beating. I’d like to see you squeeze a baby out of your precious, fragile balls.” You intolerant, jizz-headed ass.
One of these days, she’d get the courage to say the last part aloud to the man. She’d been polishing her cursing skills as diligently as she’d once practiced her karate kata, preparing for the day she’d have the courage to let loose on her father.
She could forget moving in with the folks while she begged for her old job at Double D. Maybe Staci would let her crash on her couch. They could carpool to the restaurant, which would be necessary because Morgan had sold her car to buy her plane ticket to Djibouti.
She stood without a word and turned toward the door. First she met Cal’s gaze, then Pax’s. His eyes were hard, cold. His jaw clenched, he positively radiated resentment.
She was taken aback by the hostility in his gaze.
Just what she needed. Captain America had sided with her father. She fixed him with a glare.
Behind her, O’Leary said good-bye to her father and shut off the speaker. “You can’t simply leave, Dr. Adler.”
She whirled to face the man who’d just blithely triggered what could well be the end of her relationship with her father—and by extension her mother, because even though Mom didn’t always agree with the general, in the end, the two were a package deal.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She’d been rendered speechless.
“Go to your quarters. Take a shower. Think about it. Return here at sixteen hundred tomorrow, and tell me your answer.”
She gave the man a sharp nod, spun on her heel, and left the office without meeting either Green Beret’s gaze again.
Chapter Five
It wasn’t the best shower of Pax’s life, but it ranked in the top fifty. He scrubbed the dried blood from his skin, the stain of an enemy combatant, and tried not to think about the pain in Morgan Adler’s eyes after her phone conversation with her prick of a father.
Christ. She was a general’s daughter. That should put her on the do-not-touch list for all time, but the fact that the relationship between father and daughter was a wreck made her a p
ossible exception to the rule.
He’d been shocked but relieved when she said she was heading home. He’d have happily helped her pack her bags. Djibouti was no place for idealists who didn’t understand the explosive nature of the region. A civilian like Morgan had no business getting in the way.
But Captain O’Leary didn’t see it that way, and he was the man in charge.
After Morgan left, O’Leary asked for Cal’s and Pax’s take on her. They both had played it simple. Just met her, don’t know her. Seems competent. They both admitted to being surprised she wanted to leave, given her feelings toward Linus the australopithecine.
The commander had probably filed that away as another screw to tighten. Captain O’Leary might be Navy, not Army, but it was his base, and Cal and Pax had been in the Army long enough to know better than to second-guess a commander’s already-issued orders.
He’d left the meeting and gone straight to the gym, where he beat the crap out of a bag. Cal joined him for a change, skipping his usual run in favor of unleashing aggression on an inanimate object. Pax had a feeling Cal was exorcising the same outrage, but said nothing on the subject—not in the public gym. That conversation would wait until they were in their shared CLU.
Workout complete, he showered, then finally went to their CLU and collapsed on his cot. The units all had air-conditioning, making the metal box he called home bearable, but theirs was a dry CLU. No shower, no bathroom. No privacy.
He slept for an hour, a quick, rejuvenating nap as he was trained to do. Cal returned sometime while he slept, and he was deep asleep when Pax rose from his cot. He had a sneaking suspicion that Morgan Adler would make her way to Barely North tonight, either hoping to drink her way into oblivion or looking for action to release adrenaline and escape from the horrors of her day.
Like a fool, Pax dressed in his civvies, not knowing if he intended to stop her or help her achieve her goal.
Barely North was crowded, but then, it had been a day of action for many on the base, with the explosion, the attack on the convoy, and the roadside bomb. A lot of people needed to blow off steam, making Morgan wonder if the two-drink limit would be firm tonight or not.