Tinderbox (Flashpoint Book 1)

by Rachel Grant

  Pax’s gaze went from her, to the man, then back to her. He circled the body slowly, then let out a low whistle and said with a little awe in his voice, “How many years did you study martial arts?”

  “Only twelve.”

  “Only. Twelve.”

  “Well, only twelve when I was advancing and taking belt tests. I quit that when I was eighteen along with everything else, but I’ve kept up practicing kata and sparring in the thirteen years since then. It’s how I exercise.”

  “So you’ve really been studying martial arts for…twenty-five years?”

  “I wanted to do gymnastics when I was five, but my dad wanted me in karate.”

  “Right now, I’m glad your dad got his way.” He unhooked the AK-47 from the guy’s back and slid it out from under him before checking for a pulse. “What’s your belt rank?” he asked as his fingers pressed the guy’s carotid artery.

  “Black. Third dan.” She rarely told men this—guys, when they knew her rank, would often challenge her, either to see if she was boasting or to see if they could take her. Third dan had been a damn high rank for an eighteen-year-old.

  Twice she’d made the mistake of agreeing to a sparring match because a guy wouldn’t let it go. The first time, the guy had been mortified. He’d never called her again.

  The second time, the guy had gotten enraged when he started to lose, and he’d turned violent for real. She’d broken his arm to escape a hold that had the potential to seriously hurt her and never called him again.

  She had a feeling Pax would believe her, and given his build and badass Green Beret bearing, he didn’t have the need to prove himself to her.

  “He’s got a pulse,” he said.

  She let out a breath, relieved. It was self-defense but she still didn’t relish the idea of killing a man. Possibly two, given that the guy she’d shot yesterday wasn’t out of the woods yet.

  On the negative side, they had to figure out what to do with this guy now. Pax rolled him over and slipped plastic flex-cuffs, which he’d grabbed from his pack, around the man’s wrists. Then he sat back and stared at the prone form.

  “He’s a local, and he assaulted you, a civilian. Technically, this should be tossed to the local authorities. But they’re not really great at following up, and odds are this man will walk tomorrow. He could come after you again.”

  “But if he’d assaulted you?”

  “Then the US military could label him an enemy combatant and detain him.”

  She gave him a crooked smile. “First you take credit for my shot, and now you want to take credit for beating the crap out of this man.”

  “Believe me, I don’t want credit for that lousy shot.” He grinned. “But you did good here.”

  “What happens when he wakes and tells people what happened?”

  “You think he’s going to admit you kicked his ass?” He winked at her. “Even if he does, it’s a done deal. Hopefully we’ll get intel from him that will make holding him worthwhile.”

  He called the base with a satellite phone and explained the situation. They agreed to send a Humvee to collect the man. She’d been watching him closely and could now see the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was breathing fine.

  She’d merely knocked him out.

  Pax tucked the phone in his pack, then scooped the man up and tossed him over his shoulder. “Grab his gun. I want you in the lead, with his weapon. Anyone jumps out at you, shoot first, ask questions later.” Pax turned and gripped his M4, which was draped over his shoulder, one-handed. “I’ll cover our six.”

  “How is my crew?” she asked as she picked up the AK. A quick check showed the weapon was in working order.

  “No one was hurt. Let’s move.”

  She nodded and led the way back up the narrow trail. She scanned each new section for henchmen hiding behind the boulders that littered the landscape before saying, “Clear,” and moving forward. At last they reached the flat open area where the vehicles were parked.

  Pax dropped the man by the tires of the SUV. “I’m going to search the perimeter, make sure this guy is acting alone. You good standing guard over him?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “You see anyone you don’t know, lay down a short burst of fire to hold them back, then wait for me. Okay?”

  “Will do.”

  She got a little thrill from the respect in his gaze. He set out for the uneven landscape to the east, the most likely place for this guy to have hidden a vehicle, while she stood sentry over the unconscious man, wondering why he’d attacked her. What the hell was going on?

  Ten minutes later, Pax returned. “There’s an old wreck of a truck around the bend. Fresh tire tracks. Looks like he drove in this morning, probably hoping you’d show up. No other footprints leading from the vehicle. Appears he was acting alone.”

  Morgan set down the Kalash and rolled her shoulders. “Can I go down and talk to my crew?”

  He shook his head. “We’ll head down together after this guy”—he probed her attacker with the toe of his boot—“is taken care of. I fucked up in letting you walk that path alone. I won’t make that mistake again.” He met her gaze and his nostrils flared. “You did good. Really good.”

  She gave him a short nod in acknowledgment and stared at the unconscious man. Dark skinned with short-cropped hair and a wispy beard, the man could be from Djibouti, Ethiopia, Eritrea, or Somalia. Like the man yesterday, he was malnourished. Dark yellow teeth indicated years of chewing khat. Everything about him spoke of poverty, of a harsh life she couldn’t begin to imagine.

  Was he rotten like Desta, or just desperate?

  She bit her lip. “When I first arrived in Djibouti, I was shocked to see malnourished children languishing on the side of the road, begging for water. Ibrahim warned me not to give them any. He said if I did, the next day there would be five more, and the day after that two hundred.”

  “He’s right. They’re Somali refugees, and if the begging gets out of hand, the government removes them.”

  She nodded. “Ibrahim said no one knows where they go.”

  “I saw it happen, not long after I arrived in-country. The group of kids that hang out around one of the entrances to Camp Citron vanished one day. Dozens of kids. Gone.”

  Morgan shuddered. Having been warned by Ibrahim, she’d ignored the pleas of children who looked like they’d never had a decent meal in their lives. It was her sixth day on the job before she’d been able to drive by the begging children without sobbing.

  “Do you think this guy is like the kids? Not evil, just desperate?”

  “There’s a fine line between evil and desperation. One easily leads to the other. I’ve seen boys under age ten take up weapons and kill. The child isn’t evil. The person who arms a child, the man who sells a child into sexual slavery, is.”

  Perhaps Pax was right. Djibouti was no place for a woman like her.

  “I was wrong.”

  She looked up sharply. Had she said that aloud?

  No. He was still looking at the man she’d fought. It had been ridiculously easy, when it came down to it. The man was weak and malnourished. His only advantage, the Kalash, he’d had on his back, not in his hands. Because he’d underestimated her. Because she was five-four and didn’t look threatening.

  She met Pax’s gaze. “What do you mean?”

  “Last night. When I called you a fool. I was an ass. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “I still want you to leave, though.”

  She couldn’t help but shake her head even as her lips formed a faint smile. He couldn’t leave a perfectly nice apology alone. Why did guys always have to muck up the best apologies? She decided to give him enough rope to hang himself. The more he showed his true colors, the less attracted to him she’d be.

  And she really wanted to stop being attracted to him.

  “I’ll bite. Why is that? Does a woman who can fight and shoot nearly as well as the big boys intimida
te you? Are you secretly afraid of getting your ass kicked by a woman?”

  He laughed. Even better, he didn’t assert that he could take her—although he certainly could—or offer up any sort of macho challenge. Instead, a smile played about his lips as he approached her. “No, Morgan, I don’t care if you can kick my ass. In fact, I’d prefer it, because it would mean you could protect yourself in this frigging tinderbox. No, there’s one reason and one reason alone that I want you to go home.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you stay, it’s only a matter of time before we fuck. Hell, right now I want you even more than I did last night. It’s ridiculous how caveman I feel. But there it is.”

  “And why is that a problem? I’m not married, not seeing anyone.” Then she stepped backward as the truth dawned. Shit. He was married. Her gaze darted to his left hand. No ring. But then, did soldiers wear rings on combat deployments? “Are you?” she asked in a hard voice.

  “No. Divorced. Not seeing anyone.”

  Relief fluttered through her. “Then why is consensual sex a problem? Was the divorce recent?”

  “No. Not recent. But last night, when I convinced my XO to let me take you out today, he and my CO took it one step further. They reassigned me, making me your bodyguard for as long as you stay in Djibouti.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “Why would they do that?”

  “If the skipper gets his airstrip thanks to your project, my CO and XO will get to claim a piece of that success. Saying it was all possible because SOCOM provided security. So you see, if you stay, we’re stuck together. Anytime you leave the base, my job is to cover your ass.” His hands found her hips and slid around to cup the aforementioned body part. “How long do you think we’ll be able to last without screwing?”

  They stood chest to chest with his hand on her butt, she was still riding adrenaline, and he exuded hot, stimulating testosterone from every pore. She wanted to lick his throat, wanted him to take her up against the SUV. Now. “About ten minutes.”

  “Exactly. But sex would be a dumbass idea when my job is to protect you. It’ll get in our heads. Invite mistakes. And the risk to your safety is very real.” His gaze flicked to the man at their feet. “Christ, right now, I’m being stupid. My attention is on you, not the threat lying on the ground three feet away.” He took a step back and began pacing. “I’ve never been stupid on the job before. Stupid is a fatal condition for a soldier.”

  “Maybe we can get Captain O’Leary to change the order.”

  “And piss off my CO? No, thanks.” His gaze jerked back to her face. “Does that mean you’re staying?” A sharp edge had entered his voice.

  “I don’t know. I still haven’t talked to my crew. I don’t even know how many of them are here.” She frowned. “Why aren’t they here? Why did they stay at the site instead of coming when I screamed?”

  Pax frowned. “There’s a…uh…there’s a problem with the site.”

  “Problem?”

  “Linus’s skull is gone.”

  Chapter Eight

  Yeah, that might have been the news he should have led with, but Pax had forgotten in the midst of discovering she was some sort of badass ninja fighter.

  She’d flattened a guy who had an AK-47 on his side.

  After he’d digested that, he’d had other concerns, like searching for accomplices.

  “What do you mean, his skull is missing? It was still in the ground yesterday. Rock embedded in rock. Not easy to pry out.”

  He shrugged. “That’s what Ibrahim told me. There was definitely something chunked out of the ground.”

  Morgan stepped away from the vehicle blindly and looked like she was about to hyperventilate. Or maybe faint. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said and pressed her hand to her mouth. She paced with sharp, quick steps, one arm holding her belly. Anger and horror radiated from her in waves. “The skull. Without it, we can’t estimate cranial capacity. We won’t know how big his brain was, how he fits on the spectrum…”

  “I assume the skull would be valuable.”

  She shot him a sharp glare. “The value lies in the information it contains. There is no value if it can’t be studied. If Desta sells it, if it disappears into some asshole’s private collection—”

  “My point is, Desta won’t destroy it if he believes it’s worth money.”

  “No, but ISIS, the Taliban, or al-Shabaab might. It doesn’t fit with their beliefs. ISIS and the Taliban have destroyed several World Heritage Sites already.”

  “But both groups also sell artifacts to fund their terrorism. They only destroy if it’s too big to move and sell.”

  She glanced toward the trail. “True.” She paused. “I want to talk to Ibrahim.”

  “You will. As soon as this guy is carted away.”

  “How many are down there?”

  “Two. Ibrahim and Mouktar.”

  “The others—were they harmed?”

  “No. Ibrahim said all three are fine. Just scared.”

  She nodded and paced, saying nothing for the twenty minutes it took for the MPs to arrive. The man was still unconscious, and one of the MPs frowned. “We might need to airlift him to the ship medical facilities.” He glanced askance at Pax. “I heard about the guy yesterday. What is it with you and injuring enemy combatants? We can’t afford the medical bills.”

  Pax shrugged. “They attacked me. Knocking him out was better than killing him.”

  “Bullets are cheaper than blood transfusions,” the MP muttered.

  “And intel is more valuable than oil,” Pax replied.

  “Does this guy know anything?”

  “No idea. But the guy yesterday promised to give us Desta’s location. Maybe this guy can give us even more.”

  As soon as they drove off, Morgan made a beeline for the path. Pax caught up with her. “We go together.”

  She nodded, and he took the lead down the narrow trail that led to an ancient eroding canyon. As they walked, Morgan explained the terrain. “This landform doesn’t even count as a wadi, as water hasn’t flowed through here in thousands of years, while a wadi can carry water during the rainy season. Not that Djibouti has much of a rainy season.”

  Pax reached the canyon floor and turned to give her a hand as she stepped over low boulders that littered the floor, preventing easy walking.

  She took his hand and continued talking. “Months ago, a geologist dated the lower layers of stratigraphy visible in the canyon wall. That red layer”—she pointed to a thick band of rock—“has been dated to over one-point-five-million years old. And our site is below it, meaning it’s older. A lot older.”

  Her voice had changed. Her demeanor had changed. She was reciting facts she knew well, seeing a landscape she’d visited every day for the last few weeks, but still, her voice had filled with wonder. As if this was new magic she was seeing and describing for the first time.

  She released his hand and darted over to an area where orange pin flags were stuck in the ground. She picked up a triangular rock and jogged back to his side to press it in his hand. She wrapped his fingers around the warm stone. “You’re holding in your hand a tool that was made by either Homo ergaster or Homo habilis around one-point-five-million years ago.”

  Even after all the shock and horror of the last twenty-four hours, she was sharing this—her site—with him with awe and enthusiasm.

  He squeezed the rock and studied its sharp edges and broken surface. “Homo habilis? Prehuman?”

  “Yes. Of the genus Homo, which modern humans—Homo sapiens sapiens—are a part of, but earlier. Some even think habilis should be in the genus Australopithecus. Put simplistically, the living creature that made that tool was akin to a hairless, bipedal chimpanzee.”

  One thing was clear about Morgan Adler: she loved this site. It wasn’t about the fame and recognition she’d gain from this discovery. No. She was enthralled by the knowledge that could be unlocked. That she could display this passion, even now, was a te
stament to what it meant to her. And it made her even more appealing than before.

  She’d been kidding herself when she’d said she would leave Djibouti. No way could she walk away from this. No way could she abandon Linus.

  He no longer believed he could convince her to leave. No. Now he had a bigger, much scarier task—to convince her to leave the australopithecine skull in Desta’s hands.

  Morgan wanted to throw her arms around Ibrahim and Mouktar, but neither man was the hugging sort. Ibrahim repeated the information that the other three workers were fine. One was too scared to return, while another hadn’t liked the job. The third, Serge, had quit because he had family on the Ethiopian side of the border and was worried Desta would target them if he continued with the project. “Serge says he’s very sorry, but he can’t risk his family.”

  She nodded. “I understand, Ibrahim.” She glanced toward Pax. “Do you think the others would return if…the US military provided security for the fieldwork?”

  Mouktar shifted nervously from foot to foot as he glanced toward Pax, then away. “I don’t think so,” he said in a soft voice, confirming Morgan’s belief he feared soldiers. But then, maybe Pax had scared the hell out of him earlier. She had no way of knowing.

  She felt Pax’s heightened tension at the hint she was considering staying and walked over to the excavation, where there was now a gaping hole where an australopithecine skull should be. “When did you discover this?” she asked Ibrahim.

  “About an hour ago,” he said. “I’m sorry we didn’t return to the site last night—”

  “Oh. No.” She faced both men, gave in to the impulse, took one of each of their hands, and clasped them together in both of hers. They were likely uncomfortable, but she was a toucher, and this was an important point. “I’m thankful you weren’t here.” She squeezed their fingers. “There’s nothing you could have done, and you might have been hurt by Desta’s men.” She cast Pax a chagrined smile. “I tried to save Linus’s dinner bones from an explosion yesterday, and it’s been pointed out that wasn’t a wise decision.”

  Mouktar’s eyes widened. “The bones have blown up?”