Tinderbox (Flashpoint Book 1)

by Rachel Grant

  Around the time she sank the fourth ball, Bastian started to catch on. “Aww, shit. You’re hustling me.”

  “It’s only a hustle if you put money on the game.” She turned back to the table and lined up her shot. It was long, and she had to bend across the table to reach the cue ball. Bastian would have a prime view of her ass, but there was no helping that. This was pool. She played to win. Always.

  No sooner had she sunk the ball than she heard a low snarl behind her and turned to see Pax up in Bastian’s face. Hell. He must have arrived just in time to assume the worst.

  Sonofabitch. This was exactly what she’d wanted to avoid.

  She dropped the cue. She didn’t think Pax had touched Bastian, but his stance was pure intimidation. “Pax, back off,” she said in a low voice. She glanced around the room. Only a few people were paying attention to the drama by the pool table. Maybe she could get him out of here before they had a full-blown scene that would tank his career. She grabbed his wrist. “Outside. Now.”

  She took a step for the door, but he didn’t budge. She dropped his hand and kept walking. He could self-destruct if he wanted to, but she’d be damned before she would stay around to watch.

  Outside the club, she took a deep breath of the humid air. It didn’t ease the pain in her chest.

  “Morgan, wait!”

  She glanced over her shoulder to see Pax had followed her from the club after all. She didn’t break stride and rounded the building, too upset to speak.

  He caught up to her and grabbed her arm, pulling her to a halt. “Mad that I ruined your fun with Chief Ford?”

  White-hot anger flashed through her. “You ass,” she said, her voice shaking with rage. “Do you really think I’m so vile I’d mess around with someone on your team? When you’re all I can think about? All I want?” She broke free of his grip and kept walking.

  Tears surged. Stupid angry tears. A reaction she’d never been able to control, which only pissed her off more. Her dad had believed the best way to get her to stop crying was to shame her for the tears. God, how she hated that his tirades had found fertile ground in her psyche, that she was ashamed of the tears, even now.

  She hated even more that she wanted a Neanderthal like Master Sergeant Pax Blanchard, who thought the worst of her and cornered his superior out of stupid, unfounded jealousy.

  How could she want a man like that?

  And why did it hurt so much to know she’d never have him?

  She reached her CLU and jerked the door open. But she wasn’t alone. Pax followed her inside and slammed the door closed. She whirled to face him, her hands covering the shameful tears that stained her cheeks—but before she could move or utter a word, he pressed her against the wall. He lifted her hands from her face and pinned them above her head, then his tongue was in her mouth, stealing her breath with an urgent, angry kiss.

  She groaned and slid her tongue against his. She pulled her wrists from his hands so she could thread her fingers through his hair. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he slipped an arm under her ass, supporting her with her back pressed to the wall.

  The kiss was fire: hot and feral. Pure Pax. He plundered her mouth, nipped at her lips, and squeezed her breasts with an urgency that bordered on pain.

  She kissed him back with the same pleasure-pain need. She bit his tongue, then sucked it deep into her mouth.

  This. Yes.

  She’d fantasized about this for days. She pulled his hair and ground her crotch against his erection. “Fuck me, Pax.” She didn’t want to talk about the scene in the bar. She didn’t want to talk at all. She wanted sex, and he was the only man she wanted for the deed.

  He gripped her hips and pressed his cock against her. She groaned with the sensation, sucked harder on his tongue, then reached for his fly.

  All at once, he froze.

  His hands dropped from her hips, and her legs slipped to the floor. He lifted his mouth from hers and slowly stepped back, until no part of their bodies touched.

  “Shit, Morgan. I shouldn’t have done that.” Remorse ran deep in his voice. He took another step back and ran a hand over his hair. “Any of it.” He shook his head. “Bastian stared at your ass as if he owned it, and I lost it. Fuck, I want you so bad, the idea of another man even looking at you makes me insane with jealousy.”

  “You don’t own me, Pax. But even so, I’d never screw around with anyone on your team. I’m insulted that you believed I would.”

  His brown eyes burned with emotion. “You didn’t see the way he was looking at you.”

  “I don’t give a fuck. You’re insulting me. Besides, he’s a guy. I was bending over a pool table. Normal guy reaction. Hell, he probably wasn’t the only one. And I wasn’t doing it on purpose. I was trying to make my shot.”

  “Yeah, but Bastian and I…we’re gas and flame. Have been since an op went sour in Yemen. He blames me, and I…hate him for being right.”

  “And neither of you can admit shit happens? Especially in combat?”

  “Not this time.” He raked a hand through his hair. “But you’re right. I insulted you. I’m sorry.” He took another step backward. “All I know is I look at you, and I feel this primal possessiveness. You’re mine.”

  “No. I’m not. You’ve made it clear we won’t happen.”

  “Can’t happen. I have orders I can’t blow off.”

  She straightened her shoulders. “Now, sure. But what about when this is over? When you’re no longer protecting me?”

  “You’ll leave Djibouti, and I’ll go God-knows-where for my next assignment.”

  “Surely you’ll be stateside sometime. Aren’t you home at least six months of the year?”

  “My life is the Army, Morgan. I made a decision years ago—when I attended one too many ceremonies where a buddy’s wife was given a flag folded into a neat triangle—as long as I’m active duty Special Forces, I won’t get involved—not seriously—with anyone. My team comes first, and I won’t leave kids behind with a flag to hug instead of a father. So if you’re up for a fuck the next time I’m stateside, then game on. But if you want anything more than that, I’m not your man.”

  “You want me to wait around for months on the off-chance we’ll have a stateside hookup that goes nowhere?” If he truly wanted her as much as he said he did, he’d give her a reason to be patient. An appetizer at the very least. This wasn’t even fast food. This was a shriveled, overcooked convenience store hot dog.

  “That’s all I can offer.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, unsure why this hurt so much. All they were doing was ending something that had never started. But then, he’d just told her she wasn’t worth the wait, wasn’t a reason to change his rules, and rejection always hurts. “Then you aren’t my man.”

  “Fine,” he said with a sharp nod. “My only request is that you stay away from the men on my team.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Screw you. I wasn’t flirting with Bastian. He knew I wasn’t interested. How could you think I’d be that shallow?” Her stomach soured. “But you can’t tell me who I can and can’t be friends with.” She stepped toward him and jabbed him in the chest. “And if I hook up with someone who is not on your team, you have no say in the matter. Not when you’ve given me the ‘not now, not ever’ blow-off speech. I am not yours. You have zero say in what I do, who I date, and who I fuck. Are we clear?”

  His eyes hardened, but he nodded. “We’re clear. Good night, Dr. Adler.”

  “Good riddance, Sergeant Blanchard.” She closed the door behind him and slumped to the floor, holding her breath against shame-inducing tears.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Pax wasn’t surprised to find a summons for his XO’s office posted on the door of his CLU. It had been too much to hope his jealous display might’ve been overlooked in Barely North. He also wasn’t surprised to see Bastian already there. But instead of the expected look of glee in the man’s eyes, he saw contrition. Bastard. The prick had baited h
im, knowing Pax would snap.

  “Are you two aware we are in the middle of a fucking war zone?” Captain Oswald said in a low tone that carried more anger than a shout. “Djibouti may be friendly to us, but we’re spitting distance from Somalia, and ISIS is gaining ground in Eritrea and Ethiopia, not to mention we’ve got al-Shabaab and al-Qaeda to contend with right beyond the fucking gate, and you two dickheads argue over a woman in the middle of Barely North?” He pinned Pax with a glare. “And you have orders to keep your hands off General Adler’s daughter.”

  Pax suppressed the urge to point out that the woman had her own name and identity that was quite separate from her father, but instead he stood at attention and said, “I’m not involved with Dr. Adler, sir.”

  “I didn’t ask if you’re involved, I’m asking if you’ve fucked her in violation of my orders.”

  “No, sir.”

  The man stared into Pax’s eyes as if to determine if he were lying. Anger boiled inside Pax at the insult. This was probably akin to how Morgan had felt when Pax made assumptions about her interest in Bastian—outrage over her integrity being questioned.

  He’d fucked up. In every way possible.

  Oswald gave a sharp nod, then turned to Bastian. “And you. Given that you all gossip like teenage girls, you knew Sergeant Blanchard has a hard-on for Dr. Adler. Hell, I hear she goes into heat every time he gets near her.”

  Pax bristled at the insult to Morgan. She’d been nothing but professional in the field. He was the one who’d screwed up.

  “What the fuck were you thinking hitting on her? That kind of shit gets in a soldier’s head, and I shouldn’t have to remind you you’re on the same damn team. Don’t fuck over the guy watching your back.”

  “I didn’t hit on her, sir.” Bastian paused, then added, “She shut me down before I tried and called me an asshole. We were just playing pool after that.”

  Pax’s right hand curled into a fist. She’d just been playing pool, while Bastian stared at her tits and ass. And shit, hearing what she’d said to Bastian was further proof Pax had royally screwed things with Morgan, letting the caveman loose as he did.

  “I don’t want to hear any fucking excuses, Chief Ford. It was a dumb-shit thing to do. Own it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The XO fixed Pax with another glare. “You’re off her security detail effective immediately. Sergeant Ripley will assume your role. You are to debrief with him at oh-six-hundred, then return to your regular assignment under Chief Ford’s leadership.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The order to keep your hands off her remains in place, Sergeant.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Pax left the office, trying to tell himself he’d gotten what he wanted all along. Ripley was a good man—and a devoted husband and father. Morgan would be protected, and Pax wouldn’t have to see her day in and day out. But the truth was, Morgan was so deep under his skin, he had a hard time believing anyone could protect her as well as he would.

  Morgan wasn’t surprised Pax had been replaced. She knew how the Army worked and just hoped the scene in the bar didn’t result in worse punishment. Even though it had been his own stupid fault, she didn’t want his career to suffer. It was for his career that she was suffering, so it would be a shame if his work were compromised either way.

  Sergeant Ripley took command of the security detail with ease. Sanchez said nothing, but Morgan had no doubt he was aware of the details. The resulting ride to the project area was long and silent. Once there, she, Ibrahim, and Mouktar settled into their routine while the marine and Green Beret patrolled their work area. They left the prehistoric village site and continued along the proposed route for the railroad, calling out isolated finds as they surveyed by walking in parallel lines ten meters apart.

  Isolated artifacts were recorded in situ and left on the surface. If more artifacts were found, it was deemed a site, and they’d walk the area to determine site boundaries on the horizontal plane with shovel probes to determine depth. Just like she’d always done archaeology back home, except the tools she found here had the potential to be hundreds of thousands of years old, not hundreds or thousands.

  This project, these sites and isolated finds, meant something. Her work would add to the scant but essential knowledge of how humans came to be. She still wondered if Linus was the catalyst for the explosion and coordinated assault on the base, but couldn’t for the life of her guess why—or how—considering the find had been a secret.

  And if ISIS or the Taliban had gotten wind of the find and had attacked in an effort to crush knowledge that didn’t fit with their interpretation of Islam, they would have gone after the site directly. Not Camp Citron.

  She couldn’t help but think this was about water. Possibly water that had been here five thousand years ago. Because if she’d seen the signs, as untrained as she was, then there was no doubt Broussard had seen the same thing. And he’d told someone.

  Then he’d disappeared, and his report was cleansed of all information relating to the presence of water in this area in the recent geologic past.

  She could think of only one reason someone would cover up such a find, and it was the one she’d told Pax. The water had gone somewhere, but it hadn’t gone away. What if Djibouti sat on a very deep aquifer, the kind that could sustain a country for generations?

  Whoever controlled the water would be more than a warlord or even king. That person would be a god.

  She considered going to the cultural or natural resources minister with her theory, but that was exactly what Broussard would have done, so she settled on Captain O’Leary, who might be able to bring in a US geologist. But when she returned from the field that afternoon, O’Leary was unavailable. She was no longer high priority. Her project was moving along, and there’d been no more threats from Desta.

  She was shuffled off to his aide, who feigned interest, quizzed her mercilessly on her expertise in making such a wild assumption, and promised to pass on the information to the captain, who would decide if it was worth the expense of importing a geologist.

  From O’Leary’s office, she went to the gym, but Savvy wasn’t there. She worked out with the punching bag, then returned to her CLU. She flopped on her cot and tried to figure out what to do.

  She didn’t want to go to Barely North. After the spectacle of the evening before, it would be a few days before she could face anyone there.

  The cafeteria had the same nonexistent appeal. But she needed food. Moments like this, she wished she were back in her apartment in Djibouti city. It was hot, run-down, and noisy, but it was private. Plus, there she’d been able to explore a city and country that was so utterly foreign.

  She thrived in foreign settings, because being a stranger in a strange land forced her to learn. And there were few things she enjoyed more than the firing synapses of a brain processing new information. Taking in new sights and sounds. The cadence of foreign languages. The smell of unfamiliar spices. Watching interactions between individuals of a different culture.

  Military bases were the exact opposite. They were insular, designed to make GIs feel at home anywhere in the world. She’d lived on bases growing up that had felt more American than Lebanon, Kansas, the geographic center of the contiguous United States.

  In her apartment in Djibouti City, she’d been happily immersed in a foreign world, with only a ten-year-old boy to act as translator.

  All at once, last week’s visit to her apartment in Djibouti returned to her. The missing geology monograph. She’d thought of it before, of course, but not the fact that it had been taken, while the other books that belonged to Broussard remained. More important, Broussard had lived in her apartment, which was in fact where he’d been living when he disappeared. Which meant someone else moved him out, but they knew enough about her communication with the geologist to know he’d agreed to leave the books for her, which meant his murderers had read his email.

 
Not earth-shattering news, considering they’d used his account to send emails, but whoever was behind his disappearance had been very careful, ensuring two months passed before anyone noticed the man was missing.

  Why was the Vichy monograph taken but not the others?

  She wanted to return to her apartment and claim the remaining books. Had anything else of Broussard’s been left in the apartment?

  She sat up straight. Had the cell phone in the kitchen belonged to Broussard? Pax had turned it in to his XO so they could mine the data to see if the phone had ever been in proximity to Desta. But did they bother to trace ownership, or had everyone just assumed it was a prepaid burner phone?

  She should probably find out who was examining the phone and what they’d learned. Would they bother to coordinate with Police Nationale? She couldn’t imagine the US military would share information on their search for Etefu Desta with anyone, unless there was a proven direct connection between Broussard’s disappearance and the cell phone.

  Would Ripley’s XO—Captain Oswald—authorize a trip to her apartment? There was only one way to find out. She knew where the man’s office was located on the base. She would shower, then search for him there. As long as she was out, she might as well get dinner at the cafeteria. Maybe there she’d run into someone who could point her in the right direction, or at least give her a phone number for Captain Oswald.

  She didn’t even have Pax’s CLU or cell phone number.

  But that was probably a good thing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pax grimaced as the woman of his dreams entered the cafeteria. At the same time, his heart kicked up a notch, and he silently admitted he’d been hoping for a Morgan sighting. Because he was a dumb-shit fool.

  Cal glanced from Pax to Bastian the bastard and shook his head. Then he picked up his empty tray and left the table, demonstrating exactly how much faith he had in Pax’s ability to not be a dickhead. But then Pax had earned Cal’s low opinion.