Reckless Honor

by Tonya Burrows

  “Both of those instances were pure luck.”

  He grinned and lifted her chin with the hook of his finger. “And what is luck but a little bit of everyday magic?”

  Something fluttered in her chest as she stared up into his eyes, a light and bubbly sensation she couldn’t place. Some of it was certainly amusement. With him being such an intelligent man, she hadn’t expected this kind of fancifulness from him.

  On second thought, maybe she should have. She’d seen on more than one occasion that he was a storyteller at heart, bringing to life the colorful world of New Orleans for a room full of dying people and sharing childhood misadventures for the amusement of others. Unlike so many of the brilliant people she knew, and unlike her, he didn’t try to live solely in his head. He lived with both his head and his heart, in a world of both logic and magic, and she admired him for it. She could learn a lot from him, but if she wasn’t careful, she could also get swept up in his world of whimsy. He could make her start believing in ridiculous things like knights in shining armor slaying the world’s dragons and happily ever afters.

  Staring into his eyes, she already half believed. “You are a fascinatingly complicated man, Jean-Luc Cavalier.”

  His lips quirked. “I’ve been accused of being a lot of things, cher, and most of them true. But that one’s a first. Marcus’ll tell you I’m about as complicated as a paperweight.”

  “If Marcus really knew you, he wouldn’t think so. I bet you’ve never let him see the real you.”

  He touched her cheek, traced his fingers along her cheekbone, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “No, I haven’t.”

  She breathed out softly and leaned into his palm. “Why let me?”

  He opened his mouth as if to reply, but closed it again without speaking. Then after a beat, he said, “Because, for me, you’re a kind of magic, too.”

  She wasn’t sure what made her do it, but she surged up to her toes and pressed her mouth to his smiling lips. He made a gasping sound that was pure masculine want, and she took the opportunity to slip her tongue into his mouth. His arms wrapped around her and dragged her in close until she felt his heart pounding out of sync with hers.

  And, yes, she realized those dueling rhythms were just another sign this was a mistake. They were so completely out of sync—him with his stories and languages, and her with her facts and science. But it didn’t matter to her in that moment. She tossed aside logic and listened to what their mismatched heartbeats were telling her. They may be out of sync, but they wanted the same thing.

  He wanted her.

  And she, for once, wanted to experience a little bit of the magic he was so sure existed.

  She reached between their bodies and found him hard, straining the front of his cargo pants. She remembered the way his hand slid up and down his thick shaft, and how much she’d wanted to touch him, put her mouth on him. She unzipped his pants. He wore no underwear underneath and, thrilled, she closed her hand around him.

  He groaned against her mouth. “What are you gonna do with that, cher? Wrap your lips around it and put it in your mouth? Or are you just going to hold it, pet it, until I come in your hand?”

  “I want you to fuck me with it.” She didn’t know where the boldness came from. She’d never been so daring or sexually adventurous with any of her few previous lovers, but the flame in his eyes as he watched her stroke him brought out her inner vixen.

  She was in charge here. She was powerful.

  For the first time in months, she had control over what happened next and she reveled in it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  He hadn’t had anyone’s hand but his own on his cock in so long, the erotic pleasure of her grip would be his end if he didn’t stop her. He grabbed her wrist. “The fucking will have to wait if you keep doing that.”

  “I can wait.” Her gaze dropped greedily back to his cock and she licked her lips. “I want to make you orgasm.”

  Who was he to argue? he thought, half delirious, as she dropped to her knees in front of him. She opened those sensual lips and took him all the way in to the back of her throat. Then she hummed. He gasped as heat zinged up his spine and his knees actually shook. He had to thread his fingers into her hair to hold himself steady while she sucked and hummed and teased his tip with her tongue.

  Mon Dieu.

  He’d had hundreds of blowjobs in his life, and none had ever sent his heart skittering or made his hands and knees quake.

  This was Claire working her magic on him. Ruining him. He wondered if he’d ever be satisfied having another woman’s mouth on him after this. Would he ever again be able to walk into a bar, pick a random woman, and take her back to the bathroom or a dark booth for some sexy fun?

  He stared down at Claire, her eyes closed in a kind of bliss, her cheeks hollowing out with each dragging suck on his cock, and something soft and warm unfurled in his chest. He cupped her cheek and her eyes flipped open, raised to meet his gaze. She all but sparkled. She loved this, loved having him in her mouth, loved making him crazy.

  No, he realized as he surged toward release, there wouldn’t be any more random women after this. There couldn’t be, plain and simple.

  There was just Claire. Only Claire.

  He was so lost in her, so wrapped up in the way she made him feel, he didn’t notice the series of loud pops in the distance until the screams followed. Only then did he register what those pops had been.

  Claire released him and bolted to her feet. “What was that?”

  Annnd climax thwarted.

  “Sounded like gunshots.” He tucked his still-hard cock back into his pants before crossing to the door. A quick peek out showed him exactly what he feared. A group of heavily armed masked men had run their boats to shore and were now fanning out across the hospital grounds, shooting their weapons into the air as an intimidation tactic.

  The Egbesu Fighters.

  Putain. He’d worried they would eventually come looking for him once they discovered his escape, but he’d hoped to be long gone with Claire before they showed.

  One of the men, the apparent ringleader, had a megaphone. It screeched when he turned it on. “We are the Egbesu Fighters!”

  The declaration roused a rowdy whoop from his men.

  “It is not bad enough you white devils come here and poison our lands. Now you poison our people. We are here to say enough. You killed my men when you stole our prisoner, but we will be more considerate. Surrender and we will spare your lives.” As he repeated the statement in the local language, a small group of people from the hospital marched out to meet the militants.

  Sunday was in the lead. “This is a hospital,” she said, her tone like a mother scolding a naughty child. Not exactly the best tone to take with a murderous terror group. “The people here are very sick, and we’re trying to help! This is a highly infectious virus. You need to leave now before you become sick as well.”

  “Lies! You did this to our people!” A bunch of weapons came up at the same time and zeroed in on Sunday and her group of suicidal do-gooders.

  “Surrender and we will not kill you,” the leader said again into his megaphone.

  Jean-Luc cursed under his breath.

  “What’s happening?” Claire asked.

  He stepped back, trying to use his body to block her view, but she ducked under his arm. “Oh my God. Sunda—”

  He clamped a hand over her mouth and drew her back inside the tent. “Shh,” he whispered against her ear. “Don’t draw attention to us.”

  Claire broke free of his hold. “But what is she doing?”

  “Looks like she’s trying to talk them down.”

  “That’s crazy! We have to—” Several weapons fired at the same time, and all of the color dropped out of her complexion. She lurched for the door. He caught her, but not before they both got a glimpse of the dark shapes on the ground where Sunday and the others once stood.

  “Search the tents,” the leader said. Not on
the megaphone this time, but his voice carried in the stunned silence. “Bring me everyone you find.”

  Claire muffled a sob against her hand and turned away from the door. “It’s Martinique all over again.”

  No. Fuck, no, it wasn’t. He wouldn’t let it be. Nobody had won in Martinique, and he’d be damned before he let that scenario play out a second time. He turned her toward her bed. “Pack fast. Essentials only, plus Akeso and your research.” He edged to the door again and used one finger to pull the flap back enough to peek out. Of course his tent—with all of his weapons—was clear across the field of hostiles. He was a damn coullion for not arming himself after his shower earlier. Now he was shit out of luck. He needed those weapons if they had any shot of getting out alive.

  At least a little bit of luck was with them. The militants had started down a different row of tents, buying them precious minutes.

  Claire came up behind him, sliding a backpack on her shoulders and carrying the cooler containing Akeso. He pressed a finger to his lips, then indicated she should follow him. She nodded, but she looked terrified. He took a second to lean down and kiss her lightly on the mouth.

  “It’ll be okay,” he whispered.

  Again, she nodded and straightened her shoulders. “I’m ready.”

  That was his girl. As brave as she was intelligent.

  He checked the door again. Immediate surroundings were clear. He told Claire to stay put with a hand gesture, then slipped out along the shadows between tents to get a look at what was going on behind them.

  Chaos. Hostages sobbing as the militants ransacked each tent. The militants weren’t sparing any lives as promised. They dragged people out into the rain, put them on their knees in the mud, and shot them execution-style.

  “This is murder,” Claire whispered behind him.

  Jean-Luc didn’t jump, but his blood pressure definitely spiked. He shoved her back into the shadows and wasn’t gentle about it. “I told you to stay put,” he hissed by her ear.

  “I couldn’t,” she shot back in a furious whisper. “They were in the tent next door.”

  As if on cue, two shots sounded from behind them—more executions—and then the tent wall shook as the militants invaded Claire’s space.

  Jean-Luc pressed a finger to his lips and indicated for her to crouch down. The tents were close enough together and it was dark enough now that they shouldn’t be seen unless the militants physically searched between each of the tents.

  He listened to the militants ransack Claire’s things, waited until they moved on to the next tent. Claire tried to stand, but he put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her down again. At her confused look, he signaled to stay put.

  Together, they waited. Listened. Crouched there for so long, Jean-Luc’s leg muscles started to protest. He wasn’t in optimal physical condition anymore. The virus had drained too much out of him.

  Once the militants finished with the tent next door and continued on, he took a look around. Clear, except for the fresh bodies. The fastest way out of here was to take one of the boats, and luckily his tent was on the way. He had no clue where Marcus was when the attack started, but if he knew the guy—and he did—Marcus would’ve gone straight to the boats to hold their escape route open. Hopefully with Jean-Luc’s weapons in tow.

  He grasped Claire’s hand. “Run for the boats.”

  She tugged him back. “Wait. The hospital!”

  Several of the militants had started toward the white hospital tents. They were going to infect themselves and everyone they came into contact with. With all the new, fresh meat, the virus would flare to life. One or more of the militants would run home sick and the whole hopeless cycle would start again somewhere else. “We can’t help them.”

  “But Ebiere is in there.”

  “Claire, she’s a kid. They won’t kill her, but—”

  “No, you’re not listening. The survivors are the key to a treatment. Akeso won’t be ready in time to help if someone plans to release this bioweapon, and vaccines can take years to develop. We need the antibodies in Ebiere’s blood.”

  He swore long and hard. He got her point now but resented the hell out of the whole situation. Last thing he wanted was to put Claire in danger but leaving those survivors to the militants put the world in danger. He looked longingly in the direction of the boats. Getting to Marcus before going to rescue Ebiere would take too much time. He had to go now and count on his teammate to keep their exfil route open.

  He ducked them back into the shadows between the tents and checked on the location of the militants who had searched Claire’s quarters. They’d made their way to the end of the row and continued down the next. Hoping they wouldn’t double back through the tents they’d already cleared, he pulled Claire back inside hers. It was already fairly dark inside, and only getting darker, but he couldn’t risk a light. He found a pen and paper among her belongings and slapped them down on a table.

  “Sketch the hospital layout for me.” Although he’d spent a lot of time inside the place, his memory was patchwork at best. “What area do I avoid and where will I find Ebiere?”

  She nodded and sketched rectangles of various sizes, arranged three in a row, which she connected with lines indicating corridors. “This is the main entrance. It’s administration, triage.” She pointed at the first medium-sized rectangle. Then to each of the smaller rectangles beside it. “These are storage, water supply and purification, and the generators for power. The next row back is the x-ray, lab and pharmacy, and surgical unit—”

  He stopped her. “Surgical. Where are the scalpels stored?” He could do a lot of damage with a scalpel.

  She flinched at the sound of more gunshots outside. “Uh, I-I don’t know. I’m not a surgeon.”

  He waved that away. “I’ll find them. What’s next?”

  She looked at her drawing, then indicated the next row of rectangles. “The patient personal hygiene units—toilets, showers, etc., and patient dining “

  “Yeah, I remember my way around there.”

  “Okay, good.” At the back of her drawing were the three largest rectangles. “These are the patient wards.” She pointed to them from left to right. “Cold zone, warm zone, hot zone. Cold zone is for virus-free patients. You won’t need any protective gear. Ebiere and the other survivors still have virus particles in their blood, and although we don’t think they are contagious any longer, they’re sequestered in the warm zone. You’ll want gloves and a mask to enter, and whatever you do, avoid the hot zone.” She put down the pen. “I should go with you.”

  “No.” His tone left no room for augment, but of course she tried anyway.

  “You were dying less than a week ago. You still have stitches in your arm—”

  “Then remove them.”

  She stared at him, stubborn and silent.

  “I’m fine,” he told her. “I’ve done a lot more than this in far worse condition.”

  She breathed out in a huff and turned away to grab her medical bag. Frustration made her movements stiff and she wasn’t gentle when she ripped off the bandage. She took some of his arm hair with the tape.

  Ouch. His doctor had a temper. Given the circumstances, he shouldn’t find that so hot.

  “Tell me how to avoid the hot zone,” he prompted.

  All cool doctor again, she snipped away his stitches. “There’s a corridor that runs alongside the patient wards. It’s where we brought in sick patients. It’s sectioned off by airlocks and to get out, you’ll have to complete the decon process. The closer you get to the hot zone, the more airlocks.” She finished with the stitches and recovered the wound with a fresh waterproof bandage. “Just because the stitches are out doesn’t mean this isn’t still considered an open wound. Your skin is raw, and you could easily re-infect yourself through this. So please be careful.”

  To his complete surprise, she leaned over and pressed her lips to the bandage. His heart clenched.

  “Okay.” He breathed out, then grab
bed her rudimentary map and folded it. “Okay, stay here and hide until I return. I don’t think they’ll come around again. We’re not dealing with combat-savvy men here.”

  “Just desperate,” she whispered.

  Something in her tone made him pause and turn back. “What?”

  She shook her head slightly. “It’s something Dayo said right before we found you in the camp. The militants are desperate.” She stared up at him with naked fear. “Desperate people are the most dangerous kind.”

  “Hey, cher.” He returned to her, took her face in his palms and kissed her gently. “We’ll get through this. Leave it to me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jean-Luc kept to the shadows, following in the militants’ footsteps. The whole group of them seemed to be focused on the hospital now, which made his job harder, but at least Claire would be safe. He slipped through the hospital’s front entrance, and paused to let his eyes adjust to the flood of light. He’d forgotten the generators would still be running, and hadn’t properly prepared his eyes for the change.

  Two militants stood with their backs to him, peering into the generator room and discussing the possibility of loading the generators onto their boats.

  Jean-Luc ducked into the storage unit at the other side of the module. Maudit! That was too close. If either of them had turned while he was standing there, blinded and blinking, that would’ve been the end of the Ragin’ Cajun. He’d lost his touch. He had to be more careful. One near-death experience per month was his limit.

  He waited until the two militants had both stepped inside the generator room, then ghosted past them and ran toward the surgical unit. A check behind him showed they hadn’t noticed—another reminder that this was not a well-trained fighting force. They were angry kids with AK-47s. Desperate people doing desperate things to survive.

  The surgical unit was dark. He glanced up and down the corridor. Clear. He slipped inside. Back home, surgical instruments were sterilized in an autoclave after a procedure, but he doubted they had anything so sophisticated here. They likely used disinfectants and stored them somewhere easily accessible…