Reckless Honor

by Tonya Burrows

  “Hey, hey.” Jean-Luc gripped the back of her neck and guided her head down between her knees. “Slow down. Breathe. No, no. Listen to me, cher. In and out, nice and easy. You’re in shock and you’re having a panic attack. Breathe. Breathe now. Listen to my voice. In and out, in and out.”

  She listened to him. The slow cadence of his voice, his sugar and spice Cajun accent. Her lungs opened, and she drew in a full breath again.

  “Yeah, like that,” he murmured, still rubbing her back. “There you go.”

  Once she had her breath back, she carefully sat up. “What do we do now?”

  “They’re gaining on us. Plan B.” Marcus slowed the boat and spun the wheel, guiding the craft into a hook-shaped lagoon shadowed by tall mangroves. He shut off the engine, then leaned over the side of the boat to tie off on the mangrove roots. He settled down with his back to the steering panel and wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

  Claire looked back and forth between the two men. “We’re just going to sit here and wait for them to find us?”

  “They won’t.”

  Marcus sounded so sure of himself, but she sincerely doubted his plan. It seemed beyond risky. She opened her mouth to argue, but Jean-Luc gently squeezed her shoulder and gave a small shake of his head. He pressed a finger to his lips and pointed toward the river, where two bright searchlights had flickered on and scanned the shore. She sank down against Jean-Luc and watched with her breath snagged in her throat. Those lights were so bright the beams illuminated everything they touched with a splash of white. There was no way the militants wouldn’t see their boat.

  Jean-Luc let go of her and crawled over to the front of the boat. He unstrapped something from the bow and slung it over his shoulder. At first, she didn’t understand what that tube-shaped object was, but when Marcus handed him the ammo for it, she realized his intentions. He climbed over the side of the boat and stood on a mangrove root.

  She scrambled to him, the boat rocking under her, and caught his hand. “Be careful.”

  He flashed that reckless grin of his, leaned down to kiss her, then freed his hand from her grip. In the next heartbeat, he vanished into the darkness, climbing the tree like it was nothing more than a flight of stairs.

  “Dude’s a damn monkey,” Marcus muttered and turned to check the progress of the militants’ search.

  Getting close. Only a matter of minutes before the spotlight swept past the trees hiding them. If they were lucky, nobody would spot the glint of the boat. If they weren’t lucky….well, she supposed that was why Jean-Luc had climbed the tree with a grenade launcher.

  She hugged herself and sank down when the light swept past. It disappeared, then came back and lingered. The sudden brightness made her see spots.

  “Fuck,” Marcus said.

  She looked up at the distinctive pop. The grenade landed between the two boats, sending up a spout of water. Both boats swerved away and circled back to pepper the treetops with bullets. Another pop. Men shouted and dove for the water as the bow of one boat exploded. The other boats circled the sinking vessel, picking up survivors. At least two militants continued shooting blindly at the trees in their general direction. A bullet pinged off the windshield of their boat. Another buried itself in the driver’s seat. Claire squeaked as Marcus dove for her, using his larger body as a blockade to protect her.

  He was going to get shot. For her.

  No, dammit. She squirmed away from him. Too many people had died for her already. If one of those bullets had her name on it, nobody would take it for her.

  Overhead, Jean-Luc fired off three grenades in quick succession. One landed next to the remaining boat, close enough to cause some of the men aboard to bail out. The second landed in the water, right where those men floated. The third hit the boat dead-on and it exploded with such force, it flipped up action-movie style.

  Before Claire could process what she’d just seen, Jean-Luc had clambered back down the tree. He dropped the launcher and started patting her back and sides like he was looking for something. “You okay? Did those bastards hit you?”

  She stuttered, too stunned to form a coherent sentence.

  He said something in a language she didn’t understand—Russian, maybe?— and hugged her close. “Marcus?” he asked over her head.

  “We’re both okay,” Marcus said.

  “Put some distance between us and them, yeah?”

  “Good plan.” Marcus plopped down in the driver’s seat and switched on the ignition. The motor coughed, then rumbled to life.

  Jean-Luc sat down and pulled her onto his lap. He seemed unwilling to let her go, and she was all right with that.

  “I really am okay,” she said when she managed to find her voice again.

  “I know.” He nuzzled the top of her head. “Scared me when I saw the bullets hit the boat.”

  “Just the windshield and the seat.” She pointed to the tuft of padding now sticking out of the back of Marcus’s seat.

  “They shouldn’t have done that. I was gonna let some of them live until they shot at you.”

  His words sent a shiver through her. He mistook it as cold and pulled the sleeping bag up to cover her. How could he be so sweet, but also say things like that with no remorse? He was the most dangerous man she’d ever met.

  Sure, now she appreciated his brutality because it had kept them alive, but how would she feel about it later? Days, months, years down the road, would his violence bother her? She’d taken an oath to do no harm. How could she honor that and accept both sides of him?

  She gave herself a mental shake. Silly questions. All that mattered right now was survival.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The boat skimmed across the water for several miles in silence, the landscape flashing by in a tangle of dark trees and the occasional tiny village perched precariously on the river’s edge. Comfortable in Jean-Luc’s arms and safe for the moment, Claire started to doze until the boat’s speed changed. She sat up. Marcus turned off the main river at one of the creeks and pulled into another hidden lagoon. He shut down the engine and tied them to another mangrove.

  They had to be close to a refinery. The air smelled faintly of oil and in the distance, flares lit the inky sky with columns of orange flames.

  At least it had finally stopped raining.

  “We’ll rest here for the night,” Marcus said. “It’s getting late, and I don’t want to draw attention to the boat.”

  Jean-Luc nodded. “Get some shuteye, mon ami. I’ll take first watch.”

  “I’m good with that.” Marcus sat down with his back to the dashboard and dragged one of the rucksacks over to him. He unrolled the second sleeping bag and tucked it around his shoulders. “See you in an hour.”

  Claire snuggled in beside Jean-Luc again. His shirt had ridden up, and her hand touched bare skin, fingertips brushing over a puckered scar on his stomach. She’d noticed it before, but it hadn’t been her priority while he was sick. But now, in the dark and quiet, she wondered. She lightly traced her fingers over the pink star-shaped mark and he squirmed like it tickled.

  “Did this happen in Martinique?” she asked softly. “When you tried to help Tiffany?”

  He stopped her hand and lifted it to his lips. “It’s why I wasn’t able to come find you sooner.”

  Emotion swamped her, so overwhelming it made her a little dizzy. To cover it, she managed a little smile. “Correction: I found you.”

  His grin was as slow and lazy as his Cajun drawl. “Mais, yeah, cher. You did. You did.”

  “I never thanked you for trying to help her.”

  “Shh.” He soothed a hand over the top of her hair, which was a damp, knotted mess from the rain. “No, please don’t. She saved me, you know?”

  “How? I thought she was shot when the hostage situation began. I saw her body in the lobby.” She looked up at him, waited for him to answer. He didn’t say anything for several long minutes.

  “Tiffany was shot in t
he lobby, but she was alive.” He stared out across the water at the flares. “I got her out of there, but we were both badly injured and holed up in one of the hotel rooms. I was unconscious and would’ve died with a bullet between the eyes without ever realizing what had happened. I’m told by the people who were there that she realized she wasn’t going to survive her injuries, and sacrificed herself to draw attention away from me. She screamed at her killer before he shot her. The sound woke me up, and I was able to get out. I sometimes still hear her scream in my sleep.”

  He closed his eyes and leaned back against the edge of the boat. “It wasn’t words, but it was so full of rage it might as well have been a ‘fuck you.’” He gave a faint smile. “I think we’d have been great friends.”

  Claire sniffled and pressed her hot face into his shoulder. “Oh, yes. Tiffany would have liked you very much.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to save her. Or Sunday. I know they meant a lot to you.”

  “They did. Sunday was my oldest friend.” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “And Tiffany and I were sisters in every way but genetics.” Her arms tightened around him. “At least by saving you, she gave me a gift before she died.”

  “A gift, huh?” Again, she heard his smile in his voice as he nuzzled her ear. “Am I more a box of chocolates or a bouquet of roses?”

  “You’re a Chia Pet,” Marcus said, his eyes still closed. “The gift nobody asks for, but always gets.”

  Without missing a beat, Jean-Luc shot back, “No, that’s you, Curly-Q. I’m as sleek as a pampered house cat.”

  Claire looked back and forth between the two of them and burst out laughing. “Oh, God. You two are like an old married couple.”

  “Alas, I asked him once,” Jean-Luc said wistfully, “but he turned me down.”

  “You didn’t have a ring,” Marcus said. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, but his lips curved with amusement. “You can’t propose without a ring, dumbass.”

  She laughed until her sides hurt and tears streamed down her cheeks. The guys were probably trying to take her mind off all the horror of the last few hours. She needed a release from the pressure of all the emotion building up inside her, and the laughter helped. Only it didn’t last. The giggles grew hysterical and then morphed into sobs.

  “Oh, cher.” Jean-Luc scooped her up and cradled her on his lap until she finally sobbed herself into oblivion.

  …

  For a long time after Claire drifted to sleep, the only sounds were the lapping of water against their boat and the occasional whoosh of a gas flare somewhere nearby on land.

  “Hell of a night,” Marcus said softly, breaking the silence.

  Jean-Luc combed his fingers through her hair. She still had dried tears streaking her pale face, but she didn’t look as haunted now. That was good. She needed a bit of quiet. “They were after her.”

  “Yeah. Think Defion was behind the militant attack?”

  “I have no doubt. They weren’t going to risk infection by going in after her and needed to flush her out. What better way than paying off the friendly neighborhood militant group?”

  “Well, we can’t hide here forever. The way I see it,” Marcus said and held up two fingers, “we have two options. One, we can go thirty-some miles upriver to Port Harcourt.”

  “And risk running into more militants or Defion.”

  “True, but it’s the closest population center. From there we could catch a flight to Lagos where Tuc owns a hotel.”

  Martinique had been one of Quentin’s hotels. Fat lot of good it’d done there. “I don’t like it. Too much risk.”

  A pause. “Since when have you been averse to risk, Cajun?”

  Since he started caring for someone more than himself. He held Claire closer and glared across the boat at Marcus. “We gotta get her out of Nigeria.”

  “Uh-huh.” Marcus dragged out the word, and said nothing else for several long minutes. Then he sighed. “The other option is riskier if you ask me. Bioko Island is, give or take, one hundred and eighty kilometers southwest of here. A three-to-four-hour boat ride. We have enough fuel to make it.”

  “Hold up, mon ami. Bioko Island? Isn’t that part of Equatorial Guinea?”

  “Yup. Malabo is the next largest population center in the area with an airport.”

  “Merde. No, that’s not an option. We have no intel, no money, no local assets. We step foot in that country and we’ll definitely be detained. Don’t know about you, but I don’t want to see the inside of their prison system when they’re consistently one of the worst human rights violators on the planet.”

  Marcus held up his hands. “Hey, dude, you wanted another option. I gave you the two I see.”

  Jean-Luc rubbed a hand over his jaw. The beard he had yet to shave scratched at his abraded palm. “We’ll have to risk the river to Port Harcourt. There’s no other choice.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The HORNET’s Nest

  Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean

  “All right, guys. Attention front.” Lanie Delcambre walked to the conference table in the war room of HORNET’s jet, affectionately called the HORNET’s nest. The noise in the room settled into silence.

  Harvard grinned at Lanie from behind his computer. He couldn’t help it. Although this was her first official outing as field commander, she already commanded so much respect from these badass men. With good reason. She was a badass in her own right.

  Lanie nodded at him, a small smile quirking her lips. He knew she thought he was adorable. Like a puppy.

  His grin faded at the thought. Shit. She’d never see him as a badass. With her now field commander, would he ever see combat?

  “Harvard,” Lanie said in a tone indicating it wasn’t the first time she’d called his name.

  Jesse Warrick, team medic and Lanie’s husband of less than a month, leaned over the table and waved a hand in front of his face. “Hey, kid. Everything okay? You here with us?”

  Kid.

  Goddammit. He felt a bad mood creeping on, his muscles tensing under the weight of the anger settling around his shoulders.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” He hit a key on his laptop and the wall screen behind her lit with a map of the Niger Delta region of Nigeria. Several red circles dotted the map.

  “So you all know why we’re going,” Lanie began.

  “The fucking Ragin’ Cajun,” someone muttered, which pretty much summed up Harvard’s feelings toward the guy right now.

  “Yes,” Lanie said with the patience of a saint. “This is a rescue mission for two of our men who need help.” She pointed to a spot on the map Harvard had marked with a small yellow X. “This is Dr. Claire Oliver’s last known location. We get to here, we’ll find our men. There are no roads in or out, so once we land at Port Harcourt, we’ll continue by boat…”

  While Lanie continued the briefing, Harvard took a moment to study the men around the room. Ian leaned back in his seat and propped his feet on the table while Tank snoozed peacefully beside his chair. Jesse glared across the table at the explosives tech, but thankfully said nothing. Last thing they needed was another blowout between those two.

  In the seats usually occupied by Jean-Luc and Marcus were two of Tucker Quentin’s men on loan for this mission.

  Devlin was a tall, intimidating, square-jawed man with black hair and eyes that hinted at some Asian blood. He only went by the one name—Devlin, no last name—which Harvard didn’t trust. He’d once run a search on the guy out of curiosity and, yeah, a bit of paranoia. He’d come up with nothing—nearly impossible since nowadays a person couldn’t sneeze without leaving some kind of electronic trail. But Devlin was a walking, breathing ghost.

  Sean Carreras, on the other hand, was an open book. His father was a Mexican-American laborer who still lived and worked in New Mexico. His mother, half white, half Apache, was a high school Spanish teacher who had died of cancer when Sean was still quite young. He grew up in Santa Fe with several sib
lings, and joined the Army out of high school. He smiled easily and laughed a lot. Harvard liked him.

  A notification popped up on Harvard’s screen, drawing his attention back to it. He’d put a flag on any new content related to the Niger Delta or the virus, and it had picked up a breaking news story. He switched to a private window that was not attached on the wall screen, and opened the file.

  As he read, the bottom dropped out of his stomach. “Holy fuck.”

  Lanie stopped talking and everyone looked at him.

  He sent the news article to the wall screen so they could all see the headline and immediately began running searches for more information. “We’ve got problems.”

  Doctors Without Borders Field Hospital Attacked by Militants Amid Deadly Outbreak

  “Oh, dayum,” Jesse said softly.

  Lanie stepped back to read the article. She said nothing for a long time, only stood there shaking her head. When she spoke, tension made her voice tight. “How many casualties? And were any of them ours?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Do your thing, kid.”

  “I’m not a kid.” Annoyance sparked through him, igniting the anger he’d been trying to keep banked. Like he hadn’t started combing through news sites looking for more intel the moment he found the article? “The reports coming out of that area are sparse. The authorities don’t even know what’s happening right now, but it looks bad. Really bad.”

  “I’ll call Tuc,” Carreras said and stood up. “He might have contacts in the area.”

  “What’s the plan now?” Ian asked.

  Everyone turned to face Lanie again. Even Tank sat up and looked at her with perked ears as if waiting for her response.

  She stared at the article on screen for a long moment. “We’re still going to Port Harcourt. That hasn’t changed. It’s the largest population center in the area. If Jean-Luc and Marcus were at the field hospital with Dr. Oliver and they escaped, they’ll find their way to the city. It’s their best chance of making contact for an exfil. For now, it’s going to be a waiting game until we have more intel. If any of you have sources that can help, tap them. We’ll regroup and come up with another plan in”—she checked her watch—“an hour. I need to brief HQ about this development.”