Brynn Kelly - Edge Of Truth

“They’re not—”

“Sunshine, if it looks like a terrorist, smells like a terrorist and shoots like a terrorist, I’m calling it a terrorist. Do you remember anything between being kidnapped and landing in the dungeon?”

“Vague flashes of being on the back of a truck. You?”

“Not a bloody thing.” He stabbed the toe of one of her boots and dug the blade into the leather.

“Hey! That’s the only footwear I have.”

“I’m giving them air-conditioning. We might be on foot awhile. We can duct-tape them later.” He sawed the toe off one side. “Or you can buy more with your superstar salary. Try this.”

She slipped it on, wincing as she worked her foot in. “Do you really think there are land mines here?”

He started on the second boot. “Abandoned land is often abandoned for a reason out here. But these thorn bushes and acacias have been cut back recently—for cooking fires or goat pens—so we’re probably safe.” A shout sailed out from the compound. “Relatively. You gotta watch the scrubby areas that are untouched.”

“Are we heading for those lights—the village, or whatever it is?”

“We don’t want to be in the open come morning. Here.” He passed her the boot.

“That’s where they’ll expect us to go,” she said, her voice tight, anticipating pain.

“That’s because it makes the most sense.”

She forced a thin-lipped smile and yanked up the laces. A shaft of light landed beside the tank, casting a shadow of the gun. He gripped her leg in warning—needlessly, it turned out, seeing as she was tense as concrete. Voices drifted over, conversational rather than urgent. Hopefully Hamid assumed he and Tess had headed out the gate, and had sent only a couple of schmucks around back to cover their bases. The light lingered on the tank’s turret, then moved on in a steady sweep. He realized he was still holding her, right around the thigh. He let go.

“Don’t suppose you know how to use one of those?” He nodded to the weapons beside them.

“I did some skeet shooting growing up, and I’ve shot an AR-15 in a firing range, but only on...”

He picked up a rifle and ejected the clip. Nearly full. He checked the next one. Full. “Only on...?”

She finished tying her laces and stood, testing a few steps. “Only on dates.”

“You messing with me? What kind of guy are you dating?”

“The wrong kind. And sometimes I go to the firing range with my mom and brothers. Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays—we’ve always been a little...competitive. I’ve never used one of those, though. Is it an M16?”

“Yep.” He gave her the 101 of readying and firing. Dating the wrong guy, huh? And that information had zero relevance. She was a celebrity; he was a recluse and planned to stay that way. Not a combination that’d work. Well, any relationship involving him wouldn’t work.

He shortened the sling to fit her frame and fitted it over her shoulder. “For you, this is a last resort. Your clip’s nearly full, so you have enough for four bursts. Don’t use it needlessly—and don’t use it on me.”

“Depends on the circumstances,” she said, with not nearly enough of a teasing tone.

“Don’t forget who busted you out.” And who’d had his arms around her much of the day. He’d lain awake for the last half hour of their nap while he’d mentally run through his plan, trying not to think about how soft her skin felt and how neatly she fit into him. Sicko. “You good to go?”

“You’re speaking Australian again.”

Bugger. When had he switched? “Told you my English is all over the place.”

He peered around the hull. Might as well stick with Australian now—the less his brain had to compute, the better. He’d be rid of her soon enough, and then he could ease back the paranoia lever.

The searchlight had moved off. Headlights trailed along the road, toward the village. Out in nowhere land, maybe three klicks away, a warm light flickered. Campfire. Probably nomadic herders—little chance of a phone there. With no moon, stars lit the sky like holes in a sieve. He scanned the horizon.

“The village is to the west. Hopefully the road continues the other side so we won’t have to pass the compound on the way out of town.” West was more likely to mean civilization—Addis Ababa, or maybe they could scoot back up to Djibouti. North likely meant Somalia, east a whole lot of nothing.

“How do you know the village is west of us, if you don’t know where we are?” She tugged the laces of her second boot.

Man, she was the suspicious type. He pointed above their heads. “I checked the map.”

“You can navigate by the stars?”

“You got a compass?”

Satisfied with her boots, she tipped her head back. “Prove it.”

He grunted. What a pain in the arse. He didn’t need to prove anything, but if it made her ease up on the interrogation... “North Star.” He pointed. “We’re about ten degrees north of the equator so you look about ten degrees above the horizon. The rest is easy. Bit of trust here?”

“Show-off.”

“You asked. Time we moved. But first we need to dirty up your T-shirt.”

“I’ve been wearing it for a week—it’s not dirty enough?”

“I can still see some white—it’ll show up like a reflector if that light catches it. Here.” He picked up a handful of soil, grabbed her wrist and dropped it in her palm. “Spit on this and rub it into the front. I’ll do the back. We’ll turn it into desert cammies.”

He picked up another handful and moved behind her. He could almost cover her back in a single hand span. She was all shoulder blades, spine and ribs—she’d gone easy on the MREs. Lucky he was into curves. Just you remember that, soldier.

“You like this stuff, don’t you?”

“What stuff?” Having his hands all over a beautiful woman? Too right. He liked her, that was the problem. She lit him up and she wound him up. A dangerous combination.

“Playing soldiers.”

“I am a soldier. It’s no game.”

“Isn’t it? Isn’t that why you joined up—you wanted to make the computer games a reality? Dive inside that Xbox?”

“You’re fishing for information.” And way off the mark. He’d been one year off an engineering degree when that journalist bitch outed him. With the walls closing in, he’d fled to Paris. Before that he’d been more into “Tetris” than “Call of Duty.” “Is that why your brothers joined up? And your boyfriend?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she snapped.

“Whoa.” Mission Change of Subject accomplished. He spun her. “Your face is glowing.” He smoothed the dirt in his hands over her cheeks, nose and forehead before running his fingers around her neck and into the exposed V of her chest. She took a sharp breath. A few inches lower and—

Shut it down. “Better,” he said.

She clicked her tongue. “And I just cleaned my face.”

“Waste of time out here, if you’re playing soldiers or not.” He ripped a strip of reflective metallic fabric off the bag and pocketed it, and rolled the rest in the dirt. “Same rules apply—keep your distance and step where I step. Sound’s gonna travel, so we go steady and careful. I do this...” He brought his palm level with the ground and lowered it, quickly. “We drop flat. If their lights pick us up, we run like lightning.” His gaze slid to her feet. “If you can. And try not to step on anything shiny.”

“What should I do if something goes click?”

He grimaced. “It won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“It’ll just go bang.”

“O-kay. Nice reassurance.”

“You want reassurance, hire a life coach. We’ll stick to tracks wherever possible—human, goat, donkey, camel... And, hey, if this area is mined, Hamid’s soldiers might not come after us.”