“Ms. Winslow, I’m Major Barbara Newton,” the blonde said. “If you’ll come with me, please.”

“Where are they taking Max—Commander de Milles?”

“The wounded will be transported to the base hospital. Don’t worry, they’ll be fine.”

“How do you know that? You don’t even know what’s wrong with them.”

“If you’ll come with me, please.” Her calm smile never changed. She had to be press corps or public relations. “I’m sure both of you would like a shower and something hot to eat.”

“I’d like to go to the hospital,” Rachel said. She’d had plenty of dealings with the PR people who managed her father’s career—his life, really, public and private. She knew not to yield. “I want to see the officers who rescued us.”

“Let’s get you settled first.”

Amina took Rachel’s arm, pulled her aside, and murmured, “You probably won’t be able to see Max for a while anyhow. If you do what she wants now, you might get away sooner.” She raised her voice. “You’ll feel better if you have something to eat.”

Rachel wondered if the Marine major really thought a hot shower and meal were all that was necessary to erase everything that had happened. Amina was right, though, and clearly a better natural politician than her. She wasn’t going to escape until she at least seemed to be cooperating for a while, and in the meantime, she’d get the information she needed to find Max. She smiled at Newton. “Of course, yes, thank you. I’m sorry, things have just been…hectic.”

“I know, but it’s over now.”

It’s over. Rachel couldn’t help but think how glibly the phrase was applied and how little it pertained. Another lie she wondered if anyone really believed.

“Thanks,” she whispered to Amina and, still holding Amina’s arm, followed Newton’s brisk strides toward a waiting Humvee. Once she and Amina settled in the backseat and Newton got in front, the vehicle left the airfield and drove into a large complex lit by more halogen lights on poles spaced at intervals along streets laid out in rigid grids and lined by dozens upon dozens of the tan metal containers. What she wouldn’t have given for a few of those back at the camp. She stared out the thick, pitted window to avoid thinking about the failed mission and the lost lives.

Military personnel and civilian workers moved about on foot or by transport even though it was the middle of the night. Vehicles passed them, helicopters arrived and departed. After fifteen minutes and several turns, the Humvee stopped in front of another building similar to the ones they’d passed, only much larger. Major Newton turned to face them. “This is the base HQ. We’ll get you settled in your temporary quarters, and once you’re squared away, I’ll take you to meet the base commander.”

Rachel stared at her. She’d been around politicians all her life, and Major Newton was another one who just happened to be wearing a uniform. What she’d really meant was they’d debrief. Of course someone would want a recounting of their experiences in the jungle. Probably quite a few people, and it wouldn’t be quick.

“I want to see Commander de Milles first.”

“We will certainly arrange a visit as soon as possible. Come on, let me take you inside and show you your quarters.”

Newton headed toward the building, leaving Rachel and Amina no choice but to go along. Inside, a hall ran down the center with doors spaced at regular intervals on each side. Newton turned down another corridor and eventually stopped before a closed door with no markings. She opened it, held it ajar, and said to Amina, “Ms. Roos, you’ll be in here. I think you’ll find whatever you need in the way of clothes and other necessities on the bed and in the bathroom.”

Amina glanced at Rachel.

“I won’t go anywhere,” Rachel said.

Amina nodded. “I’ll see you in a little while, then.”

Major Newton led Rachel down the hall past several more closed doors and opened one. “Here you are. I’ll be by in half an hour and we’ll get you both fed.”

“I need a phone to make an international call. Can you—”

“Yes, we’ll take care of that.” Newton smiled. “I’ll see you in a few moments.”

Rachel stepped into the room and Newton closed the door behind her. A dull overhead light revealed the plain furnishings: a single bed, a metal dresser and desk, an open-faced closet slightly deeper than a bookcase with hangers and shelves. She almost laughed. Too bad she hadn’t brought a suitcase. On the bed were a pair of fatigue pants and a shirt without insignia, obviously military issue. A pair of dark leather combat boots stood at attention next to the bed. She lifted the tan shirt and examined it. Cut for a woman and close to her size. The pants, plain desert brown, looked to be her size as well. She wondered just how much they knew about her. The idea was disconcerting, although she shouldn’t be surprised. Of course there was a record of the Red Cross delegation and details of everyone in it. And the military just loved keeping files.

She disliked being caught up in the huge military machine, but the sooner she went along with this part of the plan, the sooner she’d get to see Max. And she would dearly love a shower. A meal might not be bad either. She stepped through a narrow door into an adjoining bathroom, a small tight space ingeniously designed to provide everything that was needed in a compact area. She stripped off her clothes and, not knowing what else to do with them, stuffed them into a trash can by the small sink. She turned on the water and steam filled the tiny bathroom. Naked, she stepped under the spray and started to shake. Her legs buckled, suddenly too weak to support her, and she slid down until she was sitting on the cool metal floor, her knees drawn up and her head back against the stall. Water pulsed over her face and body and ran into the drain beneath her.

Out of nowhere sobs shook her chest. Her mind went mercifully blank. She let the water wash away her tears until strength returned to her limbs, and she pushed herself upright. Mechanically she washed her hair, soaped her body, rinsed, and shut off the water. She wrapped a towel around her chest and found a toothbrush and toothpaste neatly stowed on a shelf above the commode. She brushed her teeth, dried her hair, and dressed in the fatigues that had been left for her. Clean socks and the new pair of boots completed the outfit. Slowly she sat on the side of the bed, flashes of the last day playing through her mind in fast-forward like a movie reel spinning too fast. Rotor wash kicking up clouds of sand. Gunshots and screams, terror and triumph. Through it all, Max was there. Max was hurt, and Rachel didn’t even know how badly. She didn’t know where Max was. She only knew she wasn’t there and everything inside her insisted that she should be.

A knock came on the door. “Ms. Winslow, it’s Major Newton. May I come in?”

Rachel glanced around the room she’d be happy never to see again. The space was too small and, as Newton had just proved, she couldn’t see who might be coming. Quickly she rose and opened the door. “I’d like to see—”

“Come with me, please. As soon as you’ve met with the base commander, I’ll get you information on Commander de Milles.”

“And a phone.”

Commander Newton smiled. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

Rachel sincerely doubted that, but she had no choice but to fall in step.

Chapter Seventeen

Yellow haze in the east. Dawn. Not much longer now. If they were coming, it would be soon. Morning twilight—when shadows hid the truth. There. A momentary flash of movement in the bush. A stealthy predator—cat, wild boar, man. The soft clink of metal sliding on metal. A round chambering, a scope adjusting. Straining to hear. The heavy air muffling sound, distorting direction. Searching, scanning, in front and behind. Tree trunks one upon the other, impenetrable, shielding the enemy. A scream, a shot. Pain. Adrenaline surging. Rachel.

Max’s eyes flew open and she blinked against the searing sun.

“Rachel?” Gasping, chest tight, Max jerked, grabbed for a weapon. Pain lasered down her arm. Where was Rachel? Not the sun, a light. Where?

A shadow loomed over her. A deep voice said, “Easy there, Commander.”

Max squinted and a face came into view. Clean-shaven, ruddy complexion, not the leathery tan of someone who spent days under the sun. Sandy hair, sharp blue eyes, cold and appraising. Tan desert camos. No insignia. No name.

“Where’s Rachel?” Max’s voice cracked and she swallowed against the dryness. “Where’s Grif?”

“Being taken care of,” he said smoothly. He was perched on some kind of stool next to her cot. He looked comfortable, as if he knew her and was just paying a friendly visit.

She’d never seen him before. She turned her head and checked out her surroundings. Her right arm was propped on a pillow by her side. A bandage circled her upper arm. She remembered running in the dark, her hand on Grif’s shoulder, steadying him on the litter. Rachel up ahead, shielded by the SEAL, almost safe. A punch to the arm, the round hitting her, taking her down. An instant of pain, sharp and bright, a surge of adrenaline. Lurching to her feet, the pain blunted by the need to get Rachel and Grif and Amina to safety. Running, breaking free of the grasping jungle, the Black Hawk just ahead, skids lifting into the air. Rachel being pulled aboard, safe. Raising Grif’s litter up into the belly of the bird. The Black Hawk rising—two, three, four feet. Last one on the ground—reaching up, wondering if anyone would see her.

They’d been there, the hands of her comrades, grasping hers, yanking her aboard. They’d seen her, knew her. The pain disappeared beneath the relief of seeing everyone safe. Rachel, Grif, Amina, the SEALs, all accounted for. She’d lain on her back, catching her breath, and found Rachel’s gaze reaching out to her across the space between them. Bright and intense, even in the gloom, a connection as unexpected as it was welcome, like another hand reaching for hers in the dark. She’d held on to that gaze for as long as she could, savoring the sense of not being alone.

Max studied the man who studied her. She was alone now. Hers was the only cot in a ten-by-ten cubicle. An IV bag hung above her left side and a line ran into her arm. She was in a recovery room at the base hospital. Where was everyone else—the medics, the other patients? Where was Rachel?

“Where are the others?”

He smiled, but there was no friendliness in his expression. His eyes remained glacial. “Everyone’s fine.”

“I want a report on Grif. Where’s the medic?”

“How did he come to get wounded?”

“Don’t you know?” Max frowned. “Who are you?”

“How large is the rebel force out there?”

“How would I know?”

“How many were you in contact with?”

Max hesitated, trying to read what he wasn’t saying. She hadn’t slept in two nights, was half-drugged from whatever meds she’d been given, and was mentally exhausted. But she wasn’t so out of it she couldn’t tell this guy was interrogating her. “I saw three, maybe four, as we landed.”

“What about later?”

“We never had contact later.”

“Who ordered the abduction of Rachel Winslow?”

Max stared at him. He wasn’t military, he was something a lot more dangerous. NSA. DOD. CIA. Whoever he was, he wasn’t a friend. And he was interested in Rachel. She studied him the way she studied a target through her scope—coldly, dispassionately. He had just become the enemy. “Who said there was an abduction attempt?”

“The attack on the camp yesterday morning was fortuitous, don’t you think?” He folded his hands over one knee, his tone casual, conversational, as if they were chatting over drinks at the officers’ club.

“Bad timing,” Max said. “It happens out here.”

“Yes, bad timing, especially considering that the plans to evacuate were specifically focused on her.”

“I wondered about that,” Max said. “Why her?”

“Do you believe in luck?”

“No.”

He shook his head. “Just before we arrived, the camp was attacked. If we hadn’t had good tailwinds, we would have been fifteen minutes later, and she’d have been gone. That was lucky, don’t you think?”

“We?” Max laughed. “Sorry, I didn’t notice your ass on the line out there. What desk were you riding while the RPGs were exploding everywhere?”

“Bad luck for the rebels, maybe—they almost pulled it off. Almost as if they knew about our plans.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. You think one of us tipped off the rebels about the mission?”

He smiled, waggled one hand. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I think you’re looking for someone to blame for a mission that went south and almost lost you a highly valuable asset.”