Edge Of Truth. Brynn Kelly
her rusty tourist French. God, was he ever welcome, whoever he was. She shouldn’t be thankful some other luckless schmuck had wound up here.
Reluctantly, she eased her hand from his. He’d be more comfortable on the mattress but first she should make sure moving him wouldn’t worsen any injuries. She patted his stomach, then stroked up. At his chest, hard pecs tightened. Nothing wrong with those reflexes.
His neck and jaw were rough with stubble—almost a beard—rising up to a sharp, smooth cheekbone and speed bumps of tiny wrinkles beside his right eye. His forehead was unlined, though a little rough and peeling. The skin between his eyes was bunched into two crevasses. Was this how blind people built a picture of someone? The bones were in the right places, though the nose felt wonky. He didn’t recoil when she skated her fingertips along it, and there was no open wound. An old break, perhaps.
“Can you roll onto your back?”
He sighed, and seemed to understand, shifting and resettling and—she guessed from the sound of rubbing fabric—straightening his legs. He was moving freely enough. She checked his other arm. A gravelly graze on his elbow but otherwise okay. The fingers of that hand didn’t curl around hers. Which was fine.
She skipped the business part of his trousers—nothing much she could do about that if it wasn’t working, and she already knew there wasn’t a thing wrong with his butt. His legs felt fine. Very fine—powerful thighs slid into long, strong calves. His trousers—combat pants, presumably, given the number of pockets—were tucked into socks. His boots were intact. Best leave them on—in this filth, his feet were better off contained.
“Back in a sec,” she murmured.
She felt her way to the mattress and found her backpack, which had been ransacked for everything but her first-aid kit and a few toiletries. No phone, no laptop, no documents, no notes—little more than Band-Aids, sunscreen and lip gloss. I need you to stay pretty for my videos, Hamid had said, shoving the backpack into Tess’s stomach.
Hamid had stood there, a few feet from where Tess now sat, flicking through her notebook. You’ve been trying to find my base. Congratulations, my friend. You succeeded. If I’d known you were so keen to drop in, I would have invited you much sooner.
How did you find me? Tess had demanded.
The same way I usually find people. The same way I found your whistle-blower, the traitor Latif. Hamid held up Tess’s phone. With the help of America’s very useful National Security Agency. My job is a bit like yours, you know. It’s all about the contacts.
That’s impossible. I was careful. She hadn’t been online in a fortnight. She’d been using burner phones, contacting no one she knew. We were all careful.
Not all, Hamid said. Not all. Your translator texted his wife several times.
Tess’s face went cold, all over again. She removed the first-aid kit from her backpack. She could do nothing for her crew now but she could help this soldier. Returning to him, she coaxed his head onto her lap, cradling his shoulders with her thighs while keeping her bandaged feet clear.
What had this guy done to incur al-Thawra’s wrath? Or was Hamid trying to draw France into their phony conflict?
“I’m going to clean the cut on your head. It might sting a little.”
At his solid weight, a memory flashed up of her final weekend with Kurt, when he’d taken leave and met her in Cairo. Ugh. Turned out even a Medal of Honor didn’t make a man honorable—even if half of America swooned over him. No more military heroes for her.
Next time she’d go for a dependable small-town accountant whose chief attribute was loyalty. Someone who could be relied on to come home after work—alive, and not smelling of another woman. Charm and bravado spelled trouble. She frowned. That was if she got a chance at a next time and didn’t end up in two pieces like the last unfortunate American kidnapped by Hamid.
She ripped open an alcohol wipe and ran it over her hands. Working on feel and guesswork, she smoothed the next few wipes over the lump, wringing out the alcohol so it dripped on the wound. He hissed, his shoulders tensing against her.
That’d have to do—she was low on wipes, and she might need to change the dressing in a day or two, if they both lasted that long. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to send the message to her other senses that they were on their own, as she held the wound closed with one hand and pressed on the suture strips with the other. Several times the strips tangled and she had to start over. She finished by winding a bandage around his head. Better than nothing.
Would twice the people be looking for al-Thawra and their hostages now? Soldiers were full of no-man-left-behind macho crap. At least they’d be a whole lot more enthusiastic about looking for one of their own than for a pain-in-the-ass reporter. More than a few American politicians and military brass would be greatly relieved to pay their respects at Tess’s funeral.
“Done,” she whispered. Now, how the hell would she move him? His head felt heavier, suddenly. “Monsieur?”
He groaned. “Oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh.” She heard him swallow, with effort. “Water.”
“Of course. Hang on.” Duh—he was saying “eau,” not “oh.” No kidding he’d be thirsty. The air out here was so dry it felt like you’d swallowed a cup of salt. She eased his head off her lap and crawled to the mattress, waving her arm as if she were divining the water. She knocked over a bottle and caught it before it rolled away.
“Here,” she said, scrambling back. “Can you sit up?”
No answer. Unconscious, again. Crap, how was she going to do this? She heaved him upright, cradling his back against her chest. She sensed his head slumping, and caught him as he tipped sideways. Her foot grazed his thigh, searing pain up her leg. She adjusted under his weight, her arm muscles burning as she guided his head back onto her shoulder. Man, he had to weigh two hundred pounds. Help me out here, buddy.
Grunting with effort, she closed her arms around his torso and twisted the cap off the bottle. It couldn’t be a good idea to pour liquid down his throat. She splashed a little water into her palm and lifted it to where she guessed his mouth was. She got his prickly chin, instead. She tried again, a little higher. When her palm touched his dry lips, she eased the water into his mouth. He moaned and straightened a little, relieving the pressure on her muscles. On her next attempt he darted out his tongue and licked her palm, shooting fissures of awareness up her arm.
Well, if he was strong enough to do that... She brought the neck of the bottle to his lips and raised it. Water trickled down her arm but his throat made swallowing sounds. She flinched as something warm and rough closed over her fingers—his hand, guiding the bottle to a better angle. She couldn’t bring herself to extract her hand. Maybe he was a hallucination—her isolation and fear playing on her subconscious—but whatever he was, whoever he was, calm spread through her for the first time since her translator had slowed for that damn roadblock near Hargeisa. Hell, she’d take any relief she could get.
He released her hand. “Beaut,” he gasped.
Beaut? Was that French? Something about the accent was familiar—something that didn’t fit this picture. When he’d said “water” in English, he hadn’t used the French R. He’d trailed off with no R at all.
“Can’t...see. Eyes...”
Definitely not a French accent. Was he English? But why the French words earlier? A multilingual local? Or maybe his accent was just messed up after too many years away from home, like hers.
“Nothing wrong with your eyes. It’s pitch-black down here—I can’t see anything, either.”
His back collapsed against her chest and she fought to catch him. Conked out again? She laid him down and extracted herself. She found the graze on his elbow and dabbed and dressed it. It couldn’t be healthy to leave him on the dirt—at night the cold seeped up through