Shoot to Thrill (26 page)

The hut had been partitioned into two rooms, and the outside door opened onto a dingy office space filled with desks, chairs, bookshelves, and filing cabinets. A lone man sat at a desk squeezed into the far corner, his head bent over a stack of files.

“
Signore dottore
,” Eduardo addressed him respectfully. “We have visitors. Americans.”

The doctor looked up. And Kick froze where he stood.

Now, wasn’t that convenient?

The man was Nathan Daneby.

ONCE
again his redheaded Angel eluded him.

The night had dragged on interminably and the maggot-spiced supper they’d given him that tasted like fermented dog shit made multiple reappearances on his taste buds. His jaw throbbed like a son of a bitch.

With a groan, he opened his eyes. Everything around him was black, black, black.

For a second he panicked.
Please, God, no.
Don’t let him have lost what little sight he’d regained over the past few days. Please don’t let that be gone, his only hope, along with everything else he’d lost. That would be too cruel.

Taking a fortifying breath, he lifted his hand in front of his face and peered closely at it.

And almost wept.
Thank you, Jesus.
There it was, a faint blob of grey, and five fingers moving in the blackness.

He could still see. A little. It was just night.

He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to allow the threatening tears to break loose.
Jesus, what a fucking pansy crybaby.

He shuddered out a breath and slowly made himself sit up on his pallet. He desperately needed to use the bucket. He must have been out cold all afternoon. Thank God the dysentery hadn’t left him a stinking mess before he awoke. That was always fun, to endure the added ordeal of the stench and embarrassment along with the disgusted torment of his asshole guards.

Crawling inch by inch to the corner of the room, he took care of his needs as best he could. Sweating and shaking, Mother of God, he wanted nothing more than to collapse back on his pallet when he was finally done.

Instead he forced himself up on his treacherously wobbly hands and knees and crawled to the center of the room. The rough, gravelly dirt of the floor scraped off another layer of bruised and battered skin, but he barely felt it. He took another deep breath. Lowered himself into a push-up. And began counting.

“One-thousand-one,” he said aloud between gritted teeth as he raised himself up again.

And did another.

“One-thousand-two,” he panted out, already exhausted.

He wanted to quit. Fuck, he’d sell his own mother to the devil to be able to quit and give up now.

But he didn’t. Not when the pain screamed through his arms and legs like lethal poison. Not when rockets’ red glare burst behind his burning eyelids.

Not until he counted to twenty-eight.

And after he collapsed onto the hard, unyielding ground, he managed a smile through the buzzing haze of fatigue and watery eyes.

Eight more than last time.

Hoo-yah.

He’d escape this fucking dung heap yet.

Now if he could only remember who he was, and where he should go.

NATHAN
Daneby!

Kick was having a real hard time controlling his roiling emotions.

The last person he’d expected to find in this part of the country was Nate. Last he’d heard he was down south, setting up several new camps. Kick was unprepared to face him. And he hated being unprepared. For anything.

“Christ, Kick! What the hell are you doing in the Sudan?” Grinning, Nate held up a palm as he sprang to his feet. “No, don’t tell me. Because then you’d have to kill me. But damn, am I glad to see you!”

Somehow Kick produced a smile. After all, he’d been with ZU. He had a long history of shutting down his emotions, disguising his suspicions. Lying like a dog.

But never before with this man. God, it hurt.

Especially since there was no way he could confront him. Not with his mission in the balance. If Nate was involved with terrorists, with abu Bakr, and found out about Kick’s mission, he’d betray him again without blinking.

No, their confrontation would have to wait. But not bursting out with accusations was the hardest thing Kick had ever had to do.

He made a quick decision. “Haven’t you heard?” he said. “I’m no longer with the Company. I’m guiding tours now.”

Nate’s face fell in obvious shock. “You’re shitting me.”

Kick gave a wry smile, doing his best not to bare his teeth. Slapped his bum leg. “Not much use for me in this condition. Besides, lots of money in specialty tours these days. Seems my particular knowledge of out-of-the-way places is in big demand.”

Nate seemed nonplussed. Almost like he was upset. “Sure. Yeah, I suppose it would be. Although, somehow I can’t . . . Hell, I never thought I’d live to see the day.” He shook it off and opened his arms. “Anyway, it’s great to see you, buddy.”

He returned his friend’s—former friend’s?—quick hug and masculine back-pounding. “Likewise. It’s been a while.”

“You ain’t kidding. Haven’t seen you since . . .” Nate cringed visibly and swept his gaze over Kick from head to toe, this time more carefully. Was that true regret in his eyes, or only regret that Kick wasn’t dead like the others on his team in Afghanistan? “Anyway. Glad to see you’re back on your feet, man. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

He sounded so fucking sincere. If Nate was the traitor, he definitely had a set of big brass ones. Which would make sense. If underneath it all, Saint Nathan really was just another greedy bastard, he’d played his role of world savior to perfection.

“Thanks,” Kick said stiffly, inner conflict and confusion desperately trying to break free in his mind and heart.

“Can’t say I’m sorry you’ve changed employers. You know I never approved of your former occupation.”

“Yup.” Which only added fuel to Kick’s mental fire, depressing him even more.

He so wanted his friend to be innocent. And after all, why should he trust a thing Jason Forsythe said? Or anyone else at Zero Unit, or the whole damned CIA for that matter? Kick was convinced someone in the government was a traitor working for al Sayika. Hell, maybe
Forsythe
was the traitor—no, wait, he was dead; that would be a clue to his innocence. Forsythe’s boss, then, or someone working with him. But then, how to explain that photo of Nate . . .

“I was lucky,” he forced himself to say conversationally. “It was touch and go for a while whether I’d keep the leg, let alone the job. Still limping a bit. But I’ll take it over the alternative.” He used the excuse to limp over to a chair and sit down.

“Jesus, of course. Sit. What am I thinking? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“All of the above,” Kick admitted, rubbing a hand through his gritty hair. “And I could use about a week’s worth of sleep. But first, could you find out for me how Lafayette is doing? He was pretty bad off.”

Anything to get Nate out of the room for a few minutes so Kick could regain his equilibrium. Stop the shakes and armor himself against the stinging hurt and suspicion, so he could pull off this distasteful charade.

“Sure.” For a second Nate looked uncertain, as though he detected the undercurrent of fury and betrayal in Kick’s jerky movements and avoidance of his gaze. “You relax here. I’ll just,
um . . .
” He took a couple of steps toward the door. “Kick? Is something wrong? Something I should know about?”

He always had been a perceptive bastard. Kick shook his head, producing another weary smile. “Nope.”

Nate nodded somewhat reluctantly. “Well, we should talk. But I guess it’ll wait,” he said, then went out of the door.

Shit. No fucking kidding.

Shit, shit, shit.

Kick put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He had to get hold of himself. Calm down. Push himself to a place where he could function normally and not want to wrap his hands around the man’s throat and squeeze. Demand the truth from him. They’d have a talk, all right. But
after
his mission had been carried out and there was no longer an imminent threat to—

Except, crap. If Nate really was somehow involved with the terrorists, he might even now be warning abu Bakr. Regardless of Kick’s cover story, a former CIA operator’s sudden appearance in the Sudan would trigger grave suspicions in anyone’s mind. A real traitor would definitely be paranoid enough to alert the terrorists to a possible coming attack. And no doubt set up another ambush to forestall it. Kick would be as good as dead.

Fucking A.

When he’d decided the A-stan massacre had been due to an inside traitor, he’d never in a million years suspected it could be Nate. He’d always assumed it was an al Sayika mole, someone inside CIA itself, or Zero Unit, with some secret agenda to push. But Forsythe’s photo had been more than damning. Nate had been at the nearby Afghan DFP camp at the time. And he’d taken money from Abbas Tawhid, one of the two top al Sayika leaders and abu Bakr’s right-hand man. Kick’s mind told him it had to be true. Nate had sold him out, along with his team. How else could that photo be explained?

But his heart still refused to be convinced. Which was the only reason he wouldn’t take out his knife tonight, creep into the man’s tent, and slit his fucking throat.

Kick wanted revenge in the worst way for the deaths of his men, and especially that of his best friend, Alex Zane. God, he craved revenge with every fiber of his being.

One day he would get it.
Soon.

But not today.

Today he had to think of his mission. Killing abu Bakr would be the first step to clearing away the worst detritus of his troubled past. Then he’d come back for Nate. Oh, yeah. He’d find out the truth. Good or bad. And justice would be done.

That was a goddamn promise.

MARC
was going to be okay.

Rainie watched from behind a glass partition as two amazing doctors—one from Denmark and one from India—worked miracles on Marc’s injuries while a Sudanese nurse stuck him with IV needles and adjusted the oxygen mask over his nose. It was obvious they’d done this before.

Rainie was very relieved she didn’t have to help. She was so dead tired she probably would have made mistakes.

“How is he?” someone asked.

She turned to see a handsome man smiling down at her. His face was tan and his eyes sparkled with European charm. His brown hair was stylishly slicked back and he was dressed in khaki shorts, a periwinkle polo shirt, and expensive leather desert boots.

“He’s going to make it,” she said, smiling back. “Thanks to your brilliant colleagues. I’m assuming you’re a doctor, too?”

He made a courtly bow over her hand. “Count Girard Virreau, at your service. And, yes, I am a doctor.”

“I’m Lorraine Martin. Rainie. Pleased to meet you.” She raised her brows. “A real count? Honest?”

His smile grew wider. “You Americans are so easily impressed. I assure you, being a count in my country is not so noteworthy.”

“If you say so. But being here in the Sudan as a volunteer with Doctors for Peace, that
is
impressive.” The man looked more like he should be playing tennis in Saint Tropez. It spoke volumes that he’d chosen to be in this dirty, depressing camp, helping people instead.

He inclined his head. “For that I thank you. But now, my dear, you must follow this doctor’s orders. I fear you are in grave need of treatment, Mademoiselle Martin.”

Her free hand flew to her hair. She made a face. “I must look even worse than I feel. Honestly, I’m just—”

“Starving, thirsty, and in need of a good night’s sleep. Plus, I think a glass or two of fine French wine would not go amiss,
non
?”

Non
, indeed. “That does sound wonderful.”

He was still holding her hand. He took it now and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. “Excellent. Why don’t we go to my—”

Two men came through a door and strode down the hall toward them.

“Ah, there is Signorina Martin,” one of them exclaimed. He was young and wore a blue uniform, staying one step behind the other man, who walked tall and sure, like a man in complete authority. That one must be the director of the camp.

The tall man gave her a pleasant once-over before peering through the glass partition in at Marc. “I understand your friend is injured,” he said. “Will he be okay?”

“Yes. Thank you,” she said with heartfelt gratitude. “I’m certain your doctors saved his life. There was nothing we could do for him out in the desert. I felt so hopeless.”

He looked back at her. “In that case I’m glad you got him here in time. Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Dr. Nathan Daneby.” He stuck out his hand.

Her shock was sudden and complete. Too rooted to the spot to react, she opened her mouth but nothing would come out. She just stood there like an idiot
. Oh, jeez.
The
real
Nathan Daneby. This was just as weird as she’d feared. The
Twilight Zone
music danced in her head.

Count Virreau stepped forward with her hand still clutching his arm. “May I present Mademoiselle Lorraine Martin.”

That snapped her out of her paralysis. Embarrassed, she dropped the count’s arm and grabbed Daneby’s outstretched hand. “Dr. Daneby, I am truly thrilled to meet you. I’ve followed your work for years and am a huge admirer. I had no idea you’d be here. Please pardon my bad manners. I never expected . . .” Her words jumbled on her tongue.

Daneby’s lips curved wryly. “Apparently my presence surprised more than you. Your guide practically had a stroke when he saw me.”

“My guide?” She blinked. “Oh! You mean Kick.” Suddenly heat rushed into her face. He
would
have a stroke, considering how he’d taken advantage of the good doctor’s name—while he took advantage of her. “You
know
each other?” she asked incredulously. “For real?”

“Oh, yes. Kick and I go way back. Over the years we’ve often seemed to end up in the same poor backwaters of civilization. For very different reasons, of course,” he added with a bland smile.