Double Cross (Hard Target Book 1) (3 page)

DUKE SCOOPED up the doctor and sprinted for the river. Static filled his earpiece even as he issued desperate orders. Fuck-fuck-fuck. What the hell was going on? He knew that was an AGM 176 Griffin missile. He’d heard them often enough, picked up the pieces after they blew the shit out of a target.

“Wilco, goddammit, tell those fuckers we’re friendlies.”

Static.

The doctor secure in his arms, he waded into the river. He wasn’t a man who prayed but at that moment? If there was a God, SEAL Team Atlantis needed all the help they could get. He saw two shadows dart between spots of fire. One bulky, one not. Nothing else moved but the leaping flames engulfing the small stand of trees. If they’d been camped there, they’d all be dead.

Duke waded deeper, felt the current tug at his legs. Torn between keeping the civilian safe and getting back to his team, the decision was taken away when a second missile arrived. The flash seared the backs of his eyeballs in the instant before he dove beneath the water.

Cory’s sanity went MIA with the first blast. By the second explosion, she had no hope of finding it. She couldn’t explain how she ended up in the river, sputtering and gasping for air after a dunking, and in the arms of the angry man who was the SEAL team leader. His arms banded around her as their heads bobbed just above the surface. Flames added dancing demons to the scene as unfamiliar things churned the air.

Master Chief. Master Chief Reagan. His name came back to her. His face appeared ravaged, blood trickling down both cheeks. She needed her medical kit. She was a doctor and she had the insane need to fix him.

“We gotta go, doc.”

“Cory. Everyone calls me Cory.” Why did her identity matter? Because she was tired of being anonymous. If she was going to die, she wanted someone to know who she was. Cory Prince. Twenty-eight-year-old woman from Bethesda, Maryland. Who happened to be a pediatrician. Working for an international aid organization. Her brain circled back around to the present, which was scary beyond comprehension, except the man with her was injured. “I need my kit. You’re hurt.”

“Still gotta go. We’ll submerge, ride the current underwater. You’re gonna hang onto me. Wrap your legs around my waist.” He waited while she did and damn if his fucking dick didn’t like sitting in the sweet spot. Jerking both of his heads back into the game, he added, “I’ll breathe for you.”

“Breathe for me? How?”

“You just want to trust me on this, princess.”

Something whistled past her cheek like a hot, angry wasp. Bullet. She gasped and didn’t get her mouth closed as Reagan dragged her under. Her fingers clawed at his shirt and a part of her brain recognized his arm tightening around her back. Then his mouth was on hers, his tongue forcing her teeth open. She swallowed more water, but it went into her stomach, not her lungs. Air filled her lungs. Warm, miraculous oxygen.

Time turned relative. Sense was no longer common. If this was death, his lips on hers wasn’t a bad way to go. Blackness consumed her then time stopped. Forever.

Duke was injured. He knew his eyes were open but he couldn’t see shit. Fuck. This was bad. One of the extra treats the Atlantis genes provided was nictitating membranes that covered their eyes underwater so he should have been able to see. That second blast must have blinded him. What had happened to the rest of his guys? Did they make it out? And who the fuck blew the shit out of their camp? Those were American UVAs—drones—shooting at them, and he’d bet money those were Griffin air-to-surface missiles. As his gills provided oxygen, and wasn’t he damn glad those assholes at Area 51 had implanted them, his brain churned through the carnage that had become his reality. He was pretty sure he’d seen Dalton and Tank. But the others? Nada.

The doctor floated, limp and unconscious. Just as well. Less to explain when they got out of this mess. He had one arm looped around her waist, and breathed into her mouth every thirty seconds or so. Continuing to take stock, he realized his instincts had grabbed both his pack, and the case containing his sniper rifle. What the hell was up with that? Oh, yeah. Training. On a mission, he slept with his pack on, using it as a backrest, and his weapons were never far from his reach. Tonight, his reflexes might just save his life, and that of Dr. Prince.

Exhausted, but not so far gone he didn’t recognize the inherent danger of being in an African river, Duke opened up his senses. His inner sonar, while not as developed as the Cali Boy’s, worked fine, pinging off deadfalls and other hazards. A kick, an arm stroke, a change of course. He worried about the blood trail from his injuries, but even temporarily blinded, he was still an apex predator. He had to get the doc far enough away whoever those assholes blowing the shit out of his team couldn’t track them. Then he’d use the SAT phone in his pack to call Command with a May Day.

CORY WOKE up with a mouth full of sand, an arm full of man, and no idea where she was. Other than Africa. After a bomb blast. Or something. She spit, careful to inhale through her nose. The man lying half on top of her groaned. The SEAL. Or whatever he was. Reagan. Master Chief. She couldn’t remember his first name. That suddenly seemed very important. Twisting her head, she looked around. They’d snagged up on a sandbar in the river.

A small flock of long-legged white birds strutted at the point of the sand bar. Deciding that was sign of no imminent danger, she shoved away from the master chief. He groaned again and her Hippocratic oath kicked in. Rolling him over—how big was this man anyway—she examined him. Blood had dried on his face and crusted in the wounds. There was another red splotch on his olive drab tee shirt.

He’d covered her with his body. She sort of remembered that. Then he’d snatched her up and run for the river. After that, her memory was a big, black hole. A faded red pack bobbed nearby. Was it possible? Not trusting her legs, she crawled over and snagged it. Her medical kit. Glancing up, she sent up a quick prayer of thanks. There were days she truly wondered if there was a supreme being, but just in case, she always showed her gratitude to the Universe when things went right.

The pack was waterproof. She’d have antiseptic, topical antibiotics, and bandages. Injuries she could deal with. The rest of her current situation left her bewildered. Dragging the bag back to where the big man lay on the sand, she unzipped it and took stock. Yes. She had everything she needed until they could get to civilization. With luck, that wouldn’t be long. She remembered the military was supposed to send someone to pick them up. She soaked a pad with antiseptic and set to work.

“What the hell?” Duke arched off the ground, his face burning. Reaching out blindly—and wasn’t that a pisser—he snagged an arm. A thin one covered with soft skin. Dr. Prince. His brain came slowly back on line. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Please, sir. Lay back down. I know this stings, but I need to clean out your wounds so they don’t get infected.”

“Where are we? And I’m not a sir.”

“I…” He heard material rustle as she looked round. “I have no clue. We must have drifted down river. We’re on a sand bar.”

“We need to get out of sight.”

“No. I need to tend to your wounds first.”

“Listen, lady.” He growled in frustration. How far had they gone down river? Were those bastards with the missiles still hunting them? “That was a fucking missile attack last night. We’ve got to get under cover.”

He brushed at his eyes, but she snagged his hand and prevented him. He sensed her leaning closer, caught her heat and a whiff of what her natural scent must be—clean, pure, like laundry hanging on a wash line on a sunny day. Where the hell had that memory come from? His childhood hadn’t been filled with such things. Except he remembered the old lady next door. The one who hung out her sheets on sunny days and sneaked home-baked cookies to him through the fence.

“Wait. Let me look.” Her hand settled on his jaw, gentle but firm. She tilted his head—toward the sun judging by the temperature change on his skin. “Oh…dear.”

Fuck. That didn’t sound good. “What?”

“Can you see? Anything at all?”

And there it was, the punch to his gut. “No.”

Her hand dropped away amid the rustling of more clothes. He pictured her kneeling at his side. “Tell me what you remember.”

Aggravated, Duke snarled again. “Not here. We have to get under cover.”

“Oh. Yes, you’re right. We should. A moment.”

Cory scanned the area around them. They’d have to wade through shallow water to reach the bank of the river. A wadi ran down to the water, the dry channel forming a cut in the higher ground beyond. It would give them a way to climb out, back to the plains so she could see.

“I found a way out.” She explained her plan to use the wadi. He stood, settled his pack and searched the sand bar with his foot for something else. “What? What are you looking for?”

“Gun case. My sniper rifle.”

“Oh.” She turned a slow circle and saw the case snagged close to shore. She could retrieve it on their way to the river bank. “Found it. Give me a moment to put my medical kit back together.” She hastily stuffed supplies in and zipped it. Slinging it over her head, strap crossing her body from left to right, she stepped back to the master chief. “Put your hand on my forearm. I’ll lead you.”

“No. Shoulder.” And he followed through by clamping his big hand on her left shoulder.

“Well…all right then. Fine, master chief—”

“Duke.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Duke. My name is Duke.”

“Duke? Is that a nickname?”

“Nope.”

“It’s your real name?

“Yup. I was named for John Wayne.”

“Wait…but…” Cory knitted her brows and pursed her lips, still not following. “If you are named for John Wayne, then why—”

Duke glared—or thought he did. He wondered what her expression showed.

“Oh. I…All right. Duke.” She tasted the name on her tongue and tried to piece together the reason for his nickname. Not that Duke didn’t fit him perfectly. Strong. Arrogant. But she had far more serious things to worry about than his broad shoulders, square jaw, and— She jerked her thoughts back to the situation at hand.

“We have about twenty-five, maybe thirty feet of sandbar and then about eight feet of shallow water to wade before we hit the bank. It’s not smooth like a beach or anything. We’ll have to scramble up a little ways to get into the wadi.”

“Lead on, McDuff.”

“Actually, the quote is ‘Lay on, McDuff.’ The phrase has been misquoted often during the four hundred years since it was written.” Cory babbled on, relating the history of the phrase, quoting from the scene in Shakespeare’s “MacBeth” until Duke squeezed her shoulder.

“Damn, princess, don’t you ever shut up?”

“Oh. Oh! I apologize. I…when I’m nervous, I—”

“Are you nervous?”

She stumbled to a stop and turned her head to stare at him. “Are you serious? Of course I’m nervous. I’ve been kidnapped, rescued, shot at, bombed, and now I’m God knows where in the middle of bloody Africa with a man I don’t know who’s blind—”

He squeezed her shoulder so hard she winced.

“I may be blind, princess—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’m still a fucking Navy SEAL, princess. I’ll get your pampered ass back to the States.”

Cory opened and closed her mouth a dozen times, but no words came out, only angry sputters. She considered marching off and leaving the big oaf standing there. Then he’d see. Oh yes, he’d be the one lost and alone because wasn’t that lovely irony? He couldn’t see. She twisted away from his grip on her shoulder and backed a few steps away, prepared to do just that. She was ready to flee until she saw the bright, red splash against his shirt. He was bleeding again.

“Oh, dear. I…You’re bleeding. We have to get into the wadi and get out of sight so I can tend to your injuries. I don’t like that the wound opened up again. Come with me.”

And just like that her temper settled. She had a job—a patient. His life depended on her. Fine. She would handle this situation just like she had every other obstacle life tossed in her path. To do otherwise was not an option.

They struggled up the crumbling ground at the edge of the river. His pack and gun bag and her medical kit made it that much tougher. They slogged along the bottom of the wadi until Cory found a scooped out area behind a large boulder. They could get out of the sun, covered from the sky, and mostly out of sight between the rock and a bend in the gully.