SEALs of Summer 2: A Military Romance Superbundle (121 page)

A
fter hurrying through
her rounds in the makeshift hospital tent, Claire prepared a breakfast of military MREs and headed back to her tent. Butterflies fluttered in her belly and she found herself a little short of breath at the thought of seeing Irish, with his sexy accent and exceptional body.

She pushed through the flap and closed it behind her. Turning, she glanced at the wall of boxes. Nothing stirred, no sounds, no sign of Irish.

Her heart thumped in her chest, and she hurried around the boxes to find Irish lying on his back, his hands behind his head. “I thought you would never come back,” he said, his voice hushed. “I’m bored out of my mind.”

“Sorry, but it’s necessary. My contacts tell me Umar survived the attack, and his men are on the hunt to find the occupants of the helicopter.”

A frown pushed Irish’s brows together. “I really need to be out there. If my team needs help…”

“You’ll be no good to them dead.” Claire handed him the packet of food. “I thought you could do with something to eat to keep up your strength.”

Irish grimaced. “Thanks. I think.” He took the offering and a plastic fork, patting the ground beside him. “Sit with me.”

His smile made her want to sit right beside him and forget there was a world out there. “I should go.”

“Please.”

“Okay, but only for a minute. I’ll be missed by my partner, Dr. Jamo.”

“Is he American, like you?”

“No, he’s Somali.”

Irish tore into the green packet of food. “Where did you get these?”

“They were a donation from the base at Djibouti. Beats eating what the locals have. I’m here to help, not take the meager amounts of food they are able to grow themselves. Not only did Umar take over their village and kill the elders, he allows his men to consume what food the people had managed to store, as well as their livestock and what they were in the process of raising in their gardens. These people are destitute.”

“That’s probably why we were sent in to take him out.”

“We being?”

“Navy SEALs.”

Her heart stuttered. No wonder his muscles were rock-solid and well-toned. The man could probably chew nails and spit them out without breaking a tooth.

Her eyes widened. “Nothing but the best to take out the rebels? It’s too bad you didn’t get here sooner. Before these people lost everything they owned.” She pushed a strand of hair out of her face.

“What about you? Why Somalia?”

She smiled. “Africa is part of me. I actually grew up in Africa. My father is American, my mother French. They met here.”

“Are they doctors or missionaries?”

Her smile slipped. “Doctors. They met when they worked together on a cholera outbreak in Ethiopia thirty years ago. My parents fell in love with the people and the beauty of Africa, and with each other. They chose to remain in Africa to raise me and help people who had little access to medical care.”

“Very altruistic.”

Her back stiffened. “They cared deeply about the people.”

He touched her arm. “Apparently they passed that down to their daughter. Where are your parents now?”

“They died in a bush plane accident.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s been a while.” Claire glanced at her hands, a lump forming in her throat as it usually did when she thought of her parents.

When Claire had turned fifteen, she was shipped back to the States to live with her paternal grandmother and attend a public high school in Iowa. There she’d been bored, barely socialized with the other students she had nothing in common with, and poured herself into her studies. Graduating Valedictorian, she’d been accepted into Harvard where she completed her undergraduate degree in pre-med Biology.

Her grades and MCAT scores got her into Johns Hopkins. Determined to finish her education and get back to her parents and the land she loved, she’d pushed hard, studied harder and didn’t have much of a life outside of her textbooks and labs. Near the end of her first year at Johns Hopkins, Claire received a call from her grandmother, breaking the news her parents had been killed in a plane crash.

“How old were you when they passed?”

“I was in medical school.” The shock of that call reverberated through her as if it was only yesterday.

The news hit right before a huge exam. For the first time in her life, she’d been too stymied by grief to study effectively. She blew the exam and nearly dropped out of medical school. After a talk with her advisor, she’d pulled herself together, finished her studies and interned at a hospital in New York City. “As soon as I had my license to practice medicine, I joined Doctors Without Borders and returned to the African continent.”

Irish lifted her hand. “I’m glad you did,” he said softly. “If you hadn’t, I’d be a dead man today.”

She squeezed his fingers. “Then it’s a good thing I happened to see you fall out of a helicopter.”

“Dr. Boyette,” a deep male voice called out from the other side of the tent flap.

Claire gasped and spun toward the entrance. “I’ll be right out, Dr. Jamo.”

“Do you have someone in your tent? I hear voices.”

“No, no. I was just talking to myself,” she called out, hating lying to her friend and colleague, but he was better off not knowing about her guest. If she could make it through the day without revealing he was there, she’d get him out that night before the refugees and the rebels were any wiser.

Where he’d go, she wasn’t sure. The man was a SEAL, he was bound to have resources who could get him out of the area.

Part of her wanted to go with him, to leave the danger behind. The other part of her knew he was heading into danger and might not make it out alive. And she wanted him to live.

Claire pressed a finger to her lips and nodded toward the pallet.

Irish slipped into the sleeping area and ducked beneath the cot, completely out of sight before Claire opened the tent flap.

Dr. Jamo stepped inside and closed the flap behind him. “You have someone in here,” her colleague said.

Claire stepped backward. “Why do you say that?” she asked.

“I heard you talking to him. Is it one of the men from the helicopter crash last night?”

Claire shook her head, her face heating. Then she nodded, unable to lie to someone she respected as much as Dr. Jamo. “Yes.”

Dr. Jamo’s eyes widened as he stared toward the stack of boxes. “Where is he?”

Claire tilted her head toward the sleeping area.

“He cannot stay,” Dr. Jamo said. “You put our people at risk by bringing this man among them.”

Claire nodded.

Irish stood, rising above the boxes. “I’ll leave as soon as it gets dark outside.”

Dr. Jamo’s gaze swept over the tall man. “What happened to him?”

“He fell from a helicopter.” Claire gave him a breakdown of Irish’s injuries and concussion. “I’d rather he stayed longer, but I realize it’s not safe. No one else knows he’s here but you and me.”

Dr. Jamo frowned. “American?”

Irish nodded. “Born and raised in Texas. My mother was Irish, my father was Texan.”

Dr. Jamo paced away from Claire and her charge. “If Umar finds him among us, he will take him and use this American as an example to all other Americans who venture onto Somali soil. Then he’ll kill every one of the people of Samada as a warning not to harbor foreign infidels.”

“I know.”

“And yet, you still brought him among us?” Dr. Jamo waved his hand toward the tent’s exit, behind which the women and children of Samada lived in tents, slept on the ground and starved for food. Thin from malnutrition, they were tired and dispirited already from being displaced from their homes into a makeshift refugee camp. Now they were frightened from sounds of gunfire and last night’s crash.

Guilt washed over Claire when she considered their lives and what it meant to introduce more danger to them with the American’s presence. Still, she couldn’t have left Irish to die in the rubble, or to be discovered and tortured by al-Shabaab.

“I promise to get him out of here tonight. In the meantime, we’ll keep quiet and ensure no one else finds out he’s here.”

“It is a small camp,” Dr. Jamo reminded her. “Everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

She stiffened her back. “Then I’ll just have to be doubly careful. As it is, we can’t move him now without everyone seeing him, including whatever rebels might be lurking nearby.”

Dr. Jamo gave Irish a narrow-eyed glare. “It isn’t safe.”

“Agreed.̎” Irish nodded. “I’ll be gone tonight.”

The native doctor stared long and hard at Irish and then turned to Claire. “Nahabo needs our assistance. Her baby is coming.”

Claire shot a glance at Irish. “You’ll be okay today?”

He nodded. “Go. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

“This might take a while. No birth is every quite the same.” She gave him a weak smile then pushed through the tent flap and out into the open, followed by her colleague.

Dr. Jamo gripped her elbow. “Tonight.”

The intensity of that one word hit Claire square in the gut. “I promise.”

The rest of the day was spent delivering Nahabo’s baby, treating children for infections and checking on those too sick to leave the hospital tent.

Near the end of the day, a dozen black men with rifles stormed into camp.

The women grabbed their children. Those on the edge of camp slipped into the trees and brush. Those caught in the middle gathered their children close.

Rebel fighters split in two groups, each taking a different side of the camp. Using the barrel of their rifles, they jerked aside the tent flaps to reveal the occupants inside. So far they hadn’t made it to hers. But it wouldn’t be long.

Dr. Jamo had gone with a man to check on a shepherd outside the camp. Claire had been treating a young girl for a nasty cut on her leg that was infected.

Though her heart hammered against her ribs, Claire refused to reveal to the rebels she was rattled by their abrupt entrance and afraid they’d find Irish. She continued to clean and dress the wound until the task was finished.

“You!” The leader of the band of rebels pointed his rifle at Claire. “Come.”

She set the child on the ground and gave her a gentle push toward her mother. Then Claire stood. “Where are we going?”

He nodded toward the hospital tent. “Medicine.”

“Those are sick people.”

A fierce frown settled across his forehead. He rattled off something to one of the women, who broke down and cried. He backhanded her, sending her skidding across the packed dirt.

“Hey!” Claire glared at the man and bent to help the woman to her feet. “I’ll go with you. Just leave these people alone.”

Shuffling feet and rattling weapon harnesses alerted Claire to Dr. Jamo’s entrance into the camp. He held up his hands and bowed his head, a clear sign of submission. They didn’t want any trouble. Jamo spoke in short, crisp words to the leader.

The ink-black man with the big rifle snorted and nodded toward Claire.

“He wants you to take your medicine. Umar is injured and requires our assistance.” Dr. Jamo’s lips tightened briefly. “I offered to go instead, but he wants you.”

“Will they bring me back?” she asked, her stomach tight with worry for Irish.

“They say they will.” Dr. Jamo touched her arm. “They have to be kind to you since you will be working on Umar.”

“And if I work on the leader, and he dies?” she finished in a whisper, her gaze not on Dr. Jamo but the team leader and his scary gun.

“You have to make certain he does not die.” Dr. Jamo turned toward the rebel leader, saying beneath his breath. “Your first challenge will be getting to your medicine without exposing our guest.”

Claire forced a smile. “Tell them I’ll be right back with my medicine bag.” She turned toward her tent.

Dr. Jamo translated.

Their leader wasn’t letting her out of his sight, following her all the way to the tent.

Claire paused with her hand on the tent flap. Damn. If the rebel entered the tent, he might snoop around and discover the American. “Wait here,” she said and slipped through the entrance.

Her rebel shadow entered behind her.

Heart pounding, hands clenched, muscles bunched and ready to run, she stared around the interior, her focus zooming in on the floor pallet. The blankets and sleeping bag had been transferred to the cot. Irish and all of his gear were gone.

Letting go of the breath she’d held, Claire hurried to collect her bag, stocking it with additional penicillin, gauze, tape and rubbing alcohol. She figured, after last night’s battle, more than Umar would be needing medical attention.

When she stepped out into the open, the rebel leader grabbed the tent fabric and yanked hard. Some of the poles snapped and the tent collapsed to the ground, leaving lumps beneath. As if that wasn’t good enough, he aimed his weapon at the tent and fired a burst of bullets at the lumps.

Claire winced, praying Irish really had escaped the tent and that he wasn’t hiding in one of the boxes. Not that his big frame would fit in them. Not knowing where he was, all she could do was hope he’d find his way back to his team.

Meanwhile, she had her own worries. The fact they’d destroyed her tent meant one thing. She was not to return.

Moments later, the rebels smashed, kicked, tore and demolished the refugee camp. Women wailed and shielded their babies from the attack, only to take the brunt of abuse.

Claire stepped forward. “Stop. You don’t have to do this. I’m going with you. Please,” she begged. “Leave these people alone.”

At the edge of the refugee compound, Dr. Jamo stood with his hands secured behind his back with a length of rope, his lips tight, anger burning in his eyes.

“They’re taking you, too?” Claire asked. A hard shove from behind sent her sprawling in the dirt, her bag sliding out in front of her.

“Seems they want both of us to patch up those injured in last night’s raid.”

“Someone needs to stay and help these people rebuild or relocate.” Claire’s heart ached for the damage with which the refugees had to contend.

“They won’t listen.” He turned his face so that she could see where he’d been hit in the temple. A trail of blood dried on his dark skin.