Under Fire: The Admiral (7 page)

He nodded. “You a teacher?”

“No, I . . .”
Careful, Gemma.
“I’ve
given a few workshops and supervised a fair number of people.” She
shrugged. “Smart ones are bored. My solution is to challenge them
physically then mentally.”

“Really? That work?”

“Sure. Give them a good workout. Burn off all
the excess energy then they’re ready to sit down, listen and
learn.”

“Either that or be exhausted and go to sleep
on you.” He grinned and held up his water container. “Okay to get a
drink?”

“Yeah.” She looked around. “There are plenty
of vines.”

Walsh drank his fill then grabbed a vine. “We
could make like Tarzan.” He ran, leaped, and swung out of control,
letting loose with a really awful Tarzan yell.

“Sure.” Gemma shook her head.
Boys will be
boys.
“You going to be the one that gets exhausted and goes to
sleep on me?” He took the hint and abandoned the vines. “I’m going
to move us more inland. The undergrowth is getting thicker by the
yard, a good indicator we’re getting close to the river. If we cut
to it diagonally,” she said and motioned with her hand in the
direction they’d be going, “we’ll avoid some swamp and mangroves.
We can stop soon for a break, and to eat. You ready to move
again?”

Walsh nodded. “Sure am, survivor lady.”

“That accident. Did your friend’s death
really straighten you out or did you get tired of being a jerk?”
Gemma said as she began the push through the thickening
undergrowth. When she didn’t hear him crashing behind, she turned.
He was still, a hand on a vine looking like he’d won the
million-a-year-for-life lottery.

“Both.” He caught up and pushed past her. “I
could have died with him that night. The doctors treating me said I
should have died. They had no explanation why I didn’t. That day
changed my life, in a lot of ways. Some I’m only now beginning to
appreciate.”

His tone of voice caused her to stop.

He shot her a look over his shoulder. “Am I
going the right direction?”

“Yeah.” She had the strangest feeling there
was a subtext to what he was saying. Trying to tell her something
without saying it. “Wait up. I should lead.”

“You said I’m an instigator,” he said as she
passed him. “I wasn’t. Charlie was. He was the local bad boy from
the wrong side of the tracks. All the girls wanted to date him. Got
into minor scrapes that he always managed to talk his way out of. I
followed him around because he didn’t ask me to be better. Expected
nothing of me.”

Gemma stopped, as much to get her breath as
to look at him. It felt like that scene in the
Wizard of Oz
when Dorothy peeks behind the curtain and sees the real man. Was he
giving her a glimpse behind his façade?

“That night we’d been drinking. A lot.
Charlie died on impact and was thrown from the car. I . . .”

She held up a hand in a stop gesture. “Nice
try, Sherlock. No matter how much you tell me about your accident
I’m not sharing any more about mine.” From the defeated look on his
face, she’d nailed it. “How about we have a change of subject? Tell
me why you come to Ecuador. A plastic surgeon like you could go
anywhere,” she said, moving again.

“Reconstructive surgeon.”

She halted. A humongous spiderweb blocked her
path. The remains of a small bird, or maybe it was a bat, hung in
the delicate strands guarded by the resident spider, which had a
body bigger than her fist.

“That’s creepy,” Walsh said over her shoulder
and
with a hand on her hip.

“Yeah.” She shuddered, moved out of his reach
and looked for a way to skirt the web. “What’s the difference
between plastic surgeon and reconstructive surgeon?” She kicked and
stomped a path around the tree.

“A lot. PS is cosmetic. Reconstructive is
repair work after traumatic accidents and to correct birth
defects.”

A harmless green snake made its way over the
branch she was about to shove out of her way. She gave way to it,
grateful to be motionless except for deep breaths to flood her
lungs with oxygen.

“My mother’s ancestors are Colombian.”

“Yeah? Why not Colombia?” She began moving
again.

“Too dangerous. There are thousands of
Colombians here in Ecuador taking refuge from the government,
rebels, and the cartels.” He sucked in several breaths. “The
village we were at yesterday started out as a Colombian refugee
camp. Locals mixed in. The government looks the other way and calls
it Ecuadorian.”

“The government and medical community don’t
feel you’re stepping on their toes?” she said, noticing the ground
under her boots getting spongy.

“We brokered a deal with the government
before we started coming. We don’t ask them for anything. They do
the same with us . . . Money comes from doctors and private donors.
No U.S. interference either . . . Staff volunteer their time.
Guardian Air provides services at cost.”

His clipped sentences and pauses between them
told her he was having as much trouble breathing as she was.

“Villagers in remote areas can’t get to
hospitals or are afraid . . . Medical facilities don’t have funds
to go to them . . . We fly in, set up field surgeries, do what we
can to help local doctors . . . This trip I’m only doing follow-ups
. . .
and
making friends.” He tugged at her pack. “We
friends yet?”

She waited to answer until she could keep the
smile from her voice. “Jury’s still out.”

They moved on in silence for a long while.
The farther inland they moved, the less breeze they had. Soon the
air became as still and dense as the jungle itself. A quick check
of her watch said air temp was a hundred and six. With no wind, the
flying insects moved in and dive-bombed searching for a breach in
the repellant force field. Some of the suckers were large enough to
carry sidearms and wear boots. If the repellent ran out, she’d have
to use her Ruger to keep them from taking their quart of blood. “We
find an . . . open area . . . and we stop.”

Walsh said nothing, unless you wanted to
consider his huffing and puffing. A few minutes later she stepped
into an area big enough for them to spread out a cover and rest.
She freed the Ka-Bar knife from its webbing. The Ka-Bar wasn’t made
to use as a machete but it did well enough to hack a space they
could move around in. She retrieved the tarp she’d put in the top
of Walsh’s pack and flipped it open. Together they dropped,
exhausted.

“I thought.” He sucked in several breaths. “I
was in good shape.”

“You are, Doc. If you weren’t, your body
would be on the ground a mile back.” She shrugged out of her pack
and smeared repellent around the edge of the tarp. The cloth was
treated, but better safe than sorry. They lay on their backs, knees
bent, using the packs as pillows, looking into the canopy reaching
a hundred feet above them. Now that they weren’t crashing around,
birds became vocal and animals made their own sounds scurrying
through the leaves.

“It really is beautiful,” she said.

“Yeah. It would be even more beautiful with
electricity, running water, a storm-proof cabin, room service . .
.”

“Okay. Okay.” She laughed, rolled on her
side, and pitched a protein bar on his chest. “Room service.”

Walsh yawned. “Almost too tired to eat.”

“We’ll stop earlier this afternoon,” she said
though her own yawn. “Build something to get us off the
ground.”

“Hmm.”

“Hey.” She shook him. “Don’t go to sleep.
Eat, drink.” She forced her body to a sitting position when all she
wanted to do was lay there. “Can’t stay here too long. We’re
burning daylight.”

He levered himself up on an elbow. “John
Wayne in . . .” He snapped his fingers. “
The Cowboys
. Only
movie Big John died in.”

“Movie buff or John Wayne groupie?” She knew
it was from a movie, but what movie and who said it she didn’t have
a clue.

“Neither. My dad thought the Duke walked on
water and had every movie he made. Only time we spent time together
not fighting was watching his movies.”

She found it disconcerting to hear someone
say they wanted to spend time with a parent. She’d wanted to stay
as far away as possible from hers. She went to her feet.

“What are you doing?” Walsh asked and made to
stand. She stepped back to give him space and her heel caught on a
root. His outstretched arms were too late to save her and she
crashed back against a tree, sliding down to the damp spongy
ground, immediately feeling the wet soak through her pants.

“You hurt?” Walsh squatted in front of her,
taking her hands. She shook her head. He pushed to his feet,
bringing her up with him. “Turn around and let me see if you’re
scraped anywhere.”

“I’m fine except for a soggy ass.” She swiped
at her backside and pushed by him.

He laid a firm hand on her arm. “Stop.” His
soft order was cradled in concern and Gemma did exactly as he said.
He came closer. “Don’t move.”

“What is it?”

“Bullet ants.”

Oh, gawd.
Bullets had the most painful
bite of any insects. Ben moved around her as she slowed her
breathing and relaxed. The ants were not aggressive unless
threatened. She wasn’t going to give them any reason to feel that
way.

“There aren’t a lot,” he said quietly.

“Define a lot.”

“Maybe twenty.” He left her side to dig in
her pack.

“What—are—you—doing? Get—them—off—me. Twenty
stings—could put me—in a stupor.”

“Getting your meds. If you get bitten the
faster it gets administered the safer you are.”

Ben rummaged in the underbrush, coming up
with a branch that he broke down to a foot long.

“Please . . . Hurry.”

“I am. I won’t let them . . .” He coaxed the
inch-long ants exploring her quivering arm onto the stick,
depositing them on the tree she fell against, where she could see
hundreds more.

“Get. Ones on neck. Don’t want them in hair.”
Her body quaked. Her skin shrunk and crawled over her muscles as
the stick brushed agonizingly slowly over the back of her neck,
then shoulder. Ben crouched, running a hand down her leg searching.
“Be careful. Don’t—want you to get stung.”

“Can you spread your legs?”

She wiggled her feet slowly, spreading her
legs. Ben carefully navigated her inseam. Up one leg and down the
other. “Are they gone?”

“I’m looking. Can you feel them
anyplace?”

“Yes. Every. Where.”

Ben rose, took her shoulders and turned her
to face him. “I don’t see any more.” His voice was soft,
reassuring. “I’m going to run my hands over you again. Make sure
none are in the folds of your clothes.”

He began with her boots and worked his way
up, hands gliding up and then between her legs in a professional
detached way. Like being frisked by a cop. Ben stood at her back,
sweeping his hands over her backside, slowly up then down her
sides. His touch was growing less professional and detached. With
each stroke he conveyed what he wanted as clearly as if he were
using words. The jungle heat was nothing compared to her escalating
body heat. A hand trailed across her waist as he moved to stand in
front of her. His hands rested on her hips and instinctively her
body responded, pressing into his grasp and conveying what she
wanted. Their eyes met as his hands cruised across her breasts. His
touch transformed her quaking fear to trembling anticipation.

“They’re gone,” he said. His thumb tracked
the line of her jaw.

“Hair,” she said weakly.

“Okay.” His long fingers combed through her
knotted jungle do. His arm circled her, his hand applied gentle
pressure to her back, drawing her closer. She relaxed against him.
Their bodies shifted, searching for that perfect alignment.

She began to quantify. What she did next was
going to have consequences no matter if she said yes or no. Yes
meant letting him kiss her and kissing back. In minutes they could
be on that tarp having sex . . . her pulse ramped up. On the
downside . . .
For crap’s sake.
This wasn’t a forever
relationship. It was
I want to feel good for a while
sex.
She couldn’t think of a single reason to say no. If fact, the
thought of saying no was unbearable. She was weary of fending him
off and fighting her attraction to him.
Fuck it!
One time
getting crazy. Who was it going to hurt? They were in the middle of
the damn jungle, no one around. When they got back, he’d go his way
and she would go hers.

His hand drifted down her cheek. The light
touch raised chills, defying the heat. He cupped her chin, lifting
her face to his. Lips parted, his mouth eased closer to hers.
“Done.” The word came out as a harsh whisper.

Done?
They weren’t done until she’d
run her hands over his body the way she’d wanted to since the first
moment she saw him. Not until she’d found out what he liked and
told him what she wanted.
Done?
Not until they’d used each
one of the condoms in their packs.

Gemma blinked and blinked again. The jungle
behind Ben moved, came closer like a camera lens doing a close-up.
She went for her gun. Before she could palm the Ruger a massive arm
encircled her, trapping her arm against her body. The last thing
she saw before a foul-smelling gloved hand covered her face was Ben
engulfed by men in jungle camouflage and being thrown to the
ground. The Sasquatch lifting her off the ground wore body armor,
so she went for his face. Her free hand went back, her fingers
raking over a beard scrabbling for a grip on his nose, his ears,
anything to cause him pain. She didn’t know who or what the fuck
these assholes were. She did know she wasn’t going down without
hurting someone. One boot connected with his shin. Then her other
boot connected. The thing grunted and its hand moved enough for her
to see Ben on the ground, struggling under the weight of two men
doing their best to smother him.