Page 17 of Close Pursuit

“We should certainly start packing.”

She nodded and dived into the task while the water heated. As long as she was busy doing her job, he couldn’t have his wicked way with her. As she filled the marked boxes with medical gear, he hauled them one-by-one down to the Land Rover.

He’d just gotten back from carrying down a bag of miscellaneous camping gear they could do without for the next day when an explosion ruptured the night.

“Uhh, Alex?” she said nervously, “that was pretty close.”

He looked up from pouring hot water into the food pouches and sealing them shut. “No more than a half-mile away.”

And how, exactly, did a physician know how to judge distance of artillery fire? She headed for the door to look outside, but another explosion, much closer, made her flinch violently. Alex lunged across the tiny space, slapping the lid down on the propane stove, extinguishing its flame. Then his arm went around her waist and, all but lifting her off her feet, he dragged her back from the door.

She tried to ask him what the heck that was for, but his other hand went over her mouth as he yanked her back against his hard body. Heat seeped through her clothing, and had she not been straining to hear what had freaked him out, she might have enjoyed it. But as it was, she went as still and tense as him.

There it was. The sound of people moving down by the river. Maybe a half-dozen by the sounds of their scuffling. A male voice floated up the hill saying something in the local dialect about engaging rebels in the lower pass.

Alex backed up, taking her with him, and sat down on the cot in the back of the tent, which had the effect of landing her in his lap. She lurched as his hot breath touched her right ear. And then, oh, God, his lips moved against it.

He breathed, “We’re going to have to wait out the battle until it moves on, and then we’ll bug out. We’ll take whatever supplies we can carry in one trip down the mountain, so figure out what you’re taking. But until then, no lights and no sound. Understood?”

She nodded and felt her hair slide across his cheek. His hand fell away from her mouth, and he lifted her off his lap.

He moved into the corner and quietly opened one of the medical boxes. When he came back, he pressed something cold and heavy into her hand. She recognized the rough grip and heft of a pistol.

“Do you know how to use this?” he whispered.

“Green beret dad and five brothers in the military.” She ran her fingers over the weapon in the dark. “Luger .22 with an extended clip. Standard model.” She clicked off the safety and rested her index finger beside the trigger guard as she laid the weapon in her lap.

“You can tell that just by feel?” He added grimly, “If we get out of here alive, you and I need to talk.”

He sank down onto the cot beside her.

Her eyes were adapting to the dark, and she saw his right hand resting by his hip, presumably holding a weapon, as well. She shivered a little, belatedly registering that the night was growing cold around them fast without their propane heater to ward off the chill. He held out his left arm, barely visible in the dark, and she accepted the invitation gratefully.

He tucked her close against his side. His body was solid and warm, and it was reassuring to huddle against him. A shell whistled overhead and a tremendous explosion nearby sent dust raining down on them.

How long they sat there listening to the artillery barrage blasting the valley around them, she didn’t know. An hour, maybe. The explosions ebbed and waned, sometimes close, sometimes farther away. Small arms fire announced that the rebels and local ground forces were engaging in direct combat down by the river, perhaps a quarter mile away.

She heard the high-pitched jet sound again. Another drone. But this time, the whine of its engine was followed immediately by the sound of ordinance exploding in an airburst nearby. Was someone shooting at the drone, or was it an attack drone? But who in the world would have access to that kind of weaponry out here?

Yet another whistling artillery scream pierced the night. A big explosion deafened Katie as a flash illuminated the tent. She looked up and a little scream escaped her as a black figure loomed in the doorway of their tent. She yanked up her pistol to shoot the intruder, but Alex was faster. He slammed his hand over her pistol, shoving it down to the cot before she could pull the trigger.

What the?—

He was on his feet, moving as fast as a cat to the shadow in the door. He took the person by the arm and guided him or her inside.

It dawned on Katie that the shadow was much shorter than Alex. And clothed in voluminous robes. Crap. She’d almost shot a local woman.

“Talk to her,” Alex ordered low. “But keep it quiet. I’m going out to have a look around.”

Katie nodded and waited out a momentary lull in the shooting. As a spray of small arms fire started up again, she used the noise to murmur, “Do you need medical help?”

“My baby. It comes,” a young voice moaned.

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” Katie replied. “Lie down here, and Doctor Alex will take care of you. How far apart are your contractions?”

The girl told her they were irregular, sometimes four or five minutes apart, sometimes closer. Katie quizzed her on where she felt the contractions—mostly in her back—and if she’d ever had a baby before—this was her first.

She’d covered the girl in a blanket and was just turning back its hem to undress the girl when Alex announcing himself with a quiet murmur outside before he stepped in. Good call. She would hate to shoot him without knowing where the car keys were.

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