Edge Of Truth

“What do they do—your family?” he said.

Warning bells jangled—was he fishing for information? Something to hold over her? But, hey, her family was no secret—Rolling Stone had profiled the entire clan last year on the third anniversary of her “American hero” father’s death.

“My brothers are Special Forces—all three of them. Mom’s in Intel.”

“Is that why you’re obsessed with this Somalia story—you’re afraid your family will be deployed there?”

“I don’t like to see any soldier go to war without a very good reason.”

He ran a hand over the boards. “Neither do I. Hell, I could end up deployed there... So this dossier—can you do your story without it?”

A chill tiptoed up her spine. “My bosses would never run it without hard evidence—it’s too damning, too dangerous.”

“So you need to get it back.”

“I don’t imagine that’s an option.”

She picked up her MRE. Maybe force-feeding her stomach would stop it churning. This guy might be radiating mixed messages but at least he brought hope.

“How long have you been in the legion?” she said. If he was hiding something, she’d catch him out. If in doubt, ask the same question ten different ways until they got flustered. The Human Lie Detector, Quan called her.

Half a minute passed. He poked and prodded and shifted the floorboards. “Nine years,” he said.

She waited. Nothing. Sheesh, the guy didn’t offer much.

“How old were you when you signed up?”

Another pause. “Twenty.”

She pretended to focus on opening a packet of gray mush that claimed to be oatmeal. That made him three years younger than her. With his cynicism and frown lines she’d have picked older. “I thought you’d transferred from the regular army?” She forced an offhand tone. She sensed him stilling, imagined him looking down at her and frowning as he assessed the question.

“Yeah, that’s where I signed up, L’armée de Terre. That’s what I meant. I transferred to the legion after graduating the academy.”

“And where did you do your officer training?”

“Sunshine, we could be here for weeks. You wanna wear me out the first day?”

“I’m just interested—and I’m trying to figure out where I’ve seen you before.”

“I told you—one of those faces.”

No, that wasn’t it. Maybe a less direct approach... “I’ve never been to Corsica. Is it much different from mainland France?”

Pause. “It’s peaceful. People don’t ask questions.”

She smiled, the movement unfamiliar on her lips. He was probably right, at least within the legion, where “Don’t ask, don’t tell” took on a far wider meaning. The legionnaires she’d met all had Flynn’s cagey look, the sideways glances, the spare details, as if the ghosts of their pasts were about to jump them and haul them back.

Something shot across the floor. She gasped, clutching her chest. “Damn mouse.”

“There’s a nest in the corner. You want me to get rid of them?”

She screwed up her face. “I don’t know. We’ve been together awhile now. I was present at the birth.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve named them.”

“Minnie and Mickey and...Huey, Dewey and Louie.”

“Pretty sure those last ones are ducks. How about I send them to a happier place and I’ll be your friend instead?”

“Let them be. They’re trapped here, too.”

What just came out of her mouth? She was fighting for the rights of mice now? There it was—proof she’d gone crazy.

“Just what I need to be stuck with—a vegan, lefto, greenie conspiracy-theory crusader. Trust me, not all life deserves to be preserved.”

“I’d rather not have a pile of bodies rotting in the corner—the smell is bad enough already. Unless you’re sizing them up for lunch?”

“Couldn’t eat another thing. Don’t worry, princess. I won’t kill them if you don’t want me to. I’ll repatriate them.” He raised his chin to indicate the newly widened slats above his head.

“They won’t fit through there.”

“The fuckers can get in anywhere. They go flat as paper. You wanna help? Tip the mattress on its side to block their escape that direction.”

As she hoisted it up, he ripped open a packet of peanut cookies, crumbled one and threw the remains into a corner.

“You’re assuming they’ll recognize that as food.” She found herself whispering, like the mice could understand English.

He crouched, motionless, the shape of his butt outlined by his faded trousers. How good had that felt under her hand last night? Round, but firm and muscular. She nibbled her lip. Small pleasures were about all she could hope for.

She spent far too many of the next ten minutes admiring his rear view. Finally, the mother mouse scampered to the crumbs. The babies weren’t old enough to venture from the nest or Tess might not have come over all Cinderella.

“Okay, very slowly, bring that mattress closer.” Flynn inched in until he was between the mother and the nest, as Tess slid the rectangle of foam along the floor, flush against the wall, closing in. Each time the mother looked up, twitching, they froze. Time ticked by. His thighs had to be killing him, quads of granite or not.

Tess stumbled. The mouse took off. In a blur of desert camos, Flynn flung forward and shot out an arm. “Got it.”

Dang, he had the reflexes of a cobra.

“Grab the babies, one by one, and ease them through that gap up there.”

“I can’t reach that high.” Thank God. She wasn’t squeamish, but wild mice weren’t on her preferred list of things to handle. Flynn’s butt, on the other hand, was currently sitting in the top ten. Top five. Top—

Stop it.

He swore, his fingers clamped around the mouse’s tail as it clawed air and gyrated. “Then you’ll have to hold her while I move them.”

She widened her eyes. “Hey, I’m tolerating them—just—but I don’t want cuddles.”

“If I release her first, she’ll come back down to the nest.” He met her gaze. “I didn’t take you for a wimp.”

Damn, exactly the kind of crap her brothers dished up. “Hand her over.” Oh man, really?

He edged behind Tess, his breath teasing the top of her hair as he encircled her with his arms. “Her instincts are going mental, so you’ll have to hold tight. Clamp down on the tail, either side of my fingers.”

Yuck, yuck, yuck. But she followed his instructions. He hovered a palm underneath their hands as he let go. “Got her?”

“Got her.”

“Spin her gently so she can’t arch back and bite you.” He backed away. “Can’t believe I’m busting my arse to liberate mice.”

“Think of it as earning karma. But hurry up.”

He knelt by the nest. “It’s okay,” he crooned in a falsetto, “you dirty little fuckers. Just call me Uncle Scroo—”

He froze and plucked something from the nest. Not a mouse. String? He passed it under a shaft of gray light, and it glinted.

“What is it?”

“A wire. You said there was no electricity in this building.”

“Not as far as I can tell.”

“Seen any electrical cords? Wiring?”

“Nothing.”

He scraped at the dirt where the stone wall met the floor, just shy of the nest.

“What are you looking for?”

“Tell you when I find it.”

Minnie pawed the air like she was on a mouse wheel. “Ah, could you look quickly? She’s about to turn herself inside out.”

He crawled along one wall, digging into the dirt at its foot, then shoved aside the mattress and crept along the next wall, doing the same. Halfway along he stopped and dug faster, like a dog after a bone. Maybe that head injury was affecting his brain.

“You beauty,” he muttered.

“A secret tunnel?”

“Not quite, but looks like that karma might have come round pretty quick.”

He tugged something. She jumped as a long shape scooted along the floor. More mice? Crap—a snake? Minnie’s claws scraped her wrist. “Yeouch.” She arched her hand.

Flynn was holding something—the end of a piece of rope, embedded in the dirt. She squinted. Not rope—an electrical cord, tapering off to a frayed end. He gazed up at the ceiling, frowning.

“Excellent,” Tess said. “Now we can fire up my hair straightener and singe our way out of here.”

“You have a hair straightener?”

“Does it look like I have a hair straightener?”

He shrugged. “Pity. Could be a useful weapon.”

“Would you mind hurrying things up with those mice?”

“Just a sec.” He clawed at the dirt farther along and ripped up another cord.

“Do you think it’s live?”

“I doubt it—the mouse managed to chew right through without getting electrocuted.” Holding each cord by its white cover, he touched the frayed ends together. “Yep, dead.”

“Flynn...? This mouse is about to explode.”

He stood and ran his hand over a floorboard, biting the inside of one cheek.

“Flynn!”

“Yeah, yeah. On it.”

He sauntered to the nest, evidently distracted by mysterious calculations running through his brain. Kneeling, he shoveled half a dozen balls of gray onto one palm and enclosed them with the other. He stood and eased the creatures through a crack one by one, eyes crinkled in concentration. Oh boy, a tough guy being gentle—it got her right there. And that was her problem. No more tough guys, you hear? Dependable, loyal accountants.

“Now for Minnie.” He came up so close beside Tess the warmth of his body reached out and caressed her. She stood straighter. This was not supposed to be an intimate experience. He maneuvered his hands around hers. “Separate your fingers a little. Got her. Let go.”

“Gladly.”

He gripped the mouse’s body and lifted it to the gap. It sniffed, found purchase with its scrabbling claws and blessedly disappeared. Tess shook her wrist.

Flynn looked at his palms, grimacing. “Got any more wipes?” Suddenly he shut his eyes tight, like someone had stabbed his voodoo doll.

“Flynn?”

“Too much...action for this soldier.” When he opened his eyes they looked like they were retreating into his skull. Nothing fake about his head injury. A fraction more force and the wound could have been fatal.

She kicked the mattress flat, caught his arm and guided him down. “More painkillers?”

“I’ll hold out... Need to keep sharp.” He sounded anything but. God, what if his wound did prove lethal? He could have internal bleeding, swelling...

She grabbed the wipes. “Give me your hands,” she said, kneeling in front of him. She scrubbed at one, then the other—muscular, tanned, callused hands that flinched at her strokes. She fought the temptation to bring one up to her face, to feel the roughness against her cheek. Yep, desperate and pathetic. And eager for him not to die, whoever he was.

He yawned. She echoed, her eyelids feeling as heavy as his looked.

“We should...sleep,” he said. “Store our energy. Must have been well after midnight when I... I’ll take the floor.”

“Don’t be silly. We’re adults. We can share. You don’t want to pick up an infection, and this place is far from sterile.”

His lidded gaze ran the length of her body, her skin goose-pimpling in its wake. Earth to Tess. He was probably just figuring out how they’d both fit on the mattress. Did he remember anything of the previous night? Her face warmed.

“I...need to use the facilities.” He jerked his head toward the bucket.

“Sure,” she said. She swiveled away and concentrated on popping a couple of painkillers. Trying to ignore the noises from the other half of the room, she brushed dirt and stones off the mattress, lay straight and rigid on one side of it and closed her eyes. Her muscles pulsed as they eased up. The toe Hamid had stomped on throbbed double time, at least eclipsing the pain from the other.

Sometime last night she’d awoken on her back, Flynn’s forearm heavy on her belly, his hand curled around the side of her waist, his stubbly cheek against her shoulder. It would have been so easy to turn into him so their bodies were flush together and hunker down into a place of refuge. When she was single, that was what she missed most—the physical contact. Yes, she missed sex, but it was plain old touch she ached for—a strong, rough man’s body cocooning hers. That was when she felt safest, when she felt loved, when it felt like nothing could sneak in to destroy her happiness. It wasn’t even necessarily about being in love. Had she ever been in love with Kurt? Or just in love with the idea of him, the fantasy that it might actually work out, despite her misgivings?

Behind her, the mattress shifted as Flynn lowered onto it. His body grazed her spine, then settled, his warmth radiating into her. He had to be half an inch away, at most. She risked a peek. His body mirrored hers, facing the opposite wall, spooning air. She nestled down and ordered her eyes to close. She could still steal comfort from the pinpricks of electricity heating her back. It seemed impossible that a body so warm, so alive could be so...not, in a matter of days. Hours, perhaps. Hamid said she’d kidnapped him to be a double act with Tess. Another life on her conscience.

Even with him there, sleep didn’t come. Ten, twenty minutes later she remained rigidly awake, her thoughts pushing into ever darker places. She sighed.

“This is stupid,” he said huskily. She sensed him rolling over. He propped himself up on an elbow. “We’re lying here like corpses.”

“Did you just say ‘corpses’?”

“Okay, not the best word choice. Point is that I can’t sleep like this and neither can you. Come here.”

Without waiting for a reply, he slipped his hands around her waist and pulled her in until his chest skimmed her back. Shock waves of awareness buzzed into her stomach. She caught her breath. That shouldn’t feel so good.

“Relax,” he said, skating a hand down her arm. “I’m not hitting on you. Priority one is to get some rest, and this way we can both be comfortable. I’m just glad I didn’t get chucked in here with a guy.”

Mercifully, he kept his hips away from her butt—that kind of contact would not be conducive to sleep. She forced herself to inhale deeply. On the exhalation, she let her body settle into his. Something nudged her hair—his nose? Oh man, lips?

“Better, huh?” he whispered. Yep, his lips. Better, yes. And so much worse.

“Yeah,” she said, high-pitched and wooden. “That’s fine.” Idiot.

Just take the respite. Last night was a godsend, but this was a gift straight from him—offered, not stolen. And despite her instinct blinking neon warnings, she genuinely liked this prickly, brazen guy—maybe a little too much.

Outside, something banged. She tensed. He squeezed her forearm and they waited in silence. Nothing.

“Don’t worry, sunshine. We’ll be out of here as soon as that hatch opens tonight. Meantime, I’ve got your back.”

Right now, she’d let herself believe it.

* * *

Flynn waited until near darkness to thread the first length of electrical cord through the gap in the floorboards for the first of his handholds. He’d coated it with mud but the white would still glow through, catching any light that passed. Still, the guards seemed confident about the security of their prison—boots crossed over the boards just once every hour.

Apart from the odd shout or footfall outside, the only sounds for the past thirty minutes had been him scrambling around and Tess’s steady breath. Her curled shape on the mattress was melting into black, with just her hair still picking up the light. He’d let her rest as long as possible. With injured feet, she’d have a hard enough time keeping up.

Hell, how long since he’d had an encounter like that with a woman? Gentle and innocent—except for the dirty thoughts running through his head. For nearly ten years his few relationships had been short-term and only about sex. In one fling, with a Canadian tourist, he’d pretended he didn’t speak English to avoid conversation. Yep, he was that much of a lowlife. Stick around and they’d start asking questions.

The last time he’d stuck with a woman—with a journalist—too long, she’d torn his life apart. The bitch had pretended to be into him just long enough to paste his face and whereabouts all over the media, leaving him no choice but to leave Australia. Oh yeah, he’d learned his lesson, about journalists and women.

He twisted the cord and tried to angle it to fall over the gap on the other side of the board, so he could pull it through and secure it. Bugger, this would take more time and effort than he’d budgeted. He was fast running out of light, and his head wound pulsed every time he looked up. He made himself breathe—in, out, in, out. At least the pain in his ribs had eased.

After ten minutes he took a break and a handful of painkillers. On his next attempt, success. The cord flipped into the right spot and he used Tess’s tweezers to grip the loose wires and urge them to a point he could grab them. He pulled both ends tight and tied them, then swung on the cord, tentatively lifting his feet off the floor. It held. Sweet.

With the scissors, he sawed off another length of cord at the point it disappeared between the rocks. It was shorter—just enough for a second handhold. Threading it through would be even more of a bitch than the first.

Tess shifted. Mate, the light had fallen fast. This was taking too long. If the soldier returned before he was ready, his plan was screwed. He tucked the cord under his arm and crouched over Tess, his fingers finding her neck, then navigating to the safer territory of her shoulder. He gently shook it.

“Tess, wake up.”

She groaned and sat. He kept his hand on her. Maybe because he didn’t want her getting disorientated. Maybe because the smooth curve of her shoulder felt good. With his other hand he searched for the open bottle of water.

“It’s dark,” she said.

“Ready to bust out? Here, have a drink.” He let his hand fall to the middle of her back while she gulped. “Can you get your boots on?”

“Maybe, if I strip down the bandages on my toes. It’ll be...tight.”

“Leave them off for now. Put them in your backpack—it’s leaning on the mattress. I’ve packed it. You might have to take out one of the water bottles—I’ve stuffed in as many as can fit.” She’d run faster in socks, if she could run at all. He’d have to steal a vehicle.

“What’s your plan?”

“Get us above ground.”

“And then?”

“Wing it.”

Her silence told him everything about her faith in that.

“Sunshine, winging it is what I do best.”

Anything was better than sitting down here, rotting. He got back to work on his handholds, giving her his watch so she could direct its light up. Even the faint blue glow cast shadows.

“Someone’s coming.”

Damn, she was right. Footsteps neared, thudding on dusty ground. “A few more seconds.” The frayed end of the second cord was poking up through the boards, but he still needed to catch it, yank it back down and tie it. “Kill the light. I’ll do it blind.” He hadn’t had time to check everything, let alone practice his maneuver. Could he wait? And then what—risk escaping in daylight? They might not be alive by tomorrow night.

He let his head drop forward, taking the pressure off his wound, and left his fingers to do the work, snapping the tweezers blindly into the gap. A scrape and a click—the key in the lock.

“Put the backpack on,” he whispered. He’d intended to carry it, but plans were evolving too fast.

A door squeaked open. The tweezers snagged something. Shafts of light fell through the cracks. He pulled the end of the cord and caught it in his fingers. Footsteps passed overhead—one person, too heavy to be the woman. Flynn held his breath. One flick of the flashlight in his direction and the cords would gleam like strip lights.

He drew the cord down. Screw it, no time to prepare, test the angles, experiment with his run up. The diagram in his head would have to do. As the bolts shot across, he tied the ends and tested his weight, wincing as the cords rolled, shuddering, along the floorboards. He lowered to the floor, released the handholds and backed into the wall, wiping his sweaty palms on his combat pants. Chalk would be good, like at high school gym. He settled for dirt. No shortage of that.

The hatch squealed as it was levered off, the flashlight beam dancing out from the soldier’s hands. The handholds glowed. Now. Flynn sprang out, launched himself off the floor and into the loops, and swung his feet up. The guy squawked. Flynn’s boot collected something as his feet flew out of the hole. The rest of his body didn’t make it. The flashlight cracked into a wall and flickered off.

He hooked his boots on the edge of the hatch, his torso swinging down wildly. Bugger. Not enough momentum. High school gym was too long ago. The guy shouted something. Flynn crunched up, flailing with his right hand, his ribs burning, his skull complaining about being upside down. Pressure dug into his back—Tess, pushing him from underneath. He got a fingerhold on the side of the hatch, then a hand. The guy shouted again. Merde, how long until reinforcements arrived?

Pain slammed into his shins. Something pushed on his soles. The guy was trying to tip him back in. Funneling his strength into his right arm, Flynn hoisted himself, with a grunt. One foot slipped but his upper body was out. He rolled clear of the hole and sprang upright.

Footfalls rapped from outside, flashlight beams jiggling through the open doorway. His opponent’s eyes lit with fear. Flynn smashed a fist in his solar plexus, dropping him. The guy scraped for breath but kicked out, catching Flynn in the nuts. Flynn swore, unbalanced, slipped sideways. Something skidded out beside him and dropped into the hatch. The MREs the guy had been carrying.

As Flynn picked himself up, another soldier reached the doorway, running, an M16 aimed. A flashlight beam skidded over the wall, revealing an alcove. Flynn dived. Bullets ripped up the room; warm liquid sprayed his face. Putain.

Suddenly, the gunman flailed, reared up and smacked into the floor at Flynn’s feet, his rifle flying up. What the—?

No fucking way—the guy had tripped on the looped cords sticking up through the floorboards. The first soldier lay still on the floor, his skull flipped open like a lid. More shouts outside. Five or six men, a couple of women. Some closing in, some farther away.

Flynn dropped on the gunman, smashing an elbow into the back of his neck. “Look out below,” he called, lifting the guy in a spear tackle and launching him headfirst into the hole. He landed with an unhealthy crack. Hell, Flynn should have taken his rifle. Not thinking quickly enough.

He pressed into the alcove, reining in his heaving breath, as another guy approached the door. A splintering crack ricocheted from the other side of the room. Shit. A second external door had been forced open. Two goons spilled in, silhouetted in a floodlight, rifles glinting dully. Enemy left and right. Nowhere to retreat. He needed a plan B.

CHAPTER 4

“Flynn!”

Something skidded across the floor and smacked into Flynn’s boot. He crouched, felt for it, flinched. Hot metal—the M16 barrel. Tess had chucked it out of the hole. Legend.

Gunfire tore into concrete an inch above his head. He slotted the rifle into his arms and let loose a burst. One enemy went down. Two. Three. As the echoes faded, stillness settled. Someone gurgled. Shooting unidentified targets wasn’t Flynn’s style, but neither was dying for a principle. Dusty beams from two fallen flashlights crisscrossed the floor. Voices pinged around outside, closing fast. They had thirty seconds, tops.

In the light spilling in from outside, he made out the ladder, attached to bolts in the wall. He flung it into the hole, his gaze—and rifle barrel—flicking between the doorways.

“Tess,” he hissed. “Climb, quick.”

The rope jerked and swung. She yelped. “He’s got me. My ankle.”

Flynn peered down, barrel first. “Let her go,” he warned. He released a volley over the guy’s head. Tess sprang up a little as he wisely took the chance Flynn had offered. Flynn grabbed her forearm and hauled her out. “Stay behind me.”