Taking Fire

He didn’t want to be affected by how she saw him, but Mike was. “Farmer hands?”

“Maybe. I love looking at people’s hands. They tell me so much about them.”

He looked at his. “What do my hands tell you?” He saw redness come to her cheeks. “No, really. I’m not teasing you. I’m interested in how you see the world, Khat.” And God help him, he was. Her face was so damned readable, it shook him. There was no coyness. Just shyness. And gentleness that she tried to hide from him, but she couldn’t. Mike was having a hell of a time seeing her out there as a sniper and then drinking tea with her now. Two very different people.

“Your hands—” she shrugged “—are hands meant for molding and shaping things. Such as a loving father who would mold his children by supporting them, showing them the way, but not pushing them. You have hands that are sensitive to texture, to how something feels beneath your fingertips. I could see you being very gentle with a baby or supporting an elder who had trouble walking. You have helping hands.” Khat was so taken by his hands that she wondered what his fingers would feel like across her body. It was a vivid curiosity. And at the same time, Khat knew that would never be. No man would ever want her.

Mesmerized by her low voice, the almost lyrical quality of it, Mike was shaken by her insight into him. He set the cup down and stared at his right hand. “Then I’m in the wrong business,” he said, grinning. SEALs took the fight to the enemy.

“Not necessarily,” Khat said, picking up the second cookie from the tray. “I know many SEALs who do charity work with the villages they are near. Some bring in clothes, others shoes, food or medical support. They care about the people of the village. To those SEALs, they are not just a number. They are human beings with a heart. With a soul.”

Mike considered her quiet, passionate response. This woman lived in her heart. Something terrible had happened to her, though; that was why she was here. “Many of our guys do help out villagers,” he agreed somberly. “It isn’t always about killing the bad guys. It’s really about nation building, giving those who have practically nothing, something.”

“I like the way you see your world,” she said softly. “Your eyes tell me you see much more than you reveal to others.” And he was a passionate person just like herself, Khat realized. But he hid that element of himself, too, but not from her.

“Now you’re making me nervous,” Mike joked. Looking into her green eyes was, he swore, like looking into a well so deep that he couldn’t see the bottom. Khat had complexity and levels to herself. Maybe layers like an onion. Peel one layer off by asking the right question, and you saw another side or facet to her. She was an enigma and a mystery.

“My mother called me a seer,” Khat admitted fondly, remembering her happy childhood. “She said I had the power to see through people with my eyes.”

“I think your mother was right,” Mike said. He saw a faraway look in Khat’s eyes, her lips softly parted, not really there for the moment. “What would you say about your hands?” he asked, gesturing toward them.

She looked at one. “Oh.” And then she shrugged and made a sound. “My mother said I had beautiful hands. I played the piano when I was a child.” She looked at her left hand, moving her fingers. “She wanted me to play piano, but I wanted to dance.”

“As in ballet?” Mike guessed.

“Yes, I dearly loved ballet. But my parents could not afford it, only piano lessons. I love music, but I loved dancing and movement even more.”

“So, do you have dancer’s hands?” he wondered, seeing the animation in her eyes, hearing it in her husky voice. He saw her eyes grow dim, her expression grow closed. Nothing like stepping on a land mine with her. Mike felt bad because they were beginning to build a trusting connection with one another. He didn’t want to lose it.

“I have hands that—” her mouth quirked, brows drawing down “—that heal and kill.”

The silence fell heavy in the cave. Mike felt a sharp, jagged energy around her, as if some unknown thing was a constant abrasion to her heart, perhaps. He was very attuned to the subtleties of energy. Maybe it was reading a person’s body or their voice. Mike really didn’t know. “I think your hands are beautiful, Khat. When I first saw you, I thought you might be a ballerina.” He gave her a gentle look, hoping she wouldn’t take his compliment the wrong way.

Sitting up, she shrugged. “I dance every day. I dance on the edge of a sword. On one side is life, the other, death.” She finished her tea and abruptly stood. “One day, I will fall on death’s side. It is inevitable.”

Near midnight, she gave Mike pain pills to take so he could rest comfortably.

“I will be gone when you awake tomorrow,” she told him. “And I won’t return until dark. I’ll leave you everything you need.”

“My gear?” he demanded. If he was going to be alone in this cave, he wanted his own weapons in hand. He watched her expression become serious as she cleaned up the area and walked to the cave with the gate across it. She brought out his rifle and pistol, placing them near him. If Mike had any doubts about whose side she was on, it was gone now. Next came his heavy rucksack.

Khat moved to her medical ruck and opened it. “I’m leaving you enough pain pills for while I’m gone tomorrow. Take them every four hours. And if you can, get over to the waterfall and get cleaned up.”

“Can you leave me your sat phone? I have one but it’s got a bullet hole through it,” he said, watching her walk back and forth, collecting items.

“No. I’ll need it.” Khat saw him frown. “When I’m done with my day, on the way back here, I’ll check in and see if your people are willing to come in and pick you up. Much depends on you getting to your feet and being able to walk without falling sideways.” She gestured to his head wound. “You took a hard hit when you landed. And I can’t move you until you can walk and stay on your feet.”

“You’ve got a point,” Mike admitted. He saw her pull a sleeping bag from the cave that had bales of alfalfa stored in it. She gave her horse another bucket of water and then picked up her M-4 rifle and headed into the other cave. Khat silently melted into the darkness, but he could pick up faint sounds of where she was moving.

When she walked back, minutes later, she said, “I’m leaving you the kerosene lamp. I’ll be sleeping in another cave, keeping guard. I have motion-sensor detectors at the opening. If you hear shots, take cover and hide. I don’t think the Taliban will find us because we’re so far back in this mountain, but you don’t count on anything.”

“Got it,” Mike said. He pulled the kerosene lamp toward him. “Do you have a flashlight?”

She held a small one up in her hand. “Sleep well,” she whispered, and turned and disappeared into the black gloom.

Mike waited a few minutes. He placed his rifle nearby, his pistol within easy reach. Dousing the flame in the old lantern, he set it aside and lay down on his back. He worried about Khat. He wanted to protect her, not have her protecting him. Frustration overwhelmed him as he closed his eyes. Tomorrow he was going to be on his feet and become ambulatory—or else.

* * *

MIKE HEARD A horse approaching his area in the darkness. He stood near the cave opening to the waterfall area, M-4 in hand. The glow from the kerosene lamp revealed Khat leading her mare out of the gloom.

To his surprise, there was another horse behind her, but it was packed with supplies beneath a tarp. Khat looked tired.

When she spotted him, she lifted her hand in greeting. Khat was dressed differently than yesterday. She was in Afghan male clothes, dark brown trousers, boots, a black shirt with a brown vest over it. There was a white-and-blue-checked shemagh around her neck, the ends of it hanging down between the front of her breasts. He saw no weapons on her. What had she been doing? And why the change of costume?

“We’re clear,” she told Mike. For a SEAL, clear meant no enemy was present. And he needed to know that.

Khat felt her heart surge as she caught sight of him. He stood alert, the M-4 in his right hand. She saw he’d taken the sling off his broken arm. His eyes were narrowed, and his mouth was in a hard line, as if expecting trouble. Fortunately, there was none tonight. The Taliban had moved off the mountain and were north of her location.

She brought the two horses to a stop and dropped Mina’s reins. Lifting the stirrup, she put it over the horn of the saddle and quickly loosened the cinch and hauled the gear off her tired mare. “How was your day?” she asked as she passed him and walked down to the cave that held the hay.

“Better,” Mike said. “Can I help you at all?”

She disappeared inside the cave and came out a moment later, pulling off the shemagh. “No, thank you. How is your arm doing?”

“It hurts like hell when I let it hang too long,” he admitted.

Nodding, Khat saw his chagrin. “Took it off to wash up?” He looked clean. His hair was mussed, but the dirt and sweat were off his body. She was sure Mike had taken off the sling to get out of his blouse. He’d done a poor job of closing it up, however, but considering he had one hand, he’d managed to get his clothes back on.

“Yes. No choice.” Mike walked over to the second horse, a black Arabian that looked identical to the one she had ridden. “What’s under the tarp?”

Khat led Mina to her place, where she fed her and took the bridle off, tying the halter lead rope to a large iron ring in the wall. “Medical supplies,” she said.

“I didn’t know you had two horses.”

“I need two,” she said, patting Mina’s rump as she walked up to the other mare. Leading the horse closer to the tunnel, she added, “If Mina goes down with a sprain or something, I have to have a backup.” She managed a slight smile in his direction. “I’m like the SEALs—one is none, two is one.”

Nodding, Mike put the rifle down against the wall where his sleeping bag was located. “She’s nice looking, too. Are they sisters?”

“Yes. Her name is Zorah.” Khat quickly unstrapped the canvas over the load the horse carried. In moments, she had the tarp pulled off and folded it up. “This one is eight years old. Same sire and dam as Mina.”

Mike saw two huge leather panniers, one on each side of the small horse. Inside, he recognized American bottles of drugs and other medical supplies. “Can I help you carry these things somewhere?”

“Yes,” she said, grateful. He looked like he was bored out of his skull. SEALs didn’t sit down well doing nothing for twelve hours. His skin looked better; his eyes were clear. “Did the pain pills work okay?” she asked, removing a carton.

Mike was able to reach in with one hand and find another box and draw it out. “Yeah, fine.”

“Follow me,” she said, moving past the cave with the gate.

In minutes, they had the horse unpacked, the harness taken off, and Khat tied Zorah to a second iron ring a few feet away from where Mina stood. Giving them each a flake of alfalfa hay, she said, “Okay, you’re next, Mike. Take a seat on your sleeping bag.”

Mike sat down, back resting against the cave wall. She was a marvel of efficiency, as if she had done this all her life. Khat brought her medical ruck to her side as she knelt by him. “Why are you dressed in male Afghan clothes?”

She met his gaze. “Now, I think you know the answer to that one,” she said, and she quickly cut away the dried bandages around the splints. They’d gotten wet when he’d bathed and had become wrinkled and loose. Quickly, she removed the dressing, took the splints away and gently held his forearm between her fingers. Mike’s arm was black-and-blue and swollen. She moved her fingers lightly across it. His fingers looked like sausages because he didn’t wear the sling. “No heat,” she murmured, pleased. “Rest it against your chest.” She turned and gathered the supplies she’d need and dug out a new sling.

Mike looked forward to her gentle touch. He did as she asked, watching her. The lamplight emphasized her green eyes. He saw shadows beneath them. “Tough day?” he wondered. Her lips thinned for a moment and then relaxed.

“It’s always a mix,” she murmured, re-splinting his arm. Leaning up, she fashioned the dark green cotton sling so it supported his broken arm once more.

The nape of his neck tingled wildly when her fingertips brushed his flesh as she tied a knot in the sling. “Thanks,” he murmured, “it feels a hell of a lot better in this position.” He inhaled her scent, a mix of sunshine, fresh air and her. It made him very aware he was hopelessly attracted to Khat.

Khat eased away, wildly aware of Mike’s nearness, his maleness. For whatever unknown reason, he never felt threatening to her. Instead, she felt protection radiating from him, surrounding her. She saw the liquid darkness in his eyes as he followed her movements. His look held desire, and she once more felt flummoxed by the feelings Mike automatically ignited deep within her body.

Almost breathless, Khat said, “I’ll bet it does feel better. Your fingers are swollen because your arm hung down for most of the day. It’s hard for the circulation to get back up into the area of the break because the tissue is swollen around it.” She took his fingers, squeezing them gently, assessing the situation. Khat would never admit she liked touching this man as she gently massaged each finger, pushing some of the fluid out of them and into his arm. “The swelling will probably go down in a few hours,” she murmured.

Picking up her stethoscope, she listened to his heart and lungs. With her small pen flashlight, she moved it across his eyes, watching his pupil response. Moving to his other side, she took his pulse and wrote all her observations down in her small notebook.

“Am I going to live?” Mike asked drily, absorbing her profile, the light glinting through the thick strands of her hair that she had captured in a ponytail.

“Definitely,” she murmured, looking up at Mike. He was so masculine but dangerous to her in a new and unexpected way. Her throat tightened. “I figured you’d rebound today. You’re in great shape, and your body is responding quickly.”

“When can I be picked up by Medevac?” Part of him wanted to get back to the FOB; the larger part of him didn’t. Mike found her lifestyle fascinating. And he knew Khat put herself on the line. Taliban were all over these mountains like fleas on a dog. She had to be careful where she rode so she wasn’t seen or discovered.

Khat stood and put everything back into her medical pack and closed it up. “Shortly. I took a chance you’d be improved today.” She hauled the ruck to the wall and then pushed some tendrils of hair off her cheek. “One is scheduled in at 0100 this morning.” She glanced at her Rolex. “It’s 2200 now. I’ve got time to change, eat and get the horses ready. It’s going to take us an hour to ride down a steep goat trail to reach the valley below.” She saw his face light up, and she smiled a little. “Then you can be with your own kind once again. I imagine everyone on your team is looking forward to seeing you back in the fold.”

Mike sat there watching the shadows across her face. “I’m going to miss you.” That wasn’t a lie. He saw her cheeks grow pink as she walked to her kitchen hole and brought out the grate and a magnesium tab.

“You’ll be happier back at Camp Bravo, Mike. This kind of life isn’t for a SEAL.” She brought out the teakettle and set it on the grate. Khat would miss him, too, but she bit back the comment.

Rubbing his beard, Mike growled, “I’ll worry about you.”

She made a sound in her throat. “I’ve been out here for five years, and very few people know I’m here. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” She was touched by his gruff reply and sincere concern. She rocked back on her heels, watching the magnesium tab begin to heat the water.

Scowling, Mike said, “Don’t you get lonely out here?” She was young, beautiful and he couldn’t imagine this kind of isolation for a woman her age.

“No.”

“If you took a packhorse with you this morning, you must have gone somewhere to render medical aid. To a village, maybe?”

Khat grinned at him. “I’m going to miss all your observations and trying to put them together to figure out who I am.” She saw his eyes narrow upon her and once more, her heart started a slow pound. Her gaze fell to his hand resting on his knee. Beautiful hands for a man. If only... And Khat gently tucked those thoughts away. She was damaged goods. Her parents had been shocked by what had happened to her. Her angry, upset father had said no man would ever consider her wifely material.

Khat brought the two mugs down and placed the Darjeeling tea bag into each.

“Have you saved other men like you saved me?”

“Yes. But not often.”

“Was I the heaviest?” He grinned.

Khat laughed softly. “Yes, you were.”

“Were they SEALs?”

“One was. The other was a Marine Force Recon sniper.”

“And you got them out of here like you’re going to get me out? By horseback?”

“Yes.” Khat poured the boiling water into the cups. Placing them on the tray, she stood and brought down her box of shortbread cookies. “Different locations, but the same scenario. They were wounded, too.”

“Did they make it?”

Khat placed the cookies on the tray and then closed the box, taking it back to the hole in the wall. “Yes.”

Mike watched her bring the tray over. She set it on his right side and knelt down on the other side of it. Picking up the spoon, she placed the sugar into his cup and stirred it for him.

“I don’t want to lose touch with you, Khat.” Mike held her startled gaze as he picked up the mug.

“That can’t be.”

“Why not?” He watched her expression over the rim of his mug. For a moment, Mike swore she wanted to keep their connection, but then decided against it.

“I have all the help I need.” Her heart was doing funny things in her chest. He had seen her naked beneath the waterfall. That realization alone had shocked her. But Mike had treated her with nothing but respect. He didn’t try to grope her or speak in sexual innuendos to her.

There was a reflective look in his gold-brown eyes now as he considered her answer. She watched his lips curve around the mug’s rim, and she felt a sudden, white-hot heat stab through her lower body. Surprised, she hid her reaction. No man had ever affected her like he did. All they were doing was drinking a cup of tea together!

“Well,” Mike said gruffly, “out here, you can never have enough. Bravo is roughly twenty-five miles from here.”

Giving him a sad look, Khat whispered, “I know your heart is in the right place, Mike, but we don’t operate the same way.”

He grimaced. Yeah, he got that. The black ops food chain had a lot of levels. And she was somewhere unreachable, far above him. “Still,” he said patiently, “I’d feel better if you’d take my platoon’s sat phone number. If things happen, we might be the QRF you need.”

“You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?” Her lips twitched with amusement. He was endearing with his stubborn protectiveness, and it made Khat feel good. No one else ever cared that she was out here, operating on her own, an American surrounded by enemy Taliban every day.

“You’re alone out here,” he said in a low tone. “I’ve got five rotations under my belt in this area, and I know it crawls with Taliban. You might someday find yourself in a situation. And if your handler, or whoever he is, can’t cut loose the air or ground assets you need, you might find us an alternative. That’s all.”

“There’s no harm in taking your platoon’s number.” So much of her wanted to remain in contact with Mike. The past five years had been some of the loneliest times in her life. Khat knew he was drawn to her; he’d made no bones about that from the beginning. A man didn’t ask the questions he did if he wasn’t interested in a woman. She knew he’d remember everything she’d said, trying to put the pieces together on her operator status. Khat hoped she hadn’t given him a direct line into her black ops mission. She could see that strong willed look in his darkening eyes that he was damn well going to turn over everything he knew about her in order to find out who she really was, what she did and who she worked for.

Khat seriously doubted, though, that Mike would ever uncover her status.

“Good,” Mike said, relieved. Khat was contemplative, her eyes half-closed, those green tourmaline eyes shadowed beneath her thick red lashes. She was torn between saying nothing and divulging more to him. He could feel it. And dammit, he was going to research her when he got back to Bravo, no question.

He had some contacts in the black ops community. His good friend, Gabe Griffin, who had just left the SEALs to marry Bay Thorn, had been in this area. Maybe he knew something about Khat. Mike was sure as hell going to find out from his best friend. If he tried to go up the black ops food chain, they’d stonewall him. No, he’d have to search among the SEALs at Bagram and J-bad, nose around to find out if they’d seen her or knew anything about her. And he wasn’t the type that let something go until he got the answers he was seeking.

“When we leave, I’m going to let you ride Zorah, my packhorse. I have only one saddle, and I want you to have it. I don’t think your balance is all that good yet, and I don’t need you to fall off.”

“Good planning,” he said drily. “Last time I threw a leg over a horse was just before I left to join the SEALs.”

“I’ll ride bareback.” Khat gestured to her legs. “I’ve got thighs of steel from being in the saddle so much.”

The words, you have the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen, almost tore out of Mike’s mouth. She’d take it the wrong way, of course, and he wanted to leave their relationship, as thin as it was, intact between them.

“That’s fine,” he murmured. He sipped the tea, branding Khat’s clean profile, the shadows and light across her face, into his mind and heart. “What’s next for you after you get rid of me?” He said it half in jest, but he wanted to try and get something out of her that would give him a lead. Any lead.

“Every day is different.” Khat smiled a little sadly, feeling his protectiveness embrace her. “I’m like the wind. You never know which way I’ll flow on a certain day.”

“Were you always like this, Khat?”

Her smile dissolved. She held the mug in both hands, sipping from it. “No.”

“What were you like as a little girl?” Desperation clawed at his chest. The hunger to know her was eating him alive, and no woman had ever intrigued him like Khat did.

Sighing, Khat placed the cup down beside her and clasped her hands around her one leg that was drawn up against her body. “Happy.”

“Do you have brothers or sisters?”

Shaking her head, she said, “I was an only child, but a very welcomed child into my parents’ lives.”

“I know you have Middle East blood in you,” he said, watching her expression closely. “I’ve wondered all day whether one of your parents came from another country and moved to the States like my parents did.”

“Yes,” she said, holding his sharpened look. “We share a common background in some respects.”

“The way you speak English,” he pressed, “it sounds like you’re Afghani.”

Khat gave him a wry look. Mike was part Saudi. He would be able to hear the dialect differences, the pronunciation of certain words, and most likely be able to know if a person was from one Middle Eastern country or another. “I think you missed your calling. You should have been a linguist.”

He snorted. “No chance in hell. Not my game. I like doing what I do as a SEAL shooter.”

“Mmm,” Khat said.

“Your profile reminds me of the women in this region of Afghanistan. Each province has different bloodlines, different gene pools. This region saw a Mongolian influence.” Which would account for the slight tilt of her eyes, but Mike didn’t add that important point.

He was getting too close for comfort, and Khat avoided his direct, digging gaze. “I think you had too much time on your hands today, Mike.” She forced a smile she didn’t feel. He was like a bloodhound on a scent. Khat agreed with him that the genetics of each tribe were unique. And there were marked differences in hair color, eye color and skin color, as a result.