Edge Of Truth

“I didn’t say that. I said we create our own luck—and we have.” He checked his own clip.

Luck. There was a relative term. Was she unlucky to be stuck in a minefield, stalked by an army of goons, or lucky to be out of the dungeon with a kick-ass soldier on her side? Probably on her side.

Definitely on her side. Sheesh.

And the fact she was growing more attracted to him by the minute—would that prove lucky or unlucky?

Huh. Luck? Plain stupidity, more like. About time she cured her weakness for alpha military crap.

After today. Today, alpha military crap was keeping her alive, in body and hope. Next week, when all this was a memory of the did-that-really-happen kind, she’d make a psychiatric appointment. A lobotomy should take care of it.

He silently took the water bottle and slipped it into the pack, and handed back her rifle. “We keep going west, toward the village. You okay to lead? If you can concentrate on the ground, I can look out for enemy.”

“Oui, Lieutenant.”

She stared downward until her eyes adjusted enough to make out—or perhaps imagine—individual stones among the shades of black, then crept out from behind the rock. It felt like a boa constrictor was wrapping around her chest. Flynn grabbed her arm and pulled her into him. Oh God, what now?

“Not on the ridge,” he growled. “We stay under it. No silhouettes.”

She scooted downhill. They made steady progress, skirting suspect shapes on the ground—too round, too square, too regular, too pointy. She was probably seeing things, but at least it gave her something to focus on. Every foot they traveled eased the tightness in her stomach. Maybe this would be a lucky day.

Don’t say that.

Thank God for Flynn dropping into that hole—he might not believe in luck, but for her that’d been a blessing from above. Even if she’d managed to get out by herself, she’d have been caught in minutes. Her mind didn’t work nearly as quickly as his—but then, this kind of thing was his job. In her work she didn’t do anything—she dug into other people’s experiences and put them into words and pictures. All talk, no action.

Was that why she liked military guys? They were all action, from boots to buzz cut. Flynn must have some interesting stories—starting with his own history. Drawing that out would be a challenge, for sure.

After twenty minutes, the terrain began to level and they passed another triangular sign, facing away from them. She pinched her eyes shut for a second. Out of the minefield. Thank God. Flynn nodded as she pointed at the sign, but his focus was fixed ahead. Down a slight slope, light filtered through the thinning trees. Male voices trickled up. She squinted as Flynn inched ahead, the weak beam drilling into her brain, right behind her eyes. Two lights—headlights? Yes, a hefty vehicle parked at an angle. One of al-Thawra’s white Ford Ranger trucks. Crap.

Flynn made the get-down signal and dropped noiselessly. She crunched into a stack of dry leaves, silently cursing. He crawled over.

“They have NVGs—night vision goggles. Only one of them has them on his eyes right now. They’re probably part of a perimeter block.”

As her sight adjusted, she made out one of the guy’s faces, partially obscured by a cap but uplit by a mobile phone screen under his nose. Her jaw tightened. No mistaking the scar twisting his lip or his outsize military jacket. It probably still had her blood on it. The other guy looked familiar, too.

“Definitely Hamid’s guys,” she whispered. “So what now?”

He looked over his shoulder. “We can’t risk gunfire. Our advantage is that Hamid doesn’t know where we are and I’d rather not give it up. And we’re low on ammo.” He fell silent, frowning. Take all the time you need. She sure didn’t have any ideas.

“There are two of them,” he said eventually. “We’ll have more chance if I can split them up.”

He shrugged the pack off his back. In the silence, the zip roared like a fighter jet. Neither goon moved.

Flynn slipped a bottle out, unscrewed the lid and started shoveling dirt and small stones inside. It was the bottle she’d emptied down her top. When it was full, he tested its weight, scanned the terrain and crawled backward—into the minefield. He motioned for her to follow.

Goddammit. She followed him behind a prickly bush, her shoulders tensing. When would this night be over? How long since they’d busted out—thirty minutes? Several hours?

“There are more headlights to the north and the south,” he whispered. “Stationary, like these ones.”

“We’re surrounded.” The words caught in her throat.

“We only have to get past these two guys. Wait here and cover me—but only shoot if you’re about to die. If this doesn’t work, you can...” He glanced left and right, as if expecting to spot a TARDIS. “It’ll work.”

“What are you going to do?”

Silence.

“Right—you’ll tell me if it works. Wouldn’t want to blow your karma.” She raised a palm. “Not that you believe in it.”

“I’ll signal for you to come out when it’s safe.” He gripped the neck of the bottle and experimented with flicking movements.

“Be careful—the guy with the phone...” She inhaled. “He’s a psycho. Well, they’re all psychos, but that guy...”

“What did he do to you?”

She trailed her gaze to her feet, which pulsed in pain on cue.

His jaw went rigid. “I’ll treat him with extra care. Stay put.”

Flynn left the backpack and retreated into the minefield. She screwed up her face. Watching him creep through it was somehow more stressful than going in herself. He reached a clearing and hefted the bottle. It arced high into the air and landed with a cracking thud in bushes a couple of hundred feet away, on the edge of the scrub. Ah. Another diversion.

The psycho looked up from his phone. He waved the other guy away in the direction of the noise and leaned into the cab through the open passenger door. A radio crackled, silenced as he spoke into it, and crackled again. At what point would he call in reinforcements? Surely they’d first check that it wasn’t an animal?

So Flynn planned to pounce on the goon who was checking out the noise, then draw in Psycho and grab him, too? But wouldn’t Psycho call for support rather than go in alone? She chewed her lip. And wouldn’t the first goon see Flynn coming anyway, through his goggles?

Overthinking. Any plan was better than none. Trust him. Focus on covering him, not second-guessing him. She eased her rifle into position.

Minutes passed. Not even a twig snapped. Her heart felt like it was leaving bruises on her rib cage. The second guy had disappeared from her sight line. Psycho leaned back on the hood of the truck between the headlights and pulled on his goggles. Surely he’d see two figures, not one? From there he could open fire—she wouldn’t put it past him to take out his own guy, just to get Flynn. He yelled. His friend replied from out of sight. Oh God, Flynn. Stay alive.

She caught a flicker of movement behind the bed of the truck. Crap, a third man—bigger than the others. Flynn wouldn’t have factored him in. She fixed him in the scope, finger light on the trigger. Don’t shoot unless you have to—but don’t hesitate, either.

He disappeared from view behind the truck. Still no movement at the tree line. The beam of the farthest headlight flickered as a dark shape shot past. The new guy. She swung the barrel, searching for him. Psycho jerked backward. A column of light pinned two grappling figures, one wearing desert camos. Whoa. She eased her finger off the trigger. The new guy was Flynn.

He had Psycho in a headlock, his other hand clamped on his wrist, trying to wrestle away a handgun. Psycho shouted. They lurched out of the light and disappeared behind the truck. Scuffling, a meaty crack, a thud. Oh God. Dust puffed across the headlight beams.

The other goon ran out of the scrub, rifle leveled, shouting into a comms device on his shoulder. Hell, even if Flynn were winning, this guy would take him out. And then reinforcements would come...

She couldn’t just watch. Screw Flynn’s orders.

She jumped up and yelped, as if she’d hurt herself. The guy turned. She let out another screech and flattened onto the dirt, panting, directing her shaky fingers onto the trigger.

The goon’s face snapped up, scanning the bushes. Behind him, a figure staggered out from behind the truck, wearing NVGs and an oversize military jacket, tugging down his cap. Psycho. She swallowed a squeak. That crack she’d heard... Psycho wouldn’t have walked away if Flynn were alive. Tears stung. Shit, shit, shit. He was dead, and she was screwed.

No. She still had a chance, if she took out both goons before they started shooting.

One burst.

Don’t hesitate.

CHAPTER 7

Tess blinked away moisture and lined up her shot. If Flynn had died, she’d damn well ensure it wasn’t for nothing. When her story went to air, his sacrifice would help save hundreds of thousands of lives. That would mean something to him, even if he’d deny it.

Oh God, she really didn’t want him to be dead. The second guy glanced at Psycho and returned focus to the scrub, shouting and pointing—right at her. Her nape crawled. If this worked, she could steal the truck. And go where? It was Flynn who was good at winging it. The only things she could improvise were words, and she didn’t always nail the first take.

Hanging back in the shadows, Psycho looked more intimidating than ever. He strode up to the second guy, who was raising his rifle her way.

One burst, right to left—the gunman first, then Psycho. No second takes. She nestled her finger on the trigger and tensed, bracing for the kickback. Now.

A flash of movement, and both men dropped. What the hell? Psycho had tackled the other guy and they were wrestling. Psycho raised his handgun and crunched the butt into his friend’s forehead. The impact rippled through him, and he crumpled, still. Psycho ripped away the rifle and tossed it. He flipped the guy over and forced his arms behind his back. What now? Should she still shoot?

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