the thigh. He let go.
“Don’t suppose you know how to use one of those?” He nodded to the weapons beside them.
“I did some skeet shooting growing up, and I’ve shot an AR-15 in a firing range, but only on...”
He picked up a rifle and ejected the clip. Nearly full. He checked the next one. Full. “Only on...?”
She finished tying her laces and stood, testing a few steps. “Only on dates.”
“You messing with me? What kind of guy are you dating?”
“The wrong kind. And sometimes I go to the firing range with my mom and brothers. Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays—we’ve always been a little...competitive. I’ve never used one of those, though. Is it an M16?”
“Yep.” He gave her the 101 of readying and firing. Dating the wrong guy, huh? And that information had zero relevance. She was a celebrity; he was a recluse and planned to stay that way. Not a combination that’d work. Well, any relationship involving him wouldn’t work.
He shortened the sling to fit her frame and fitted it over her shoulder. “For you, this is a last resort. Your clip’s nearly full, so you have enough for four bursts. Don’t use it needlessly—and don’t use it on me.”
“Depends on the circumstances,” she said, with not nearly enough of a teasing tone.
“Don’t forget who busted you out.” And who’d had his arms around her much of the day. He’d lain awake for the last half hour of their nap while he’d mentally run through his plan, trying not to think about how soft her skin felt and how neatly she fit into him. Sicko. “You good to go?”
“You’re speaking Australian again.”
Bugger. When had he switched? “Told you my English is all over the place.”
He peered around the hull. Might as well stick with Australian now—the less his brain had to compute, the better. He’d be rid of her soon enough, and then he could ease back the paranoia lever.
The searchlight had moved off. Headlights trailed along the road, toward the village. Out in nowhere land, maybe three klicks away, a warm light flickered. Campfire. Probably nomadic herders—little chance of a phone there. With no moon, stars lit the sky like holes in a sieve. He scanned the horizon.
“The village is to the west. Hopefully the road continues the other side so we won’t have to pass the compound on the way out of town.” West was more likely to mean civilization—Addis Ababa, or maybe they could scoot back up to Djibouti. North likely meant Somalia, east a whole lot of nothing.
“How do you know the village is west of us, if you don’t know where we are?” She tugged the laces of her second boot.
Man, she was the suspicious type. He pointed above their heads. “I checked the map.”
“You can navigate by the stars?”
“You got a compass?”
Satisfied with her boots, she tipped her head back. “Prove it.”
He grunted. What a pain in the arse. He didn’t need to prove anything, but if it made her ease up on the interrogation... “North Star.” He pointed. “We’re about ten degrees north of the equator so you look about ten degrees above the horizon. The rest is easy. Bit of trust here?”
“Show-off.”
“You asked. Time we moved. But first we need to dirty up your T-shirt.”
“I’ve been wearing it for a week—it’s not dirty enough?”
“I can still see some white—it’ll show up like a reflector if that light catches it. Here.” He picked up a handful of soil, grabbed her wrist and dropped it in her palm. “Spit on this and rub it into the front. I’ll do the back. We’ll turn it into desert cammies.”
He picked up another handful and moved behind her. He could almost cover her back in a single hand span. She was all shoulder blades, spine and ribs—she’d gone easy on the MREs. Lucky he was into curves. Just you remember that, soldier.
“You like this stuff, don’t you?”
“What stuff?” Having his hands all over a beautiful woman? Too right. He liked her, that was the problem. She lit him up and she wound him up. A dangerous combination.
“Playing soldiers.”
“I am a soldier. It’s no game.”
“Isn’t it? Isn’t that why you joined up—you wanted to make the computer games a reality? Dive inside that Xbox?”
“You’re fishing for information.” And way off the mark. He’d been one year off an engineering degree when that journalist bitch outed him. With the walls closing in, he’d fled to Paris. Before that he’d been more into “Tetris” than “Call of Duty.” “Is that why your brothers joined up? And your boyfriend?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she snapped.
“Whoa.” Mission Change of Subject accomplished. He spun her. “Your face is glowing.” He smoothed the dirt in his hands over her cheeks, nose and forehead before running his fingers around her neck and into the exposed V of her chest. She took a sharp breath. A few inches lower and—
Shut it down. “Better,” he said.
She clicked her tongue. “And I just cleaned my face.”
“Waste of time out here, if you’re playing soldiers or not.” He ripped a strip of reflective metallic fabric off the bag and pocketed it, and rolled the rest in the dirt. “Same rules apply—keep your distance and step where I step. Sound’s gonna travel, so we go steady and careful. I do this...” He brought his palm level with the ground and lowered it, quickly. “We drop flat. If their lights pick us up, we run like lightning.” His gaze slid to her feet. “If you can. And try not to step on anything shiny.”
“What should I do if something goes click?”
He grimaced. “It won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“It’ll just go bang.”
“O-kay. Nice reassurance.”
“You want reassurance, hire a life coach. We’ll stick to tracks wherever possible—human, goat, donkey, camel... And, hey, if this area is mined, Hamid’s soldiers might not come after us.”
“I guess there’s that.”
“Ready?”
“After you, Lieutenant.”
Tess’s instincts ping-ponged with red alerts. She focused on following Flynn’s boots, trying to ignore the pressure in her toes and the hyperawareness of every noise. Not that there was much sound, bar her panting and the distant drone of vehicles.
Maybe a mile away, maybe five, three sets of headlights crept parallel to them, casing the road. Flynn’s head was skewed in that direction, his hands cradling his rifle. He’d better be looking out for shiny things, too—she’d met too many people in this part of the world with missing limbs.
Her chest tightened at the thought of putting her fate in the hands of a stranger, even one who made her stomach do flippy things. Especially one who made her stomach do flippy things. Rule number one in Africa: beware of the strangers who approached you, who tried to befriend you, to offer directions or some other “help.” They were the ones with an agenda—invariably involving relieving you of money. If you needed help, you sought out the ordinary people keeping to themselves, plying honest trades. Which category did Flynn fall into? Maybe falling drugged from the sky wasn’t the same as sidling up to her at a bus station,