was bolted.
“The finest field rations Denniston produces. They earn a dollar in profit from every meal, and they supply dozens of forces around the world—sometimes both sides in a conflict. And that’s only one of their contracts. They might not be making the bombs but they’re sure making the money—or they were. Most countries have a stockpile of these things now, so they’re not renewing their contracts.”
He ripped open the plastic, went straight for a brownie and bit in. Scam or not, he was as hungry as a wolf. She sat on the mattress and hugged her knees again, pulling her socks away from her toes. He got the idea she’d spent a lot of the week sitting like that. It’d sure suck to be alone down here. Hell, it sucked anyway, but it sucked a little less with her next to him.
“You not eating?” he mumbled.
“Later. Hard to drum up an appetite for something with a shelf life of three years.”
“Takes that long to go through your system.”
“I don’t want to know about your system.”
There was that unexpected smile again. He’d have to watch that smile—better yet, not watch it. He studied the packet, speaking through a mouthful of brownie. “This one expired two years ago.” He shoved the last of it in his mouth.
“So now you’re speaking with a French accent.”
“Am I?” he said, trying to sound offhand as he fished out a packet of crackers. “I don’t speak English much, so I’m all over the place.” That was true enough. French had become his official first language when he’d signed his life to the legion nearly a decade ago. The less of his old identity that remained, the better.
He felt her gaze as he crunched, the sound bouncing off the walls like shrapnel. He glugged from his water bottle.
“What are you hiding?” she said.
He choked, and the water splattered his jacket. “What?”
“I once did a story on the legion. It’s not a career path for well-adjusted kids from good families. They say everyone’s hiding or running—or both. So what’s your story?”
“No story. I wanted adventure.”
“Come on—we could be dead by dawn.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“I’m not taking notes. You could at least be civil—this could be the last conversation of your life. Between you and me, what are you hiding?”
Between him and her and her audience of millions? “Maybe I’m just an idealist.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Uh-huh.”
“What you said, about escaping—maybe it’s true of some of the foreigners. But for French officers it can be a quicker trip through the ranks, if you’re prepared to put up with a platoon of lunatics.” Again, not exactly a lie.
“And are they—lunatics?”
“Non,” he said. Watch yourself. “Most just need a job. Others want to earn a European passport. Sure, some are running, but they’re not serial killers.” He gulped. The words had slipped out. Dumbass. “They’re more likely to be escaping bitter ex-wives.”
“Ah. And do you have one of those?”
“No, thank God.”
“Where are you from?”
“I told you—France,” he said, too quickly.
“You already said that. I meant, where in France?”
Damn. “Corsica, where my regiment is based.”
“Corsica, huh? That’s the...parachute regiment.”
Mate, she sure paid attention. Proceed with caution, soldier. “Oui, le 2E Régiment étranger de parachutistes.”
“The elite force—paratroopers, commandos.”
He shrugged. “My parachute training is about as useful down here as your notebook.”
“Do you spend much time at the French base at Djibouti—Monclar?”
“When I’m in town.”
“Maybe that’s why you look familiar—maybe I saw you there, when I was researching my legion piece. I watched a few training sessions.”
Yeah, that wasn’t why. “That’s it, then.” Let it go, lady. He scanned the ceiling. Enough chitchat. “Is that the routine here—bucket goes up, food comes down?”
“Twice a day—morning and evening.”
He stood, and ran his hand over the wooden planks that marked the ceiling, ignoring the sting in his ribs and his throbbing head. At one point the gap was wide enough for a few fingers. He scanned the ceiling, then the hatch, then the room.
“Looking for something?” she said.
“Hooks, nails, staples, bolts. Anything that could attach to the wood up here.”
“It’s all rocks and dirt. You have an idea?”
“I’ll tell you if it works. What’s above us?”
“Some storage bunker, I think.”
“Empty?”
“Mostly.”
“Number of guards?”
“They come and go, usually in pairs. They might beef up patrols now—I don’t think I was much of a threat.”
You are to me, sunshine. “When they bring the evening rations and do the bucket thing, does one person do it, like then?”
Her gaze shot to a corner of the room, thinking. “Yeah.”
“Is it light or dark outside?”
“Dark—right after sunset, I think. They don’t seem to have electricity in this building—this is as floodlit as it gets.”
That presented possibilities. Maybe if he could create some leverage... “Give me a look at your bag.”
She chucked it over. “You planning to bust us out with tweezers and diarrhea pills?”
“Beats waiting for the execution.”
Tess watched the soldier palpate gaps in the ceiling. His brain better be as honed as his body, because she sure wasn’t seeing a way out.
Damn straight he was a pretty boy—or would have been, once. Caramel-colored hair blended with his tan, and his grim expression made his cheekbones look sculpted, his defined lips determined and his jaw even squarer. His narrowed eyes were pale—blue or maybe green. And still his face nagged at her memory, like meeting a guy you hadn’t seen since junior high and searching his features for the boy you remembered.
But the stubble, the crooked nose, the lines dug out between his eyes, the sun-worn skin... He was rough and a little frayed, too. And there’d been nothing delicate about the solid body pressed against hers last night. Just the thought... Whoa.
Hell, she didn’t even know the name of the guy who’d lulled her into her first proper, blessed sleep in nearly a week. Evidently it’d once been stenciled on his chest pocket but only a few faded strokes remained. An F? Or an E?
“What’s your name, soldier?”
A pause. “Flynn.”
“That doesn’t sound very French.”
He tugged at a board, acting like he hadn’t heard. It shifted, and dirt showered him. He was hiding something, for sure. Debts? Petty crimes? Recruits