have had less to do with getting her safely home and more to do with the stolen cocaine.
She’d been on the brink of asking him once or twice about the coke but had thought the better of it. She couldn’t afford to have him dump her by the side of the road out here in the middle of the desert. The landscape was every bit as deadly as the Zetas. And with nothing stronger than a promise to keep him from abandoning her, she needed his goodwill. She wouldn’t say anything.
Not yet.
“THIS ISN’T WORKING!”
Zach raised his head and glanced up to where Natalie was bent over a mesquite branch, trying to rub out the car’s left tire tracks, her hair tied back, the AK she’d insisted on carrying slung over her shoulder like an ugly purse. “Put more muscle into it.”
“Easy . . . for you . . . to say.”
It was hard work, and he supposed having two X chromosomes made it tougher. Then again, none of this had been easy for her.
You’ve been hard on her, too, McBride.
Yeah, he had been.
He’d done well enough when he’d been in chains and needed her help, but for the past few hours all he’d done was issue orders. But she wasn’t a SEAL. She wasn’t a deputy U.S. marshal either. And she sure as hell wasn’t an enemy combatant or a fugitive. She was an innocent civilian, a young woman who’d suffered more than her share of tragedy, who’d witnessed a massacre, who’d been kidnapped and assaulted, who’d been forced to kill. She deserved his respect—and some damned human kindness, if he could manage it.
Yet his first priority was getting her safely home again. And that meant staying focused on the objectives, which, at the moment, were evasion and escape.
Driving the Tsuru down into the arroyo had been a bitch. Zach had made Natalie get out of the car just to be safe, and for a few seconds he’d thought he was going to roll the damned thing or get stuck in the sandy, dry bottom. But the vehicle was now concealed beneath a concrete bridge, hidden from anyone who might drive by or fly overhead. Once its tire tracks were wiped out, it would take an expert in cutting sign to know they were there.
Or that was the theory, anyway.
He walked slowly backward, swishing the branch across the sandy soil as he went, careful not to fall down the steep bank as the ground became softer and less stable. He was about to warn Natalie to watch her step, when he heard her gasp. He looked up in time to see her tumbling toward him.
He reached out and stopped her fall. “You okay?”
She sat up, nodding. “I’m a little dizzy, but I’m fine.”
He took one look at her face and knew that wasn’t true. She was flushed, but she wasn’t sweating. “You’re dehydrated.”
She looked puzzled. “I’m not thirsty.”
Not good.
He’d seen men die from the heat in Afghanistan as medics struggled in vain to save their lives. He knew that dizziness and lack of thirst were not good signs.
“Let’s get you into the shade.” He drew her to her feet, slid an arm around her waist, and guided her over to the car and into the passenger seat, taking the AK from her. He propped the rifle against the car, then reached into the backseat for a bottle of water, ripped off the cap, and pressed it into her hands. Too bad there were no powdered electrolytes to go with it. “Drink. A few gulps, then regular sips.”
While she drank, he touched his palm to her forehead, and was relieved to feel that her skin was neither clammy nor feverishly hot. She was definitely dehydrated and on her way to overheating, but she didn’t have heatstroke. Not yet.
You pushed her too hard, you dumb shit.
She looked up at him. “Were you a paramedic in your past life or something?”
“No.” He dug through the crap in the backseat for the first-aid kit, then pulled out a cotton washcloth. “But I do know a few things about first aid.”
“That’s a good skill for someone in your, um . . . line of work.”
“You got that right.” He
She’d been on the brink of asking him once or twice about the coke but had thought the better of it. She couldn’t afford to have him dump her by the side of the road out here in the middle of the desert. The landscape was every bit as deadly as the Zetas. And with nothing stronger than a promise to keep him from abandoning her, she needed his goodwill. She wouldn’t say anything.
Not yet.
“THIS ISN’T WORKING!”
Zach raised his head and glanced up to where Natalie was bent over a mesquite branch, trying to rub out the car’s left tire tracks, her hair tied back, the AK she’d insisted on carrying slung over her shoulder like an ugly purse. “Put more muscle into it.”
“Easy . . . for you . . . to say.”
It was hard work, and he supposed having two X chromosomes made it tougher. Then again, none of this had been easy for her.
You’ve been hard on her, too, McBride.
Yeah, he had been.
He’d done well enough when he’d been in chains and needed her help, but for the past few hours all he’d done was issue orders. But she wasn’t a SEAL. She wasn’t a deputy U.S. marshal either. And she sure as hell wasn’t an enemy combatant or a fugitive. She was an innocent civilian, a young woman who’d suffered more than her share of tragedy, who’d witnessed a massacre, who’d been kidnapped and assaulted, who’d been forced to kill. She deserved his respect—and some damned human kindness, if he could manage it.
Yet his first priority was getting her safely home again. And that meant staying focused on the objectives, which, at the moment, were evasion and escape.
Driving the Tsuru down into the arroyo had been a bitch. Zach had made Natalie get out of the car just to be safe, and for a few seconds he’d thought he was going to roll the damned thing or get stuck in the sandy, dry bottom. But the vehicle was now concealed beneath a concrete bridge, hidden from anyone who might drive by or fly overhead. Once its tire tracks were wiped out, it would take an expert in cutting sign to know they were there.
Or that was the theory, anyway.
He walked slowly backward, swishing the branch across the sandy soil as he went, careful not to fall down the steep bank as the ground became softer and less stable. He was about to warn Natalie to watch her step, when he heard her gasp. He looked up in time to see her tumbling toward him.
He reached out and stopped her fall. “You okay?”
She sat up, nodding. “I’m a little dizzy, but I’m fine.”
He took one look at her face and knew that wasn’t true. She was flushed, but she wasn’t sweating. “You’re dehydrated.”
She looked puzzled. “I’m not thirsty.”
Not good.
He’d seen men die from the heat in Afghanistan as medics struggled in vain to save their lives. He knew that dizziness and lack of thirst were not good signs.
“Let’s get you into the shade.” He drew her to her feet, slid an arm around her waist, and guided her over to the car and into the passenger seat, taking the AK from her. He propped the rifle against the car, then reached into the backseat for a bottle of water, ripped off the cap, and pressed it into her hands. Too bad there were no powdered electrolytes to go with it. “Drink. A few gulps, then regular sips.”
While she drank, he touched his palm to her forehead, and was relieved to feel that her skin was neither clammy nor feverishly hot. She was definitely dehydrated and on her way to overheating, but she didn’t have heatstroke. Not yet.
You pushed her too hard, you dumb shit.
She looked up at him. “Were you a paramedic in your past life or something?”
“No.” He dug through the crap in the backseat for the first-aid kit, then pulled out a cotton washcloth. “But I do know a few things about first aid.”
“That’s a good skill for someone in your, um . . . line of work.”
“You got that right.” He
Similar Books
