decided. But . . .
“What if one of the so-called civilians in the camp decides to open up?”
“That’s when the second reason we’re getting out of here alive kicks in,” McKade said.
“What’s that?”
Tremayne looked down at his watch. “It’s eleven fifty-nine hours.”
“So?”
Before either of the SEALs could answer, somewhere in the crowd, someone with a megaphone began calling the adham, the call to prayer devout Muslims were required to answer five times a day.
Every man in the camp knelt for the Dhur, the noon-time prayer.
All except one. The tall, armed-to-the-teeth man Kirby had pointed out as the terrorist leader.
Tremayne lifted up both gloved hands, palms out, a universal signal to show he wasn’t looking for any trouble.
After a moment’s hesitation, the man did the same.
“Next time,” Tremayne murmured.
Although he was too far away to hear, the man must have sensed the SEAL’s words, because he slowly nodded.
Still embarrassed as hell that he couldn’t make it on his own, Shane allowed the Rangers—who’d definitely earned their Spec Ops cred today—to lift him into the bird.
The helo was a Russian M17, which Shane considered inferior in every way to his beloved Chinook those damn tangos had shot down. The manufacturing was Russiancheesy; it only had the capability of carrying thirty troops, compared to the Chinook’s fifty-five; and its speed was a mere one hundred and thirty-five knots, compared to his Chinook’s one fifty-four.
Still, as the bird lifted off, he decided that he wasn’t exactly in any position to be picky.
Once they were safely in the air, the burst of adrenaline wore off. Shane closed his eyes and drifted back into the void. And just as he’d been doing earlier, right before he’d come to and found himself in that hospital tent, he returned to dreaming of hot, mind-blowing sex with former Army Captain Kirby Campbell.
14
Shane wasn’t the only one taking a stroll down memory lane. Since the appearance of the Americans, the entire camp had suddenly gone quiet. Those who had shelters had gone indoors, and the terrorists with Imam Jalaluddin’s son had disappeared back into the mountains.
Telling Lita and Anne that she was going to try to steal twenty minutes to see if a nap could do anything for the jet lag that crashed down on her, Kirby went into the green tent next to the hospital tent, lay down on one of the narrow cots, and closed her eyes.
But she couldn’t sleep. Instead, her mind kept spinning back to that time in Iraq. Especially that day Shane had surprised her by showing up again at the CSH.
Kirby had never taken sex casually, but she hadn’t been able to get the handsome-as-sin Night Stalker out of her mind.
Which was why, even though he was the kind of man mamas the world over warned their daughters about, and even though she could be the poster girl for safe sex, without allowing herself to consider all the reasons it might be a mistake, she’d given him her keys.
Then, in case he hadn’t gotten the message of the keys, which certainly hadn’t been the least bit subtle, and worried he might mistakenly believe she was just feeling doctorly toward him (and giving him a private place to rest), she’d flat-out assured him that he was about to get lucky.
Later, as she walked from the building—which had once been a private hospital for Saddam Hussein and his friends and family—to her trailer, she found herself wishing that she’d instead suggested meeting for kung pao chicken and fried rice at one of the two Chinese restaurants near the Imperial Palace.
That would’ve given her time to clean up. To get the stench of disinfectant, blood, and death out of her skin, hair, and clothes.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered.
But she’d always been a pragmatist, and since she doubted that some fairy godmother was suddenly going to appear in the Green Zone with a pumpkin coach and turn her scrub
“What if one of the so-called civilians in the camp decides to open up?”
“That’s when the second reason we’re getting out of here alive kicks in,” McKade said.
“What’s that?”
Tremayne looked down at his watch. “It’s eleven fifty-nine hours.”
“So?”
Before either of the SEALs could answer, somewhere in the crowd, someone with a megaphone began calling the adham, the call to prayer devout Muslims were required to answer five times a day.
Every man in the camp knelt for the Dhur, the noon-time prayer.
All except one. The tall, armed-to-the-teeth man Kirby had pointed out as the terrorist leader.
Tremayne lifted up both gloved hands, palms out, a universal signal to show he wasn’t looking for any trouble.
After a moment’s hesitation, the man did the same.
“Next time,” Tremayne murmured.
Although he was too far away to hear, the man must have sensed the SEAL’s words, because he slowly nodded.
Still embarrassed as hell that he couldn’t make it on his own, Shane allowed the Rangers—who’d definitely earned their Spec Ops cred today—to lift him into the bird.
The helo was a Russian M17, which Shane considered inferior in every way to his beloved Chinook those damn tangos had shot down. The manufacturing was Russiancheesy; it only had the capability of carrying thirty troops, compared to the Chinook’s fifty-five; and its speed was a mere one hundred and thirty-five knots, compared to his Chinook’s one fifty-four.
Still, as the bird lifted off, he decided that he wasn’t exactly in any position to be picky.
Once they were safely in the air, the burst of adrenaline wore off. Shane closed his eyes and drifted back into the void. And just as he’d been doing earlier, right before he’d come to and found himself in that hospital tent, he returned to dreaming of hot, mind-blowing sex with former Army Captain Kirby Campbell.
14
Shane wasn’t the only one taking a stroll down memory lane. Since the appearance of the Americans, the entire camp had suddenly gone quiet. Those who had shelters had gone indoors, and the terrorists with Imam Jalaluddin’s son had disappeared back into the mountains.
Telling Lita and Anne that she was going to try to steal twenty minutes to see if a nap could do anything for the jet lag that crashed down on her, Kirby went into the green tent next to the hospital tent, lay down on one of the narrow cots, and closed her eyes.
But she couldn’t sleep. Instead, her mind kept spinning back to that time in Iraq. Especially that day Shane had surprised her by showing up again at the CSH.
Kirby had never taken sex casually, but she hadn’t been able to get the handsome-as-sin Night Stalker out of her mind.
Which was why, even though he was the kind of man mamas the world over warned their daughters about, and even though she could be the poster girl for safe sex, without allowing herself to consider all the reasons it might be a mistake, she’d given him her keys.
Then, in case he hadn’t gotten the message of the keys, which certainly hadn’t been the least bit subtle, and worried he might mistakenly believe she was just feeling doctorly toward him (and giving him a private place to rest), she’d flat-out assured him that he was about to get lucky.
Later, as she walked from the building—which had once been a private hospital for Saddam Hussein and his friends and family—to her trailer, she found herself wishing that she’d instead suggested meeting for kung pao chicken and fried rice at one of the two Chinese restaurants near the Imperial Palace.
That would’ve given her time to clean up. To get the stench of disinfectant, blood, and death out of her skin, hair, and clothes.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered.
But she’d always been a pragmatist, and since she doubted that some fairy godmother was suddenly going to appear in the Green Zone with a pumpkin coach and turn her scrub
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