Free Fall (9 page)

However, for the hour or two they each spent in her class every day, she could give them an escape. She could transport them to another world when she taught literature. That’s how she lived her life these days, one hour at a time. Her dreams came in smaller pockets of time rather than grandiose plans to save the world.

She stepped out into the fading sun, the dusty wind stirring her skirt around her calves. The teachers’ quarters were a short walk away, a dorm-like setup where each staff member had a two-room efficiency apartment. Her dreams were definitely more scaled down these days.

She rounded the corner of the clay building—and slammed into another wall. Or rather she slammed into a person. A man, one of her fellow teachers.

“Sam,” she gasped. “You startled me.”

Samir Al-Shennawi had moved here from Egypt a year ago to teach history. And from day one, he hadn’t hidden his interest in her.

“Annie,” he answered, not budging. “I’ve come to walk you to your quarters. You should not be out alone.”

“You’re thoughtful, but the security guards are always a shout away.”

“And I am their reinforcements.” He smiled but still didn’t budge.

Samir—Sam—was different from other men she’d known, and she hadn’t led a nun’s life during her exile here. While she hadn’t slept with him, Samir pushed her for something far more intimate than any of those other men. Friendship.

“I will walk you home,” he insisted.

“It’s only three buildings away.” She pretended not to notice the curious stares. Everyone knew Sam had a thing for her, but they also knew she’d kept her distance. “Your help isn’t necessary.”

Still, she waved for him to walk beside her.

“I do understand it is not necessary. But I will walk with you anyway.” His smile fanned creases from his eyes behind his little round glasses. “My mother would be very angry with me if I forgot the manners she taught me.”

She pretended not to notice the curious stares of other teachers and students as she passed the dining hall. “You’re a pushy man.”

“Not really.”

And that was true. He had a reputation for being a mild-mannered academic, the epitome of nerdiness. Except when it came to pursuing her. He was always quietly there, waiting with those intense sexy eyes of his.

“So then, Sam…” She smiled at him, letting herself flirt a little as a relief against the horrible day. “If I told you to go on ahead, you would?”

He walked silently beside her, staying in step along the dirt path leading to the teachers’ dorm.

Laughing, she hooked her thumb on the leather strap of her bag. “Like I said. Pushy.”

“Ungrateful.”

“Excuse me?”

He glanced down at her, reminding her he had eight extra inches of height on her. “Since we are tossing around adjectives, I will volley one back your way. Ungrateful.”

Now that struck a nerve, reminding her of arguments with her husband. Her dead husband. “I’m supposed to be
grateful
for the gift of your presence? Well then how about this adjective? Egotistical.”

He tapped his chest. “Protective.”

That sat a little better on her prickly pride. “Oh, you’re worried about me? Now don’t I feel foolish? I thought you were hitting on me.”

His smile flattened to a deep scowl. “I would never hit a woman.”

“Sorry. That’s an idiom for making a move on a woman.” Still he looked confused so she continued, “A romantic move.”

“That too.”

She stopped. “You’re making a move on me? After a year of following me around.”

“Following you around? You make me sound like a puppy. I am merely a devoted man, a patient man. I have actually been
making
moves
for quite some time, but apparently my
moves
were not obvious enough to capture your attention. It could be a difference in cultural courtship rituals. You may add intelligent and persistent to the adjective list. Good night.”

She watched him walk silently away, tall and broad shouldered. And persistent.

Her husband had been upset by her choices, angry with her. He’d even asked her to come back. But he’d never once been persistent.

Yes, Samir Al-Shennawi intrigued her. He made her want to learn more, made her want more.

Except how persistent would he stay if he knew she was a trained killer?

***

Jose planted himself in a chair outside the break room door so he wouldn’t miss Stella when she left. He was dead on his feet, running on fumes, but sitting was the only concession he would give himself. Sleep could come later, once he saw her and knew she was taken care of.

The CV-22 was parked behind him, the crew gathered around the back hatch. On the other side of the aircraft, the CIA command center was still in place with screens glowing. The hangar hummed with pockets of activity.

But he could only think of Stella.

She had been in there with the boy and the head CIA dude for over three hours. She needed to rest, eat, recharge. Even knowing he wasn’t stopping either didn’t take away the driving urge to rip the door off with his bare hands and haul her out of there.

It was as if the past four weeks apart never happened. He was right back in those first hours after she’d dumped him, certain she would change her mind, wondering what he could do to change it for her.

Damn stupid.

Focus on the now. Do his job. What he did best.

The light sound of footsteps gave him a one-second warning before his teammates pulled up alongside him. Brick, Data, Bubbles, and Fang were more than just a few fellas he worked with. They were fellow PJs. They put their lives on the line together, would die for each other.

No one knew him better. And right now that could be a problem, gauging by the way they were grinning, ready to razz him. Bubbles leaned back against a pallet of stacked crates while the others advanced.

His buddy Brick propped a foot up on the chair beside him, a stubborn rock-headed dude with a marshmallow heart, especially since he got married. “Wanna play marry one, kill one, screw one? Category? Brad Pitt’s women: Jennifer Aniston, Angelina Jolie, and Gwyneth Paltrow.”

His friend
would
remind him of the way he’d picked on his buddies for not wanting to join in the word game. Not too long ago, he’d razzed Rocha for being all uptight and in love.

Ironic how life cycled around. “I’ll pass.”

Brick dropped into the seat beside him and clapped Jose on the back. “Not as funny when you’re the one in over your head, is it?”

Fang—which actually stood for Fuck, Another New Guy—crouched down in front of him. “So, Brick, is it true what they say about married sex?”

Data’s eyes lit with curiosity, but then the squadron brainiac was curious about everything. “What do they say? And who is ‘they’?”

Baby-faced Fang scratched his buzzed short hair. “Married dudes who say the sex dries up after the vows.”

Jose cursed. Sex was so not what he wanted to talk about now with Stella so fresh in his mind he could swear the eucalyptus scent of her lingered.

Brick scowled. “Now hold on there, partner. Any man who’s talking about sex with his wife is either a loser or not working hard enough.”

Fang blinked once, twice. “I’m not getting what you mean, dude.”

Shaking his head, Brick laughed. “Can’t coach stupid.”

The shared laughed knocked around inside the hangar’s high ceiling, ricocheting off beams. Familiar camaraderie. Their gift to him in the middle of hell.

As the chuckles died down, Bubbles shoved away from the wall of stacked crates. “The key to married sex, single sex, any sex at all? Foreplay is the road to happiness, my friends.”

Jose looked from one shocked face to the other, more than a little stunned himself.

“Whoa.” Fang whistled. “Who knew he could talk?”

Some of the tension eased from Jose’s shoulders. His buds knew him, knew just how to step in and defuse the moment.

Except, why were they here? “Brick, what’s going on? Why the big welcoming party?”

“Long story. It’s all connected to the vice president’s wife’s visit. Security and some exercise. Blah, blah, blah. You and Bubbles will be tied up here anyway with debriefing the kid and the rescued hostages.” Brick nodded to the coffee room door as the knob turned. “And there’s your lady now. Good luck.”

His friends peeled away as the door opened.

Stella stepped out first, while the CIA head honcho stayed inside with the kid. She pulled the door closed after her, resting her head against the panel.

Someone had given her clean clothes even if she hadn’t showered. She’d changed into fresh jeans and a simple gray T-shirt. She still kept the long kanga cloth hooked over her arms. Perhaps she kept it to wrap around her if they stepped out in public, or maybe she held it out of nervous habit. But she seemed to take comfort from the cloth. He didn’t bother pondering the “why” of it any further. He’d seen enough combat stress to know everyone handled things in their own way.

And that damn Mr. Smith should know the same. Instead the hard-ass had kept her tied up in extra debriefs for three hours.

“Stella?” Jose scratched his tight throat and pushed a halfway normal voice free. “Are you okay?”

Her shoulders went tense again and she turned slowly, scanning until her eyes landed on him.

“I’m fine.” She wrapped her arms tighter around her waist, the long red cloth hooking on her elbows.

He might not be able to fix whatever had messed with her head, but he could damn well monitor for any medical concerns. He looked into her eyes, checked her pupils, took her wrist, and counted her pulse. And even as he did his job he also couldn’t stop thinking like the man who cared about her, the man who didn’t want to play games. The man who’d loved her.

Still loved her?

He counted her racing pulse. “Did a doctor check you over when you changed clothes?”

“I don’t need one.” She eased her wrist from his hold. “You already cleared me.”

Damn it. He should have guessed as much. “I’m not a doctor.”

“You could be.”

He folded his hands over his chest. “Stella…”

She put her fingers on his mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to travel old scripts.”

Fair enough. He didn’t want to waste time arguing with her either. He palmed her waist and guided her into a private corner behind the wall of crates, away from listening ears and prying eyes. The shadowy corner behind the pallet of wooden boxes created the bubble of solitude he needed to finally talk to her alone.

“Is the boy settled?” he asked. “Did you learn anything?”

“Agents Smith and Brown are still talking with him. We simply played it that they wanted me there to verify what a hostage would have seen.” She sagged back against the metal wall, exhaustion stamping dark circles under her eyes. “For now, the kid’s story sounds like I would expect to hear. Orphaned in a civil conflict. Kidnapped by a clan militia force. So totally innocent it’s guaranteed to break your heart.”

“You don’t believe him?”

She chewed her bottom lip for a long second before answering, “I don’t know. His story sounds too practiced. Too stock. He’s going to have to offer us something more before I can believe he wasn’t responsible for his actions at the compound. People died, a truly innocent student and a damn good agent.”

The thought of how that could have been her nearly drove him to his knees. He flattened his hand on warm metal to keep from punching the wall, which would only draw attention to them when he finally had her completely alone for the first time since they’d escaped that compound. “Can you tell me what the hell was going on there?”

“Investigating different warlords, following the path of the stolen pirate stash.” She held the cloth tighter around her waist. “Sometimes it feels like we’re putting out fires without ever having access to the source.”

“Maybe it’s time for you to pack it in.”

She frowned, staring back into his eyes. “Are you crazy? You of all people should understand dedication to the job.”

She had a point. So where the hell had his comment come from? From his deeper frustration that had nothing to do with logic, the gut-twisting burn of knowing she could have died. Living without her was tough enough, but at least he’d been able to envision her alive, walking the same planet as him.

The dam broke on the wall he’d built to hold back all that fear so he could get the job done, get her out of there.

“Stella, why are you still here? Really? I don’t care if your job gives you superhero status too, but someone should be looking out for you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

But she shouldn’t have to, not all the time. The real question detonated inside him, the one that had been eating him up inside since he’d first stepped into this airplane hangar and saw surveillance images of her on those screens.

He gripped her by the shoulders. “What were you doing inside that compound where you could have fucking been murdered?”

Her brows shot upward, her chest rising and falling faster and faster. She looked away fast, her eyes darting. Avoiding? He didn’t have to be a body language expert to know she was working on what to say, crafting her words.

Finally, she looked at him full-on and blurted, “I came here to find answers about how my mother died.”

There was no denying the hoarse honesty in her whisper. He processed the words with the notion that he’d thought he knew everything about her. God knows he’d shared his secrets with her. He’d assumed she had done the same.

“I thought your mom was an aid worker killed in a car accident.” He recalled everything Stella had told him, how Melanie Carson had spent half of every year in Africa dispensing aid in villages. “In this region, right?”

She nodded. “That’s what we were told, but I think the car accident story was just to cover her injuries so we wouldn’t question why her body was beaten up.”

“God, Stella, I’m not sure what to say.” He touched her cheek, all the comfort he expected she would accept. She had to have some kind of proof. She was too logical to say that about her mother on a hunch, which meant she’d been planning this all along, even when she was with him. “We were together for five months. Why didn’t you mention this to me before?”