SEALs of Summer 2: A Military Romance Superbundle (122 page)

Herded like animals, Claire and Dr. Jamo trudged through the bush back to Samada.

Claire hated seeing all the destruction in the small village. The main building of mud, sticks and grass had been leveled. Many of the smaller huts were intact, but some had been burned to the ground, the stench of smoldering grass filled the air.

The rebel team leader shoved her toward one of the grass huts, and she ducked inside.

Lying on a mat on the floor was a large black man with deep black eyes and shrapnel imbedded in his leg, abdomen and arms. His gaze shot to her, his eyes narrowing.

“You will fix me,” he said in English.

“I’ll do what I can.” Claire knelt on one side of Umar.

Dr. Jamo was pushed to his knees on the other side.

“Fix me or you die.” Umar lifted a pistol in his bloody hand and pointed it at Claire’s head.

Nothing like a little incentive to make her job easier. She prayed she could fix what was wrong with the man. He looked like he’d been run through a shredder.

Claire removed scissors from her bag and cut the pant leg all the way up to his thigh to expose the jagged piece of metal jutting from his skin. It hadn’t hit a main artery, or the man already would be dead.

Dr. Jamo cut away the man’s shirt to get a better look at the shrapnel embedded in his chest.

Between the two of them and several bright, battery powered lanterns, they worked pulling out shrapnel and stitching the open wounds. Umar refused sedatives, preferring to remain awake and as alert as possible. When they’d addressed most of what they could find, Claire and Dr. Jamo sat back. Now his recovery was up to antibiotics and Umar’s system to fight off infection. After all the people the al-Shabaab leader had murdered, Claire found it difficult to help him. But to refuse to treat a sick or injured human wasn’t in her nature or her Hippocratic oath.

The al-Shabaab emir waved them away with a few curt words in Arabic.

“He wants to rest,” Dr. Jamo said.

As she left the well-lit hut, Claire realized daylight had turned to darkness, reminding her of the original plan for Irish to leave the refugee compound after sunset. She wondered if any of the refugees had seen him slip out of the camp, and if they’d tell the rebels they’d seen him.

Claire hoped not. She wished him well and hoped he made it back safely to his team. Now that she and Dr. Jamo had patched up the boss, they were led to the center of town where other men lay in various degrees of pain and dismemberment from shrapnel and bullet wounds.

She and her colleague worked long into the night helping those they could and declaring those who’d passed. Around three in the morning, beyond exhaustion, Claire stood and pressed her hands to the small of her back.

A guard nudged her with the barrel of his weapon, indicating she should follow him to a nearby hut.

Dr. Jamo made to follow, but another guard spoke curtly to him and pointed his weapon at the doctor’s chest.

“What’s he saying?” Claire asked as she was forced to move away.

“He does not want us to be together.”

“Will you be all right?” Claire called out.

“I’m not worried about me. I’m more worried about you,” Dr. Jamo spoke angrily to the guard holding him back.

The guard spit at his feet and slammed the butt of his weapon into Dr. Jamo’s gut.

The older man doubled over.

“Dr. Jamo!” Claire cried out.

Her guard shoved her through a door.

She turned immediately and fought to get out.

A fairly new white Land Rover, with a green logo of a dove in flight painted on the side, drove into the village center. The driver climbed out and opened the back passenger door.

Dr. Jamo was shoved into the back seat.

“Dr. Jamo!” Claire clawed at the guard, trying to push him out of the way to get to Dr. Jamo.

The doors closed on Dr. Jamo, and the Land Rover hesitated only a minute before it sped north out of the village.

The flimsy stick door to the hut shut in her face, and Claire collapsed to the floor, tears welling in her eyes. Where were they taking Dr. Jamo, and what did they have planned for her?

‡

A
t the first
sign of trouble, Irish had gathered his equipment and slipped out the back of the tent. Dr. Boyette would be in a great deal of trouble if the rebels found one of last night’s attackers hidden in her tent. The residents of the refugee camp had been too concerned about the rebels to glance his way. He made it into the relative concealment of the bushes and trees surrounding the camp.

His first instinct and his training was to find his way back to Djibouti where he hoped to meet up with his team. If they had escaped the crash site before the rebels got there, they would head north. But Irish stuck around, staying out of sight, watching to see what the rebels had in mind for Claire and the refugees.

When the rebels urged her and Dr. Jamo at gunpoint to return to Samada, Irish couldn’t, in good conscience, leave until he knew Claire would be all right. He needed to get back to his team, but he wanted to settle things with Claire. After all, the woman had put herself at risk to save his life. Following at a safe distance, he arrived on the edge of Samada.

Security was lax, many of the rebels having been injured in the attack. Apparently, no one thought they would receive a repeat attack that soon.

That kind of attitude was in Irish’s favor, if action was required to free Claire and her colleague.

Claire and Dr. Jamo had been led to a small hut near the center of the village. They disappeared into the hut and stayed for nearly four hours. Several of Umar’s men entered and left, but Claire and Dr. Jamo remained inside.

If Irish had to bet, he would say Umar was injured in the attack and needed medical attention. A lot of medical attention, based on the amount of time they were taking to come back out.

The sun set on the village and darkness crept in with the incessant sound of insects chirping. Finally, the door to the hut opened. Claire and Dr. Jamo were escorted out and split up.

Not good
. Being a woman, Claire wasn’t safe with any of the rebels. She cried out to Dr. Jamo, but the rebels shoved him into a vehicle and sped away. Dr. Boyette was taken to another hut closer to the edge of the village.

If Irish played his cards right, he could sneak up to the hut, dispatch the guard and get Claire out. He waited, hoping the guard would exit. When he didn’t, Irish made his move, inching closer to the village.

He had spied one sentry on his side of the village. The man’s face had been cut severely, and the wound had been roughly patched with gauze and tape. He looked like hell, and probably felt like it, having to stand guard duty with a damaged face and probably a splitting headache.

Irish slipped up beside the sentry and slit his throat. He crumpled to the ground with no more than a sigh. Irish waited outside the hut, listening for the guard to exit. Instead, he heard a grunt and Claire’s voice. “Get the hell off me, you bastard! If Umar finds out you’ve messed with his doctor, he’ll kill you.” A loud crack, like someone slapped another person, sent Irish through the door and into the grass hut.

In the light beam from a flashlight lying on the floor, Irish saw the rebel guard had pinned Claire to the ground and he tore at her trousers.

She rocked beneath him, a bright red handprint on her cheek, her jaw set in a grim line. With all the force she could muster in such close proximity, she jerked up her knee, slamming it into the man’s groin.

Irish grabbed the man from behind, stuck his knife in his jugular and shoved him to the side. Then he reached out to Claire. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I thought you were gone,” she whispered.

“I couldn’t leave until I knew you were safe. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

Irish eased open the door and peered through the crack. A group of five rebel fighters were headed toward the hut.

“Can’t go that way.” He closed the door made of sticks and twine, and secured it closed with a piece of cording. Irish stepped to the opposite side of the hut and jammed his knife through the stick walls, slicing through the grass twine holding the sticks together. He kicked an opening, looked through to ensure no one was lurking on the other side. Then he grabbed the dead guard’s gun and ammo, turned back to Claire and said, “Let’s go.”

She held back. “I can’t. They took Dr. Jamo. What if they bring him back? I can’t leave without knowing he’s safe.”

“I seriously doubt he’ll be coming back.” Irish glanced toward the door of the hut. “But five burly men, who look like they mean business, are headed toward this hut. We can’t stay here with two of their dead buddies.”

Claire nodded, grabbed her doctor’s bag and stepped over the body of the man who’d tried to assault her. “You’re right, let’s go.”

Irish was first through the opening. He checked left and right before handing Claire through the hole. Then he pushed the sticks back in place as the door to the hut rattled on the other side.

Things were about to get hot in the village. “Run.” Grabbing her hand, he raced for the bushes bordering the village, half-dragging Claire along. She dug her heels into the ground, pulling him to a stop. “That’s my vehicle.” She pointed to a beat-up old Land Rover standing beside a hut. She jerked her hand from his and ran toward it.

“What the hell, Claire?” He ran after her, certain bullets would be cutting them down at any moment.

What were the chances the keys were in it?

The rebels would be forcing open the door to the hut about now and find the dead guard lying on the floor. Irish hoped they wouldn’t expect whoever killed the guard to stay in the village.

Claire tossed her bag into the back seat, slid into the driver’s seat and bent low, her hand sliding beneath the seat. “I kept the spare key under the seat. I doubt they would have found it.”

“If you want to live to tell your children this story, you’d better find it.”

Her search ended, and she held up a key.

“Great. Scoot and stay down.”

Claire slid across to the passenger seat and hunkered low.

Irish tossed the rifle into Claire’s lap and slid the key into the ignition.

A shout rose up from the hut they’d left.

“Time to punch out.” He turned the key and the engine coughed, turned over and died.

“The motor can be cantankerous, but it will start eventually,” Claire said.

Great
. He hoped it started before the rebels discovered them in it and peppered them with bullets. Turning the key a second time, he heard the engine turn over and rumble to life.

Irish yanked the shift into gear and slammed down his foot on the accelerator. The Land Rover shot out from the side of the village into the woods.

A bullet blew out the back window, scattering glass throughout the vehicle.

Crashing through the brush, Irish yanked the steering wheel to the right in time to miss hitting a tree.

Claire slammed against the passenger door and held on to the armrest. “Turn right here!” she shouted.

Bracing himself, he swung right, and the Land Rover bumped out onto the dirt road leading into the village. It wouldn’t take long for the rebel fighters to catch up to them. Irish glanced at the gas gauge. They had half a tank of fuel. If he could put some distance between them and the rebels, they had a chance of making it all the way to Djibouti. Pushing the vehicle as fast as it would go, he raced down the road, lights out, guided only by the moon and sparing on the brakes to avoid giving their pursuers lights to aim at.

Claire turned halfway around in her seat, looking out the back, shattered window. “Three vehicles are following. No. Make it four.”

“We may have to turn off the main road and ditch it in the bushes.” He didn’t like being out in the open. But then the rebels didn’t have helicopters. He and Claire only had to evade the rebels and make it across the border into Djibouti.

“They’re gaining on us.”

Irish pushed the Land Rover faster. They rounded a bend in the road, going so fast, the vehicle tipped, the tires slid and they nearly toppled over. Removing his foot from the accelerator for only a moment brought the SUV back to earth. As soon as they hit another straight stretch, he goosed it.

“They’re in the curve,” Claire shouted.

A glance in the rearview mirror confirmed. Headlights shined into Irish’s eyes for a brief second, tilted, then tumbled to the left. That vehicle had rolled.

One down
. Three still following them, but they’d slowed to take the curve, giving Irish a few seconds more of a lead. It wasn’t enough. The old Land Rover just didn’t have the speed it needed. They’d have to find a place to hide until the rebels gave up and moved on.

When he came to a fork in the dirt road, Irish slowed by easing off the accelerator.

“Which way?” Claire asked.

“The direction they will least expect.” He took the more-traveled road, headed north toward Djibouti.

“Won’t they expect you to take the more-traveled road?”

He nodded. “Yes, but they won’t expect this.” Removing his foot from the accelerator, he let the vehicle slow without applying the brakes, and then he swerved off the road, zigzagged through the trees for several hundred feet before coming out on the other road. “The problem with dirt roads is they leave a cloud of dust until it settles. Hopefully, they won’t realize we left the road until they are farther along. By then, we’ll be long gone.”