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“Is it allowed in a concussion?”
“Nate suggested it.”
“Okay,” she said. Putting the comb aside, she asked, “Anything out there?”
“Not yet. It’s quiet. Birds are singing. Monkeys are still doing their thing. When they don’t, that’s when I get worried.”
“Could you lay down for a while, Mace? Sleep? I can stand guard.”
It was a tempting offer. Mace had visions of sleeping WITH Sierra, not apart from her. She looked so natural and beautiful; her hair glinting highlights from the hole above where the light lanced in throughout the cave. Her arms were firm and well-muscled as she pulled one of her knees to her body, wrapping them around it. An ache so deep that it startled him, rose through Mace, settling in his chest. For a split second, he could see her in her cabin, smiling, hiking, loving the outdoors. And him at her side. The whole scene flashed through his mind, unbidden, and drew in a deep, shaky breath. What the hell! Every cell in his body felt a soul-deep loneliness that only went away when he was around Sierra. She fulfilled him on every level. Yearning to say as much to her, knowing it was the wrong place and time, all he could do was remain silent. The last thing he wanted to do with this woman who was like life to him. Mace didn’t lie to himself: Sierra being wounded and having almost died in that firefight, had serrated his heart like nothing he’d ever felt before. And he could say nothing.
The radio he wore clicked three times.
Instantly, he was on his feet, grabbing his rifle.
“What?” Sierra said in a hushed voice, reaching for her pistol beside her ruck.
“Stay still,” he growled, turning toward the underside of the cascading water. “It’s Pavlov. He’s a friendly. Don’t move…”
Mace swiftly covered the distance to the waterfall entrance. He hesitated, hidden from the outside by wet rocks and the fine spray, peering out into the jungle. Clicking his radio back three times, he waited, M-4 at the ready. His heart thudded hard in his chest as he saw the Russian medic who ran with Kushnir’s team, fade out of the line of trees. He had his AK-47 in hand, and was wearing a floppy hat and Spetsnaz cammos, his ruck on his shoulders.
“Three o’clock,” Mace rasped into the mic near his mouth.
The Russian halted and immediately turned toward the waterfall.
Mace saw the tension in the man’s oval face. Sacha was nearly six feet tall and lean like a starving wolf. His shoulders were broad and tensed but, even more so, it was his pale-blue eyes, narrowed, that betrayed the pressure he was under. Mace drew back. He had caught the medic’s glance, and then retreated beneath the waterfall, waiting for him. His mind whirled. If Pavlov was here, it could mean that some others of the men from Kushnir’s team were nearby.
Turning, he gave Sierra, who was tense, pistol in hand, a signal that everything was all right. He saw the sudden relief come to her face, and she lowered the weapon.
Pavlov slipped like a silent fog between the waterfall and the wet rocks, his back to the wall, AK-47 barrel pointed downward. He nodded to Mace, who he knew well from their various meetings over the last year.
Mace signaled him to follow. He saw Sierra’s face tense up all over again. She’d recognized the Spetsnaz uniform.
“It’s all right,” he told her as he drew near. “This is Sacha Pavlov, their combat medic.” He turned to the Russian. “My partner, Sierra Chastain.”
Pavlov nodded to her. And then he pinned Mace with a dark look. “Kushnir has sent four men, plus myself, down this trail. They lost you when you went into the stream.”
“How close?” Mace demanded.
“A mile.” A tight smile leaked out of the line of the Russian’s wide mouth. “He sent me this direction. He knows there’s a waterfall down here. I told him I’d check it out and get back to him.”
“Good to know.” Mace held out his hand to the Russian. “Good to see you, too. How are things going?”
Pavlov gripped his hand, shook it firmly and then released it. “Dangerous. As always.”
“We appreciate everything you do,” Mace told him. “Are you about ready to jump ship and leave them?”
“Not yet,” Sacha said, glancing down at Sierra. “But it’s getting closer. Belov is dead and Kushnir took over. He doesn’t trust anyone. He’s going to keep a tight watch on me.”
Taking off his floppy camouflage hat, the medic wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his sleeve. “After Belov was killed, they knew the general direction of the shot.
Mace clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Do you have any time? Sierra has a concussion. A rock hit her head when the RPG blew up.”
Sacha walked over to Sierra and introduced himself. His English was stilted, but he held out his hand and gently shook hers. In minutes, he had his medical ruck open and was checking her out. Mace walked over, saying nothing, looking worried. The medic studied her, taking a small flashlight and moving it slowly back and forth across her eyes. “Your pupils are not equal.”
Sierra sat quietly for the exam. It was Pavlov’s large, intelligent eyes, those pale-blue iris surrounded by their black rims, that gave him a startlingly alert look. She felt as if he was looking right through her. In so many ways, he reminded her of Nik Morozov and Alex Kazak, two other combat medics. Two of her best friends.
“My pupils aren’t equal?” she asked Sacha. Worried, she saw the medic frown. “What does that mean?”
