Page 4 of Her Tempting Protector

When the laughter stopped, he continued.

“Then there’s Mason Gault from Midnight Delta, I think I heard he and his team just got back home to Coronado, and I’m going to bet he’s already been out surfing. But after that last damned mission, I think he and his men deserve to go to Fiji.”

That was met by silence. Kostya winced. He knew he’d stepped in it.

Max spoke up.

“Clint Archer made it home. That’s the important thing. He has good people surrounding him, and the best care in the world. I’ve been talking to Mason. He’s been keeping me in the loop. As soon as we know everything, I’ll let all of you know.”

Kane and Cullen exchanged glances. They didn’t have to wait for Max, because another one of their Night Storm team members kept them informed. Since Zed Zaragoza had recently been badly injured, his wife was in an exclusive sisterhood who banded together and provided support to one another. Therefore, Zed knew exactly what Clint’s prognosis was on a daily basis as his wife, Marcia, stayed in touch with Clint’s fiancée, Lydia.

“People, I apologize,” Kostya said. “I’ve been spending too much time mired in meetings with the brass, and apparently, have my head up my ass.” Everybody could tell he was less than happy about it. They all knew there was political bullshit going on and it was Baranov’s former team had been caught in the crosshairs. No wonder he’d fucked up about Clint.

Cullen looked around and saw every one of Kostya’s people sitting up straight. Clearly, they had their lieutenant’s back.

“Back to Africa,” Max continued. “One last thing I want to leave you with. Both embassies have teams that are extremely seasoned. If they are raising flags, then we need to pay attention. Things are changing out there, so stay close to base, you could be called in on a dime. Got that?”

Every head in the room nodded.

* * *

How hot was hot? Carys pulled the scarf up over her nose and mouth, trying to keep out the sand and cover her cough. It was just a dry cough that always hit her when she was in one of these uncovered trucks going at high speeds. At least her sunglasses kept the grit out of her eyes. They’d been driving for over an hour to get to the clinic. Carys knew from what Perkins had told her the trek usually took three hours.

The closer they got to the Rufaa, the more farmland she saw. Sudan was such a dichotomy. Khartoum was a modern city, at least parts of it, all gleaming steel, but then there were the poor parts. As they drove down the highway out of the city, they passed desert, but finally she looked out in the fields and saw many people—including small children—out in the hot sun doing backbreaking work. Especially on the low-lying crops.

“What’s that?” She pointed as she asked Jamal, the man driving the open-aired truck.

“What?” he yelled in Arabic.

“The crops. What are they growing?”

“Maize, sorghum, and millet are the tall stalks. Over there is cotton and peanuts,” he said, pointing to the left side of the road. When she looked closely, she saw men and women amongst the stalks with scythes cutting at the taller stalks. Where they were going was very poor, so she was grateful to see that there was food to be had.

“How many people own farms?”

Jamal grimaced. “Not many, and those that do are very lucky. Much of the land around here was bought by big corporations. Soon you will see modernized harvesting techniques.”

“I don’t understand,” Carys said. She’d heard about some land grabs, but she’d thought it had been about mineral rights and oil. “Who are the corporations? I thought the farmland passed down from generation to generation.”

“Many small farmers couldn’t show proof of ownership. Under the old dictator, Bashir, our government did a massive land grab, then sold hundreds of thousands of acres to the highest bidder. Pretty soon you’ll see large modern farms that were sold to the Saudis. But not just them—many nations across the Middle East have bought up thousands and thousands of acres of our land to feed themselves. That is one of the things we are praying our new prime minister will fix.”

The fertile farms whizzed by as the truck picked up speed. Carys was able to breathe now that they left behind the sand and dust. Instead, she was surrounded by the fresh air of the Blue Nile and the burgeoning greenery.

She sat back in the truck and wished her body temperature down as they went on for more kilometers and considered everything Jamal told her. She hadn’t appreciated just how fertile parts of Sudan were when confronted by some of the malnourished patients she cared for on a daily basis. The hospital she’d been working at was for the indigent, whereas very close by were two large hospitals for the wealthy members of Khartoum society. To think that they sent so much of their food across the Red Sea to neighboring countries, while they starved, was outrageous. The inequities all around made her furious.

The truck slowed down and she looked around. They’d driven past the city of Rufaa to the small clinic. The area around the sandstone brick building was nothing but dirt and dust.

“We’re here,” Jamal pointed out unnecessarily. Carys got out of the truck and was surprised to find it took a moment to get her legs moving. Then she realized that she had been tensed up on the drive with Jamal’s erratic driving style, so her muscles had locked just a tiny bit. She reached in to pull out her RISK kit, but Jamal wasn’t having it.

“Let me, Doctor.”

She gave a self-deprecating smile. She knew better than to try to carry things on her own with Jamal around, but she hated having her Rapid Intervention Surgical Kit in anybody’s hands but her own.

“Thank you, Jamal.” She started toward the front door.

“Wait,” Jamal called as he pulled his gun from his trousers. Even after seven years of working in hotspots around the world, Carys was still taken aback at everyone’s ease with guns. Not that she didn’t have one herself, she thought wryly.

Jamal wasn’t one of the men on her security detail, but Isaac had recommended him as a good man to be her driver.