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“All I need is some Ibuprofen. Do you have any?”
“First,” he said, “tell me what other symptoms you have?”
Lauren could hear the spec ops boys puttering around the camp, and smelled coffee in the air. She was hungry, her stomach growling. “Headache. Slightly dizzy. I have a bad bruise on my hip for sure, but no broken bones.”
“Dizzy when? How often?”
Shrugging, she muttered, “It’s mostly gone, Alex. Worse when I was in the bird.”
“You were not walking well after we left the Hawk.”
“No, because of my bruised hip.” Lauren shook her head. “You combat medic types are ALL alike. Such mother hens.”
“I am a hen mother,” Alex agreed equitably, grinning proudly. “Let me feel where your bruise on your hip is located?
“Mother hen, Alex.” She heard him chuckle as she pointed to the sore area. His touch was light and, sure enough, it felt swollen like another goose egg under his palm.
“It is a nasty bruise, but that is all.” He crouched and found the pills he needed from his medical supplies. Standing, he opened the bottle and took her hand, turning it over and dropping one white capsule into her palm. “Ibuprofen. Take this with the breakfast they are making for us. I will check with you later today and see how you are doing.”
Tingles raced up her wrist as he cupped her hand. Lauren could feel his calluses, and her skin skittered with tiny, pleasurable jolts. “Thanks,” she murmured, lifting her gaze to his. The grayish dawn was growing into the full light of day as the world was awakening around them. His face was strong, and his morning stubble gave him a decidedly dangerous look. But she was no longer afraid of Alex. “I’m okay with you being a mother hen.”
Alex’s mouth drew into a wry grin as he released her hand. “Really?”
Lauren placed the capsule in her mouth and sucked water from her CamelBak tube, swallowing it. “Don’t let it go to your head,” she growled in warning.
Chuckling, Alex turned away and pressed the Velcro closed on his large medical pack.
“Hey,” Cale called, walking up to them, “you two ready for some fresh eggs? I’m cooking them right now.” He grinned at them. “Better than MRE’s, for damned sure.”
Lauren thrust her fingers through her hair, trying to get it tamed into place, and said, “I’m more than ready. It’s great to have fresh eggs out here in the middle of nowhere. Thanks.” She saw Merrill’s blue eyes dance with amusement. Wrapping a rubber band, Lauren quickly remade her hair into a fresh ponytail.
“Come on over to our fire pit,” Merrill invited, turning and walking quickly back to where his teammates were sitting on some logs placed around the fire.
“Pity,” Alex murmured as he closed the ruck and stowed it inside the hut.
Lauren turned. “What?”
“Your hair is beautiful. It looks nice when it is allowed to go free.”
She saw the sudden wishful look in his eyes. “My hair would be in my way, Alex. I can’t have that.”
Sighing, he nodded. “I know. But someone should tell you how beautiful you look even though we are out here,” and he walked with her toward the group.
Lauren felt her lower body simmering. He made her feel good about herself. Maybe even beautiful. Usually, a man complimenting her didn’t make a dent in the armor she wore around herself because it was always about wanting sex with her, wanting to take something that didn’t belong to him. Alex was different, Lauren acknowledged to herself. But maybe that was because she had been around him, gone through a number of experiences with him, and he hadn’t made a single stupid move like Volkov had. She didn’t see him like all those other men anymore.
Alex chose the last log that was empty by the deep hole in which the fire was burning, sitting down on it. Merrill had a black iron skillet in his hand, and Alex could see a mountain of eggs being scrambled on a metal grate over the fire. The spec ops men had cleaned their faces of paint and were sitting, relaxed, on the logs. Each wore a sidearm, but their rifles and other gear had been tucked away in their individual huts. They smelled of sweat, having had no opportunity to bathe for quite some time. Their cammos were muddy and stiff from weeks of sweat as well. Alex knew the Special Forces teams would often stay in an area for up to three months, reconning the area, learning it. He was hoping their leader, Sergeant Killmer, would have some specific intel on how Petrov was operating in this area.
The 18-Delta combat corpsman, Nate Cunningham, a five-foot ten-inch, lanky sergeant from Montana, handed each of them metal cups with handles, filled with coffee.
“Welcome to our little piece of paradise,” he told them with a flash of a grin.
Lauren nodded and took her cup. “Thanks. You guys have all the important jungle hotel amenities one could wish for. I’m impressed.”
Alex thanked the corpsman. He sipped the coffee, watching Merrill expertly stirring the eggs with a stick. There were five thin aluminum plates sitting nearby. “Does Petrov know this place?” he asked Killmer.
Mace shook his head. “No, he doesn’t seem to. There’s an overlapping group of Quechua Indians who work for another Russian team to the south. The Indians know about this place. But, so far, based on all our recon from following Petrov and his team around, we think the Russians don’t have a clue about this encampment.”
“Hope it stays that way,” Merrill said, bringing the plates over to divide the scrambled eggs between the five of them.
