Bastian casually scooped up his M4 and headed toward the latrine. Just a guy taking a piss before getting laid.

While he knew deep down he’d fucked up in letting things go as far as they had with Brie, he also knew that the make-out session was probably the best cover they had. It had meant they were close together and he could whisper instructions. If they’d still been sparring, or if they’d been separated with one of them in the shower or hut, it might be over already. He’d be dead and she’d be taken.

Who would have thought that having her hands in his pants was the one thing that bought them enough time to save her life?

Thank God he’d had enough brain cells left to hear the stumbled step followed by the all-too-human grunt of pain.

Whoever was in the grassland, they were clumsy and poorly trained. Definitely not his Special Forces team.

Bypassing the latrine, Bastian reached the spot where he was sure the guy had taken cover after twisting his ankle. He pulled out his dick and pissed, aiming for where the guy was hunkered in the thick shrubs. His M4 casually pointed at the same spot, index finger on the trigger. He shook off and tucked himself away, smiling as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

There were at least two guys behind him, inching forward, but they were less likely to strike with his gun trained on their buddy. But he couldn’t play this game for long before they would go for Brie in the hut.

He had no worries about her ability to shoot attackers. After her experience in the market, he didn’t doubt her resolve. But still, he needed to take out these guys before they got to her. He’d fucked up in letting them get this close.

The man he’d pissed on shifted, lifting his gun, and Bastian fired. A clean shot that hit center mass. The guy slumped back, his gun still in a tight grip.

Not dead.

The crunch of a step behind him. Fuck.

He fired again at the man who was already bleeding out. Head shot. Bastian spun around without waiting to watch the gun fall from the guy’s hand.

Two men, one black, one white, advanced on him from a hundred feet away. A third man stood in the doorway of the hut.

Bastian fired at the man going after Brie first. Before he could get off another shot, he was hit from behind, a blunt object across his temple.

The world swam as he tried to stay on his feet. Fuck. There’d been another guy in the shrubs.

“Don’t kill him,” one man said in Arabic. “We need him alive to parade before the cameras.”

He elbowed the guy behind him in the throat as he raised his gun. His vision was blurry, giving him twice as many targets. He squeezed the trigger.

Another blow to the head came. As if a switch had been flipped, his vision turned black.

Brie held her breath against a scream after hearing the first gunshot.

Please let it be Bastian who fired the shot.

Pinprick holes in the old tarp showed a body blocking the sunlight of the doorway. A second, then third shot followed. The body dropped, replaced by unobstructed light.

Bastian must’ve shot him.

She stayed hidden, praying her shaking with fear wouldn’t reveal her location.

Words in Arabic were followed by a fourth shot. They want Bastian alive?

Did they want to use him to prove the US was running ops in South Sudan? Was he to be beaten and put on the news as proof of US treachery?

“The girl is more important than the soldier,” a second man said. Again, light from the doorway was blocked by a body. “Come out, Princess,” he said in English. “We know you’re in here.”

Princess?

Who were these men? They’d spoken in Arabic to each other. Were they from Kemet Oil?

The man entered the hut and looked like he was scanning for hiding places. Bastian’s pack and some blankets were piled up and big enough to hide her, distracting him for a moment, and then there were all the tarps on the floor.

She waited until he was above her before she pulled the trigger. Even her wildly shaking hands couldn’t miss that target.

Through the holes in the tarp, she could see she’d hit him in the forehead. He dropped on top of her, trapping her under the sheet, suffocating her with his weight.

She shoved at him, trying not to panic and scream—and failing.

Another man entered the hut and cursed, probably when he saw his dead associate. She worked her gun hand free, thankful she’d taped it to her, or she’d have dropped it once the body fell on her.

Bastian had warned her the first pull was harder—it acted as the safety—but now it took only the softest squeeze of her finger and the second man also dropped, landing at her feet.

Untrained as she was, the recoil required a two-handed grip, but with the tape, again she held on to the pistol.

How many men were there? Would she just lie here and wait for them, one by one?

She couldn’t do that. Not when Bastian must’ve been injured—no way would he have allowed these men past him.

He could be dying. He could be dead.

A sob burst forth.

No.

She refused to believe that. To even think it. He needed her, just as she’d needed him in the market. It was her chance to return the favor.

She pulled the tarp from her face and kicked at the man at her feet. Her ankle screamed in protest, but she sucked in a deep breath and kicked again as she shoved the first man to the side as far as she could in the tight hole.

She kept her gaze on the door as she wriggled out from under the remainder of his weight. Freed at last, she approached the doorway cautiously.

“Come out, Princess Prime, or your boyfriend is dead.” Again the words were English. They probably didn’t know she spoke some Arabic, which meant she’d never come into contact with them through USAID.

But then, he’d just called her Princess Prime, so the men were connected to her past, not her present.

“Prove he’s still alive,” she said in a choked voice.

“He’s unconscious,” the man said.

“What do you want?”

“What we’ve always wanted. You. My boss was unhappy when he didn’t get you in the market. And he was livid when he learned an American soldier had you; that the greedy trader sold you before we got there. Now, come out, or I’ll slit the soldier’s throat.”

She didn’t have a choice. She couldn’t let Bastian die, not when she could save him.

They wanted her alive. She’d suffer, but she wouldn’t be killed. At least, not right away.

“If you hurt Bastian, I’ll shoot you like I did your partners.”

She glanced toward the two men. The one she’d shot in the head was definitely dead. The other man? She couldn’t be certain. She thought she’d hit him in the chest. He could be dead, or could be biding his time. She’d have to turn her back on him to leave the hut.

She raised the gun-taped hand and stepped over the body that blocked the doorway. Outside, she saw Bastian slack in the arms of a white man who held a knife to his throat. Bastian’s wide shoulders blocked the man’s chest, leaving only part of his face visible. A sharpshooter could take out the man without hurting Bastian, but Brie had never fired a gun until today.

“Drop your gun,” the man said. His accent held a hint of Russian.

“I can’t. It’s taped to my hand.” She made a show of trying to drop it, praying the tape would hold against her sweaty skin. With the hair trigger, she was liable to shoot herself if it dropped.

“Untape it.”

“I can’t. My finger is on the hair trigger. Slightest twitch and it might fire. Bring your knife here. Cut the tape.”

“How stupid do you think I am, Princess?”

“Are we talking IQ or street smarts?” She counted the bodies that littered the ground outside and in the hut. Four men had died for nothing. Not that she would mourn the loss of slavers and kidnappers. “Drop the knife,” she said, pointing her wildly shaking hand at the man.

He laughed, and she realized her mistake. It was obvious she couldn’t make the shot, not without risking Bastian.

Bastian could die, and it would be her fault.

She turned the gun toward her temple. At this close range, no matter how badly her hands shook, she’d make the shot. “You’ll never get paid if I die right here.”

“You wouldn’t do it.”

Her gaze hardened. This man had no idea what she was capable of. “I won’t be a sex slave. May as well end it now.”

All it would take was the slightest pressure from her finger, and the game was over. She could see it. Feel it. Embrace the end. At least it would be on her terms.

The man must’ve seen the truth in her eyes, because he shifted the knife away from Bastian’s neck. He still held it, but at least he wasn’t giving Bastian a shave.

Brie lowered the gun from her temple. She felt her heartbeat all the way to her fingertips and worried the thumping pulse would cause her to twitch and fire the gun.

She took slow, even breaths, trying to calm herself before a stray spasm killed her or someone else.

Killing two people was enough for one day.

“Now what, Princess?”

“Tell me how you found me. How do you even know who I am?”

The slackness of Bastian’s body scared her. She’d seen the slight rise of his chest. He was breathing. But that could change with a head injury, and from the blood on his temple, it was clear that was how he’d been incapacitated.

“We found you because the people in the nearest village decided they wanted to live more than they wanted to protect you.”

Oh God. Had they hurt anyone?

She didn’t bother to ask. She wouldn’t trust his answer anyway. “And how did you know who I am?”

“My boss has been looking for you for some time. Can’t say I blame him. I was one of thousands who jacked off to the cosmetics ads you did when you were thirteen. You were fuckable, even then.”

The gun in her hand fired into the dirt inches from the guy’s feet. She hadn’t meant to do it. She’d flinched at his words.

“Guess I hit a nerve.” The man laughed. “How I imagined shoving my cock into your mouth back then.” His gaze flicked down the length of her. “And you’re still skinny. I could close my eyes and pretend you’re still a nubile thirteen-year-old.”

She raised the gun. Her hand was steadied by rage. She shot the dirt near his feet again, this time intentionally.

He recoiled, and Bastian sprang to life. He thrust his head backward, head-butting the guy in the nose. In a flash, Bastian seized the knife and slit the man’s throat.

Brie watched in shock at Bastian’s speed and lethal action. She stood rooted to the spot, when a bang sounded and searing pain tore through her thigh.

She whirled even as her leg crumpled beneath her. Behind her was a sixth man with a rifle. She raised her gun hand and fired as she fell. Her shot went wide.

His rifle jammed, but he charged toward her. She kept firing in a panic, until the gun was empty. None of her shots came near him.

More shots sounded. Blood sprouted in the charging man’s chest. Another hit his throat. He dropped to the ground five feet in front of her.

She turned to look at Bastian, and was shocked to see he held only the bloody knife. He’d been going for his M4, but it was several feet away.

She scanned the trees as she clawed at the tape on her hand. She needed to get the empty gun off so she could stop the bleeding in her thigh. Pain threatened to drown out all other thoughts.

June, Abdo’s mother, stepped from behind a tree, sporting a rifle. Tears sprang to Brie’s eyes. June had fired the shots that saved her life.

Brie managed to break the tape and rid herself of the Sig, then she attempted to crawl to Bastian, but pain overwhelmed her.

June reached her side. “They came to our village.”

Brie gasped against the pain. “Did they hurt you? Is everyone okay?”

The woman nodded. “Kamal was hurt, but he will recover. We had to tell them where you are. I took Kamal’s gun and followed. I was only one against six. I couldn’t take them all.”

Bastian dropped to Brie’s other side, setting his pack down next to her. Blood dripped down his temple. “There were six men, total?” he asked as he pulled out his first aid kit.

“Yes. Six. I saw where they hid. Waited. Wanted to shoot the one before he hit you, but you were in the way.”

“You saved us both,” Bastian said. “Thank you.”

She spat toward the body lying by the hut opening. “These men are worse than the soldiers who steal and rape. From what they said, I think the black men worked for General Lawiri. I don’t know who the white man worked for.”

Bastian probed at Brie’s wound, and her vision dimmed. “Bullet’s still in there.”

“Can you remove it?” she asked.

“I’m not a medic. I’ve been trained, but…I’m sorry, Brie, but this is going to hurt like hell.”

“We have alcohol in our village,” June offered. “Just for this kind of thing.”

“No. No alcohol.” She gasped as Bastian hit a shattered nerve.

“It might help, Brie.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks from the intensity of the pain, but she couldn’t open that door. She knew herself. Knew her triggers. “No. I can’t.” She gripped his hand. “And Bastian—if we’re rescued, and medics take over, no opiates. Promise me. No opiates.”

He nodded and leaned down and kissed her. Blood from his temple dripped onto her cheek. “I promise.”

June took up Bastian’s M4 and acted as guard as Bastian performed the surgery in the middle of the abandoned village.

Fortunately for Brie, she passed out from the pain before the forceps grasped the bullet.

Oh dark thirty, and Bastian paced in front of the hut where Brie lay sleeping. He’d wanted to leave the village but had no way to move her that didn’t involve carrying her for miles, and still had hope his team would show up any time now. Abandoning the village at this point could be the biggest mistake he made during an op full of epic fuckups.

June had returned to her village to see to her family. He was alone as he paced in front of the hut, going over every minute of the last seven days in his mind as he tried to figure out what he could have done differently.

His brain was fuzzy. He was fairly certain he had a concussion, but there was nothing he could do about that.

Six men were dead. Hired help of an exiled general? He hoped to pass that theory on to Savvy, but right now he wobbled on his feet and his vision blurred. He was chilled to the bone on the hot night, and wanted to crawl into bed with Brie to get warm. He must have a fever.

Fuck. That wasn’t good.

The whirr of a helicopter sounded in the distance. He turned toward the noise and rocked on his feet at the sudden movement.

In spite of his disoriented mind, his hope lifted. He knew that sound. Stealth Blackhawk.

His team.

He stood his ground, in front of the hut, as the hawk passed overhead, kicking up mud and debris.

Next thing he knew, he was looking up into Goldberg’s face. He must’ve blacked out?

Goldberg was the team medic. Bastian cracked a smile. At least, he hoped it was a smile. “About time you got here.”

“Shit, Bas, you scared the hell out of us.” This from Cal, who also hovered above.

He turned to Goldberg. “Forget about me. Brie. Shot. Check on her.”

“Washington is taking care of her,” Goldberg said, referring to the team’s other medic.

Bastian gripped his arm. “Tell him, no opiates. She can’t have opiates.” Then he slipped into darkness.