Taylor strode through the camp.

Yeah, like this doesn’t look weird. One American male looking for a teenage refugee girl. What could go wrong?

Still, he had a job to do, and while he hated leaving Angelica to what looked to be a monumental dressing down there wasn’t exactly anything he could do to help right now. If anything, his interference would only make things worse.

He paused outside the mess hall, figuring that at least there would be the greatest concentration of people to talk to, and pulled up a picture from his phone. It wasn’t a great shot, a slightly blurry screen grab from the video Angelica had sent him, but it was the best he had to work with. He’d captured her face just before the transformation—lips slightly parted, eyes wide. Thankfully she didn’t look like she was in agony so much as somewhat surprised. With her name, it at least gave him a starting point.

He started at the tables and worked his way out into the crowds that milled throughout the camp. It seemed boredom was the biggest threat within the camp, and people clustered in knots talking, passing the time. The camp itself was hot, set up close to the town, which was more on the plain than in the jungle itself. Here the sun beat down mercilessly on the tents, while in the distance a verdant haze of green gave hint to the jungle just out of reach.

It didn’t take him long to figure out that no one was talking. Most people simply shook their heads, some refused to look at all. It seemed that no one wanted trouble, and helping the American was something that smacked of it. Some went so far as to turn away deliberately when they saw him coming, and one toothless old man spat at his feet.

Yeah. Taylor Mann, Humanitarian of the Year.

He stopped to collect his thoughts. Anti-American, or was he just special? He watched as relief workers moved through the camp, all nationalities but a fair number of Americans. They were welcomed with smiles and laughter. Just him, then.

Interesting.

He turned in a slow circle, this time hunting for something different. Someone was warning the people not to speak to him. Someone had it in for him. But he didn’t spot anything suspicious. Only an old woman who had been glaring at him as he made his rounds. He’d already tried questioning her once, when she’d been on her cot, but she’d just rolled over onto her other side and ignored him. She was staring at him now from the doorway of her tent, eyes hard and unforgiving. Angry.

Following him.

Taylor pursed his lips and tapped the phone, as though trying to figure out what to start on next while he thought this through.

He was standing by a door that led from the encampment to the administrative office. The clinic and Angelica were on the other side of the admin building. Correction: presumably Angelica was still in the clinic. It was just as likely that the old grouch she worked for had her summarily removed and flown back to the States. Medicine wasn’t his specialty by any means, but it seemed that a doctor who examined someone else’s patient without asking or having a damn good reason was, to say the least, unethical. And from the way she’d spoken about Dr. Manchester earlier there was some history there, something that she hadn’t told him yet.

Add to that the fact that the head of this little clinic had not only interfered in Angelica’s care of her patient, but had had gone so far as to release the patient, again without consulting or asking Angelica. It was no wonder her back was up. It was an executive decision and well within the doctor’s rights, he was sure, but it was unethical. And while he might be wrong, he had the feeling that choices like that were done on very rare occasion, and only as a last resort. Do that too many times and a hospital administrator will find that he can’t get good doctors to work for him.

And how many times could someone conceivably do that? In Angelica’s case? Once.

Taylor had never seen her that mad. Despite the life and death struggles they had shared in the Amazon, this was an extreme reaction. So, put it together. If a doctor who works at a Meadowlark Foundation Clinic, someone who works charity in a difficult situation, is willing to risk alienating a good doctor, someone incredibly difficult to find and harder to keep... he had to have a good reason.

At least to him.

This begged the question, what was so vitally important about a 14-year-old refugee girl that Dr. Manchester would risk an irreplaceable doctor? Taylor had to leave room for the possibility that he was just that arrogant. It was his experience that the medical profession attracted the arrogant. It had to be a heady feeling to deny death another victim, to bring people back from the dead, to stretch their lives out further and further. Someday they would take what passed for ancient and make it so youthful again that life would seem to never end. Such abilities lent themselves to the kind of person who not only thought he could play God, but do it better.

Maybe that didn’t say much for the woman he loved. She, too, was drawn to the profession, egged on by the idea of helping others. Yet Angelica showed no signs of arrogance. And if anyone had a right to, it would be her. She’d put herself through school by working summers, scrimping and saving every penny, living in her parents’ basement. And winning beauty contests.

He would have liked to see that. In a day and age where beauty pageants had become something demeaning, Angelica had seen it as a way to fund her education. If that meant smiling and walking around in high-heels and swimsuit, then the joke was on them. He had no doubt she’d done it damn well, the way she took on every challenge.

She’d told him that the contest was one of the more ridiculous wastes of time she’d ever done, but it had paid for a full year of medical school, and for that it was well worth it. Taylor leaned on the side of the building and shook his head slowly. Angelica was like no one he’d ever met before. As a doctor she was dedicated to life and living, but she wasn’t squeamish. She’d even tried to heal the ones who had kidnapped and tried to kill her. But when Taylor had to open fire to save her life and the lives of others she didn’t hesitate, even when he blew up the mansion.

“You, American,” a gruff voice called from behind him.

“If you’re going to sneak up on someone,” Taylor advised the man, “you can start by taking those keys off your belt. That’s like putting a bell on a bull.”

“You mean a bell on a cat, n'est-ce pas?” The soldier smiled. “Bulls are not quiet. Even without bells.”

“I stand by my statement,” Taylor said, dropping his phone into his pocket, next to Angelica’s.

The soldier snorted and smiled. It wasn’t a warm, friendly sort of smile. “The lieutenant wants to see you.” He gestured with his rifle, indicating the direction he wanted Taylor to go.

Taylor smiled and faced the smaller man. It was a cheap trick, something that backyard bullies did to smaller children. But because of that it was an effective way to take another man’s measure. Taylor puffed up and stared the other man in the eyes and crossed his arms, giving his best imitation of a boulder. Unmovable.

“What if I don’t want to see him?” he growled.

The soldier’s eyes lit up and the smile was genuine this time. “That would make me very happy,” he said, his finger flirting with the trigger.

Taylor’s smile was genuine, too. In that moment he assessed the man’s abilities and attitudes, and figured out the possibilities of success in a fight. It would be close. Taylor had rapid healing on his side, that would probably be the biggest factor in any success, but the man was trained and experienced.

“Tell me something,” Taylor said, not relaxing his stance one whit. “Why is someone like you stuck in a refugee camp?”

“Someone like me?”

“Competent,” Taylor said, giving respect where it was due. “Able. A posting like this is for someone useless anywhere else, like that lieutenant of yours. You’ve got old men here, bulging guts and half drunk on half truths about their better days, but you... you’re good. You’ve seen combat and you’re too valuable to be wasting away down in tent city, trying to keep hungry children from stealing an extra slice of bread.” Taylor watched the man’s expression shift, and nodded. “I hit a nerve, didn’t I?” He looked down at the rifle in the man’s hands. “Fine. Take me to your leader.”

“The lieutenant is inside,” the soldier said, stepping away from the door.

Taylor noted his response, the grudging respect, the curious eyes that assessed him, trying to figure him out. “All right,” he said quietly, dropping his arms and walking toward the indicated door. “I’ll go see him.” He opened the door and turned, his hand still on the door and in plain sight. “But then, I want you to take me to your leader. The real one.”

The soldier’s face never broke the careful, still expression, never moved so much as a muscle. It was a blank slate carved from onyx. But there was a change, a subtle alteration of some muscle that told Taylor he’d gotten through. Taylor nodded, satisfied, and walked into the building.

***

“I HEAR THAT YOU HAVE learned a local word. Charra, I believe it was,” Lieutenant Durand said by way of a greeting when Taylor was walked in through the door. “Care to tell me who you’re looking for?”

“A patient who was discharged too early.” Taylor made no move to sit down but stood, arms crossed in much the same position that he’d taken with the man outside. “I’m helping my fiancée find her, to be sure she’s safe.”

“And who told you that she was discharged too soon? Are you a doctor?”

“No.” Taylor looked at the young man and said slowly, so that even he could understand, “My fiancée told me, and she is a doctor. In fact, she’s Charra’s doctor.”

“I see.” Durand perched at the end of his desk and crossed his arms. If he was meant to look powerful and intimidating, he was failing miserably. His large girth only gave the entire posture a sense of ridiculousness, a beach ball about to hit the floor. He seemed not to notice, his expression indicating that he was a cat about to pounce on Taylor’s mouse. “Tell me something, where are your weapons?”

Taylor’s look was one of pure innocence. “What weapons?”

“Americans do not drop their spies into foreign countries without arms. It’s what your country is known for. Where are they?”

“Your country is known for elephants, but I haven’t seen one since I got here,” Taylor countered. “And I’m no spy. You searched me. You searched my bag. I don’t have weapons. As I told you, I’m a reporter. Nothing more.”

“A reporter without a camera?”

Taylor shrugged. “I do print news. Stuff to be read. I’m not a photographer. When I’m working, one travels with me. Right now, I’m not working. I’m only here to visit my fiancée.” Odd how the word rolled off his tongue. Admittedly he’d been a bit surprised when she’d used it, but as a cover it worked well and wasn’t exactly distasteful to use. In fact, the idea of holding her to him in such a way had something of an appeal.

Mate, something primitive within him growled with deep satisfaction.

“Give me your phone,” the lieutenant demanded suddenly, holding out his hand.

Taylor stared at it, one eyebrow raised. “No.”

“What?”

“I said no.”

Durand was on his feet. He came up to Taylor’s chin, though he didn’t seem to realize the incongruity of their relative sizes. His face purpled, a single finger rising to just beneath Taylor’s nose. “I can have you arrested!”

“Try it. And I’ll you thrown into a worse assignment than this. If that girl dies, I’ll be sure to mention you by name as culpable in the death of a teenage refugee. And she’s pretty, too.” Taylor was bluffing, but he was pretty sure this guy didn’t know her either. “You have any idea what will happen when that goes viral? Your government will need someone to blame it on,” Taylor said, cocking his head to one side to regard Durand thoughtfully. “Someone expendable.”

The lieutenant took a full step backwards, smoothing his shirt, straightening his tie with hands that didn’t seem quite so steady as they had been. “I don’t take well to threats,” he snarled at Taylor, his body half turned away, careful not to look at him.

“You should,” Taylor said, his voice heavy with disgust he no longer cared to disguise. “You’re in charge. You’re going to get them a lot, and from all sides. They put you here because, if something bad happens, they can wash their hands entirely and nothing sticks to them. Just you.”

“We’re here on a humanitarian mission,” the man said, suddenly seeming impossibly young. Just how old was he? “We are here to keep the peace and to help people. All people.” He turned to the soldier who had escorted Taylor into the office and had been studiously ignoring the conversation up to this point. “Sergeant, help our friend here find this Charra. Dismissed.”

Taylor bowed to the lieutenant and turned on one heel. He was almost down the hall and back out the door he’d come in through before he spoke to the soldier. “I bet you’re good at poker, aren’t you?”

“Poker?” the man asked without batting an eye. “Never heard of it. Some kind of game?”

Taylor grinned. “You’re that good? Tempting.” He stopped outside at the same spot he’d been leaning against before he’d been called into this whole useless meeting. “He’s an idiot; you know that, right?” Taylor asked, thumbing the building and indicating the boy/man inside.

“It’s no secret,” the soldier said with a shrug. “Come, we find this girl.”

“I think...” Taylor said, eyeing the man who matched him inch for inch in height, his gaze lingering on the gun slung over his shoulder. “I might do better on my own. You might scare her away.”

The sergeant looked at him and grinned. “And you look so friendly?”

“I at least want to find her.”

“Good point,” the man agreed with a nod, and turned on one heel and disappeared into the camp. The crowds swallowed him within moments, and Taylor stood for a long minute wondering just whose side that particular man was on.

I can’t even tell who the enemy is anymore. What the hell is going on around here?