Chapter Twenty-Three
He hadn’t had anyone’s hand but his own on his cock in so long, the erotic pleasure of her grip would be his end if he didn’t stop her. He grabbed her wrist. “The fucking will have to wait if you keep doing that.”
“I can wait.” Her gaze dropped greedily back to his cock and she licked her lips. “I want to make you orgasm.”
Who was he to argue? he thought, half delirious, as she dropped to her knees in front of him. She opened those sensual lips and took him all the way in to the back of her throat. Then she hummed. He gasped as heat zinged up his spine and his knees actually shook. He had to thread his fingers into her hair to hold himself steady while she sucked and hummed and teased his tip with her tongue.
Mon Dieu.
He’d had hundreds of blowjobs in his life, and none had ever sent his heart skittering or made his hands and knees quake.
This was Claire working her magic on him. Ruining him. He wondered if he’d ever be satisfied having another woman’s mouth on him after this. Would he ever again be able to walk into a bar, pick a random woman, and take her back to the bathroom or a dark booth for some sexy fun?
He stared down at Claire, her eyes closed in a kind of bliss, her cheeks hollowing out with each dragging suck on his cock, and something soft and warm unfurled in his chest. He cupped her cheek and her eyes flipped open, raised to meet his gaze. She all but sparkled. She loved this, loved having him in her mouth, loved making him crazy.
No, he realized as he surged toward release, there wouldn’t be any more random women after this. There couldn’t be, plain and simple.
There was just Claire. Only Claire.
He was so lost in her, so wrapped up in the way she made him feel, he didn’t notice the series of loud pops in the distance until the screams followed. Only then did he register what those pops had been.
Claire released him and bolted to her feet. “What was that?”
Annnd climax thwarted.
“Sounded like gunshots.” He tucked his still-hard cock back into his pants before crossing to the door. A quick peek out showed him exactly what he feared. A group of heavily armed masked men had run their boats to shore and were now fanning out across the hospital grounds, shooting their weapons into the air as an intimidation tactic.
The Egbesu Fighters.
Putain. He’d worried they would eventually come looking for him once they discovered his escape, but he’d hoped to be long gone with Claire before they showed.
One of the men, the apparent ringleader, had a megaphone. It screeched when he turned it on. “We are the Egbesu Fighters!”
The declaration roused a rowdy whoop from his men.
“It is not bad enough you white devils come here and poison our lands. Now you poison our people. We are here to say enough. You killed my men when you stole our prisoner, but we will be more considerate. Surrender and we will spare your lives.” As he repeated the statement in the local language, a small group of people from the hospital marched out to meet the militants.
Sunday was in the lead. “This is a hospital,” she said, her tone like a mother scolding a naughty child. Not exactly the best tone to take with a murderous terror group. “The people here are very sick, and we’re trying to help! This is a highly infectious virus. You need to leave now before you become sick as well.”
“Lies! You did this to our people!” A bunch of weapons came up at the same time and zeroed in on Sunday and her group of suicidal do-gooders.
“Surrender and we will not kill you,” the leader said again into his megaphone.
Jean-Luc cursed under his breath.
“What’s happening?” Claire asked.
He stepped back, trying to use his body to block her view, but she ducked under his arm. “Oh my God. Sunda—”
He clamped a hand over her mouth and drew her back inside the tent. “Shh,” he whispered against her ear. “Don’t draw attention to us.”
Claire broke free of his hold. “But what is she doing?”
“Looks like she’s trying to talk them down.”
“That’s crazy! We have to—” Several weapons fired at the same time, and all of the color dropped out of her complexion. She lurched for the door. He caught her, but not before they both got a glimpse of the dark shapes on the ground where Sunday and the others once stood.
“Search the tents,” the leader said. Not on the megaphone this time, but his voice carried in the stunned silence. “Bring me everyone you find.”
Claire muffled a sob against her hand and turned away from the door. “It’s Martinique all over again.”
No. Fuck, no, it wasn’t. He wouldn’t let it be. Nobody had won in Martinique, and he’d be damned before he let that scenario play out a second time. He turned her toward her bed. “Pack fast. Essentials only, plus Akeso and your research.” He edged to the door again and used one finger to pull the flap back enough to peek out. Of course his tent—with all of his weapons—was clear across the field of hostiles. He was a damn coullion for not arming himself after his shower earlier. Now he was shit out of luck. He needed those weapons if they had any shot of getting out alive.
At least a little bit of luck was with them. The militants had started down a different row of tents, buying them precious minutes.
Claire came up behind him, sliding a backpack on her shoulders and carrying the cooler containing Akeso. He pressed a finger to his lips, then indicated she should follow him. She nodded, but she looked terrified. He took a second to lean down and kiss her lightly on the mouth.
“It’ll be okay,” he whispered.
Again, she nodded and straightened her shoulders. “I’m ready.”
That was his girl. As brave as she was intelligent.
He checked the door again. Immediate surroundings were clear. He told Claire to stay put with a hand gesture, then slipped out along the shadows between tents to get a look at what was going on behind them.
Chaos. Hostages sobbing as the militants ransacked each tent. The militants weren’t sparing any lives as promised. They dragged people out into the rain, put them on their knees in the mud, and shot them execution-style.
“This is murder,” Claire whispered behind him.
Jean-Luc didn’t jump, but his blood pressure definitely spiked. He shoved her back into the shadows and wasn’t gentle about it. “I told you to stay put,” he hissed by her ear.
“I couldn’t,” she shot back in a furious whisper. “They were in the tent next door.”
As if on cue, two shots sounded from behind them—more executions—and then the tent wall shook as the militants invaded Claire’s space.
Jean-Luc pressed a finger to his lips and indicated for her to crouch down. The tents were close enough together and it was dark enough now that they shouldn’t be seen unless the militants physically searched between each of the tents.
He listened to the militants ransack Claire’s things, waited until they moved on to the next tent. Claire tried to stand, but he put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her down again. At her confused look, he signaled to stay put.
Together, they waited. Listened. Crouched there for so long, Jean-Luc’s leg muscles started to protest. He wasn’t in optimal physical condition anymore. The virus had drained too much out of him.
Once the militants finished with the tent next door and continued on, he took a look around. Clear, except for the fresh bodies. The fastest way out of here was to take one of the boats, and luckily his tent was on the way. He had no clue where Marcus was when the attack started, but if he knew the guy—and he did—Marcus would’ve gone straight to the boats to hold their escape route open. Hopefully with Jean-Luc’s weapons in tow.
He grasped Claire’s hand. “Run for the boats.”
She tugged him back. “Wait. The hospital!”
Several of the militants had started toward the white hospital tents. They were going to infect themselves and everyone they came into contact with. With all the new, fresh meat, the virus would flare to life. One or more of the militants would run home sick and the whole hopeless cycle would start again somewhere else. “We can’t help them.”
“But Ebiere is in there.”
“Claire, she’s a kid. They won’t kill her, but—”
“No, you’re not listening. The survivors are the key to a treatment. Akeso won’t be ready in time to help if someone plans to release this bioweapon, and vaccines can take years to develop. We need the antibodies in Ebiere’s blood.”
He swore long and hard. He got her point now but resented the hell out of the whole situation. Last thing he wanted was to put Claire in danger but leaving those survivors to the militants put the world in danger. He looked longingly in the direction of the boats. Getting to Marcus before going to rescue Ebiere would take too much time. He had to go now and count on his teammate to keep their exfil route open.
He ducked them back into the shadows between the tents and checked on the location of the militants who had searched Claire’s quarters. They’d made their way to the end of the row and continued down the next. Hoping they wouldn’t double back through the tents they’d already cleared, he pulled Claire back inside hers. It was already fairly dark inside, and only getting darker, but he couldn’t risk a light. He found a pen and paper among her belongings and slapped them down on a table.
“Sketch the hospital layout for me.” Although he’d spent a lot of time inside the place, his memory was patchwork at best. “What area do I avoid and where will I find Ebiere?”
She nodded and sketched rectangles of various sizes, arranged three in a row, which she connected with lines indicating corridors. “This is the main entrance. It’s administration, triage.” She pointed at the first medium-sized rectangle. Then to each of the smaller rectangles beside it. “These are storage, water supply and purification, and the generators for power. The next row back is the x-ray, lab and pharmacy, and surgical unit—”
He stopped her. “Surgical. Where are the scalpels stored?” He could do a lot of damage with a scalpel.
She flinched at the sound of more gunshots outside. “Uh, I-I don’t know. I’m not a surgeon.”
He waved that away. “I’ll find them. What’s next?”
She looked at her drawing, then indicated the next row of rectangles. “The patient personal hygiene units—toilets, showers, etc., and patient dining “
“Yeah, I remember my way around there.”
“Okay, good.” At the back of her drawing were the three largest rectangles. “These are the patient wards.” She pointed to them from left to right. “Cold zone, warm zone, hot zone. Cold zone is for virus-free patients. You won’t need any protective gear. Ebiere and the other survivors still have virus particles in their blood, and although we don’t think they are contagious any longer, they’re sequestered in the warm zone. You’ll want gloves and a mask to enter, and whatever you do, avoid the hot zone.” She put down the pen. “I should go with you.”
“No.” His tone left no room for augment, but of course she tried anyway.
“You were dying less than a week ago. You still have stitches in your arm—”
“Then remove them.”
She stared at him, stubborn and silent.
“I’m fine,” he told her. “I’ve done a lot more than this in far worse condition.”
She breathed out in a huff and turned away to grab her medical bag. Frustration made her movements stiff and she wasn’t gentle when she ripped off the bandage. She took some of his arm hair with the tape.
Ouch. His doctor had a temper. Given the circumstances, he shouldn’t find that so hot.
“Tell me how to avoid the hot zone,” he prompted.
All cool doctor again, she snipped away his stitches. “There’s a corridor that runs alongside the patient wards. It’s where we brought in sick patients. It’s sectioned off by airlocks and to get out, you’ll have to complete the decon process. The closer you get to the hot zone, the more airlocks.” She finished with the stitches and recovered the wound with a fresh waterproof bandage. “Just because the stitches are out doesn’t mean this isn’t still considered an open wound. Your skin is raw, and you could easily re-infect yourself through this. So please be careful.”
To his complete surprise, she leaned over and pressed her lips to the bandage. His heart clenched.
“Okay.” He breathed out, then grabbed her rudimentary map and folded it. “Okay, stay here and hide until I return. I don’t think they’ll come around again. We’re not dealing with combat-savvy men here.”
“Just desperate,” she whispered.
Something in her tone made him pause and turn back. “What?”
She shook her head slightly. “It’s something Dayo said right before we found you in the camp. The militants are desperate.” She stared up at him with naked fear. “Desperate people are the most dangerous kind.”
“Hey, cher.” He returned to her, took her face in his palms and kissed her gently. “We’ll get through this. Leave it to me.”