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Mike and Henri took two of Hali’s men and set out on foot. There was absolutely no way he would consider leaving her behind. On top of everything, she was the best damned shot he’d ever seen. Still, since the commando-on-steroids back there had made it clear he wanted a piece of Henri’s arse, Mike was even more convinced that she should have gone back to ICE. The problem was he had no way to send her there now.

“You know I can take care of myself,” she said as if she could read his mind.

“Aye.” Except not even an ace with a gun could fend off an army.

“Then why are you walking like you have barbed wire up your ass?”

He increased the pace. “You might have been able to take out a mob of amateur guerrillas, but what would have happened if those guerrillas had been an organized group of radicals? What would have happened if they’d killed everyone but you?”

“I would have been in deep shit.”

“You would have been raped a dozen times or more and sold into slavery.”

“So, that’s why you’re pissed? Haven’t you worked with women in the field before?”

Mike had and he’d never liked it. For some reason he liked it even less now. Sure, she was unbeatable with a rifle in her hands, she could even give him a good run in the sparring ring, but she was still a goddamned female.

“Well?” she pushed.

“Aye, I’ve worked with women.”

“All right then. You cover my back and I’ll cover yours. That’s how it rolls,” she said as if she’d solved all their problems.

If only it were that easy. Plenty of soldiers had walked into ambushes they hadn’t seen coming. Anderson might have keen vison, but she didn’t have ESP. Before they marched into an ambush, they needed to spot the culprits first or else they were dead. God knew he wouldn’t be able to protect the lass if he ended up shot in the head.

It didn’t surprise him when she held up her hand and whispered, “Whoa.”

Even after blinking, Mike couldn’t see anything. But the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Gut instincts trumped vision every time. Ahead, the road ran through a gorge with cliffs on either side. A perfect spot for an attack.

She motioned for them to lay low and move behind the scrub. Hali’s two men didn’t say a word, but they understood Henri’s sign language and hid.

“Did you see something?” Mike asked, pulling her behind the brambles.

Thrusting her finger toward the gorge, she gave a sharp nod. “There are shooters up on the cliffs on each side of the road about a mile up.”

“You saw them?”

“Movement caught my attention first. As soon as I made out one guy, the others just appeared to me. I saw two on the north side and two across on the south.”

“So, the Soaring-Eagle moniker has a deeper meaning?”

“It’s not a moniker.”

“Right-o.” Mike nodded his head in the direction of the gorge. “If you saw them, they most likely spotted us.”

“Maybe. If they have scopes trained on the road.” She pointed to her eyes. “Twenty/seven vision. Best ever recorded in a human.”

“All right then, let’s assume they spotted us—or at least saw movement. They’ll be watching more closely now.”

She nodded.

Mike motioned for the other men to gather in. Hali had picked the pair because they understood a little English. After he explained his plan, they set out through the brush, making a northern arc which enabled them to creep up on the rear of the group on the north side. It was a tougher climb, but the peak was higher on that side which would give them a ground advantage. Mike’s seventh rule of war? Never take the easy path. The unexpected route might be grueling and take longer, but the commander who adheres to this rule will be rewarded.

It took an hour to cross the distance and climb up. In the lead, Mike crested the hill first and held up his fist, indicating for the team to stop. The sun had set, but he could still see the ambushers. He crouched down—it looked like the same four guys Henri described as seeing from the road. The perps on the far side were sitting with their legs dangling over the edge of the cliff, though AKs hung from their harnesses. A snap of a twig and those assholes would be up on their feet, chucking bullets.

“You see ’em?” Henri whispered from behind.

He slipped down far enough to hide his head behind the crag and pointed downward, catching the eye of Hali’s two men.

Henri pulled back the bolt of her M4. “Cover me. I’ll take care of them.”

She started off, but Mike grabbed her arm. “Just a minute. I dunna want you in harm’s way.”

She practically blew snot out of her nose. “Yeah, right. Come on, Rambo. I’m hungry and I want dinner ASAP.”

Mike motioned to the guys. “Cover us.”

They nodded their understanding. Together, they climbed on their bellies until they were peeking over the top of the crag.

Laying on her stomach, Henri moved her rifle to her shoulder and snapped off the safety. “You ready?”

“You need a scope?” he asked.

“It would be nice, but not necessary from this distance.” She glanced at him over the black butt of the gun. “I’ll pick off each from nearest to furthest. I need you and the men to provide a smoke screen. Keep firing to keep them guessing.”

“Roger that. Wait here.” He slid over to the men and relayed the plan, then resumed his spot at Henri’s six.

“Three, two, one,” she counted down with the concentration of a microsurgeon.

As soon as she fired the first bullet, Mike unloaded a spray of fire across the crag. He couldn’t hear much above his rifle, but he sensed everything. Henri immediately took out perp one, adjusted and hit two, then three, then four. It was over in less than six seconds.

Mike let up on the trigger. Henri continued working, her cheek glued to the M4’s butt as she scanned the scene for strays.

“Nice shooting,” he said.

“Thanks.” She stood and shouldered her weapon. “Now, where’s my dinner?”

He couldn’t help his chuckle even if he was still aggro—pissed as she liked to call being bloody mad. But she sure proved her worth in a combat situation—and with flair. How in God’s name a sniper could look so sexy, Mike had no clue. But there she stood. Proud. Self-assured. And as gorgeous as a whisky sunset.

***

It was midnight before Hali dropped Mike and Henri off at a guesthouse just outside of Arusha. A half-asleep woman showed them to a dingy room at the back of a weatherboard house. She dropped a key in Mike’s palm. “Toilet out the back.”

Henri closed the door and gave the room the once-over. There was a double bed and a side table and that was it. She’d endured rougher accommodations, so she kept her mouth shut. The problem? She was still hungry. They had a measly bag of potato chips, a bag of peanuts and a fifth of whisky that had been hidden in the Land Rover with the guns. “I’m going to starve to death.”

Mike held up the bottle. “This ought to take your mind off your stomach.”

She grabbed the bag of chips and opened them. “No drinking on an empty stomach. Neither of us can afford to have a hangover in the morning.”

He plopped down on the bed with his back against the wall like it was no big deal they were in a shoebox with a double bed hardly wide enough for two adults. “Who said anything about a hangover?”

Henri moved to the end of the bed, sizing up the floor—chipped linoleum, not terribly clean. If given the choice, she’d rather sleep under the stars than on that floor. She bit into a chip and arched an eyebrow at Mike. It was either the bed or the floor and, after the overseas flight from France where she hadn’t slept, she was exhausted. Reluctantly, she slid beside him and stuffed a few chips in her mouth. “So, Scottish tough guys don’t need sustenance?”

“I didna say that.” He reached in the bag and pulled out a handful. “We’ll have a good breakfast but, until then, these will have to suffice.”

Henri took the bottle from him and washed her bite down with a swig of whisky. It burned going down and sloshed in her empty stomach. Squinting, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Pass over the peanuts. At least they have some protein.”

Mike leaned in with the bag and the mattress dipped, making them roll against each other.

Henri shoved him back. “That’s a little too close there, soldier.” She was sticking to her no kissing rule if it killed her.

He snatched the bottle with a smirk. “Then I need a wee bit more of this sleeping potion.”

“Oh?”

He held it up in toast. “Else I might be inclined to ravage you, m’lady,” he said with a rolling Scottish burr, sounding lazy and rough as if the potion had already started to kick in.

Unfortunately, the rumble of Mike’s voice made an arrow of liquid heat spread through Henri’s limbs and didn’t end there. Intense desire coiled between her legs. The swig of whisky didn’t help. It made her head swim with a melty all over feeling.

She pushed against her eyes. Would you stop? It had taken a will of iron to pull away from their last kiss. She absolutely must not allow the brawny Scot to affect her.

Damn.

If only there was a curtain or a partition or something between them.

She glanced from wall to wall while every hormone in her body sizzled. This night was going to be even more torturous than she thought. Even if the guesthouse had an extra room, it would ruin their cover to sleep apart. The only solution? Find out what ISIS was doing in Tanzania as soon as possible. She’d just have to hang tough for a couple of days and then they’d be out of there and, hopefully, assigned to separate missions.

While she stuffed her face with peanuts, Henri tried to lean away from Mike. But the more she fought it, the more the mattress curled toward the center making her leg grind against his. Giving up, she reached for the whisky and took a couple of healthy swigs.

“What was that you said about a hangover?” he asked.

She handed it back. “Shut up.”

“No more bloody kissing, remember?” He chucked as he took a drink then swiped his hand across his mouth. “Och, lass. That which doesna kill us makes us stronger.”