Edge Of Truth

She winced.

“Guess I was dead anyway,” he said.

“Didn’t want to say it.”

A clink and a squeal—the door upstairs. Footsteps crossed the floor above. Dirt drifted down between the boards, lit by slits of weak light. One soldier, by the sound of it.

“I’m just pissed I’m going to die before I get this story out,” she added.

A grin tugged at his mouth. Smart, gutsy and hot. If he could have chosen one person to share his last days, it might well have been someone like her. As the room lightened she was looking paler and more fragile—but there was fire in her, for sure. He twitched with competing urges—to fold her into him and hide her from all this, and to tease that flame out of her in a far less honorable way. He stayed rigidly still.

Above, one bolt shot across, then another. She gripped the mattress, knuckles blanching.

“Tess, look...” he whispered, ignoring the burn in his ribs as he leaned closer. He stopped short of making it Tess Newell, as he’d heard hundreds of times on TV. Tess seemed incomplete. “Them kidnapping me buys you more time. Sounds like they plan to kill us together, and if your theory is true—”

“It is true.”

“—they’ll want to drum up anger about me in France first, right? That’s got to give us a few days.”

“You’re a real comfort,” she said flatly, but her knuckles returned to a normal color.

“I’ll find us a way out of this.”

She smiled, sadly—acknowledging his attempt at solace even if she didn’t believe it. Well, damn, he’d just have to prove her wrong.

The hatch yawned open. He tensed. Or he could be wrong about the whole time thing. One burst of fire down that hole...

A rope lowered, from the hands of a woman in gray camo gear and a hijab. Flynn shuffled in front of Tess but she exhaled, pushed to her feet and hobbled past him.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Trust me, we want to cooperate with this.” She grabbed a yellow bucket from the corner of the room and hooked it up.

“That what I think it is?”

“Hey, at least they change it twice a day. Otherwise I guess the smell would float up.”

“Real hospitable.”

The bucket rose and disappeared. Something fell. Before he could warn Tess, it clonked her on the head. Another bucket. Clean, at least.

“You okay?”

“Peachy,” she said, rubbing her head. She ducked as a brown plastic packet thunked onto the dirt, then another. She threw one to Flynn.

“An MRE?” he said.

The hatch dropped and was bolted.

“The finest field rations Denniston produces. They earn a dollar in profit from every meal, and they supply dozens of forces around the world—sometimes both sides in a conflict. And that’s only one of their contracts. They might not be making the bombs but they’re sure making the money—or they were. Most countries have a stockpile of these things now, so they’re not renewing their contracts.”

He ripped open the plastic, went straight for a brownie and bit in. Scam or not, he was as hungry as a wolf. She sat on the mattress and hugged her knees again, pulling her socks away from her toes. He got the idea she’d spent a lot of the week sitting like that. It’d sure suck to be alone down here. Hell, it sucked anyway, but it sucked a little less with her next to him.

“You not eating?” he mumbled.

“Later. Hard to drum up an appetite for something with a shelf life of three years.”

“Takes that long to go through your system.”

“I don’t want to know about your system.”

There was that unexpected smile again. He’d have to watch that smile—better yet, not watch it. He studied the packet, speaking through a mouthful of brownie. “This one expired two years ago.” He shoved the last of it in his mouth.

“So now you’re speaking with a French accent.”

“Am I?” he said, trying to sound offhand as he fished out a packet of crackers. “I don’t speak English much, so I’m all over the place.” That was true enough. French had become his official first language when he’d signed his life to the legion nearly a decade ago. The less of his old identity that remained, the better.

He felt her gaze as he crunched, the sound bouncing off the walls like shrapnel. He glugged from his water bottle.

“What are you hiding?” she said.

He choked, and the water splattered his jacket. “What?”

“I once did a story on the legion. It’s not a career path for well-adjusted kids from good families. They say everyone’s hiding or running—or both. So what’s your story?”

“No story. I wanted adventure.”

“Come on—we could be dead by dawn.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“I’m not taking notes. You could at least be civil—this could be the last conversation of your life. Between you and me, what are you hiding?”

Between him and her and her audience of millions? “Maybe I’m just an idealist.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Uh-huh.”

“What you said, about escaping—maybe it’s true of some of the foreigners. But for French officers it can be a quicker trip through the ranks, if you’re prepared to put up with a platoon of lunatics.” Again, not exactly a lie.

“And are they—lunatics?”

“Non,” he said. Watch yourself. “Most just need a job. Others want to earn a European passport. Sure, some are running, but they’re not serial killers.” He gulped. The words had slipped out. Dumbass. “They’re more likely to be escaping bitter ex-wives.”

“Ah. And do you have one of those?”

“No, thank God.”

“Where are you from?”