Edge Of Truth

“I told you—France,” he said, too quickly.

“You already said that. I meant, where in France?”

Damn. “Corsica, where my regiment is based.”

“Corsica, huh? That’s the...parachute regiment.”

Mate, she sure paid attention. Proceed with caution, soldier. “Oui, le 2E Régiment étranger de parachutistes.”

“The elite force—paratroopers, commandos.”

He shrugged. “My parachute training is about as useful down here as your notebook.”

“Do you spend much time at the French base at Djibouti—Monclar?”

“When I’m in town.”

“Maybe that’s why you look familiar—maybe I saw you there, when I was researching my legion piece. I watched a few training sessions.”

Yeah, that wasn’t why. “That’s it, then.” Let it go, lady. He scanned the ceiling. Enough chitchat. “Is that the routine here—bucket goes up, food comes down?”

“Twice a day—morning and evening.”

He stood, and ran his hand over the wooden planks that marked the ceiling, ignoring the sting in his ribs and his throbbing head. At one point the gap was wide enough for a few fingers. He scanned the ceiling, then the hatch, then the room.

“Looking for something?” she said.

“Hooks, nails, staples, bolts. Anything that could attach to the wood up here.”

“It’s all rocks and dirt. You have an idea?”

“I’ll tell you if it works. What’s above us?”

“Some storage bunker, I think.”

“Empty?”

“Mostly.”

“Number of guards?”

“They come and go, usually in pairs. They might beef up patrols now—I don’t think I was much of a threat.”

You are to me, sunshine. “When they bring the evening rations and do the bucket thing, does one person do it, like then?”

Her gaze shot to a corner of the room, thinking. “Yeah.”

“Is it light or dark outside?”

“Dark—right after sunset, I think. They don’t seem to have electricity in this building—this is as floodlit as it gets.”

That presented possibilities. Maybe if he could create some leverage... “Give me a look at your bag.”

She chucked it over. “You planning to bust us out with tweezers and diarrhea pills?”

“Beats waiting for the execution.”

CHAPTER 3 (#ufeb3a2a7-b9b2-5ca6-b5fc-c04c535bd1d9)

Tess watched the soldier palpate gaps in the ceiling. His brain better be as honed as his body, because she sure wasn’t seeing a way out.

Damn straight he was a pretty boy—or would have been, once. Caramel-colored hair blended with his tan, and his grim expression made his cheekbones look sculpted, his defined lips determined and his jaw even squarer. His narrowed eyes were pale—blue or maybe green. And still his face nagged at her memory, like meeting a guy you hadn’t seen since junior high and searching his features for the boy you remembered.

But the stubble, the crooked nose, the lines dug out between his eyes, the sun-worn skin... He was rough and a little frayed, too. And there’d been nothing delicate about the solid body pressed against hers last night. Just the thought... Whoa.

Hell, she didn’t even know the name of the guy who’d lulled her into her first proper, blessed sleep in nearly a week. Evidently it’d once been stenciled on his chest pocket but only a few faded strokes remained. An F? Or an E?

“What’s your name, soldier?”

A pause. “Flynn.”

“That doesn’t sound very French.”

He tugged at a board, acting like he hadn’t heard. It shifted, and dirt showered him. He was hiding something, for sure. Debts? Petty crimes? Recruits to the legion could change their names—was it the same for native officers, if he even was French? His French accent sounded kosher but she’d have sworn his Australian accent was authentic, too. Beaut, he’d said last night. Did anyone but Australians say that? Wouldn’t his native language be more likely to slip out in a drugged daze? And he’d said bloody hell—the French didn’t say that. Any minute, the neurons would connect, telling her where she knew him from. Something told her it wasn’t her visit to the French base—it went further into the past, to somewhere unexpected, somewhere dark. Damn, that was annoying. When she’d taken her first good look at his face, a frisson of danger had crawled up her spine—her subconscious issuing a warning? Why?

“Flynn who?”

“Does it matter?” His gaze was locked on the ceiling.

Well, hey, if he was a mystery, he was a welcome one. She froze. Unless he’d been planted down here to extract information. Crap. Al-Thawra had a rainbow of nationalities. Was he pretending to be a French soldier to earn her trust? That could explain the erratic accent and her usually reliable instinct pricking up.

Maybe Hamid was still trying to figure out if Tess had a copy of her dossier—using a carrot this time, rather than a pair of pliers? Tess chewed her lip. She’d know from the emails, as carefully worded as they were, that Tess hadn’t had a chance to get the evidence to Quan in Addis Ababa, and she hadn’t risked storing it online. Thank God caution had stopped her short of mentioning the backup of the dossier to Flynn—if that was his name. Could he be here to stage a bust-out so she’d lead him to it?

No. She was going loco. Too much time alone, locked in her head. If he got her above ground, at least she’d have options. In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to do what she did best—prod him for information, push him a little, see if he slipped up. A wee game. Hey, she didn’t have anything else to do.

“Do you have a big family in Corsica?” she said.

He stiffened. “No.”

She waited, but he offered nothing more. Could be a good sign. In her vast experience with liars, they usually spoke too much, not too little.

“Did you grow up there?”

“Does it matter?”

“Just making conversation.”

“How about we focus on the task at hand? You’ll have the rest of your long life to make meaningless small talk.”