Her Last Defense

“You’re calling in a recovery team?”

“I have to. We need to know why he’s not dead, or at least seriously ill.”

“Terrific.” Of course he’d known that. Someone would have to come back for the monkey. Many someones, most likely, in order to find one tiny monkey in a wilderness this size. And every one of them would be risking their lives with each breath they took, regardless of how much protective gear they wore.

“Any more bad news?”

“Yeah.” She studied the leaves twirling on brittle branches. “The wind is changing direction.”

Just out of his second decontamination shower of the day, Clint strode across the compound toward Dr. Attois’s tent in a stride meant to chew up gravel and spit out dust. Once they’d called in the coordinates on Macy’s satellite phone, they’d run like hell all the way back to camp. With Macy’s ripped suit, they’d have been crazy to stick around and wait for the recovery team—a fancy name, Clint had learned for a group of sharpshooters with tranquilizer guns.

Already, news that the infected monkey was alive and well in the woods of southeast Texas had the clearing housing the quarantined workers and their CDC captors buzzing with activity. The news that the recovery team sent after Josе hadn’t found hide nor hair of the animal at the coordinates Macy had given them had everyone’s nerves jumping.

Three more helicopters had arrived, dropping off additional equipment and troops. The evening sun had set, and generators droned like overgrown yellow jackets, powering the monstrous lights that had been set up to keep the night at bay. Motion sensors were in place to detect even the smallest breach—inbound or outbound—of the camp’s perimeter, and in case those failed, the uniformed guards with rifles surrounding the little circle of tents were sure to do the trick.

Two more of the army that had invaded the once-quiet forest stood sentry outside Dr. Attois’s tent. There was no mistaking these guys for CDC office drones or scientists, or even young hotheads like Cammo Boy. They were professional security. Thick-necked grunts with guns on their hips and chips on their shoulders.

Clint marched right up to them, stopping a little too close, invading their personal space to see if they’d take a step back.

They didn’t. He hadn’t really thought it would be that easy to establish himself as alpha dog, but it was worth a try.

“I need to see Dr. Attois,” he announced, hating the nasal sound the breathing filter added to his voice.

“She’s not available.”

“She’ll see me.”

A guard with three stripes on his shoulder, apparently the senior officer of the two, gave him a condescending smile. “We’ll tell her you’d like to speak with her. When she’s available. Ranger Hayes.”

So, they’d already been briefed on him, and this was how they wanted to play it. Get into a pissing contest over who had the bigger badge.

That was all right. He could piss pretty damned far.

He leaned around the big guy’s shoulder and called, “Dr. Attois, you in there?”

“You’ll have to leave now,” the junior guard ordered. “Civilians are not to leave their tents for the duration.”

“I’m not a civilian.”

“You can either return to your tent on your own, or we’ll escort you there.”

The senior guard’s tone left no doubt in Clint’s mind that “escort” meant “drag.” The young guy latched a rubber-gloved hand on Clint’s shoulder.

Clint knocked his arm away with a chop to the inside of the elbow. “Back off.”

“Go back to your assigned tent.”

Both guards advanced on Clint. Holding his ground, he looked the bigger of the two, the leader, in the eye and balanced on the balls of his feet, fists clenched. “Dr. Attois! I need to speak to you. Now!” he yelled without taking his eyes off the guards.

The junior man grabbed Clint’s arm, tried to leverage it behind his back. Clint twisted in an escape maneuver, but before he got away, the senior guard leaned on his back, doubling him over, and smashed a knee into Clint’s face. Warm blood gushed from his nose. “Aw, now look what you’ve done,” he whined, still bent over, trying to plug his nose and hoping to baffle them just long enough to get the jump on them. “Gone and ruined my pretty blue jumpsuit.”

The distraction worked. The guards rocked back on their heels, thinking the fight was over. Rage thundering in his chest, Clint bulled forward with his head down, knocking the junior guard to the ground. He shoved the other one behind him and aimed a backward kick at his groin, missing by inches when the man slid aside.

“Stop it. Stop it now!”

The voice was feminine, but there was no doubting the authority in its tone. The guard behind Clint took a step back. The guard on the ground staggered to his feet.

Clint straightened and turned his attention to Dr. Attois, wiping his bloody nose with his sleeve. “I need a word with you.”

“You’re hurt.” She threw a challenging look at the guards.

“I’ll live,” Clint mumbled into his sleeve.

“He refused to return to his quarters, ma’am.”

Clint tipped his head back to stem the flow of blood. “All due respect, doctor, this is a quarantine camp, not a penitentiary.”

She’d taken off her rubber suit and wore Keds, faded jeans and a soft, fuzzy lavender sweater that made his body hum in purely male appreciation. He wondered how blood could still be running from his nose when it felt as though all of it had shot to his groin.

Watching him with curious eyes, she stepped back from the tent flap. “Come inside.”

“Ma’am—” the senior guard complained.

“Enough, Carter,” she said simply as Clint took a step forward.

She stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Take off the booties and gloves and put them in the biohazard container outside. Then step into the pan of disinfectant so you don’t track anything in on the bottom of your feet and clean your hands, all the way up past the elbow, with the solution on the table.”

He’d just left decon, but he followed orders without comment. Inside, a cool breeze chilled the sweat on Clint’s forehead. He rolled his eyes down until he could see something besides the ceiling and sighed appreciatively. The tents were more like big balloons than traditional camping equipment. They were mushroom shaped, sealed up tight, and each had its own air-filtration system. They reminded Clint of an old movie about a boy with no immune system who couldn’t ever leave his hermetic environment for fear of infection.

Dr. Attois pulled a chair out from a folding table and motioned him toward it. He stood, surveying the neat cot and blanket, table and laptop computer. “Nice place. If you don’t mind living like the boy in the plastic bubble.”

“Beats dying.” She dug through a footlocker and came up with a hand towel and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. “Now are you going to sit down or do I have to do this standing on my tiptoes?”

She held the bottle of peroxide up. He reached for it. “I can do it myself.”

She pulled the disinfectant out of his reach and nodded to the chair again. “I’m sure you can. But I’m the doctor, remember. Now sit.”

Reluctantly, he sat. Arguing with her wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

She clucked over him as she cleaned around his mouth. “Now what’s so important that you’d risk bodily harm just to talk to me?”

For a moment he couldn’t remember. She leaned over him, and all he could see was the milky column of her throat. She smelled like Ivory soap and her fingers were soft and gentle as they worked. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him so personally. Since a woman had touched him at all.

He couldn’t help but notice every detail about her as she worked over him. The way the light caught her eyes when she smiled. The way she touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip when she was concentrating. His heartbeat thrummed heavily in his veins, as if his blood had turned to mercury.

The unexpected reaction to her chafed him. This after only a few hours in her company? By the time the quarantine was lifted—if it was lifted—he’d be lucky if he was capable of speech.

He cleared his throat. Telephone.