Free Lethal Pursuit by Kaylea Cross Page A

that flowers and good old-fashioned courting might be exactly the way to go with her, even if she’d never admit to wanting it.
    “Maybe a fancy knife or a tactical flashlight might be more her style,” Cam suggested with another grin.
    Jackson’s lips curved at the irony in his friend’s tone. “I was thinking maybe I should write her a song.” Though he said it half-jokingly, part of him was serious.
    Cam must have known it, because his eyebrows shot up. “Yeah? Wow, okay then. Damn, you’re pretty into her, huh?”
    He nodded, since there was no harm in confiding in Cam. After last night, Jackson guessed Maya figured things were over between them. For him they weren’t. Not by a long shot. He knew he could find his way underneath all that attitude and bluster if he looked for the answer carefully enough. With her, patience was the key. Only he didn’t know how much patience he had left when it came to her.
    “Which tent you want?” Cam asked as they approached the hastily set up medical area.
    “Doesn’t matter.”
    “You take the far one, then. It’ll give you the nicest view.” His blue eyes danced with laughter.
    Grinning, Jackson passed him and carried on to the far tent, closest to where Maya was positioned. She didn’t glance his way, but he knew she’d seen him. He ducked under the low tent flap and stepped inside. Someone had set up a small table and cot with a pillow and blankets on it. Setting his gear down, he got to work unpacking what he needed—BP kit, syringes, bandages and swabs, some OTC meds and a few mild narcotic analgesics. The analgesics were sort of ironic, since he was currently sitting in the middle of the opium poppy capital of the world. The villagers he was about to treat probably had enough opium to keep them high and pain-free for several lifetimes.
    Just another fucked-up thing about this war.
    One of the SF sergeants came into the tent, a short, stocky guy with a thick ginger beard. “You all set up?”
    “Ready to rock.”
    “Okay, the deal is for me to stay and help translate. If for any reason I need to step out, you’ll be on your own. You know any Pashto?”
    “Pretty much nil.”
    “I’ll stick around as long as I can then.” He left and returned a few minutes later with one of the village elders, a man in his seventies if Jackson had to guess, dressed in traditional garb of the flat-topped hat, loose shirt and pants with a vest. The soldier acted as translator as the elder thanked Jackson and they exchanged polite courtesies. After he exited the tent, Jackson’s first patient was brought in. A young girl around four, the same age as his youngest nephew back home in San Antonio. The girl’s mother wore a veil that covered everything but her eyes, and from the lack of wrinkles around them, Jackson guessed she had to still be in her late teens.
    Staying silent, watching him and the SF soldier warily, she sat on the cot and placed her daughter in her lap. The girl clung to her, staring at Jackson with wide, dark eyes.
    Jackson smiled and dropped to his haunches in front of the little girl. “Hey, sweetheart. You got a sore hand?” The cut running the length of the side of it looked sore and, from the discoloration, infected. He asked a few questions, which the other soldier translated for him. All he picked out was the word Taliban , and it was enough to make his lips thin in disgust. He put it all together even before the translation came.
    “She says it happened a few weeks ago when some Taliban fighters came through. The little girl got too close to one of them, and the asshole slashed her with his knife.”
    Tamping down his sudden surge of anger, Jackson held his hand out toward the child. “Can I see it?” It took a while for the girl to let him take a good look, and with the back and forth translation it was a few minutes longer before Jackson could actually start cleaning the wound. It was deep and definitely needed stitches. It surprised him the