Page 32 of Indirect Attack
If my anger had been close to the boiling point before, it was a raging volcano threatening to explode and cover everyone nearby. And at one time, it might have. But I was older now, and I knew how to direct that anger effectively.
Outside the tent, I could hear the sound of a chopper landing, sending ripples of wind against the side of the tent. Two soldiers had already put the unconscious archeologist on a litter and were taking him out to the waiting chopper.
“I want everyone out of here, now.”
Both the nurse and the medic snapped their gazes to me and the dangerous warning in my tone.
“Come on, everyone out.” Mitchell was waving everyone toward the exit. He had heard the tone of my voice and knew what it meant. “Let’s get the wounded back to the base for full medical attention.”
I saw the nurse swallow and exchange a look with the medic before her gaze followed mine to Greg. But neither said anything before they helped the wounded out. Mitchell gave me a warning look before following.
“No, no, don’t. Come back, please. I need more medical attention, too.”
At the sound of my voice, Greg’s eyes had snapped open. His face had become white as a sheet as he’d seen me standing there, my glare trained on him.
Now he was struggling to get off the table, calling after the departing group. But he hissed in pain as he tried to move his leg, his eyes squeezing shut.
But they opened again as I came to stand over him, widening when he realized it was just the two of us. I was quiet for a long moment, letting Greg stew in my glare and his palpable fear of me.
“Did you call in the complaint about me?”
Greg’s throat bobbed in a convulsive swallow at my words. I’d learned from my father that quiet words were far more menacing than those shouted, and I put every ounce of anger and threat behind that menacing softness that I could.
“No.”
I pinned him with my scowl as I repeated, “Were you the one who called in the complaint about me to the UN?”
Greg’s glare deepened into defiant truculence. “I already told you it wasn’t me.”
Before the man could react, my hand snapped out and clamped around the wound in his thigh. Greg yelped, a far more realistic sound than any of his theatrical moans and groans.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time—were you the one who called the complaint into the UN and left this dig site and Jasmine open to attack?”
Another yelp turned into a whimper as I leaned into the wound. Greg’s eyes filled with tears, sweat popping up on his forehead.
“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, it was me. I called in the complaint.”
“Why?” I demanded though I knew the answer.
“Because you took Jasmine up to her room when she was drunk, and I was worried.”
“Why did you call in the complaint?” I snarled, my thumb pressing directly against the wound.
“Because I hate you, you bastard!” came the shout that was half cry, half scream as Greg writhed in pain. “Because she chose you over me, she always had. I saw you drinking in the restaurant, and it made me angry, so I called in the complaint when you went upstairs.”
I let go of Greg’s leg. The man shot me an angry glower as he sat there, breathing heavily, hands around his thigh.
“Did you get that?”
Greg’s gaze darted over my shoulder as the UN rep walked up beside me. I’d seen him out of the corner of my eye slipping into the tent—Mitchell, gratefully, must have sent him over.
“Every word.” The man’s frown this time was for Greg, not me, his mouth set into an unhappy line.
Realizing someone else had heard his confession—someone important who could end his career—Greg’s eyes widened.
“He was torturing me,” he gasped. “You saw him, didn’t you? I would have said anything.”
To his credit, the UN rep ignored Greg and turned to me. “Case closed. All restrictions have been lifted, and you are returned to active duty, Sergeant.”
