Seduced by His Target. Gail Barrett

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      The sky grew dim. Thunder grumbled again, rolling up the valley and reverberating against the terraced hills. The medical team members halted their activities and looked up. The clouds were drawing closer, their tombstone-colored bottoms growing more ominous as they dragged rain across the jagged peaks. The mules picketed beside the tents began to stir.

      Aware of Amir’s impatience, Rasheed spared the Jaziirastani woman a final glance. No, he couldn’t warn them. He couldn’t risk interfering in the attack. All he could do was try to protect them the best he could while keeping his goal in sight.

      * * *

      If there was one thing Nadine Seymour would never understand, it was man’s propensity for violence. No matter where she’d traveled or worked—whether in glitzy New York City, in her father’s native land of Jaziirastan, or here, in the isolated mountain villages of Peru where thatch-roofed huts clung precariously to the craggy hillsides—she’d come across the same defeated women, their bodies battered and bruised, their eyes filled with hopelessness and despair.

      She would never understand it. Never accept it. And she sure as hell would never put herself in a position to experience it firsthand.

      “So how did it go today?”

      Her lower back aching, her head throbbing from the scarcity of oxygen at fourteen thousand feet, she lowered herself beside the campfire and warmed her hands. She glanced at Henry, taking in his kind blue eyes, his sparse gray hair sticking up in disarray, the white whiskers emerging on his jaw. A retired general practitioner in his late sixties, he’d helped organize this trek along the ancient Inca trade routes to the tiny hamlets scattered throughout the peaks—places where there was no electricity, no running water, no medical service or phones. Just unrelenting misery and abuse.

      “The same as always,” she said, releasing a sigh. “Parasites, basal cells, some battered women and kids.”

      “Did many people show up?”

      “Yeah, we missed you.” Their small team—two doctors, two nurses, a pharmacist and an interpreter who doubled as their cook, mule tender and guide—had been traveling in the Andes with Medical Help International, a private charitable organization, for over a month now, in areas so remote some villagers had never seen foreigners before. But despite the isolation, word of their impending arrival had spread, and people had straggled into their makeshift clinic all day, standing patiently in line for hours, and paying with whatever they could—food, blankets, coins, even an occasional chicken or bird. Twelve hours later, the last few patients had finally left, their prescription drugs tucked into their unkuña carrying cloths, hiking in their tire-tread sandals back to their potato farms and alpaca herds hidden in the ravines creasing the hills.

      “The violence is always the worst.” Her voice hardened at the thought. These people had a tough enough time simply trying to survive. Not only did they battle poverty—including a disheartening lack of basic amenities—but they faced danger from the drug runners smuggling coca north into Brazil and Colombia, destined for the markets in the United States. They didn’t need the added terror of domestic abuse. “I’d like to find someplace it doesn’t exist for once.”

      Henry’s eyes softened. “I’m not going to argue with that, but your impression might be a little off.”

      “I know.” As a plastic surgeon in New York City, she specialized in reconstructive work. And while she saw her share of accident victims and cancer survivors, she’d also seen far too many faces destroyed by fists—just as she had growing up.

      Setting that depressing memory aside, she summoned a smile. “I’m just tired, I guess.” They’d spent weeks on the trail, sleeping in tents, hiking into villages so high she could hardly breathe. Sometimes they saved a life. That hope kept them going, making them feel they were doing some good, even if their efforts never seemed like enough. But sometimes the suffering overwhelmed her, despite her attempts to stay upbeat.

      “I’m sorry I couldn’t help,” Henry said.

      She cast the elderly doctor another glance, unable to miss the wistfulness in his voice. “Don’t be silly.” Henry was suffering from a moderate case of altitude sickness, or soroche as the locals called it, which had kept him confined to the camp. Except for Manny, their native interpreter, they’d all suffered headaches and fatigue as they’d crossed the slopes. But Henry’s case had been the worst, dangerously so.

      “How’s your head?” she asked.

      “Better.”

      “Have you been chewing the coca leaves?”

      “Yes, Doctor Seymour.” He slid her a cheeky smile.

      She didn’t smile back. They still had several more hamlets—at an even higher elevation—to reach before they headed down to a safer altitude. “You sure you want to continue?”

      “Of course.”

      “What’s your reading on the pulse oximeter?”

      “Nearly eighty.”

      “Eighty? It should be back in the nineties by now. The high nineties.” Cerebral edema, swelling of the brain caused by a lack of oxygen, wasn’t a joke. Hikers died from it every year—which Henry knew. “Tell me your name and birth date.”

      Henry sighed. “I’m not confused, no more than I usually am. My pulse is normal. My gait’s steady. My appetite is coming back. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you if it gets any worse.”

      Assuming he was lucid enough to notice. “You’d better.” Not only was the trail about to get steeper, but they were entering an area notorious for drug smugglers. Hopefully, their organization’s scouts were right, and the drug cartel had moved out due to the rainy season about to begin. But the team still had to move quickly and keep their wits about them if they hoped to survive unscathed.

      “I’m monitoring it,” Henry assured her. “And I am getting better. I just need another day to rest. I’ll be jogging up the trail in no time.”

      She studied his face. He was still too pale and drawn, but maybe he’d improved a bit. Still, she’d been on these trips with him before. She knew how stubborn he could be. How generous. He would never want to slow them down and deny a villager their services—even if it killed him to soldier on.

      A rumble of thunder caught her attention, and she looked up. Still worried, she studied the storm clouds crawling over the peaks, their slab-gray bottoms laden with rain. Lovely. By the time they set out in the morning, they’d be trudging through mud. She just hoped their tents didn’t wash away before then. “I’d better help Lauren secure the supplies.”

      Henry started to rise with her, but she held up her hand. “Stop right there. You’re going to sit here and have another cup of coca tea. And chew a few leaves while you’re at it. Doctor’s orders.” She smiled at Henry’s salute.

      Hurrying now, she started toward the tarp where the pharmacist had spread out their medical supplies, reorganizing them for the following day. But halfway across the clearing, that odd feeling returned, the same creepy sensation that had plagued her earlier, as if someone had her in his sights. She came to a stop and glanced around, scanning the steep hills surrounding the camp, the long, yellow grass waving in the wind, the lone hawk riding the thermals in the gloomy sky.

      Her heart still beating СКАЧАТЬ