Down Range (Shadow Warriors - Book 2) (7 page)

“Gawd,” Morgan mumbled, rubbing her face. “We’ve got friggin’ jet lag, we haven’t slept in twenty-four hours and you’re wide-awake. If you’re going to bitch all night, get out of here. Go sleep outside with Reza.”

Amazed she could handle the foul, intense odor, Jake got up, jerked his sleeping bag off the dirt floor and muttered, “I’ll do that.” He headed for the door. He could barely see Morgan, milky slats of the full moon leaking light into the barn.

“You need to stay in here,” she growled, throwing out her hand and grabbing his lower pant leg so he couldn’t leave. “You know better, Jake. Now, get a grip, will you?”

He halted, her hand strong on his pant leg. Looking down, he snorted. “I’ll die of asphyxiation by dawn if I don’t get out of this hellhole. Then you’d feel guilty.”

“Oh, stop the drama, Jake. Sit down. We’ll talk. Maybe that will make you drowsy. Once you’re asleep, you won’t smell this crap.” She jerked twice on his pant leg. “Sit!”

After he dropped his sleeping bag next to hers, Jake walked over and picked up his rifle and Kevlar. Placing them near his head, he lay down. Morgan was six inches away. He swore he could feel her body heat. He placed his hands behind his head and muttered, “This sucks.”

“What a whiny baby,” she grunted, sitting there cross-legged, looking down at him. Jake’s face was deeply shadowed, but she could see those icy gray eyes and saw he was really upset. “I thought you’d be griping about your ass, not the goat smell in here.”

Mouth quirking, Jake enjoyed looking over at Morgan. The moonlight was soft. He could barely see the freckles sprinkled across her cheeks. “My butt aches like hell, but who’s going to listen to me bitch about that? And—” he raised one brow, his voice deepening “—just for the record, SEALs don’t whine.”

Morgan shook her head. “I swear. A man can be eighty years old and still be a sulky fourteen-year-old teenager when he wants to be.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“Are you going to be like this the rest of this mission, Ramsey?”

There was a teasing glint in her eyes. Her mouth was soft and relaxed, more like her old, feisty self. Had Morgan rebounded from the emotional meat grinder he’d put her through in Hawaii?

On the flight here, Jake had run out of options on how to try to atone for his past behavior. His way of helping would be hauling her into his bed and loving her. He knew Morgan wouldn’t approve of those tactics at all. In fact, she’d fight him. He smiled a little. “This barn and the goat smell isn’t a five-star quality hotel over here in the badlands, is it?”

Clasping her hands around her drawn-up knees, Morgan shook her head. “There isn’t even a one-star in this poor country. At least you have a roof over your head. If it was raining, you’d be happy to be in here.”

“Well, the sky’s clear and it’s not raining.”

She sighed. “I love rain….”

Hearing the wistfulness in her soft voice, Jake decided to make a daring request. “Tell me a bedtime story, Morgan. And then I’ll let you go back to sleep.”

She tilted her head, as if seriously considering his request.

“What kind of story?
Jack and the Beanstalk,
so you can visualize yourself climbing out of this barn?” She gave him an evil laugh.

Her laughter went straight through his heart. Morgan rarely laughed, and in truth, there hadn’t been much to be happy about, either. “You know, I’ve missed hearing you laugh. It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.”

Morgan’s smile instantly dissolved as she heard the sincerity in his voice.

For a moment, Jake wanted to reach out and graze her clasped hands wrapped around her knees. Her hair was loose, framing her face. She looked so damned feminine in such a rough, godforsaken place. And yet, he was glad she was here. “Okay, the story I want to hear is about your family. Tell me about your mom and dad.”

Morgan instantly scowled, suddenly wary. “Why?”

“There you go again. Accusing me.”

“You
always
have a reason for any question you ask, Ramsey. Remember? I know you too damned well.”

He held up his hands. “Okay, guilty.” He tucked his hands behind his head once more. “Seriously, I’d like to know, Morgan.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to understand you better is all.” That was the truth, and Jake could see she was surprised by his honesty. “Look,” he argued equitably, “you accused me of never asking you about your growing-up years or your folks. Now I am. Are you going to gig me on that, too?”

Morgan rubbed her brow. “Ramsey, I never know when to trust you or not,” she griped, moving and lying down on her sleeping bag. She used the saddle for a pillow. Laying her head on it, facing him, Morgan jerked the thick wool cape over her body. He was giving her that little-boy look she could never resist. And she knew damn well he was doing it on purpose. So, what was the downside of telling him? Morgan didn’t see any.

“Okay,” she growled, “but so help me God, Jake, if you fall asleep in the middle of my telling you, I’ll
never
say anything about my family again to you.”

“Fair enough,” Jake murmured, grinning and meeting her dark, serious gaze. For a moment, he thought he saw laughter in her eyes. Morgan sighed loudly. “Nothing has changed about you.”

His grin increased. “Thank you. Now, tell me about your growing-up years. I want to know.” And Jake really did, but he didn’t ask himself why. Why was it so important to him now?

Chapter Seven

“
My mother is
Cathy Fremont. My father is Jim Boland. They were part of a military grand experiment two decades ago.” Morgan tilted her head. “Do you remember that conflict between Laos and Thailand that erupted?”

“Yeah, tempest in a teapot, as I recall.”

“It was more than that.” Morgan frowned. “The military wanted to see if women could handle combat. Major Louise Lane, a woman Marine, had a senator who sponsored her ideas. He had enough power to persuade the Joint Chiefs of Staff to create a volunteer group of military women to form a company. It was called the WLF, Women’s Liberation Forces. They then went over with a brigade of Marines out of Camp Pendleton.”

“I vaguely recall something about it,” he said, searching his memory.

“My mother was a Marine Corps Corporal. My father was a Force Recon Marine Captain. My father’s company commander, Colonel Mackey, felt that Lane was screwing up. He didn’t think she was an effective enough leader to place women into combat. Mackey, with some hawk senators in Congress, concocted a plan to get one of the women in the WLF to testify against Lane’s methods and expose her weaknesses as a leader.” Her mouth turned down.

“Your mother got caught in it?”

Nodding, she sighed. “So did my father. Colonel Mackey tricked my dad into believing he was helping a number of women in the WLF company who were being overworked. Major Lane was running them on two patrols a day.”

Brows rising, Jake said, “That’s insane.”

“No kidding. To make a long story very short, that’s how they met. My mother was nearly killed in an ambush. My father rescued her with his Recon team and he sustained a bullet wound to the base of his skull.”

“He must have lived or you wouldn’t be here.” Jake tried to lighten the tone because Morgan looked stressed. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked about her growing-up years. Why would he ever think Morgan had a normal childhood?

“Yes, my father was in a coma for a while. He woke up in Hawaii, happened to catch a television broadcast of my mom in front of a congressional fact-finding committee being torn apart by that senator who had supported Major Lane.” Her mouth tightened. “My mother is a very brave person, Jake. She’s a fighter. And that senator was trying to blame her for everything going wrong with the WLF. He called her a coward….”

He sat up, hearing the anger in her tone. Morgan was so close. He could reach out and slide his hand over hers. Forcing all his selfish needs aside, he said, “I remember a huge five-day television circus orchestrated by Congress.”

“My father rescued my mother from that senator. He set the record straight before that congressional committee.”

“Your mother must have been very good at what she did in the WLF despite what that senator was trying to saddle her with.” Just the tilt of Morgan’s head, the softened expression on her face, made Jake ache to reach out and touch her cheek. He took a deep, uneven breath, remaining where he was.

“They called my mother the Valkyrie.” Pride leaked into her husky voice. “My mother showed Congress and the military that women could handle combat. They were just as good as any man. They needed more experienced leadership, was all.”

“And so,” Jake said, putting the dots together, “Operation Shadow Warriors is predicated upon that initial trial that took place over in Thailand?”

“Yes. General Maya Stevenson has picked up the gauntlet for women who want to volunteer for combat and being allowed to do it provided they met the strict physical standards.”

“And you’re the daughter of the original woman in that program.” Jake said it more to himself than her. Morgan was created by two people who had a strong military background. “Did you get appointed to Annapolis because of that?”

She smiled a little, resting her brow against her knees. “My father petitioned one of our state senators and I was given the choice of any military academy I wanted.”

“Did you want to be in the military? Or were you fulfilling your parents’ wishes?”

Lifting her head, Morgan said, “I was fulfilling my desire to have women’s boots on the ground. I didn’t want some man telling me I couldn’t pick up a rifle and fight for my country. I’m just as much a patriot as the next guy. As long as I can haul ass on the ground, carry my gear like they can, who cares? I’m a gun in the fight. That’s all that counts with these operators out on the front lines, Jake. I can shoot back and hit what I’m firing at. Once I proved I can, they’re more than happy to have me in their team.”

“You raised hell at Annapolis. I remember you banging down doors and demanding to be allowed into combat classes at the Academy.”

“And I won.” Morgan straightened, rolled her shoulders and added, “You never thought I would be a combat soldier.”

“Don’t go there. We’re only talking about your growing-up years. Remember?”

“Okay, truce. You know the rest. We were in the same class at Annapolis. I was able to push through women being assigned into Marine Corps companies in Afghanistan after graduation. It was a real victory and a step forward for women who wanted to go into combat slots.”

“Yes, it was.” Jake remembered how much of an intense firebrand Morgan had been at the Academy. Her communications skills, her passion and belief that women should be given the opportunity to volunteer for combat slots and careers, persuaded the brass at higher levels. “How did General Stevenson get wind of you?”

“Oh, she’d been quietly cherry-picking women like myself from all branches of the military for over a year. When she got forty of us, she pushed through Operation Shadow Warriors three years ago. It’s a seven-year trial, and so far, the women are showing they can get the job done.”

Jake saw how exhausted she was becoming. “Look, why don’t you get some rest? We’ve got a full day’s ride ahead of us, and dawn isn’t far away.”

“You gonna stop whining about the stink and let me sleep?”

“As long as I can lie here next to you, I’ll be quiet.” Jake pointed to the door. “There’s fresh air coming in around the door.”

Grinning, Morgan drew the wool cape across her shoulders. “And you just figured that one out, SEAL boy?”

Jake gave her a sheepish smile. Her back was to him, her face inches away from the fresh air leaking in between the door and the jamb. Damn, she was smart. As he lay down, he thought of the years of being in Afghanistan and being in one too many smelly goat barns, and Morgan had learned this little secret. Jake couldn’t stop grinning for a long time over that discovery. She was damned bright, full of common sense and far too beautiful. Closing his eyes, he hoped they wouldn’t get assigned to another goat barn in Dor Babba. Maybe Reza had more influence than he did here….

Jake watched with
some amusement and awe as they entered the village of Dor Babba late the next afternoon. Word had been passed from one goat herder to another that they were coming. The human telegraph was fast in this part of the world. As they dismounted in the square of the massive mud-building village, children of all ages came pouring out from all directions. They had been waiting for their arrival.

And they all focused on Morgan, who had handed the reins of her horse to Reza as she walked out to meet them. Jake watched with curiosity as they kept shouting, “Wajiha” to her. They danced around her, touching her, smiling up at her, joyous.

The Pashtun name certainly fitted Morgan. She had removed her hajji clothes and had reached into a deep pocket on the right side of her cammies.

The children quieted, all eyes focused on her hand as she brought it out of the pocket and opened it up in front of them. She spoke warmly to them in Pashto, kneeling down in the circle of children. In her palm were small Butterfinger packets.

Jake felt his chest tighten with emotion. A very young boy, perhaps four years old, with black hair reminded him of his son, Joshua. Pain flitted through his heart. He would have been four this year. Jake pushed the grief away and focused on the happy children as Morgan passed out the candy among all of them. From the appearances of Morgan’s bulging calf pockets, she’d brought a ton of candy along to share with these children who knew her so well. A group of elders walked slowly down the main street toward them. They were to meet Hamid, the tribal leader of this village, upon arrival.

Lifting her head, Morgan spotted Hamid walking down the rutted street along with six other elders who flanked him. He was smiling. So was she. By the time they’d arrived, every child had Butterfingers clasped in their hands and disappeared like the wind.

Jake moved to her side. He’d removed his hajji clothes, too.

“You have a new name,” he said, grinning. “Wajiha?”

“Yes. Reza christened me with it three years ago.” Morgan touched her mussed ponytail across her shoulder. “He thought my freckles and red hair made me look beautiful. I guess my spotted skin inspired his imagination.” She smiled fondly.

“How many times have you been in this area?”

“Too many to count.”

Jake needed to catch up on how well Morgan knew this region. That was a definite asset to their mission. “That’s why the kids know you so well?”

“Yes. As you know, I’m a trained paramedic from my days at Annapolis, so whenever my black-ops team came through a village, I’d set up a clinic for the women and children. The male combat medic, always a guy, set up a clinic for the men. I always gave the kids candy if I had to give them a shot. They all wanted a shot then.” She grinned. “These kids are not stupid.”

Morgan never met a child she didn’t like, Jake decided. Or maybe, her beauty, kindness and generosity left an indelible mark in each child’s memory and that attributed to her popularity. That was probably closer to the real truth. He was grateful to see her interact without any of her defensive walls in place. Morgan was vulnerable and open with the children, her maternal side showing. Clearly, they loved her, their eyes bright with affection, wriggling like excited puppies, happy to see her once again.

Their collective focus shifted to a tall, thin man in his forties. Hamid had a long black beard peppered with gray. He wore a cream-colored wool cape, baggy black pants and a black turban on his head. His light brown eyes sparked with welcome. Jake got ready to make the customary greetings with the Pashtun leader.

“Welcome,” Hamid intoned, giving the greeting in Pashto to them.

Morgan wasn’t surprised when the leader stepped forward, placed his hands on her shoulders and fondly kissed each of her cheeks. She did the same, having great respect for the Afghan leader.

Hamid greeted Jake and shook his hand.

Reza approached and greeted the elder with respect, as well. He seemed surprised as Hamid extended his hand to him, his face alight with pleasure at being recognized by the village elder.

“Will you do me the honor of coming to my humble home?” Hamid asked Morgan and Jake. “My wife has known of your coming for a day, and she has been working with all the wives of the village to greet you properly with good Afghan food.”

Morgan glanced over at Jake, and he nodded. “We’d love to, Hamid. Lead the way.”

Chuckling, Hamid said, “Oh, you lead the way, Wajiha. You know this village as if it were your own.” He opened his hand and made a grand gesture toward the rutted road.

“It is an honor,” Morgan whispered, meaning it. As she walked past the elders, she was joined by at least ten children who all wanted to claim her hands and escort her to the elder’s home. They laughed, skipped and clung to her clothing. One little girl, no more than four, ran up to Morgan, arms open, begging her to pick her up.

Morgan instantly recognized the child. “Duniya! Where have you been?” she asked, leaning down and scooping the terribly thin child into her arms.

Duniya laughed, threw her arms around Morgan’s neck, kissing her cheek again and again. “My mother is coming, Wajiha. We missed you! We’re so happy to have you home!”

Touched, Morgan settled the small girl against her hip, giving Duniya a kiss on the noggin. “Were you out in the fields?”

“Yes. We heard shouting. My mother wouldn’t let me run across the fields.”

“Wise choice,” Morgan murmured, rubbing her hand gently down the child’s back, feeling her protruding ribs. “There’s buried IEDs out there. You have to be careful, little one.” Morgan spotted Duniya’s mother standing between two of the mud homes, a shy smile of welcome on her darkly sunburned face. Morgan lifted her hand in greeting to the mother, Roya, whom she was close to.

“Do you have candy for me, Wajiha?”

Chuckling, she said, “Yes, I saved some for you, Duniya.”

“Ohhhhh, good! Thank you, Wajiha. You are truly an angel! Mama prays for you every day in her prayers.”

Morgan squeezed the girl gently and said nothing. As she looked around her, more and more of the village’s children had returned, and they were a ragtag group hollering around her, the older boys racing up and down the street, proclaiming Wajiha’s return. Happiness flooded Morgan’s heart as they made their way to a three-story mud-and-stone home where the leader of the village lived.

Morgan gently placed barefoot Duniya on the ground. She dug into a pocket in her H-gear and produced two Butterfinger packets for the shy little girl with the long black hair. Duniya held out her hand to receive the gift.

“One is for you. And one is for your mama,” Morgan instructed her, giving her a kiss on the head and gently nudging her toward her waiting mother on the other side of the street.

“Thank you, Wajiha. I love you!”

Straightening, Morgan smiled softly as the child ran like a deer to her mother’s side, giving her the candy. Roya’s face brightened with surprise, a smile of thanks coming to her oval face. Morgan lifted her hand and then returned her attention to Hamid.

Jake followed the entourage of six leaders and Morgan into the three-story house. On the first floor there was a large central room. The dirt-packed floor was covered with beautiful Persian carpets. The wife and daughters of Hamid enthusiastically welcomed them. Hamid asked them to sit on either side of him, at the head of the jirga, or meeting. It was a place of honor. Women were not to attend an all-male jirga but Hamid wanted Morgan at the meeting.