Six Minutes To Midnight. Elle James

in the back,” Diesel finished.

      “Not only were they waiting for us,” Harm said, “but they had their escape plan in place before we got there.”

      Buck’s eyes narrowed. “Someone tipped them off about what time we left. We got there well before the arranged trade deadline.”

      “Any others hurt besides the three of us and Agar?” T-Mac asked.

      “No,” Pitbull said. “When the dust settled, they were gone in a couple of pickup trucks. We would have gone after them, but we figured the dog needed medical attention.”

      “What exactly happened to the dog handler?” Harm wanted to know.

      “She was shot in the chest by whomever was in that hut.”

      “That’ll give her nightmares.” Diesel shook his head. “Seeing the face of the man who shot you would leave an indelible image in your mind.”

      T-Mac snorted. “She was more concerned about Agar being hurt than the fact she’d nearly been killed.”

      “I hope they make it.” Big Jake gently rubbed a hand over his backside. “The whole mission was a disaster.”

      T-Mac ran a hand through his hair. “Absolutely. Tell the commander what I told you. I’ll be here, if he wants to hear it from me in person.”

      “Will do.” Big Jake limped out of the facility with the others on their way to the debrief.

      T-Mac paced the lobby again, his frustration growing with each step. He hoped he could be around when Kinsley came to. He wanted to let her know how sorry he was for not keeping her and Agar safe.

      Just when T-Mac was ready to ignore the rules and march back to Kinsley’s bed, the medic returned.

      “She’s still out of it,” he said. “But you can come back and sit with her.”

      KINSLEY HOVERED BETWEEN the dark and the light. Every time she felt as if she were surfacing from a deep, black well, she stretched out her hand only to slip back into it. No matter how hard she climbed and scraped her hands on the hard stone walls, she couldn’t seem to get to the top. Her fingers grew chilled from the coldness of the stones.

      And then warmth wrapped around her hand.

      She quit fighting to climb and lay back, basking in the warmth radiating from her hand up her arm and throughout her body.

      A deep voice came to her through the black abyss.

      “Kinsley, wake up and tell me I’m wrong.”

      That voice made her want to wake, but that well she’d been clawing her way out of wouldn’t let her go.

      “Kinsley, you’re going to be okay. You just need to wake up and give me all kinds of grief for not taking care of you.”

      Who was talking to her? And what was he talking about? She tried to open her eyes but she didn’t have the strength. So, she lay listening to the warm, deep tones, letting them wash over her, fill her, hold her up when she couldn’t stay afloat in the bottomless well. The voice permeated her insides while a strong hand cupped hers, providing heat when she felt so very cold.

      Images and sensations swirled in an endless cyclone, refusing to coalesce into anything she could recognize. Faces, dust, fur, sounds, blinding flashes, all spinning inside, making her dizzy, forcing her back into that well, away from the light.

      “Kinsley, sweetheart, you’re going to be all right. Open your eyes. You’ll see. I should have been the one entering that building. You and Agar wouldn’t have been hurt if I’d gone first. You have to be okay. Agar is going to need you.”

      Agar? The word was odd, yet familiar. Still, she couldn’t remember why. Nothing made sense. The only anchor keeping her from drowning in the whirlpool threatening to take her under was the voice in the darkness urging her toward the light.

      As the black abyss pulled her under, she tightened her hold on the big hand.

      MINUTES, HOURS or days later—Kinsley couldn’t tell—she blinked her eyes open and stared at the top of an auburn head lying on the sheet beside her. She wasn’t in her apartment back in San Antonio. Then she remembered—she’d deployed. Her brow furrowed. To where? She thought hard, the truth just out of her grasp.

      She was in the army. They’d sent her on a long flight to...

      Nothing.

      Frustration made her want to hit something. But when she tried to clench her fist, she couldn’t. Someone was holding her hand.

      Again, she stared at the head on the sheet beside her. Perhaps the man who owned the head was also the one holding her hand.

      But why?

      The astringent scent of disinfectant assailed her nostrils. Her gaze moved from the stranger’s head to the walls around her. Once again, she realized she wasn’t in an apartment, and based on the unusual bed, the bright overhead lights and the monitor tracking her heartbeat, she had to be in some kind of hospital.

      Had she been hurt? Kinsley took inventory of her body. Twinges of pain answered for her. Stinging on the surface of her arms and legs let her know she had cuts and abrasions. Her chest felt bruised, and breathing deeply made it slightly worse.

      But who was the man with his head on her bed? And what was she forgetting that was so important? Something tugged at her mind, something she should remember, but couldn’t.

      “Psst,” she said.

      The man remained facedown on the sheet.

      “Hey.” When she spoke, her voice sounded like a frog’s croak.

      The head stirred and lifted. Blue eyes opened, and ginger brows knitted together. “Kinsley?” the man said.

      “Yes, that’s me.” She frowned. “But who are you?”

      He sat up straight in the chair beside her bed and pushed a hand through his hair. “I’m T-Mac. Don’t you remember me?”

      Her frown deepened, making her head hurt. “If I remembered, would I be asking?”

      He chuckled. “You still have your bite. We met yesterday, near your quarters.”

      “Quarters?” She looked around. “These aren’t my quarters.”

      His brows pinched together again. “No. You’re in the Djibouti medical facility.”

      “Why am I here?” she asked.

      “You were injured in a skirmish in Somalia.”

      “Skirmish?” she asked, feeling like she was missing a chunk of her memory. And it was scaring her. “What day is it?”

      He told her the date. “You were shot and involved in an explosion.”

      She gasped, her heartbeat fluttering uncontrollably. “What was I doing in Somalia?” The green line on the monitor jumped erratically.

      The auburn-haired man pushed to his feet. “Let me get the doctor.”

      “I’m okay,” she said. “I’m okay,” she repeated, as if to remind herself. “I just can’t remember any of that.”

      He didn’t listen, leaving the room in a hurry.

      Kinsley lifted her head. A sharp pain slashed through her forehead. She lay back, closed her eyes and let it abate before she opened her eyes again.

      By then T-Mac had returned with a man in a white coat. He introduced himself as her doctor. She couldn’t commit his name to her memory with the pain throbbing in her head.

      He shone a light into her eyes. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

      She tried to shake her head, remembering too late that it caused pain. Kinsley winced. “No.” Her heart beat