Edge Of Truth. Brynn Kelly

think so.” Hope not. He hoisted himself onto his elbows, suppressing a wince, and wiped his eye clear with his jacket sleeve. “Your foot...”

      Tess swept her leg around in front of her. Even in the gray light a scarlet bloodstain stood out, spreading over the toe of her sock, following the path of a darker stain like fresh lava over old. The sock was stuffed with something—a bandage?

      “They ripped out your toenails.” The pricks. As torture went, it was old-fashioned but painful as hell, by all accounts. At least nails grew back—given the chance. “What did they torture you for?”

      “A dossier of the evidence I have on them—they wanted to know whether there were copies and where they were.”

      “Did you tell them?”

      “Everything.” Her answer was strangely short.

      “There’s some shit going down here, isn’t there?”

      “Oh yeah.”

      He caught her other leg and trailed his hand down to the foot. More blood, but dry. She pulled both feet away.

      “Hamid’s a psychopath, in case you hadn’t worked that out,” she said.

      “Hamid’s a woman.”

      “You noticed. I’d better take a look at your head—I might have to close the wound again.”

      “And an American. What’s with that?”

      She pushed to her feet and unrolled his bandage. “Yep. Born and raised in Chicago. Ex-marines, ex-CIA. Her real name is Sara Hawthorn.”

      “Sara. The most wanted man in the world is a hot Chicago cougar called Sara.”

      “Hey, if she’s your type, you have problems.”

      “A woman heading a jihad?”

      “Al-Thawra is no jihadist group, despite what their thugs believe.”

      “Really? They kind of give it away with all the ‘death to the infidels’ shit.”

      “That’s what Hamid—Sara—wants people in the West to believe,” she said, her voice cut with bitterness. “Hell, it’s what we’re quick to believe, isn’t it? That we’re under attack from whacked-out extremists from the other side of the world? It’s harder to understand if the cracks are in your own country.”

      “Now you’re sounding like her.”

      Featherlight fingers drew through his scalp. He bit down on his cheeks.

      “This doesn’t look too bad—the strips have held.” She knelt in front of him, her knees and legs splayed awkwardly. To protect her toes? With a finger under his chin, she raised his head so his eyes were level with her chest. What could he do but explore the hint of cleavage diving into her T-shirt? Sure, he could shut his eyes, but he was no monk, and hey, this could be his last happy moment.

      He inhaled. Earthy and musky. He shouldn’t find that sexy, but...damn. He’d never been into women who reeked of perfume—or worse, tasted of it.

      Crap, she was talking. Mind out of the cleavage, mate.

      “...goons are mostly Muslim, answering the call to jihad, but they’re being fooled as much as anyone. It’s all a cover.” She bent slightly to get something from her bag, bringing her cleavage within millimeters of his nose.

      Focus. “A cover for what?”

      She snipped something—surgical tape?—and pressed it on his wound, shooting sparks through his skull. He forced himself to imagine what was under that T-shirt, seeing as he didn’t have a real anesthetic...

      Man, he was screwed up.

      Like he didn’t already know that.

      “Long story.” She wound the bandage on, sat on the mattress and removed a wipe from the packet Hamid had left. She ran it across her forehead, leaving a pale streak.

      “So you said. We have time.”

      She scrubbed her cheeks like she wanted to erase them. “God, I hope you’re right.”

      She studied the wipe, now the same dusty gray as the floor. How long had she been here—a week? In solitary, under threat of death, with a couple of rounds of interrogation and torture. Enough to send a commando berko but she seemed calm. Tougher than she looked, maybe. Or just good at hiding the damage.

      Dirt—technically mud, now—was swirled over her face, mixed with scoured pink streaks. He itched to lean over and finish the job, so he could stare at something beautiful for a minute. He hadn’t seen much of that in a long time.

      Not that he was about to hit on Tess Newell. Hell, no. Journalists cared about headlines, not people, no matter how much they pretended otherwise. He wouldn’t fall into that trap again, just in case these weren’t his last days.

      “Hold still.” She leaned forward and smoothed a clean wipe over his forehead and around his eye. “So,” she said, sitting back and hugging her knees. “Interesting times to be a soldier. Where have you served?”

      Changing the subject? “Classified.”

      She sighed. “And here’s me thinking it might be nice to have someone to talk to.”

      You want polite conversation, you got the wrong cell mate. He dragged his sorry arse along the floor and sat on the mattress cross-legged, a hair short of touching her. So the warm, pliant body he’d woken up pressed against was hers. He’d thought it was a soldier from his commando unit. Pity he hadn’t figured out the truth before he’d panicked and leaped up—or maybe just as well.

      Ah, crap, her guilt trip was working—she looked genuinely bummed by his brush-off. He could give the woman some company without going into details. “You don’t last long in this business without seeing a bit of action. I’ve served in a lot of places. Too many. One dusty, pointless conflict after another.”

      “What had you expected?”

      He shrugged, shamelessly watching as she drew out another wipe and attacked a cheek. At least talking gave him an excuse to stare. “I didn’t get into it to be noble, if that’s what you mean.” Even at twenty, when he’d signed up, he hadn’t been naive enough to think it was all exercises and hard drinking—though that would’ve suited him fine. But he hadn’t counted on seeing so much death and misery in so many places. Like he hadn’t lived through enough of that growing up. He scratched his elbow and found a Band-Aid on it. Did she do that last night, too?

      She closed her eyes and ran the wipe over them. It felt weirdly intimate, watching a woman clean her face—the kind of thing you only usually saw if you were screwing her. And this was not a woman he’d be screwing.

      “Why did you get into it?” she said.

      Deflect attention, a-sap. “You said al-Thawra’s a cover—for what?”

      “You tell me. Who benefits from those conflicts you’ve been sucked into?”

      “No one,” he spit out. Pain stabbed his torso, where that bitch had kicked him.

      “Really?”

      “No one I’ve seen,” he gasped, clutching his side.

      “Maybe I should take a look at your ches—I mean check your ribs.”

      He held up a palm. If he could survive broken ribs without medical help as a kid, he could survive them now. Anyway, if his ribs were cracked, a Band-Aid and nail scissors wouldn’t do shit. And the last thing he needed was those pretty fingers skating all over his chest. “Just bruised.”

      A pause. “But someone benefits, right?”

      “From war? Yeah, journalists.”

      “You think?”

      He shuffled back to rest against