Page 31 of Her Tempting Protector

They were part of her real family. Over the years, she had realized that she could create her own family, and slowly, it had increased. A few people had slipped in fast, like two members of the SEAL team who had rescued her and a couple of doctors and nurses that she’d served with, but her actual family? Nope.

She looked down at the pistol, unable to believe she was once again in a life and death situation. What had she been thinking, coming to Africa? She knew that there was always a risk. Then she considered Shada and her swollen face. And her poor abused children, and that beautiful newborn. That’s why she was here.

And maybe, just maybe, Cullen?

Those blue eyes. Was he her actual life?

That wasn’t really possible, was it?

* * *

Cullen had called Kane and asked for some coordinates. The man could pinpoint a nit on a gnat. So, he was able to pull up a small, or as Kane had described it, a microscopic municipality. Where his friend came up with his descriptions, he’d never know.

“Cut the shit Kane, does it have a car, a truck, a bus? Anything? I need to transport a woman in a prone position. A moped isn’t going to cut it.”

“I heard you the first time,” Kane said. “I’m telling you that five klicks north from where I’ve got you pinpointed, there’s a village with a couple of trucks. You’re golden, as long as you can get in there and steal them without getting killed.”

“If your intel is good, my skills can keep up,” Cullen assured him.

That had been an hour and a half ago. It was still an hour before sunrise, and he was staring at the two trucks in question. They were fugly, there was no other term for them. Normally when it came to German engineering, Cullen was a fan. But this looked like a VW mated with one of those albino yaks. Yep, the two trucks were Unimogs. But they were beasts. They were fantastic in all types of terrain. He bet it would do great in the Baja 1000 Desert Race, except that no American in his right mind would drive anything so butt-ugly. So yeah, he’d scored. Sort of…

He continued walking the perimeter of the small village, there were fourteen houses in all. They were surrounded by rows and rows of sorghum and millet plants, which explained why they had trucks. Score one was the trucks, score two was the plant cover and score three was making it before dawn. He saw a line of clothes hanging from a clothesline. Never passing up a possible advantage, he grabbed a headscarf, a hijab, a raggedy pair of pants that wouldn’t cover his ankles but might fit around his waist and a huge football jersey for the reigning soccer team of Sudan.

They’ll probably be more pissed about him stealing the team jersey than the truck.

Just before he was ready to head back to the trucks, he saw a flash of white on the ground. He grinned when he picked up the extra-large thobe.

Thank you, Allah!

With this, he could at least cover up his uniform and blend in at a distance. Now for getting one of the trucks out of here without anybody noticing.

He checked them both out, the blue truck had better tires, so that was the likely winner, but the true test was going to be which one had the fullest fuel tank.

Both were unlocked, so he went up to the red one.

“Come on, Baby, give Cullen what he needs.” Quietly he opened the door of the first and carefully tipped the visor. Down fell the keys into his hand. He plugged the starter key into the ignition and turned one click. A half tank of fuel and shitty tires. Please, please, please say the one with good tires has more petrol.

He crept over to the puke yellow truck and opened the door. He held out his hand, tipped the visor and nothing.

“Fuck me running!” he whispered under his breath. He looked around the cab, checked the glove box.

Nothing.

“Think, Lyons.”

He went to the front of the truck and swept along the front tire underneath the fender.

Thank you, little baby Jesus.

He put the key into the ignition, turned a click and saw gold. Almost a full tank of fuel and damn near new tires. He scoped out the back of both truck beds, not surprised to find full jerry cans of petrol. He grabbed the one from the loser truck and tucked it in next to the one he intended to commandeer.

Here near the side of the husking shed, the trucks were stored on a plot that was on a bit of a rise, probably to let the rainwater drain away and prevent flooding into the shed. Another bit of luck that he’d take any day of the week. He wasn’t going to start the truck here, with that damned diesel engine it would wake everybody in all fourteen homes. Instead, he released the brake and put it in neutral, then started pushing it toward the road.

After the first three steps, Cullen’s legs were beginning to hurt.

You should have been training more, not working on your house, you dumb bastard.

Cullen’s muscles were on fire by the time he got the truck pushed to the road. As soon as it hit the thick red clay of the road, he fired up the engine and started driving, praying that the villagers would just assume it was a truck driving by. He didn’t need a truck chase in the middle of Africa.