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The walls of the house were mostly gone, but the bathroom was still private. Four walls, a ceiling and a door complete with lock. Harper stared at the sink, at the faucet that dripped brown rust instead of water, and all she could think was that she couldn't treat the child with her hands so filthy. The chance of infection was too great. But the water had stopped. The electricity was off. Everything in a tiny village outside of Prokupije in the north of Serbia was a shambles.

There was no hospital, no other doctors, and she only had the small bag, barely more than a first aid kit. The child… he was four, maybe five. He spoke no English and her Serbian was terrible, so she couldn't ask him where his mother or father was. Maybe they were out there, with the others in the square, but no. She couldn't think about that right now. She couldn't save them, but the child, the boy… Perhaps….

She looked up from the useless sink to see her own image in the cracked mirror. What was she doing here? She could have taken that job at the USC medical center. She could have gone to Africa, or Asia, worked with one of the relief agencies or the Red Cross. But she'd gone to the U.N. She'd volunteered to go to Kosovo because the war was over, at least officially. She'd never bargained for this.

She closed her eyes and breathed as deeply as she could, trying to think of anything but the carnage in the square. There had been so many.

She'd come with Jelka, who'd lived in this village her whole life. Anya, who'd been an excellent aide and a friend. Jelka had come when her mother hadn't answered her phone. Neither had her aunt, her cousins. They'd driven into the square and the bodies had been everywhere. Harper had known within minutes what had killed them. A nerve agent. Something bad, worse than anything she'd heard of in medical school, or the special training she'd received from the peacekeeping force. The men, women and children had died horribly.

She looked at the baby. It didn't matter that her hands were dirty. The boy was dead. Everything once alive in this town was dead. What she didn't understand was why. No government would sanction this kind of genocide. No independent army she knew of, especially not the Albanians, had the technical capabilities. Who had murdered Jelka's family? Who had brought this nightmare into the world?

She woke with a gasp and for a moment, she thought she was back there, in her tiny apartment with its uncomfortable bed, cracked basin and inconsistent heat. But a few deep breaths and a sharp focus on the familiar comforter brought her home to her own bed in Boyle Heights. The shaking would take a little longer.

The nightmares had started months ago, and were as much a part of her life as her clinic hours. She hated them, hated that she woke up sweating and trembling. There'd been a time, as hard as it was to believe, when she'd gotten sweaty from a hot man in her bed. Now, the only man in her life was a wounded soldier living in her basement, cursing her with every other breath. That is, when he wasn't trying to hide his hard-on for her.

Nate, Seth, they all told her the nightmares would end, that she'd have her life back once again, but she didn't believe it. It was all a major FUBAR, every part of it. Especially the man living in her basement. Seth was a decent guy and she liked him well enough, she just had no desire to be his den mother.

Okay, so he'd gotten a bum break, but he was alive, wasn't he? She knew he resented her doing the amputation, but that wasn't unusual. No matter the circumstances, traumas as severe as amputation required long periods of adjustment. He'd grow accustomed to his limitations and his prosthesis. The sooner the better, because as he was now he was pretty damn useless. She'd already decided that gainful employment for Seth was just the ticket. They could always use the money, but more than that, he needed to see that he was still productive. Maybe he couldn't be soldier of the year, but there was no way he was going back to that life, anyway.

Even if by some miracle they could prove their innocence, how would Seth or Nate or any of them believe in the Army ever again? She knew her country wasn't evil, that it was a small faction of men who believed they were above the law that had caused all the havoc, but her whole world view had been altered irrevocably. That Senator Jackson Raines could publicly call these men, these heroes, traitors to their country…

She shut off that line of thought as she climbed out of bed. There was no use thinking about the mess of a situation. They - Nate, Seth, Boone and Cade, all Delta Force soldiers, along with herself and Kate, the UN accountant, had discovered the dark secret that a Black Ops group from the U. S. had developed a chemical weapon so deadly there was no antidote. They'd escaped with their lives, but little else. Bottom line - she couldn’t do anything about it, and it was useless to try.

She was a doctor, not a soldier. If she could have completely disassociated herself from the whole matter, she would have. All she wanted was to do her job. To keep the clinic going and to lose herself in her work. She didn't want to baby sit Seth, she didn't want to have to hide, she didn't want to live in this house, or have a trauma room in her basement.

Nothing had been right since that one day. Since she'd stood witness to the slaughter of an entire town. Of course she dreamt about it night after night. That day, she'd walked into hell.

Her bathroom floor was cold on her bare feet, but one of the great things about this old house was the water pressure. She turned on the shower, hung her robe and night shirt on the hook on the back of the door, and eased herself under the spray. She thought of nothing but the heat and comfort for several long minutes, then got down to the business of washing.

The more she thought about bringing Seth to work in the clinic, the more she liked the idea. It would get him out of the house, give him a practical way to get used to his prosthetic and it would be a safe place. The kind of people that made use of their services weren't likely to connect Seth, especially the way he looked now, to the wanted posters. She'd encouraged him to do more than grow his hair, but he couldn't stand the mustache or beard. Maybe they could dye his hair, although it would be a shame to change those coppery highlights. Harper smiled, thinking of Seth's reaction if she should dare say such a thing. He wasn't exactly open to his feminine side, was he?

She finished washing her hair, then spread some shave gel on her right leg. She was pasty white, which she'd never been, not even as a kid, but she didn't spend much time outdoors any more. The hiking she loved was a thing of the past, work keeping her a virtual prisoner. It was probably foolish to ignore any other aspect of her life, and if it wasn't quite so chilly out, she'd drive herself up to Angeles National Forest and get herself lost in the trees. Unfortunately, this January was exceptionally cold and wet, and she wanted to hike for pleasure, not punishment.

After finishing her left leg, she rinsed all the soap, shampoo and gel off, wishing she didn't have to go down to the basement at all. Wishing she didn't know that Seth was still so angry, wishing…

Wishing she had a man in her home who wanted her. Wanted to be there. She was lonely. Not because she had no real friends. That was nothing new. She didn't trust a lot of people, not in that intimate way she saw all around her. That had never been her style. But she wasn't one to deny herself when it came to men. She liked them, had always liked them. Not for keeps, of course, but for a week or two? If the chemistry was there, why not?

The chemistry hadn't even been alive in her since that day in Serbia. She didn't even want to think about how long she'd been without. She'd considered Seth, naturally, but he was so… So pissed. At her. Some women might get off on that whole macho, anger thing, but not her. Not yet. But if something didn't change, she wasn’t guaranteeing a thing.

She grabbed the towel off the rack, and fifteen minutes later she was in jeans and sweater, her sneakers tied, her hair as neat as it ever got. No makeup, not for work.

Downstairs, the coffee pot had done its job and she filled two mugs. Black for Seth and light for her. Then she headed down to the basement of doom.

Seth was up and dressed, which he always was, and he was on the floor, doing one-armed push-ups. Admirable in any other patient, but Seth took it too far. He wouldn't stop until he reached one hundred, and then he'd collapse, sometimes on his stump, and he would be shaky and weak for too long. All her talk of moderation went in one ear and out the other. Stubborn ass.

She put his coffee down and waited, watching the muscles in his back, the way his butt clenched. From this angle, he was perfect. You had to know him to see that he was one push-up away from a nervous breakdown.

He did the whole collapse thing, and of course, got up too soon. She ignored his red face and rapid breathing completely as she peeled the sock off his stump.

Seth stared over her shoulder, like always. He never complained about how she touched him, but he didn't participate, either. It was as if she were working on someone else's body, and that had to stop. Now.

"So how would you like a job?"

He turned sharply. "What?"

"A job. Work. The end of you moping all day."

"What kind of a job?"

"Don't get excited. You don't get to kill anyone. We could use another aide at the clinic."

"Aide?"

She used her hands to feel his stump. The blood flow was good, the scar was doing beautifully. But there was no callous from his prosthetic, which meant he wasn't wearing it enough. "Yeah, stocking the exam rooms, cleaning up, filing. That kind of thing."

He didn't say anything, but the vein on his jaw spoke volumes.

"It's not glamorous, but it'll be good for you. You'll get better at using the hand. It won't replace physical therapy, but it'll accelerate your progress."

"So I can do what?"

"I don't know. Get a life, maybe?"

He snorted, which was something she'd grown disturbingly used to. She held his arm to the side, so she could examine a bruise that was starting to yellow. "Is this still bothering you?"

"Yeah, a little."

"I'll call Noah."

"For that?"

"Making sure the prosthetic fits perfectly is his job. You won't wear it if it's uncomfortable."

"It's always uncomfortable."

"You'll get used to it if you wear it enough. It's not easy, but you've faced harder things, I'm sure. Don't you want to be able to pick things up? To hold a cup of coffee? Your dick?"