BANG! BOOM!
You have got to be kidding me! Shock waves shook the ground. Kruze worked his jaw to keep his eardrums from blowing out, even as he stiffened his body and enclosed Banks in as much safety as he had to give. A boulder as big as a gawddamned house—an American house, not the hovels these poor mountain people lived in—landed square behind the convoy, behind the very jeep he and Banks were hiding under. Holy shit! Talk about one helluva close call. A yard nearer and it would’ve crushed the jeep and them with it.
When the vibrating thunder ceased, so did the shooting. Smaller rocks continued to rain down on the convoy. Kruze guessed the rag-tag army was hiding beneath the other vehicles if they were smart. At last, the rockslide slowed to a trickle of bangs, thuds, and hisses, then stopped.
With his entire body still wrapped protectively around Banks, Kruze cocked his head to better hear beyond what had proven to be the perfect hiding place. More yelling. More bellowing. But the noises sounded crazy-happy instead of pissed, angry, or hurt. Shooting recommenced—until some guy with a voice as deep as that growling landslide, started singing a somber, respectful song. The yelling and shooting ceased as quickly as it began. Given the diversity of dialects, Kruze didn’t understand every word being sung, just ‘Pesnê,’ their word for praise.
Well, I’ll be damned. These simple mountain people, as rude and cruel as they could be, were praising Allah. They must’ve killed the assassin. The reverent song lasted until the rebels circled the massive rock that could’ve crushed Kruze and Banks to death.
“They’re back. I’m scared,” Mizz Brianna Banks whispered, her breath a soft warm feather that didn’t feel half bad when she huffed into the hollow of his sweaty neck.
Kruze retracted his arms and hands from her face. “Deal with it,” he growled quietly, his elbows now tucked to his side and his hands flat to the dirt. He was ready to push up and away. Any minute now…
“They stopped shooting. Why don’t we make a break for it?”
“Because here is safe, but out there is certain death. Keep quiet.” These guys expected them to run. Kruze didn’t intend to be that kind of stupid. He wasn’t moving until he was sure he and Banks could get away without being seen or shot in the back.
Kruze was all male. As a Navy SEAL, he’d seen combat in some of the world’s worst places. He was bigger boned, thicker muscled, and a helluva lot heavier than the dainty, entitled celebrity mashed beneath him. He was one of America’s baddest badassed warriors, by hell, and he could be a mean son of a bitch. He’d faced death too many times to count, and he’d ended every HVT he’d ever been ordered to hunt. He’d survived the harshest weather, in the worst places, and the worst disasters known to man. He wasn’t made to fail.
But he wasn’t immune to the soft, feminine curves against his belly and thighs, or the tender brush of this woman’s breasts against his much harder chest muscles. Or the quivering terror in her voice, and that heart, its beat so loud he was fairly certain it was climbing up her throat. He’d seen terror before, in the eyes of men, women, and little kids without hope. Brianna Banks was them, her pride and ego stripped away, willing to do anything to survive.
If she’d been alone, she’d probably think she stood a chance running from those men out there. She’d bolt. Which proved yet again, she had no business being this deep inside Turkey’s Eastern Anatolia Region. Do-gooders like her should stay home where they belonged. Because, when they didn’t, once they’d overstayed their welcomes—if they’d ever been welcome in the first place—some unfortunate SEAL team received orders to retrieve the idiots. And sometimes those men died. For what? The life of a journalist who’d turn on them as soon as there was money to be made? Kee-rist! When would people learn?
Growling, Kruze forced his focus back on the endgame of getting Banks out of his life and himself back to the States. He’d been down this road before, and because this woman was who she was and did what she did for a living, he didn’t care if she was scared. She should be.
Inhaling a quiet breath, he wondered how long their reprieve would last.
He’d no more than exhaled, when one of the rebels yelled, “Americans!” Every fighter around that rock scrambled to find him and Banks. More bellowing. More gunfire.
Ouch. Damn it. A ricochet caught Kruze’s left biceps. High. Just skimmed the meaty muscle near his shoulder joint; nothing to worry about. He’d treat it later.
But the boots pounding past their location concerned him now. He and Banks were literally hiding in plain sight. It’d only take one sharp-eyed man or woman to spot them and raise an alarm, maybe kill them both where they were hiding. Yet Kruze knew the jittery nerves of an army under attack, especially after a boulder the size of Rhode Island had landed where it had. These guys were hyped-up on adrenaline and fueled by religious zeal. They fanned out in all directions and up both sides of the canyon. Again, not a good time to make a break for it.
Fortunately, enough rocks and dirt blocked one side of the Jeep to provide a quantum of cover. Kruze shifted his hips, aware that his thigh holster might be digging into the trembling body beneath him, but not caring one bit if it were. He knew he was being an ass, but he refused to baby Banks. She’d asked for this, well, hello Karma. Banks was going to get precisely what she’d had coming to her.
Turkey was off-limits to United States civilians due to its high level of terrorism, arbitrary detentions, and, oh, guess what? Increased risk to Americans. Wanna bet Banks hadn’t even checked with the US State Department before she’d trotted her ass across whatever border she’d breached to get here? Journalists! The bane of every active-duty soldier, airman, sailor, and Marine. Probably Coasties, too.
Planning how to get her out of this country alive, Kruze watched from beneath the jeep’s undercarriage as far as he could see. By the time the ragged rebel army returned from their futile search, they were still agitated but also hungry and tired. The few women in the convoy had set up camp, and delicious aromas wafted from the side of the road.
Most of the dust from the landslide had settled, the sun was gone, and night had fallen. In developing countries like Turkey, electricity was not readily available everywhere or to everyone. The farther away a man traveled from the cities, the fewer amenities. In mountainous altitudes and narrow canyons like this one, the sun went down extra early. Nights were a helluva lot darker and would only get colder.
Not that Princess Banks was cold yet. She couldn’t be, not wedged under him and into the rut like she was, not with his massive body providing enough heat to melt the puddles of ice. But they couldn’t stay where they were much longer. Hiding in plain sight was only good in small doses. Plus, the miracle of the boulder still attracted plenty of attention. Too soon, these wild men would start drinking and dancing around that big rock, praising Allah with gunfire and song. Therein lay the real problem, how to get the hell out of Dodge before this op turned into a bigger clusterfuck than it already was.
Chapter Two
He doesn’t remember me. After all this time, he’s forgotten that night in Paris. The revelation shouldn’t hurt, but it did. Of all the men in the entire United States who could’ve been sent to rescue her, why on Earth did it have to be Kruze Sinclair? Not that Bree cared. He’d certainly had no trouble leaving her before, and she’d bet her bottom dollar, he’d do it again.
Her teeth chattered. She couldn’t catch her breath. Couldn’t think clearly, not with full-fledged terror stuck in her throat like an entire Thanksgiving meal, chestnut dressing included. Nothing had gone as she’d expected once she’d crossed from Iraq into Turkey. And now this guy. Why’d it have to be Kruze Sinclair? Why here? Why now?
Not that it mattered. Neither did it matter that he was still as thick, solid, and heavy as she remembered. She was just thankful to be away from the heathens who’d imprisoned her the last two horrible months. The friendly translator she and her Turkish companion Mehmet had hired before their journey into Turkey had
lied. These men weren’t the Kurds she’d thought she’d arranged to speak with at all. They were vicious, ugly, despicable thugs, rebels who’d instantly demeaned her and had taken Bree and her companion prisoner. They’d stolen her equipment, sat phones, tablets, and cameras, too. She had no idea where her small duffle of extra clothes, cosmetics, and shoes went.
One pair of the dozen extra-soft, extra-warm socks she’d bought in New York City—just one—was all Bree wanted. Her bare feet were wet, cold, and dirty, had been since the rain two days ago, and she was sick. Her chest burned with congestion, her heart hurt, and her body ached from head to toe. The get-up she wore made her condition worse. It was nothing but thin rags layered over thinner rags, some other woman’s castoffs, not meant to keep her warm. They’d stunk when she’d been forced to put them on; they stank worse now. Bree couldn’t help it; she shivered. She’d been cold and dirty for so long.
It was hard not to inhale the pheromones drifting off the larger-than-life body poised over her. She was trapped, crammed into a deep, frozen rut, with a steaming-hot male body holding her down. He’d smelled of cedar and spice aftershave, and sex then. He smelled of clean sweat and frigid air now, both somehow the epitome of Kruze Sinclair. The intimate scent took her back to that single night of passion almost four years ago. She’d adored everything about him then. Until the sun came up…
Bree shook off her foolish trip down memory lane. There was no sense feeling worse than she already did. “Where’s everyone else?” she asked the almighty, taciturn savior she’d known in a different lifetime.
Of course, he didn’t answer. Bree wanted to dig her fingers into that thick beard and force him to look down at her, to really see who he’d rescued. But she’d been fighting for her life for so long, she didn’t have any fight left. All Bree could see of him now was a small portion of his neck and the underside of his whiskered chin. He’d looked different the night they’d been together, but he’d grown a thick beard since. A light-gray, woolen pashmina, one she’d give anything to borrow, draped his thick, muscular neck, the kind of neck a man developed after packing plenty of heavy loads. Once upon a long mistake ago, she’d kissed that neck. They’d played like lovers in the bed and shower, on the balcony. What she wouldn’t give to change the morning after.
Tonight, his shirt and pants were camouflage OD green, black, and brown. His dirty padded jacket was the same. She knew he was former military, but he wasn’t a SEAL. Couldn’t be. They were nice.
When he’d first slid down those rocks and greeted the rebels audaciously like he had, she’d been impressed. But Bree hadn’t recognized him then. She’d been too afraid he was just another one of the rebels, maybe their lookout. He certainly hadn’t acted any better, and he’d greeted them as if he’d known them. Even when they’d started shooting and he’d tossed her over his shoulder, she’d assumed he was just another jerk, dragging her off to kill or rape her. Not to hide her or save her.
She’d lived under the fear of death and rape for sixty-three long days and nights now, and this guy was as wild and fierce as the others. Only when he’d forced her to crawl under the jeep had she realized he wasn’t going to hurt her. He’d already done enough of that in Paris.
“When I tell you to run, Princess, roll your ass out from under here and get behind that boulder,” Kruze growled, his voice tight, as if he didn’t want to waste time talking to her.
That made no sense. Why should he be disgusted with an American he’d obviously been sent to rescue? Did he know who she was? Had he recognized her? Was that why the disdain?
“Most everyone’s back in camp,” he continued in a nasty tone. “These guys are hungry, and they’re tired, but they’re also pissed you got away. Once you’re behind the boulder, stay put. I’ll be right behind you.”
Bree had read the article how SEAL Team Six had rescued that American woman from Somali pirates years ago. Those SEALs had all been kind, sweet, and overly protective of her. They’d laid down their lives for her, and they’d treated her with the utmost respect. Why couldn’t Kruze act more like them?
“Did you hear me, Princess?” he snapped, his angry breath a quick huff of frozen vapor in her face.
“Yes, yes, s-s-sir.” Trying to be brave, she informed Kruze that, “I’m not a princess. D-d-don’t you remember—?”
“Kee-rist! I don’t care who you think you are. There’s still a couple assholes searching that side of the canyon.” He heaved his heavy body off hers. “They’re going west. We’re going east. Now go! Run!”
“Important? Me? No, not me. I’m just—" Bree intended to tell him they’d met before in Paris, and that she was too sick and injured to walk, much less run.
“Move your ass, gawddamnit! Do what I said! Now! Run!”
Oh, Lord, okay then. Propelled by so much unexpected vehemence, Bree sucked in a breath and scurried out from under the vehicle to her knees. In the process, she scraped her backbone on the jeep’s undercarriage when she lifted prematurely to her feet. Ouch, that hurt! But what were a few more bruises and scrapes after all she’d lived through? Lifting her ragged excuse of a skirt, she ran like the wind. Rather, she stumbled over the debris left by the slide, over rocks and through the rutted road, to where her grumpy savior had ordered her to go.
Amazing. The boulder was as big as a house. It could’ve killed her and Kruze, too. By then, Bree had enough fear in her heart to power a freight train. If only she could stop shaking. If only Kruze wasn’t such an ass.
Feeling her way to the gargantuan rock, Bree didn’t crouch to her knees until she was hidden in shadows as dark and cold as what she imagined the other side of the moon was like. To be without light or sunshine was her worst fear. But to be caught and put back into that pit, in that horrible, narrow hole at the rebel camp…
Dear Lord, no. Don’t let them do that to me again.
With her heart beating out of sync and frantically whacking her ribs like an unbalanced bongo, Bree knelt and bowed her head to the massive stone, not in homage, but in relief. For days now, she’d eaten nothing but camp scraps, and she’d had to fight the rebels’ dogs for those meager offerings. She hadn’t been given more than a small, eight-ounce bottled water each morning, and had had to make it last the day.
Bree was beyond weak. Something was wrong with her heart, and the pinch in her empty stomach hurt worse every day. She honestly didn’t know how much longer she could last. Her fingernails were filthy and shredded from digging to escape that wretched hole. There wasn’t a part of her that didn’t scream for mercy, and she desperately needed a long, warm bath.
But her physical complaints were nothing compared to the abhorrent crime she’d witnessed. These rebels were unspeakably cruel, a trait she never would’ve ascribed to the Kurdish people. She now knew that these weren’t representative of the gentle Kurds. Instead, they were outlaws, a lawless gang of opportunists with no moral compass. They’d tortured Mehmet to death. Her American credentials and passport were the only items that saved her from the same demise, but even they were gone now. She couldn’t bear to think of what lay ahead if they recaptured her.
“Time to move, Princess.”
Oh, dear Lord! She nearly jumped out of her skin when Kruze appeared silently at her side. The big man dropped to one knee, his massive grip on her tender elbow tight and cruel. A large, sturdy canvas bag was strapped over one meaty shoulder, a short-stock rifle over his other.
“Don’t touch me!” Bree jerked out of his grasp, intent on setting boundaries right damned now. She refused to be treated badly, especially by another American. By Kruze Sinclair, the ass! She’d had enough!
“Then start climbing, your highness,” he ordered sarcastically, jerking his arrogant head at the stone wall from where all the shooting had started.
“What’s your problem? I thought SEALs were supposed to be nice.”
“That’s your first mistake, Princess. I’m no SEAL. Move it!”
“Bu
t you’re… But I’m…” That was all Bree got out, with her heart beating as loudly as it was. She meant to inform this jerk that she knew him, that she was weak from hunger and dehydrated. That she was injured, too sick to go on, much less run for her life. But she’d gotten up too quickly, and she’d been hungry for far too long. Her chin came up and her head fell back.
“Wow,” she muttered, staring like a brainless ninny at the dark, cloudy sky. “Look at all those stars up there.”
But there couldn’t be stars in all those clouds, and they wouldn’t be spinning if there were.
Too late. The big, black, Turkish sky reached down and swallowed her whole.
Chapter Three
If he didn’t know better, Kruze would swear the universe had it out for him. Usually, he was lucky with women, but this one was proving damned difficult. This journalist had attitude. Now? Out here in the middle of nowhere Turkey? With a pissed-off, hostile band of jackasses on her six? The nerve!
At least, he’d caught Mizz Banks before she’d face-planted. Then, because he had no choice if he wanted to stay alive, he hoisted her scrawny ass over his shoulder, and together, they sneaked into the night. Kee-rist! They still had a gawddamned mountain to climb, but now, he had to do it with twice the load. Damn all know-it-all journalists to Hell.
With steadfast, sure steps, Kruze readjusted his gear bag while he traversed around rocks and through the scrubby pines that dotted the lower portion of these canyons. In minutes, he began the arduous climb up the opposite side he’d slid down before. Princess Banks weighed next to nothing. That alone should’ve been a plus to this day gone miserably wrong. But it wasn’t, not with everything Kruze knew about women.
Damned (SOBs Book 4) Page 2