by Tracy Brody
The slump of Mack’s shoulders as he walked around to his truck gave her the impression of a soldier coming back from a lost battle. Except there’d been no winners in this fight.
Thirty-Five
Kristie pulled behind the line of cars at the security checkpoint to get on base. In her rearview mirror, AJ Rozanski flashed his Mustang’s brights and continued on. She waved thanks to tonight’s unlucky escort. Once she reached the inn, she followed orders and searched for a spot to park near a working light.
She turned off the engine and sat there. An empty room hardly motivated her to rush. Isolation had already set in. If she wasn’t at work, where she got to talk with others, she pretty much lived in her room. Things would be better once she deployed and could interact normally. But she still wouldn’t be with Mack. Each heartbeat echoed in her hollow chest.
Over the weekend, she’d met her family for dinner to break the news about her plans to deploy. That meant giving them enough of an explanation to keep them safe without breaking operational security protocols. When would she see them again?
In addition to the rotation of her shift messing with her body clock, being overly cautious all the time was exhausting. Even with her escorts, she was watching her back, checking out cars and faces wherever she went. Each time she caught a glimpse of the tracker she wore or attached to her keyring, it reminded her to be vigilant.
She scanned the lot. When two uniformed soldiers made their way down the aisle of cars to the building’s entrance, she got out. Ahead of her, a man in a wheelchair rolled toward the door, too. He muttered when a bag of groceries slid off his lap to the ground, and oranges scattered in different directions. Kristie scooped up the two that wound up in the grass.
“I can get it,” he mumbled and clumsily maneuvered the chair when she chased after another orange.
The streak of pain in her lower back came from nowhere. Her knees gave way as pain crashed through her body. A strong arm wrapped around her middle in time to prevent her from collapsing to the ground.
Who? What was happening? Another shock tortured her every nerve.
Instead of a cry, she gurgled out a strangled noise. Somehow she ended up in the wheelchair, and the man previously in it, stood beside her. How? He quickly pushed the chair away from the building. Though too disoriented to speak, Kristie comprehended enough to panic, yet her body refused her mental commands.
The side door of the minivan parked in a handicapped spot banged open, revealing a thin, young, dark-haired man waiting inside. She was manhandled out of the chair and into the van before the door slammed closed.
The young guy hunkered into the space between the captain’s chairs. Kristie managed to twitch her arm, but he brought her hands together and secured them with a zip tie. Though it took superhuman effort to hold her head up after the shocks from the stun gun, she craned her neck in search of help. The soldiers she was following had disappeared inside the building, and no one else was in sight. She tried to yell again, only “Help!” sounded like a low, awkward laugh.
By the time he buckled her in, the heavier of the two had shoved the wheelchair toward the building and climbed into the driver’s seat.
How the hell had they gotten on post? Then she saw the base sticker on the windshield. That’d do the trick.
Two crayons lay on the van’s floor, and sunshields were over the middle-row windows. An air freshener was clipped to a vent. Had to be a family’s van, either stolen to get on base or after the men somehow sneaked in. What were the chances it’d been reported stolen, and they’d get stopped leaving post?
She wanted to kick herself for letting her guard down and falling for their ruse. Mack was going to kill her—if she survived. Please don’t let them blame AJ.
When she got a good look at the young thug, she recognized him as the driver of the black SUV she’d seen that day near the airfield. Once he had her bound, he emptied her pockets of her keys—with the whistle and pepper spray and wireless key tracker. He said something as he passed them to the driver, who took one look and chucked them out the window.
Patting her down, he took advantage of her limited mobility, his hands touching places that would normally earn him a knee in the groin. Instead, she stared through him rather than give him any satisfaction from dominating her.
She needed to stay strong.
Working his way along her legs, he found her phone in her right thigh pocket. He checked the screen, then tossed the phone onto the other seat. Please stop now. Please stop there. Please stop. Shit.
Just above her ankle, his hand froze on the concealed holster Ray and Mack insisted on. He pushed up her pant leg and confiscated what could have been her saving grace. His mouth curled into a victorious smile. She bit down, so she didn’t spit in his face. Her chances of escaping dropped like a two-ton bomb.
The man took his seat, and as the van neared the base’s exit, she had to try something. Anything.
The guards only checked vehicles coming in. But if she could open the door? Roll out? The guards had M-4s. In a firefight, she could end up dead, but if she didn’t escape these two, the possibility she’d die was greater. Slowly. Painfully. And put others at risk. She had to try.
With her arms pressed tight against her body, she strained to reach the seatbelt release discreetly. Her fingers brushed over the buckle. Almost there. A lit—
Her body slumped sideways. The shock lasted longer this time. Her teeth gnashed together, and her vision blurred as her eyes teared from the pain. Things came slowly into focus—outside the gate.
Too late. Too late.
To keep from hyperventilating, she lowered her head and drew in slow, deep breaths. Think. Her addled brain couldn’t lock onto Plan B between the effects of the shocks and choking despair.
Keep it together. Keep it together. Be strong. This isn’t over.
Her mind started firing again. All she needed was a few minutes alone to get out of the ties and activate the belly-button-ring tracker. God bless Mack’s overprotective heart. But she didn’t reach to activate it. No, she’d learned her lesson. Wait for the right time. Keep her wits, and don’t give anything away.
The men remained silent, which added to the tension coiled around Kristie. She lost track of their location the farther they drove from base and outside the city. It didn’t matter. Once she got a signal out, Mack and the team would find her. Until then, she’d rely on her SERE training and stall as best she could. She’d failed to evade, but she could still survive. Could look for opportunities to escape. And she would sure as hell resist giving them any useful information.
After about twenty minutes, the van turned off at a dark, one-story clapboard house set back from the road. There were a few houses spread out along the rural road, but no one close enough to see them park behind the house, beside the dark SUV that could definitely be the vehicle that followed her. The men hauled her out and dragged her into the house.
She was led into the kitchen. The driver flicked a switch and dim light emitted from the overhead fixture. Empty food containers and take-out boxes filled a garbage bag and spread across the counter, accounting for the rank odor. A mini-fridge sat in the space allotted for a larger one, and there wasn’t a table or chairs.
They passed through the kitchen into an open living area, and the young guy flung her onto the sagging sofa.
“What do you want with me?” She managed to get herself upright. “No one is going to pay a ransom. I can get you a thousand from an ATM, but my insurance money is tied up.”
Confused expressions preceded a brief exchange between the men. She studied them, and they didn’t give a rip that she knew what they looked like. The younger of the two had a neck tattoo, and more down his arms and hands. The driver was built like a bouncer, and a distinctive scar sliced his right eyebrow in two. If they took the bait and used her ATM card, they’d stand out to anyone viewing security footage.
“You were in Colombia,” the bouncer said with a noticeab
le accent.
“Yes, on a training mission for Colombian pilots on the electronic instrument systems in Sikorski UH-60 Black Hawks.”
He smirked at her technical description. “You, uh”—he paused and circled a hand as if searching for the right word—“pick up girl and American soldiers.”
“Were they Americans?”
Bouncer backhanded her across the right cheek. “You know.” He shook a finger for emphasis—as if the slap hadn’t made his point.
“We got a call to pick up a group of soldiers. One was injured, so we flew them back to the base. There was a girl with them. I don’t know who she was.”
“Tell me where to find these soldiers.”
“How would I know? I’m in aviation. We picked them up, but we weren’t told anything about them or their mission.”
Bouncer looked to Tattoo and gave a jerk of his head. Tattoo’s blow to the side of her head knocked her sideways. Twinkling stars danced in her field of vision, and she lay there until he pulled her back upright.
“You know one. Give me name!”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.” Even though she braced this time, she landed on the floor. Tattoo added a kick to her stomach. Every slap, every punch, every kick fueled her resolve not to tell them anything they could use to hurt anyone she cared about.
She curled into a ball. Her arms and hands still couldn’t reach the belly button ring, but it’d serve these bastards right if they accidentally kicked it on. She managed to separate the Velcro at the bottom of her uniform jacket before they yanked her back up to the couch.
“Tell us soldiers’ names,” Bouncer demanded again.
“It’s over. They don’t have the girl.”
“They killed Juan Pablo.”
“Who?”
“Herrera’s son.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Not. “So, he wants revenge? How much is Herrera paying you? Because it won’t be enough, and you can’t spend it if you’re dead. Do you think he cares whether you live or die? There’s no way to tell which one killed his son. Do you two really think you can take out a whole Special Ops team? Good luck with that, because you have no idea who you’d be taking on. You might get lucky and get one. Then what? They’ll be hunting you down. If you want to stay alive, you should take whatever money you’ve got and disappear. Now.”
The two spoke Spanish too rapidly for her to make out more than a word or two, but the minuscule possibility they’d surrender upon realizing their odds gave her a spark of hope. Better yet, the pair stepped away to keep her from hearing.
Twisting her wrists, she went for the tracker. She hooked a thumb under the ACU uniform coat and then worked her hands underneath her T-shirt. The cuffs were so tight she couldn’t maneuver her hands to get a grip on the ball end of the ring. Keeping her eyes on the men, she tried again. If she could just trap it between her pinkies and turn … Dammit!
Bouncer spoke into his phone. She slid her hands to her lap when Tattoo stood to face her, eyeing her suspiciously. They’d expect her to try to get free. It might earn her another blow or two, which she could deal with, but she could not risk tipping them off. Be patient.
“Necesito ir al baño.” She added a squirm, hoping to convince them she really needed to go.
Tattoo responded to something Bouncer said, then headed to her. He grabbed her arm, jerked her up, and they escorted her to the bathroom.
Bouncer blocked the doorway. “Take uniform off.”
“What?”
“Take off,” Tattoo repeated. The smirky set of his mouth and hard glint in his eyes took a chunk out of the confidence she clung to.
“I can’t.” She held up her bound hands, praying this didn’t go worst-case.
Tattoo pulled out a knife and sliced through the plastic tie. Neither man made a move to touch her. If they thought taking her clothes would keep her from trying to escape, fine, they could have her clothes. She tugged apart the front closure and shrugged out of the sleeves.
Bouncer held his position, keeping the phone to his ear. She unlaced her boots and worked them off. She unfastened her pants, let them drop, then stepped from them, pulling her T-shirt lower. If they had her strip naked, they’d see the belly button ring. Would they take it and her chance at contacting Mack?
She waited, pleading with her eyes for them to let her pass. Bouncer stared back; Tattoo swayed expectantly.
“Can I pee now?”
Bouncer’s head jerked, and he stepped back. Oh, thank God. She brushed past him. When she went to close the door, he wedged his foot in the opening. The death glare she shot him had no impact. Stomping barefoot on his brown loafer would likely get her another bruising rather than a moment of privacy. It didn’t matter. The single window was only about a foot high and over five feet from the ground, running the length of the shower.
She sank onto the toilet. This is not over, you sons of bitches.
The vanity shielded her from view while she twisted the ball of the belly button ring. It clicked into place, keeping her hopes from getting flushed down the virtual toilet. Relief cleared her head.
Was there anything she could use as a weapon? Soap, shampoo, toothbrush. No, no, and no. The shower rod screwed into the wall.
How long could she draw this out? Each minute would bring rescue closer.
Bouncer nudged the door to peek in. At least he was preoccupied on the phone. The rummaging noises from the other room had to be Tattoo.
Were there cleaning supplies under the sink? Doubtful, based on the grunge, but she quickly opened the cabinet to check. Toilet paper. Not helpful.
Why did they want her uniform when she clearly couldn’t escape the bathroom? She washed her hands, then wet the dirty hand towel in cold water to apply to her tender and swollen cheek.
The door swung open. Tattoo thrust a pair of gym shorts at her.
Why? These thugs weren’t being nice guys by giving her something to wear. No. What was their game plan? Warning sirens went off in her head. She stepped into the shorts, rolling the waistband over so they’d stay up.
When she came out, Bouncer wasn’t in sight, but Tattoo took her by the arm, her boots in his other hand. Her oh-shit meter climbed another level when he slung her onto the couch.
He dropped the boots to the floor. “Put on.”
The razor blade was there, within reach, but she had to get it out of the duct tape for it to serve as a weapon. Tattoo was not going to stand there while she unwrapped it. She left the blade in place, pulling on the second boot, and didn’t even have the laces tightened before he crouched. He grabbed her hands and secured them together with a zip tie, tightening until it bit into flesh already raw.
Bouncer reemerged with her uniform and a black duffel bag. He nodded to Tattoo, who pulled her to her feet and steered her toward the door.
“Where are we going?” Fear forced the question out.
“Colombia.” Bouncer tossed her uniform on the couch and dropped her phone atop it. His cool smile mocked her.
She took a step back—right into Tattoo, who shoved her forward.
“You can tell Señor Herrera the names.” His voice dripped with confidence and malevolence.
Thirty-Six
Mack read the Warrant Officer Candidate School application’s essay question again, debating the safe, expected answer or digging deep. Brutal honesty to “Why I want to be an officer” wouldn’t get him very far. He needed to think beyond Kristie Donovan …
Forget it. He didn’t have to finish this tonight. It’d be better to sleep on it. Talk to Ray tomorrow. He pulled up his email to send a message to Colonel Mahinis about getting the necessary endorsement. Wait. What? He clicked back to his inbox. There, in the bold letters of an unread email, was an alert about the activation of Kristie’s GPS tracker.
He couldn’t click fast enough. The map showed the initial location northwest of base. Even though it could be a false alarm, and despite trying to think rationally, both his heart rate
and breathing accelerated. Kristie had flown tonight. Maybe in that area.
During the interminable time it took for the site to load, he snatched up his phone and dialed Kristie’s number. Come on. Come on. Pick up. It rolled to voicemail.
He typed his password to log into the tracking software to pinpoint her current location. An error message popped up on the website.
He was seriously about to lose his shit.
He dialed Rozanski, then retyped his password. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!” Not. Now. He tried a third time. Slower, thinking through his system. Capitalization, numbers, special characters. Right now, he fucking hated password security protocol.
AJ finally answered. “What’s up?”
“Did you escort Kristie Donovan back from the airfield?”
“Dropped her at the gate about twenty-one thirty. Why?”
It was nearly 2330 now. “Her tracker turned on.” Mack checked the email. “Almost an hour ago. She didn’t clear going anywhere with you?” He switched back to the GPS screen. Thank God he was in, and it was finally loading.
“No.” Alarm sounded in AJ’s voice. “Where’s she at?”
Mack stared at the screen. The blip on the screen showed movement. He zoomed out to place the location. Then zoomed out more and followed Kristie’s path since she’d turned on the GPS.
His arms went numb, and his hands tingled. He sucked a deep draw of air and his mouth stayed dry. “Somewhere in—or over—South Carolina.”
Regardless of the lights being off, Mack pounded on Lundgren’s front door. It took a minute before Ray yanked open the door, wearing a scowl that would send a normal person running.
“Herrera’s got Kristie.”
“What? How?” Ray snapped to full readiness and stepped back to let Mack in.
“Don’t know. AJ tailed her to base. About an hour later, her tracker went off. I called, but she didn’t answer.”
“Could she—?” the chief started when Mack paused for a breath.