by Zoe Dawson
She released a sigh of relief. “Saint?”
“He sprung Aella, but we separated to come back to the airport when we saw the explosions.”
Fast Lane had broken up his team to come back for them? That shouldn’t surprise her at all. She was the one who had been responsible for exfiling them and instead, he and his team had just saved her life and possibly given Rose a chance at survival.
“Who was in that jeep?” he growled. His head tipped toward her as he turned so that she was sheltered by his large frame.
She looked up at him, afraid that if she opened her mouth to answer, she was going to cry. Burrowing into his shoulder, she tried to swallow, the growing pressure making it impossible.
His gaze narrowed, and the angle of his jaw hardened. “Who, babe?”
Her panic, her fear, her relief at having him there, came dangerously close to the surface, and Solace reached for the core of strength in her, her training, her resilience kicking in. She answered, her voice breaking badly, “Rose. It was Rose. She’s in bad shape, severe concussion, dehydrated, injured. I don’t even know the extent of her wounds. We’ve been running for what seems like forever. I thought—” Closing her eyes against the sudden welling of tears, she clenched her jaw, feeling as if she were about to shatter.
She heard him swear; then he gripped her chin and brought her head up, forcing her to look at him. “Solace, listen to me,” he commanded gruffly. “I know things have been scary and hard and you’ve been through hell, but I need you to tell me what you know about where they’re taking Rose and why.”
Startled into stillness, transfixed by his touch, Solace stared up at him, the urgency of his words registering. She closed her eyes, and a violent shiver coursed through her, then she forced herself to pull it together.
Concentrating on what he’d told her, she met his gaze, indicating with a small movement of her head that she understood. Fast Lane stared at her, his eyes dark, then he gave her head a gentle little shake. “Come on, babe,” he coaxed, his voice soft and husky.
She managed a weak smile and nodded. “Apparently Omar has put a bounty on Agent Mikos’s head. Those men thought one of us might be Agent Mikos. They were taking us to rendezvous with Omar at the airport to collect the money. Once they realize Rose isn’t Agent Mikos, they will kill her or worse.”
“Pit, give her some water. Can you run?”
Pitbull moved alongside her with a limp and handed her his canteen. She drank thirstily, then handed it back. Fortified with the water, she nodded. “I can run. We will not let her die.”
Aella Mikos.
His world narrowed down to that name, that woman.
She’d eluded him for the last time. His men were on their way here with a white woman. It had to be her.
Warsame Omar paced the torn-up tarmac at the decimated airport, excited for the first time since he’d seen the perfect, lovely Yasmiin. His blood ran hot thinking about taking that smooth, lithe body. He would also have her back, all in good time. So much was at stake here, and nothing excited him more than winning. The whole world had been handed to him. He was no longer under his father’s shadow. He was the master of his future as long as everything with the coup went as planned.
His two best men, Taifa and Magan, had truly outdone themselves this time. Aella Mikos would be his soon. He was hoping that the man who had been with her, that killing machine—hard, fast, ruthless and skilled—had perished. He looked around at the men who surrounded him, a mixture of Al-Shabab and his crew. Al-Shabab, nothing but Somalian thugs—strong, solid, dangerous, perverse and reliable—had their own agenda.
But a woman. Nothing but possessions. That’s all they would ever be, with their faithless, twisted hearts. He hated their unpredictability. He loathed having their emotional presence anywhere in his life. A wife was seen and not heard. She spread her legs when commanded and bore children to carry on the fight.
His phone rang and he eagerly answered it. “Yes.”
“I was sorry to hear about your father.” The cool collected voice of that Bosnian bitch iced across the line. “He will surely be missed. Aella Mikos can be a handful. Have you recovered her?”
He knew her underlying jab at him was well aimed. Zasha was rubbing his face in the fact that the woman had murdered his father. Her condolences were empty, like her. He gritted his teeth. “No, but I am close,” he snapped. “What is it you want?”
“Only that the deal I had with your father still stands. Don’t try to screw me over, Warsame. You won’t like the results.” Her tone was deadly quiet.
“Don’t threaten me, woman,” he shouted into the phone. “I will honor my father’s agreement. You have been…resourceful and true to your word so far.”
“Has the palace fallen?” she asked, completely unruffled by his loss of control.
His fist tightened around the phone, his gut burning. He waited until he got his fury under control, then he responded. “No, not yet. They are a strong and resilient force, but no matter, they will not prevail.”
“I told you we had limited time,” she said, the cold in her voice seeping through the phone with icy disdain. “Once the US gets wind of a coup in this country, they will come here in force to restore order. I need this chaos to continue for at least another twenty-four hours. Are we clear on that timeline?”
“The timeline will be met,” he said with distaste, his jaw rigid. “We will be victorious.”
“I’m counting on it, Warsame.” Zasha’s tone sent a chill across the back of his neck.
She disconnected the call, and he gritted his teeth again just as the sound of a jeep’s engine roared into range.
He turned as the vehicle pulled up.
He frowned. There were only two men inside along with a woman who had a hood over her head. She rocked with the movement of the jeep, her head lolling, her chin to her chest. He strode forward and grabbed the driver who was bleeding on his arm. “Where are Taifa and Magan?”
“Dead. We were ambushed.”
“Ambushed?” He turned his attention to the woman. He nodded to one of his men across from him and he pulled the hood off the woman, revealing her face.
He reared back and scowled. It wasn’t Aella. Her face was all wrong, her body lithe and slim where the ATF agent was more toned and curvier.
“What happened? Who is this woman?”
The driver of the jeep clutched his arm, sweat pouring off his face. “We don’t know. She was with another woman.”
“Did she have dark hair?”
He nodded and Omar was confused. He didn’t think this other woman could be Aella either. She was in the company of a man and six children. He motioned his medic over and they helped the man out of the jeep, taking him to what was left of the American’s headquarters.
“Bring her,” he ordered as a man slipped her out of the jeep and threw her unconscious body over his shoulder.
Once inside the rubble-strewn building, his men set her down against a cracked and pitted wall. The medic quickly bandaged the man’s arm. Warsame gestured to the female.
“What is wrong with her?”
His man lifted her head, pried open both her eyes, then checked the head wounds. “She has a concussion. She needs medical attention, water and rest.”
“Wake her up.”
The medic pulled something out of his bag and waved it under her nose. The woman’s hands came up pushing whatever he held away from her as her head rolled against the wall and she opened her eyes.
“Who are you?”
Her jaw flexed and her eyes went hard. “Where am I?”
Warsame crouched down, crowding the medic away from her. He grabbed her jaw and forced her to focus on him. “Who are you?” he asked again, squeezing.
Neither the pain in her face or her gasp deterred him.
“Go to hell,” she said.
He backhanded her across the face. He wasn’t going to get anything out of her. She was still against the wall, having
lapsed back into unconsciousness.
“Kill her,” he said as one of his men pulled out a side weapon and pointed it at the woman’s head.
“Wait!” he shouted. “The Americans are so keen on leaving no one behind. She might be useful.”
He grabbed the collar of the nearest man and said, “Find out where those girls came from.”
“What?”
“The children…what village did they live in?”
“Yes sir,” the man said, nodding. He pulled out a cell and started to talk.
He was tired of chasing ghosts and shadows and losing men and machinery. When he found the children—including Yasmiin—he would find that bitch ATF agent and her protector. He would reclaim his future wife and the two people who were responsible for his father’s death would meet their end.
“Fast Lane, this is base. How copy?”
Iceman had been listening to GQ’s voice going out on the airwaves for about thirty minutes. They had made good time out of Thebephatswa Air Base, Botswana, Africa and had crossed the Kenyan border into Somalia forty-five minutes ago.
At least they had a rough idea where the team was when the coup happened. Yet there hadn’t been any response from Fast Lane. They would keep trying instead of assuming the worst—Fast Lane and his team were KIA.
“Fast Lane, this is base. How copy?” GQ repeated.
“Go for Fast Lane.”
Iceman would recognize that gravelly voice anywhere. The excellent, ball-busting lieutenant who headed up 2-Stroke’s team.
“Hey,” Iceman said, “you regular bastards need some help I hear.” Fast Lane’s team was regular SEALs where Iceman, Preacher, GQ and Kodiak were from SEAL Team 6 or DEVGRU which stood for Development Group. It was a separate command under JSOC—Joint Special Operation Command and was considered a Tier 1 unit while the regular SEAL teams were under SOCOM, Special Operations Command and considered Tier 2 units. Tier 2 SEALs focused mostly on direct action. Tier 1 had a wider scope and included counterterrorism with a tight focus on close-quarter combat.
“Who am I talking to, so I know whose ass to kick.”
Iceman and his fellow SEALs chuckled. “Iceman.”
“Ice, good to have you on this goatfuck.”
“Copy that. Where can we pick you up?”
“Negative. We are in pursuit of a CIA agent who has been abducted by the rebels.”
“Copy that. Name?”
“Rose Sinema.”
“Where have they taken her?”
“The airport. We are currently on foot and approximately ten klicks from the airport. Can you intervene?”
“Copy that. We’ll head to the airport now. Approximate rebel force?”
“Unknown.”
“Copy. There is another team coming in, but they have some mechanical issues and are delayed. Rock’s team.”
“Copy that. The more the merrier. We secured Agent Mikos but got separated from Saint, who is currently with her and six children they rescued.”
Kids. Son of a bitch, he hated when kids were involved. “Good Copy. We’ll rendezvous at the airport. Ice out.”
Iceman got the coordinates for the airport and relayed them to the pilot, who banked the chopper and headed toward the former spec op base. “Land one klick away so we can go in quiet,” he said into his mic.
Once on foot, they approached the airport. As they hid themselves, a chopper took off from a clear spot on the ruined helipad. As soon as it disappeared, he motioned Preacher to take a look-see.
Preacher’s voice came in low over the comm. “Small party, boss. Looks like four inside the bombed-out headquarters, including a woman.”
“Is she mobile?”
“No…wait, she woke up and it’s not good for her. One of her captors sent the other guys away and is pulling at his belt.” The static over the comm crackled in the silence. “Whoa, she’s got his weapon, took him out and she’s running. Bad ass. She’s headed toward the bombed-out barracks, Ice.”
“Move in and take out the tangos. I’ll find the woman.”
“Copy that. Ah, don’t let her shoot you. I don’t feel like patching you up.” GQ and Kodiak chuckled as they headed toward the headquarters while he made a beeline for the barracks. He rushed out into the open, hunching as he ran, then moving alongside walls shattered by bombs. Sidestepping rubble. The building loomed.
It was dark inside, and he heard several pops of gunfire. His guys doing their job. He moved forward.
“Stop right there,” a female voice ordered.
“US military, ma’am,” he said. “We’re here to rescue you.”
Someone moved in the shadows in slow movements. The woman sounded like she was on her last leg. “You’re safe,” he said into the gloom. He saw the muzzle of a pistol materialize in the sunlight from the large hole in the roof.
“Name?” she asked, the muzzle wobbling.
“Kit Snow…Iceman.”
“Tangos down, boss. Where you at?” Preacher asked.
He keyed his mic and said, “Barracks. I’ve found her, but she’s currently not trusting me.”
“Want us there?”
“No, do a perimeter check. You’ll only spook her.”
She came into the light, her brow furrowed. “Did you call me a spook?” Her unique whiskey-brown eyes were unfocused, but she kept them on him, blinking slowly with very thick lashes.
She was a mess, but even the grime and blood on her face couldn’t mask the delicate features. His gaze traveled over her dark coffee brown hair, choppy and wildly layered, matted with blood at her temple. She was tall and lithe, her shirt torn, bloody and dirty, her jeans filthy. She’d been through hell. The visible gashes on her temple and cheek told him she probably had a severe concussion.
He softened his voice. “No…why don’t you give me the gun, and we’ll get you some medical attention?”
“How can I be sure you’re not some Bosnian who’s good with an American accent?”
Bosnian? Geezus, what the hell was going on in this godforsaken country?
“Christopher Snow, ma’am. US military. My friends call me Kit.”
“I’m not about to trust any handsome bastard who walks in here and claims he’s an American.”
“Now don’t get all flirty on me, Rose.” Her expression remained unchanged as he studied her, admiring her beauty, the lethal edge of it.
She stiffened, then a wry smile slipped across her face. She was scared, but she covered it up well, except for the way the skin around her eyes stretched. “You could have gotten that intel. I’ve been in this country for months.”
He keyed his mic. “Fast Lane, you got anything personal on this woman. She’s currently holding me at gunpoint.”
“She’s from California. Eats fish tacos by the truckloads and prefers beer. That help?”
“Fast Lane says you eat a lot of fish tacos, California girl. I’ll buy you a beer when this is over.”
Her shoulders slumped and she lowered the pistol. “God, do you have any water?” Then she started to collapse.
He ran to her, caught her before she hit the ground, her body soft and warm in his arms. “Gotcha, California girl.”
11
Professor got water out of the vending machine, cracked it open and downed the contents in a few long swallows. They had barely made it across Lake Victoria when the chopper they were in started smoking. It forced them to land at Moi Air Base in the Eastleigh suburb, east of Nairobi, Kenya. So close, yet still too far away to be of any help to Fast Lane’s eight-man team. They were currently cooling their heels. Many of his teammates were stretched out in the nearby hangar waiting for their ride to assist their fellow Team Seven buddies. Blitz, D-Day and Zorro were sleeping. Bear was playing with his military dog, Flint, a black Belgian Malinois who was currently winning at hide and go seek with his favorite toy—his Kong.
Gator was chatting up a couple of the Kenyan flyboys. Professor leaned against the machine, contemplating getting anot
her water when he smelled a sweet scent—a scent he would know anywhere.
Julia Whitley.
Just as he started to look for the source of that heavenly smell, a woman dressed in khaki shorts, a white cotton shirt and a baseball cap, her long red hair pulled through the U-shaped hole in the back stepped up to the machine and fed in her money, then pushed the panel for water.
It dropped down and she reached for the bottle, her back to him. “Julia?”
She straightened so quickly, her ponytail whipped around her shoulder. When she met his gaze, her gorgeous green eyes widened, then she flushed beneath the cute freckles on her face.
“Milo? What are you doing here?”
“There’s always a war somewhere, Jules. You should know that better than I do.”
Her expression hardened and she nodded. “You’re right. What was I thinking?” She fingered the top of the bottle, and he took the water from her delicate hands and twisted off the cap for her and handed them back. She smiled. “Still the big brother.”
Big brother would not be what he would consider his feelings for Julia. But she was off limits. Way, way off limits. He’d never gotten the chance to explore his feelings for this particular woman, feelings that continued to plague him.
“I’d heard you’d become a SEAL.”
His heart leapt. Was she keeping tabs on him? “How?”
“I was home last year, and your mom told me you’d finished BUD/S. Congratulations.”
He was pathetic. Julia’s parents were his parents’ long-term neighbors. They had moved into the same upscale golfing community after he’d finished college. Of course, she would know.
“Your mom and especially your dad weren’t all that happy about it. She said you gave up your Rhodes Scholarship. That’s pretty impressive.”
“Or foolish, according to my parents.”
“Right, I’ve never known you to be a conventional guy, brainiac.” She nudged him and he laughed. The warmth of her body making him feel like a perv.
“Julia!” someone called, and she looked over her shoulder and waved.
“I’ve got to go. We’re working with the Kenyan Health Services to immunize children against measles out in the bush.” She reached out and one-arm hugged him. “Take care of yourself, Milo.”