The SEAL's Promise

by Grace Alexander

  He stopped and shifted her off his shoulder. Her head swayed in a circle, and she pinched her eyes closed. His hands dug into her armpits, keeping her righted. That she felt. Her weight was too heavy to bear. She was too tired to help. Too exhausted to escape.

  "Tessa." Drake reached to her, pushing through the dense fog, calling her to focus.

  She'd reach back. Later. When she felt stronger.

  "Tessa. Come on, doll. Right here. I'm right here." He was more urgent now. Firmer. Annoying, if she really thought about it.

  His hands cupped her chin. The rough pad of his thumb ran across her sticky cheek. She opened her eyes to slits. His handsome face stared hard, worried eyes probing her.

  "Drake." Her faint breath escaped over raw lips. His name revived a minuscule portion of her will. Not much, but enough to focus.

  "Hiya, doll. I'm getting you out of here."

  He sounded so calm. Perhaps he needed to sleep, too.

  Behind him, bright lights flashed on and off in the dark hallway.

  "We gotta roll. Hang tight."

  Angry yells came from somewhere closer than she could establish. He hefted her back over his shoulder. Blood rushed to her head. The smell of his sweat and gunpowder intermixed, and she struggled against unconsciousness.

  With a dizzying step and spin, he rounded a corner and pops reverberated from a gun. He moved forward, took a couple of hops, and slid back against the wall. She balanced on his shoulder. He reloaded his gun. A boom echoed through the house.

  "Ready to roll out," McKay whispered.

  He wasn't talking to her. His team was here. Somewhere.

  "Repeat. Ready for cover. Over."

  He let loose a curse and then lofted something away nd hustled them back around the corner. A boom followed.

  Oh, a grenade. But where is the bamboo bazooka? Tessa couldn't help but laugh at her foggy thoughts. She was delirius.

  They moved fast again, and she was just along for the ride. The spins, turns, and hasty pace made her queasy. That was fine. Nauseous was preferable to dead.

  A loud explosion ripped up the hall. Smoke and dust engulfed them. Her eyes burned like they'd been dusted with pepper. Coughing required energy. It was much easier to fade away.

  But her body jarred, forcing her eyes open. He bounded toward the smoke. Each step dug her ribs into his shoulder. Fire lit the doorway, and, with a swift kick, the remnants of the smoldering door fell as they pushed through.

  Fresher air. Fresh with a hint of a burning building. She breathed deep but was unfulfilled. The humidity didn't help. Her diaphragm couldn't expand over his shoulder. Her lungs couldn't quite fill. But still, the air was clean. They were closer to making it out alive.

  Gunfire popped. Drake dove. He landed hard, unable to break her impact. Tessa flopped on her back. Her head knocked on the ground, and she felt it bounce. Her lungs were forced empty, unable to breathe in. Terror tortured her. Her heart thumped. She heard it. Felt it. But nothing kick-started.

  Finally, she gasped. Her body allowed a pant. Her lungs tried for their cadence. She wasn't dying, at least not at that moment.

  Cool grass cupped the back of her head and caressed her arms and legs, reviving her.

  "You all right?" He perched on the balls of his feet, peeking over a small stone wall on a patio. Statues stood yards away in the garden, and the distinct sound of a water fountain splashing played through the gunfire.

  "Your teammates can't hear you?" Her throat burned. The words croaked. She was more and more conscious. Keenly aware of her surroundings, none of which she liked. Whatever had knocked her out was fading fast from her system.

  "Don't worry. We plan everything for a reason." He gave her a wink and a half-cocked smile. Just another day in the life of Drake McKay. He wasn't flustered or scared. Bullets whizzing was business as usual.

  He checked his clips on his belt and reloaded his gun. A quick look up, then he grabbed a knife strapped to his leg and let it fly. A short scream of pain followed.

  He grumbled and finished loading his clip. "Tessa, we're going to have to make a run for it. Soon as we get around that bend, we'll have sniper cover. But we'll be easy targets for a minute."

  "Um..." Running sounded impossible.

  "Can you run? I'll be able to shoot with both hands if I don't have to carry you."

  "Okay." Tessa nodded. She could do this. Adrenaline revved in her blood as her mind continued to clear. She had more of a fight in her than to lie in the grass and count smoky clouds.

  "That's my strong girl. Tell me when you're ready."

  "Now. I'm ready now. Get me out of here." She gathered her feet beneath her and steadied. As she balanced on her toes and fingertips, she nodded again.

  McKay stood, guns in both hands. "Go."

  He moved fast, arms outstretched before him, and she trailed him, trying to keep speed. The corner of the mansion was near. That was her goal.

  Gunfire surrounded her. Coming for them, shooting away from them. They fired. He fired back. The burnt gunpowder floated behind him, blazing into her nose and eyes. Still, she pushed, moving as he moved, tracing his cross-hatched steps, ducking when he ducked. A shadow behind the man.

  She heard a thump. He growled and missed a step but didn't stop moving. Her legs burned to keep his pace.

  They rounded the corner, and he pressed her against the stucco wall. His blood stained her. Oh no.

  Vehicles came their way, and armed men poured from a hole in the border fence like ants fleeing an anthill. Fireballs from the jungle hit the vehicles. Violent explosions sent deadly fireworks into the sky. Rubber and diesel burned hot. Black smoke billowed around the armed men running toward them.

  The heat, humidity, and smoke would have slowed a lesser man. So would a gunshot wound. She didn't think anything could stop McKay as she watched him scan the vast lawn.

  "We have to make it past that hole in the fence. There's a vehicle waiting for us. We've got a sniper in the trees, and two more men on the ground. When you see someone dressed like me, you run toward him. Got it?"

  "You're hurt." She wanted to run her hands across his skin and stop the bleeding.

  He ignored her. "Say it, Tessa. Can you do this?"

  "I can." She gave him a strong nod, exacerbating her headache. She didn't care. Drake was here, and she'd do whatever he needed her to do.

  "You got this. Let's go."

  He gave her a small push in the right direction. Bullets sounded around her. Men with guns ran toward them. Somehow their shots hit the grass and spat dirt around them.

  White-hot pain rocketed through her. A dizzying flash made her stumble. He grabbed her upright.

  "Flesh wound. Keep going," McKay shouted above the noise. His teeth were gritted together. He huddled beside her, pulling her. "There's Joseph. Run!"

  Another thump. She knew he'd been hit again while shielding her from the rain of artillery. McKay dropped to his knee and pulled Tessa under him. His sweat and blood coated her. She felt it through the layers of clothing and vests. He scooped her with one arm and crawled behind a statue.

  "Drake, how bad are you hurt?"

  His labored breaths worsened with each passing moment. "Doesn't matter."

  "How bad? Tell me!"

  McKay stopped laboring and laughed. "You're unreal. Do you know that?"

  Tessa glared at him. "Tell me."

  "Bad. But I think Kevlar got most of it. Everything heals. I'm not worried."

  "I am," she snapped.

  He almost grinned. "Joseph's twenty yards ahead, picking them off. We have to go for it right now. Or we don't have a chance. You got it, babe?"

  "I can do this."

  "I know you can. Run, baby, run." He took off at a limped sprint, acting as a barrier from the fire again.

  His leg went out from under him. The whiz of bullets went to slow motion, the sound ceased. Tessa dropped on bent knees, watching him on the ground.

  "Run, Tessa," he shouted. His vei
ns popped out of his neck as he fired into the distance.

  The world came back, loud and furious. Her legs moved though her mind was numb. Joseph appeared out of nowhere and snared her with an arm.

  "Wait. Drake needs help."

  That didn't stop Joseph. He dragged her into the vehicle and threw the vehicle into gear. Tires spun as he tore down the makeshift road. Branches scratched at the windshield.

  Tessa launched at Joseph, hitting his shoulder.

  "Drake's hurt." Tears and terror filled her throat. The very depths of her soul ached. Her screech turned to a pleading whisper. "Please help him."

  "They were right on your tail and got him when I grabbed you."

  Dread ricocheted through her head. All the pain and loss pressed onto her. Suffocating despair ripped her apart. Tears streamed down. Rapid breaths came fast. Too fast. She tried to cut them off but failed. All went black.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  McKay used his last bullet with perfect accuracy. But his one shot to their many men was more habit than any intelligent course of action.

  He pulled himself to cover. Nothing left to fire. Not even his knife to throw. And he bled from three of his four limbs. They had him. He knew it. They'd know it as soon as they listened - none of the gunfire was his. Until then, he had a few minutes.

  While he was sheltered by an obscene amount of marble statues, each one a naked Greek goddess reaching for the sky, he ripped off his shirt. His chest was now only covered by the Kevlar vest. With quick rips between his teeth, he made three tourniquets. He had to tie off his bicep, thigh, and calf until he could assess his wounds.

  Mateo Valencia was dead. He owed Cason for that shot. Sniper fire will get you every time.

  Valencia's number two, a man they called Bruno, was nowhere to be found. McKay didn't see him when they breached the house and didn't see him on the way out the door. Did the cartel soldiers know they lacked a commander?

  Diversionary tactics may have worked to enter the house undetected, but surely, they had a succession plan. Bruno must know by now he was no longer second in command. No, he was now El Jefe. And pesos to popcorn, they still wanted that cipher.

  Milking that hope was his only chance to survive and escape.

  McKay pulled the third tourniquet tight with his teeth and grimaced through the hot pain. His blood raced in a mad dash, but it wasn't flowing into the grass anymore. He needed a slow breath in, slow breath out, to ramp down his heart rate. The pain might lessen. His mind might clear. But most importantly, he'd keep more blood than he'd lose.

  The armed men slowed their pace from charging to a careful hustle. Tentative footsteps neared. Muffled arguments sputtered in Spanish. He almost laughed. They didn't know what to do with him. It was his move to make. Surrender. As much as he hated the idea, it would keep him alive.

  He rolled onto his back and slowly raised his hands, giving them the chance to take him alive. His arm throbbed. This surrendering stuff sucked.

  McKay watched plumes of smoke drift through the air. The gunfight was over. The carnage ended. His Safehouse teammates would be far enough away and would keep Tessa safe. That was all that mattered.

  An armed man approached, with an automatic rifle directed at McKay's head.

  "Up. Up. Stand up," the man shouted with a thick accent.

  Really, McKay hated these guys.

  "All right." He kicked his empty weapon away and rolled to his knees. Blasts of agony tore through his muscles. The tourniquets accomplished their goals, but he'd need medical treatment. Rapido, that was for sure. Chances were slim to impossible it'd happen.

  "Let's go. Up. Up." The man jutted the business end of the automatic rifle into McKay's chest. Better his chest than his head, though his vest couldn't do anything about point-blank rapid fire.

  His head spun, and his vision fought from fading to lights out. Bright explosions fired, and he saw stars. He closed his eyes tight against the splashes of color. If he passed out, he was a dead man.

  He gulped smoky air, tasting gunpowder, and pried his eyes open, snarling. He felt like a gutted animal. Shot up, cut open, and bleeding out. Pain bubbled. Blood seeped as he hoisted himself up to stand.

  Motioning to his loosening leg tie and fresh blood. "May I?"

  "Sí."

  They didn't want him dead. At least this second. "Gracias." He tightened the fabric ties, wobbling and bobbling. Stay up right. Stay clear-headed.

  The man jabbed him in the chest again, and his legs buckled against a loss of balance. Great. Things were worse than he thought.

  The head idiot-in-charge motioned to two others, let out a string of commands, and turned away. Two men grabbed him under his arms, lifted him like a bag of feathers, and hauled him along.

  This was certainly far from ideal. His ties could handle only so much abuse. Their group moved through a gaping hole, where a front door once hung, and into the house. Smoke stained the walls, and it was silent except for their bump-bump-bump of boots beating over expensive flooring.

  They moved up the stairs. With each jarring step, his pain didn't register. That was a bad sign.

  Finally, they stopped. No words exchanged. No explanation, threats, or pat downs. They pushed him into a black hole and locked the door secure.

  McKay stumbled. His hands smacked on a tile floor. His eyes squeezed shut. Lightning strikes reverberated through his limbs, circling toward his nauseous stomach.

  After the agony subsided, and he propped on his elbows. The space was completely dark. He stretched forward, hoping to find a wall and define the room. After some failed attempts, his fingertips found plaster, and he propped against a rough wall. With his uninjured arm, he found a switch and flipped it. A light glowed orange.

  A small room. A bed. Another door. He crawled toward the door with the energy required to run a marathon.

  It was a bathroom with towels and a place to assess his wounds.

  He pulled up to the counter and tried the faucet, grateful when it ran.

  McKay splashed water on his face and draped himself over the sink. The dim light burned in the bedroom, and shadows fell long in the bathroom.

  He soaked a towel and wiped his wounds as best he could. His arm had only sustained a flesh wound. It didn't need a tourniquet, and he released the wrap, flexing his bicep. It still needed pressure and dressing. He grabbed a flimsy, threadbare towel, tore to the right size, and wrapped it around his bicep into a makeshift Band-Aid.

  Next, his legs. He could stand and crawl, which ruled out the possibility a bullet broke his bones, and, considering he was still conscious, no major arterial damage had been sustained.

  He leaned back on the counter and rubbed the nape of his neck.

  A headache pounded, gaining strong momentum. First aid and hydration were the first steps in his plan to stay alive. He spun the metal faucet handle, stuck his head under the stream, and drank. The water reinvigorated him. He stood upright on throbbing legs. The room spun. Not good. More water.

  Talk about a bad day at work.

  He lumbered from the bathroom and braced himself against the wall. Flashes of pain scorched him. He sawed his teeth together as his healthy shoulder bore all his weight.

  Rallying energy he didn't have, he staggered to the sorriest excuse of a mattress he'd ever seen. It'd be heaven if he could get to it. Half-dragging, half-overpowering, he struggled until he accomplished his goal, and rolled onto it face first.

  Try as he might, McKay couldn't find a position that would alleviate his misery. He slouched, and his hand tumbled toward the floor. He touched fabric. Clothes? He grasped the soft fabric in his hand and knew Tessa had been in this room.

  He missed her. How long had it been since he'd held her? He pulled the clothes to his face. Soft, and they faintly smelled like her.

  McKay nodded to himself. He would get home to her and Anna. Tessa would do family. They'd figure it out. Her sweet kisses could wash away his hurt. Her embrace would ease the pain flowing
like lava through his veins. Tessa coaxed him to the black oblivion, lulling him to nightmarish sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tessa woke up with her face cemented to the leather seat, drool crusted over the corner of her mouth, and her throat far past Sahara dry. She squeezed her eyes shut against the flashbacks. Drake's orders. Joseph's arms. She lost her man.

  Whatever. Tessa excised her cheek from the seat and glared at Joseph. He left Drake. Left him for dead. Why didn't he get him? Wasn't that what they did? Save people?

  "Hey, Joseph, or whoever you are. Why are we sitting here?" Her voice rumbled, ragged and desperate. Her question should have been why was he just sitting here and not loading up a torpedo launcher.

  Joseph gripped the steering wheel with enough strength she thought it might break. They weren't flying through the thick jungle underbrush. The slapping echo of vegetation slashing against the windshield no longer drowned out the roar of the engine.

  "Tessa." He could crush asphalt with his voice.

  "Joseph," she said. She was both scared and angry, and reasonably sure this was Joseph.

  The dome light clicked on overhead. Joseph jumped out as if he needed a calming stroll in the park, and he beelined to a small shack in a clearing. Wood boards hung limp and gaped. Peeling paint clung to an occasional plank, while others were sun-blistered and bare. It was larger than her last shack, but that wasn't saying much.

  Tessa reached for the door handle to follow but instead whimpered. Everything ached. Her forehead to her ankles. And her arm, that was the killer. It was the first time she noticed the bandage.

  Vivid flashbacks again came at her like a skipping movie. Mateo Valencia, dead. Her flesh wound. Drake propping her up and pushing her through the toughest moments she'd ever lived through.

  Joseph could run away, but he couldn't get too far. She pushed through the roar in her arm, opened the door, and set the stumbling pace of a discombobulated woman on a man-saving mission.

  Heat drenched her, humidity cloaking her in a jungle second. A wave of nausea smacked her clear across her face. Food. She needed something in her stomach. She tried to ease the stomach rolls.