by Amy Jarecki
“How about you, hotshot? You threw some pretty mean punches. Did you come out of it unscathed?”
“A couple bruises. Nothing serious.”
“Thank God.” Henri stared at the blackness while her blood boiled. “Fadli knew we were there. We played right into his hands.”
Mike drew in a deep breath. “I should have guessed. We got in too easy.”
“But we were so careful—flying in to the private airfield. For crying out loud, I wore a hijab through customs.” She wracked her mind. Had someone informed on them? Was there a bad egg at ICE? Everywhere they went, Fadli and his thugs were a step ahead. In France, then in Arusha. They’d already struck only minutes before they arrived at Nelson’s mine, and now Rhodes.
Could it be Luke?
She shook her head. The pilot had only come on the scene in Dodoma—after Arusha.
“Facial recognition,” said Mike. “Gotta be.”
“Even in Rhodes?”
“Even there—or they had eyes on the plane. Somehow Fadli’s got your number—probably mine, too.”
About an hour later, the boat slowed, rocking in the water. Men yelled on the deck above while the gears ground.
Mike grasped her arm with his cuffed hands. “We need to stay together.”
She leaned into him. “Do you think they’ll execute us right away?” Henri had never feared death, but she’d never been captured, either.
“They’ve brought us this far, I doubt Fadli will kill us without having some fun first.”
“Interrogation?”
“Doubtless—including some sort of propaganda farce.”
She looked upwards even though there was nothing to see above them. “Do you think the satellites stayed with us?”
“No chance. Not in this weather. The good news is it’s still night. I doubt they’ll try to film our torture until daylight.”
“Charming—but why’s that good?”
“Time.”
The door burst open and someone shone a blinding flashlight straight in Henri’s eyes. “Come,” he said.
If anything, the rain had grown worse and visibility sucked. They were marshaled off the boat and onto a stone platform at the bottom of a sheer rock face. Through the rain, nothing looked familiar.
The guards pushed them single-file up a ledge, made slippery by rainwater streaming over her feet. Up and up they climbed while the surf crashed against the rocks below. A fall would be deadly. One slip and splat. When they reached about two hundred feet above the sea, the guard led them through an archway that looked medieval.
The man in front opened an iron gate. Henri hesitated, but the thug behind jabbed her in the back with the muzzle of his gun. The door creaked and boomed shut behind them.
Mike shoved his arms through the bars. “Come on, cut these zip cuffs.”
The guard moved his hand to the hilt of his knife, but shook his head.
“We’re not going anywhere.” Henri stuck her wrists through as well. “Please?”
Pursing his lips, the guard unsheathed his knife and cut both sets of cuffs.
“Sukran,” she thanked him as he walked away.
“Thank you?” Mike asked, rubbing his wrists.
“Might as well. Who knows, he might be a terrorist with a compassionate streak.”
“I doubt it.”
Henri rubbed her neck and looked from wall to wall. “Where the hell are we?”
Mike turned in a circle, gingerly tapping a gash on his head. “Ruins of some sort.” It was still night and raining. The inside of the chamber was dim at best. “Probably Turkey.”
Henri leaned against the cold, stone wall and crossed her arms to ward off the chill of the cold, wet clothing clinging to her body. “Tell me you have a plan for escape.”
“Working on it,” said Mike, moving to the only window recessed in an embrasure at the back. It was barred and had no glass.
She pushed off the wall and joined him. Rain splattered her face as she wrapped her fingers around the bars and peered out. Straight down, the white-capped Mediterranean roared with the motion of the tide, spanning as far as she could see. She strengthened her grip and twisted. “These are loose. We could probably work them free.”
“Aye, if we have a week. Not to mention, there’s nothing but a sheer wall out there. We’d plunge to our deaths on the rocks below.”
“That might be preferable to what Fadli has in store for us.”
He smoothed his hand over her shoulder.
Henri hissed with the sting.
Knitting his brows, he bent down to examine her arm. “You’re bleeding again.”
Sure enough, blood had soaked through her sleeve. The wound throbbed like a bitch, but there was nothing they could do about it. “It’ll be all right.”
Mike pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry I got you in this mess.”
As the comfort of his warmth surrounded her, Henri chuckled. “I think I can take responsibility for my own actions. Remember? You tried to make me go back to Iceland when we were in France.”
He pressed his lips against her temple. “I should have been more insistent.”
She closed her eyes and allowed herself to melt into him. By now, Mike had to realize once she had her mind set on something, it wasn’t easy to convince her to change. But his tenderness was heartwarming. Never in her life had another human being shown so much concern for her. Well, maybe Grandfather in his own way. But there was something special about Mike Rose, something Henri never wanted to lose. She slid her hands around his waist and held on for dear life while tears stung the back of her eyes. “What if they kill us?”
He crushed his body against her even tighter. “Dunna say it. Dunna ever say it.”
“But this is ISIS.” She whispered the acronym as if it were a curse.
“Shhhhh.” He cradled her head and held it to his chest. “Believe in yourself. Believe in us.”
“But what if—”
“No, lass. You must keep your mind positive. We are a team—an undefeatable team. Where is my tough Paiute warrior? You have the heart of the eagle and you have never needed to soar as high as you do right now.”
Releasing a stuttered breath, she nodded. Yes! His words made new strength pulse through her blood. She was a warrior. A sniper. A member of the Paiute Tribe, and she was no coward. “I am Soaring-Eagle.”
“You are. And always remember: In war your foe is never perfect. They will drop their guards and make mistakes. Our job is to be daring. To watch and wait for our chance and then act swiftly.”
“You have the heart of a Paiute.” She smoothed her hand along his jaw. “You are my spirit warrior with the courage of a lion.”
“That’s right, lass. I will never bend to their will.”
“Come.” Henri pulled Mike to the center of the chamber and, together, they sat cross-legged opposite each other. She took both of his hands in hers. “In this moment, our souls unite. Together, we are more powerful than we are apart. Together, we can conquer all in this life or the next.”
Mike opened his mouth, but she shook her head. “In this circle, we make a bond and our souls are joined forever. We are proud warriors of the Paiute Tribe. We are warriors of the universe and we will not fail.”
Closing her eyes, she took in a deep breath and released it slowly. Mike did the same until their breathing became one, until the heartbeat thrumming through their connected palms beat as one. The power between them grew and swelled throughout the cell.
She would not think of what might come tomorrow. But right now, in this hour, no Earthly being could sever the strength of their bond.
Chapter Thirty
Mike stirred when something buzzed outside the window.
Beside him, Henri sat up, alarm written across her features. “That’s a plane.”
“You’re right.” Mike pushed to his feet, peeled off his t-shirt, and darted to the window. Waving the shirt like a madman, he searched the sky for the plane.
“Do you see it?” Mike waved harder.
“Ten o’clock.” She pointed.
“Damn. It might be too high to see us.”
“You never know. Just keep shaking that thing.” Henri pushed closer, craning her neck. “The plane’s right above us now—looks like a small jet.”
“A Gulfstream?”
“Maybe.”
Mike kept it up until the noise disappeared and was replaced by the surf thundering against the cliffs below and gulls squawking around them.
He pulled on his shirt. “When they come for us, focus on last night,” Mike said. “Time is our friend. The longer we are able to stay alive, the greater our chance of rescue.”
Henri nodded, but before she had a chance to reply, guards came through the archway, brandishing their AK-47s.
Mike and Henri’s wrists were again restrained with zip cuffs and they were led at gunpoint up higher to another chamber in the labyrinth of ruins.
Mike turned on his internal camera, plotting their escape. This chamber was much the same as the one they’d been locked in and he had no doubt there was a sheer drop to the water below. In fact, the roar of the sea swirled through the room with a ghostly echo.
The guards made them sit facing each other and duct taped them to the chairs—a typical interrogation move. A skinny guy came in with a video cam and set it up to record. Great, their interrogation would be broadcast to jihadists, maybe to the whole world.
Mike gave Henri a hard stare. If only she didn’t have to go through this. If only she was back at her mine or anyplace but there.
He shifted his gaze to the pair of thugs guarding the door. They were both armed with AKs, but their posture gave away their lack of skill. Shoulders drooping and looking straight ahead, they weren’t ready for a shit storm. Sure, he was bound to a chair and so was Soaring-Eagle over there, but anything could happen.
Damn straight.
Henri drew in the slightest of gasps when two men entered—Mike recognized Amri right away, but the second’s face was blocked from his sight.
Henri confirmed the other’s identity. “Omar Fadli. I was wondering when our paths would cross again.”
So, it was the assassin. Convenient to have both wanted terrorists in the same place at once—inconvenient to be unable to do anything about it.
“I should have killed you in Avignon.” Fadli sauntered toward her.
“No. I should have killed you,” she seethed.
The bastard backhanded her across the face.
Mike bucked so hard his chair lurched off the ground. “Leave her alone!” Shite, he’d just broken the first rule of interrogation by showing his hand. Now they knew he cared.
Fadli whipped around with a sneer. “So, Anderson, who is your boyfriend?”
She didn’t say a word. Hate filled her eyes as a trickle of blood ran from her cheek. But her silence earned her another slap.
Mike gritted his teeth and made his face impassive. The only reason they were still alive was because Fadli wanted something. It didn’t take a genius to know a sensational death on film would make the world sit up and take note. Oh yeah, that’s Omar Fadli, the most feared terrorist in the world.
“Mike Rose—you’re a slippery snake. And yes, I know who you are.” A reedy chuckle rasped through his nose as he wrapped a leather strip around his knuckles. “I didn’t think you’d talk easily. Besides, that would ruin my fun.”
Mike steeled himself to watch Fadli strike her again but, instead, the bastard lunged and landed a fist in Mike’s gut.
Doubling over with the impact, he made a show of grunting loudly—drawing the attention away from Henri. If Fadli thought he could get to Mike faster, it might just take the brunt of the punishment away from her.
She kept her lips pursed, though her eyes narrowed.
“Who are you working for?” Fadli slammed his fist across Mike’s jaw. Jesus, that one hurt. He stretched his chin to the side to make sure it still worked. Aside from pain and clicking, he’d live. The guy grabbed Mike’s hair and yanked his head back. “You recruited her, didn’t you?”
“Wouldna you?” Mike asked, buying some time. “She’s a bonny lassie—and unsurpassed with a rifle in her hands. But then you ken that, do you not?”
“Shut up!” He threw a jab across Mike’s jaw, but this one was wild and filled with emotion. “Henrietta represents evil. She embodies everything that is wrong with western civilization.”
Henri twisted her shoulders as if she could free herself from the duct tape. “I served time for you, asshole. And I was innocent!”
“You’re a trained killer.” Lunging across the floor, Fadli smacked her with a backhand across her face. “You murdered my brother in cold blood.”
She shook her head and glared at him. “Your brother was about to chuck a grenade at a dozen peacekeeping soldiers.”
“Lie!”
“I fucking saw him!”
Fadli struck her again and again.
Mike was about to explode. God damn, it hurt him far more to see Henri hit. He’d take a hundred jabs to the face if only they’d leave her alone. “Over here asshole,” he seethed. “Unless you’re proud of beating women when their hands are tied—you fucking coward.”
The assassin spun on his heel and aimed a roundhouse kick at Mike’ head. The chair teetered but stayed upright. Stars crossed his vision as he blinked in succession, Henri’s face going in and out of focus.
“Who’s looking for you?” Fadli demanded.
“No one,” Henri said. “We teamed up to find you, you bastard. You ruined my life!”
That stopped him. Fadli even grinned. “And you played right into my hands.” He gave Mike another slap. “But something’s telling me you’re lying.”
“Why would I lie, Omar? Or is it that you’ve lied so much you don’t recognize the truth when you hear it?” God, she was convincing.
But that didn’t stop Fadli from using Mike’s face as a punching bag. When the bastard stopped, the only thing keeping Mike upright was the duct tape securing him to the chair.
“Damn you! Stop you sick freak!” she shrieked. “It’s me you want. I’m the one who pulled the trigger and stopped your brother from killing Americans.”
Fadli slammed an uppercut to Mike’s chin and the world turned black.
Henri fought back her rage as Mike’s head lolled forward. He was out cold. Just as well. If Fadli kept wailing on him, he’d kill the poor man. God, she couldn’t take any more. And Fadli knew it. Hell, there was a good chance Mike had internal injuries inside that hard head of his. She twisted her arms against the duct tape, futilely spending her strength. Christ, even if she could break free, she might get in one vicious kick before one of the guards shot her.
The hate roiling in her gut made her venomous. She memorized Fadli’s every feature—from his pockmarked face to his 5’8” height, his stockiness, the way he placed his feet when he walked. She busied her mind by learning his every nuance because she vowed she would not check out of this life until she killed him.
“What are you going to do with Flynn?” she asked.
“Exactly what you think.” Fadli motioned to Rose. “Cut him loose and haul this worthless piece of trash back to the cell and dump a bucket of water on his face.”
She took in a long breath, trying not to let the relief show on her face. If she showed any sign of softening, Fadli just might pull his sidearm and shoot Mike in the head—or worse. Their cameras were rolling and the showboat loved to air his assassinations on film. But Fadli must have something sinister planned, a grandiose murder. Whatever. Henri was grateful for a reprieve even if it was temporary. They were taking Mike back to the cell where he could recover. She hoped.
After they dragged his limp body away, the guard cut the duct tape with a four-inch blade that nicked the back of her arm. Henri didn’t even wince. Once they zip-cuffed her wrists, Fadli grabbed her elbow
and hauled her up a ramp until they reached the edge of the cliff. She didn’t try to resist until he shoved her backwards out over the sea. The ground beneath her feet started to crumble as Fadli hung on to the spindly, plastic cuffs cutting into her wrists.
“This is your fate. Turn your head and look down,” he said with sick pride in his voice. “You will die on those rocks and your soul will burn in hell.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the waves crash against the base of the bluff. The water didn’t just slide in gracefully. It smacked the cliff and sprayed white foam in a violent torrent. And straight down below, jagged rocks pointed upward like the teeth of a ravenous sea monster.
“All of Islam will watch you and your accomplice plunge to your deaths. And I will be revered as a hero in their eyes.” Fadli shook her by the wrists, laughing out loud. “Scream for me! I can smell your fear.”
Henri swallowed back the thick, pulsating lump in her throat and forced herself to close her eyes and summon a sense of calm before she looked Fadli dead on. “You’ll never have the satisfaction of hearing me scream, asshole.”
And suddenly she felt weightless, suspended two hundred feet above a deadly fall, her life held in the grip of a madman.
In a moment of pure terror, the makings of plan took root in her mind.
Chapter Thirty-One
Mike’s face felt pulverized. Worse, the jackhammer thundering in the back of his head was about to explode. His throat rasped with his grunt.
“Mike?” Henri’s voice rattled in his brain.
He winced. “Not so loud.”
“Huh? I’m whispering.” She smoothed cool fingers over his forehead. “Can you open your eyes?”
Mike wanted to open them, but the slightest movement made that jackhammer pummel his skull harder. “Perhaps after a bit more caressing.”
Henri’s chuckle was almost indiscernible—a good sign that he was coming around. He couldn’t help his moan when she swirled her fingers at his temples. It hurt so good. There wasn’t much real estate on his face that hadn’t been pulverized. He ran his tongue along his cracked bottom lip. “We survived that one, lass.”