She tied off the sutures the way Brent told her to, and then she turned to the more difficult task of stitching up the exit wound. Unlike the first one, the skin was torn apart and not easy to repair. She took another deep breath and started once more. Again, she kept her stitches small, hoping that she was performing the task correctly. In the back of her mind, she wondered if he would really be able to recover enough to travel.
When she was finally done, her fingers were cramping and her back was knotted with tension. She let out the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding, concerned that the exit wound still looked pretty ragged. “I think I’m done.”
Brent looked down at her handiwork and then looked back at her, his eyebrows raised. “I thought you said you didn’t take home ec.”
“I didn’t, but I do have a mother who insisted on teaching me how to sew.” Amy shrugged. “Somehow I don’t think this is quite what she had in mind.”
“I’ll have to make sure I thank her when we get home.”
“Where is home for you?”
“Same as you. Virginia.”
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A sample reading from
Freefall
My father is going to kill me, Amy Whitmore thought to herself. Of course that was assuming that the terrorists across the room didn’t decide to take care of the job for him. Amy looked up at the two men guarding the penthouse door, automatic weapons in hand. When one glanced at her, she averted her eyes, looking back to the two-toned beige carpet, and prayed that help would arrive soon.
Why hadn’t she listened? Her parents, her brothers—everyone had told her that travel in this part of the world was too risky right now. Of course that was part of the problem. They had told her. With an inward sigh, Amy wondered why she kept falling into the same trap. Ask her nicely to do something and she was bound to agree in a heartbeat. Tell her to do something and she would refuse twice as fast.
Still, when the job offer to work in the Diplomatic Corps had come her way, she had jumped at it. Politics had been part of her life for as long as she could remember, and working for the State Department finally gave her something that wasn’t directly in her father’s control.
Senator James Whitmore had been in politics since before Amy was born. The honorable senator from Virginia was well known for his honesty, his integrity, and his ability to get things done. He knew how to play the game, and he knew how often the rules changed. When he saw something he could do to make his country better, he moved forward with an intensity that was unequaled in the senate chamber.
When Amy had graduated from college, he had offered her a job working on his staff. She could admit now that she had been tempted and probably would have even accepted the job had it not been for Jared. Their brief engagement during her senior year of college had started on Christmas Eve and ended before the new year even began.
Amy had been excited about getting married, but as she prayed each night about her decision, she continued to feel uneasy. Three days after agreeing to marry Jared, she had walked into her kitchen to find her parents standing at the stove, her dad’s arms wrapped around her mom’s waist. The unity of their stance, the humor in their voices, and the love that flowed from them struck her, making her realize that she wanted what her parents had—which was something she couldn’t find with Jared.
Jared hadn’t really taken her seriously when she broke off their engagement. Instead he thought she just needed some time before she would be ready to settle down. Despite her insistence that they had no future together, Jared had simply chosen not to believe her. Not sure what else to do, Amy had let him believe whatever he wanted.
When she had turned down her dad’s job offer, she had told him that she needed to live outside of the shadow of the Whitmore name for a while. To some extent, she had been telling him the truth. She needed to find an identity separate from the rest of the family. After all, it wasn’t always easy being the senator’s daughter. Both of her older brothers cast pretty long shadows as well. Charlie, who was two years older than she was, had just graduated from college at the top of his class, and Matt, the oldest, was playing his fourth season of major league baseball for the Florida Marlins.
At one point, Amy had planned to utilize her artistic abilities full time. After working a few summers with her dad, however, she’d decided to pursue a career in the political arena instead of developing her natural drawing ability. What she wouldn’t give for a chance to go back and rethink that decision!
Taking an overseas assignment a few weeks after her college graduation had seemed exciting and ambitious. Now it just seemed dangerous.
She had barely even heard of Abolstan, the little country tucked along the Mediterranean coast between Turkey and Syria. As soon as she’d accepted the assignment, she had read everything she could get her hands on about Abolstan, including its culture, climate, and politics. The research she had done in the weeks before her arrival had suggested that terrorist activity was inconsequential in the capital city. Obviously the person who had written that article had never stared down a man holding an AK-47.
A total of seven hostages were seated around the hotel room—five Americans and two Brits. This hotel typically housed the new arrivals for both the American and British embassies. Newly transferred employees often lived at the hotel for the first month or two until permanent apartments became available. Though the hotel was equipped with a high-end security system, it apparently wasn’t good enough to withstand last night’s assault, when a bomb of some sort had gone off. Seconds after the explosion, Amy and the others had been dragged out of their rooms and brought to the penthouse. Once inside the penthouse, the terrorists had separated them, making them sit far enough apart so that communication wasn’t possible. One of the men guarding the door spoke English well, and Amy guessed that he had been educated in the United States.
The two armed men in the room were the latest shift of those sent to guard the hostages. She studied their faces, thinking that they would look normal if it weren’t for the guns they held. She had counted at least fifteen terrorists when they had been abducted, and many of their faces were already etched into her mind. All she had to do was close her eyes and she could replay the moment her door had been kicked in.
She had originally mistaken the bomb for an earthquake and was standing in the doorway between the living area and the bedroom when her door simply fell into the room. Naively, she had thought that the two men staring at her from the hallway were part of the hotel’s security staff and had come to make sure that she was okay. Then she’d seen their weapons. Eyes wide, she had just gaped at them as one trained his weapon on her. When the other man swiftly came toward her, she instinctively backed up, but she quickly realized she had nowhere to go but through the door her abductors had come through. Terrified, she had dug her heels into the carpet as the man grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the hallway.
Any lingering hope that someone would help her disappeared when she saw six other hostages being pulled from their rooms at the same time. She considered trying to fight her way free until she saw the man next to her do just that. He took the butt of a gun to the side of his head and crumpled to the floor in pain. Amy leaned toward him to help, but the two men holding her by the arms didn’t give her the opportunity. Instead, she could only watch in horror as several other hostages were brutalized for resisting. Below them, other hotel guests were screaming as they fled from the hotel.
Amy now thought the hostages had been individually targeted. Like her, all of them were new employees of their respective embassies, each of them in the process of securing a more permanent home in Abolstan. Amy was the newest arrival in the group, having landed just two weeks earlier. She had no doubt that the terrorists knew who they were and who they worked for. Specifically, they knew who her father was.
She shifted her willowy frame, leaning back against the wall. Her auburn hair was still in a ponytail from her workout on the tre
admill in the hotel’s gym right before their unexpected guests had arrived. Thankfully, she was still dressed comfortably in the T-shirt and sweatpants she had worked out in.
She turned her head to the left and studied the other misfortunate souls who were sharing this misery. Each of the five men had been beaten when they had tried to resist, and she could tell that if they didn’t get help soon, some of them might not last through negotiations. Frank, her new supervisor at the embassy, adjusted the bandage on his leg where he had been shot. His injury provided an example of what would happen if they didn’t cooperate. For now, they had little choice.
As darkness fell outside, Amy closed her eyes against the tears that threatened. She bowed her head and once more began her silent prayers.
* * *
This isn’t going to be pretty, Brent Miller thought to himself as he continued through the dark shadows into the alley behind the hotel. The back of the building was charred black from the explosion nearly twenty-four hours earlier. The doors leading to the kitchen were gone, their remnants scattered on the pavement along with fragments of broken glass from the windows on the first three floors.
Brent took a moment to consider his target. The building was twelve stories high, but light was only visible from the windows on the top floor. He scanned the fire escape on the far side of the building and the wrought-iron balconies above him. He didn’t sense any movement on the first several floors, leading him to believe that he could simply enter the building and make his way upstairs.
But Brent had never been fond of obvious choices, and his training as a Navy SEAL reinforced his natural instincts. Ignoring the fire escape and the back doorway, he ran a hand over the brick and found his first handhold. Slowly, meticulously, he started his climb up the side of the building. Soot covered his fingertips as he silently stepped onto the first floor balcony and proceeded to make his way up to the next floor.
Through his headset, he heard Tristan Crowther’s western drawl. “Time frame?”
“Twenty minutes,” Brent answered, his voice low.
The elite five-man team was well-trained for situations like this. As a Navy SEAL, Brent knew where his teammates were and how dependent they all were on perfect timing as they worked through this operation. His job was simple enough: neutralize any terrorists with the hostages. As he approached from this side of the building, two of his teammates were moving into position from other locations to help attain their objective. All were anxious to complete this part of their assignment so they could move on to the difficult task of transporting the hostages to safety.
All of them knew what they were up against. Namir Dagan, a radical who had long been challenging for power in Abolstan, had claimed responsibility. His list of demands had been long, including the removal of all American forces from the region. Unfortunately, no one believed that he would ever release the hostages alive. Whether he got what he wanted or not, none of the hostages would survive negotiations unless Brent and his team successfully recovered them by force.
Brent edged his way past the seventh floor, sensing movement inside the dark room to the left. He worked his way farther up the building before speaking once more into the microphone. “Activity on seven, southwest corner.”
“Got it.” This time it was Quinn Lambert’s voice that came over the mike. “I’m showing eleven heat spots on the top floor. Looks like two are in the hallway.”
Brent nodded to himself, grateful that it wasn’t him sitting across the street staring at the building with infrared goggles. “Give me five more minutes and I’ll have a visual,” Brent told him, finally climbing onto the top floor balcony. He moved to the edge of the nearest window and peered inside to count the hostages who were sitting on the floor. From his angle he could see six of the seven—one woman and five men. Two terrorists flanked the door, weapons in hand.
“I’ve got two guns by the door, and I’ve got a visual on six of the hostages.” Brent relayed the information, recalling the files on the hostages. Two women had been identified as missing, one a thirty-six-year-old from London and the other a twenty-two-year-old from Virginia. The woman in his view was the older one, making the missing hostage Amy Whitmore, the senator’s daughter.
He’d known who she was even before he had seen her picture. After growing up in Virginia, it would have been tough not to remember the vibrant daughter of Senator Whitmore.
Sliding down onto the balcony, Brent crawled past several windows so that he could look at the room from the other direction. A sigh of relief escaped him when he saw the younger woman sitting on the floor across the room. He knew he was only a few of years older than she was, but he couldn’t help thinking how young and fragile she looked sitting there with her knees pulled up to her chest, her face pale.
A need to protect her surged through him as he studied her. She was beautiful, even in these less-than-perfect circumstances. In her photo, her gorgeous blue eyes had been alive with humor, combined with a smile that was full of fun. He hoped this experience wouldn’t erase that part of her—the fun-loving manner he suspected was an integral part of her personality.
He took a moment to gauge the situation. The hostages all had their backs to him, but he had enough of an angle to recognize each of them from the pictures he had been shown during their mid-flight briefing.
One of the men was badly bruised on one side of his face, and Brent could only guess that he had tried to resist capture. A quick scan indicated that he hadn’t been the only one. All five of the men appeared to need medical attention. The most visibly wounded was the man who had ripped off part of his shirt to bandage his leg. Unfortunately, the man next to him labored with each breath and appeared to be in shock.
Brent indicated to his teammates that he was in position, drew his weapon, and waited for the signal.
* * *
Amy felt the tension in the room increase as one of the gunmen spoke into his walkie-talkie in some language she couldn’t identify. He scanned the room and focused in on her. She saw the intent in his eyes even before he turned his weapon on her. I’m going to die, she thought to herself. Terrified, she pushed back against the wall, as if those few inches might make a difference.
A moment later gunshots sounded, and then he was lying motionless at her feet. Her scream pierced the air as the window shattered and she watched wide-eyed as two men dressed completely in black jumped into the room, one from the balcony and the other through the door. The man who had come through the window stepped on the gunman’s hand, which still held the weapon, and checked for a pulse. Amy didn’t have to be told that the man was dead.
A helicopter echoed in the distance, but she didn’t recognize the sound. Shock paralyzed her and her breath came in shallow bursts.
“Are you okay, miss?” The voice was all-American, the face smeared with something dark.
She knew he was talking to her, but her brain wasn’t functioning well enough for her to think to respond. Nervously, Amy looked around the room again. The other gunman was also sprawled out lifeless on the floor. She couldn’t catch her breath, and suddenly the rapid shallow breaths weren’t enough. She gasped for air, her chest tightening as she struggled for another breath.
“Take it easy.” The black-clad American pushed her head between her knees and spoke in a calm voice despite the gunshots that were still sounding somewhere downstairs. “We’re here to take you home. You’re hyperventilating. I need you to relax.”
His voice was soothing, but still she struggled.
“Come on now. In, out. In, out.” He put a hand on her back, rubbing it back and forth. “That’s it.”
His hand stilled on her back and Amy lifted her head, finally able to get some air. She noticed for the first time the communications headset he wore as he made a comment into the little microphone by his mouth. He turned his attention back to her and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I’m going to check on the others. Just wait right here.”
Amy watched him move effo
rtlessly from one hostage to another as his partner started at the other end and worked toward him. They gave each of the hostages whatever emergency medical treatment was necessary to transport them. Finally, he moved back to where she was still sitting.
“Can you walk?”
Amy nodded, chastising herself for falling apart. Still shaking, she pointed across the room. “Is Frank okay? He was shot in the leg.”
The man nodded. “He’ll be fine. The members of my team are going to move the wounded into the helicopter, and then we’ll get you out of here.”
He took up a position by the door, weapon in hand, as two other men came in and helped move the wounded out of the room. He appeared completely in tune with everything around him, but his stance was relaxed.
Amy watched him, wondering what it must be like to work in the armed forces. He probably didn’t have any idea where he would be next month, or even next week, but would just be going where his superiors sent him. She shook her head, surprised that her mind was wandering at a time such as this. Still, she was grateful that there were people like him in the world—people who were willing to sacrifice their personal freedoms to protect her safety.
When the last of the wounded had finally been escorted out along with the other female hostage, the man returned to Amy and reached out a hand. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
Amy let him pull her to her feet and was surprised when she had to tilt her head back to look at him. At six feet tall, she was used to looking most men in the eye. “Can I ask you a question?” she asked. When he nodded, she continued. “What’s your name?”
He smiled at that as though they had just met at the grocery store instead of in the middle of a rescue operation. “Lieutenant Brent Miller, U.S. Navy SEAL.”
“Well, Lieutenant.” Amy brushed off her sweatpants and turned her gaze back to Brent. “Thanks for dropping by.”
“Anytime.”
Brent pushed open the door to the roof, where Tristan was helping the British woman onto the helicopter. The hostages needing medical attention were already settled in the back of the 72-foot-long helicopter along with Quinn. The rest of the team had already taken their seats as well, except for Kel, who was waiting for Brent by the door.
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