Wings of Gold Series

by Tappan, Tracy

  Ah, shit. “He was a journalist.” Now a dead one. Kyle ground his teeth, crunching sand. Didn’t take a genius to get where she was going.

  “Yes, a journalist, like me. In 2002, he was captured by a terrorist group and decapitated.” Max set her hands together in her lap, one palm cradling the back of her other hand. “Jaish-e-Mohammed killed him. The same terrorist group I’ll be dealing with on this assignment.”

  He glowered at her, words piling up on the back of his tongue again. I’m not going to let anything happen to you! Words he had no right to speak.

  You’re so undependable, Kyle. Just like your father.

  “Look, I’m no novice at this,” she went on. “I’ve interviewed Pakistanis from army generals and top officials in Intelligence to some of the deadliest leaders of the Taliban and other terrorist groups. Honestly, if this time I was genuinely here to interview JEM, I wouldn’t be so worried. But I’m not.” She ran a finger along the top edge of her computer screen. “My job is to find out where JEM is holding four American hostages so that I can help steal them. If they discover the double-cross, then my head will, quite literally, roll. Yours, too, in all likelihood. Both our lives depend on how well I negotiate with JEM.” She smiled dimly. “No pressure, right?” She dropped her hand to her lap again.

  Kyle stood there fuming, a storm of blinding white whipping up inside him. Unbelievable. She was worried about taking care of him? He bent at the waist and peered under her cot.

  Max’s brows drew together. “What are you doing?”

  “Searching for my balls. I’m pretty sure they rolled off somewhere under there when you chopped them off just now.” Exactly what he needed in his life: another woman to doubt his abilities.

  “Hey, no offense to your male ego,” she said, raising a palm. “But it’s not like you can go into this situation loaded for bear. You’re a cameraman, Kyle. You’re in as much danger as I am.”

  “Yeah, I’m clear on that.” First thing when you get back to your ship, write a final letter to your loved ones. “But I’m in the military. It’s my job to put my life on the line for others.”

  “In this case, it’s my job, too. JEM asked for me by name.”

  She sounded so damned reasonable, he itched to reach out and squeeze her throat until her tongue lolled out, make her stop saying annoying shit. “Fine,” he bit out. “Whatever.” Lips tight, he stepped to the edge of her cot and glared down at her. “Just get on the satellite phone and arrange the damned meeting with JEM.” I’ve got your six should’ve left his mouth. But it didn’t.

  You were going to leave Brodie’s hospital room today, weren’t you?

  Growling, Kyle spun on his heel and hauled ass out of her tent.

  Chapter Five

  At oh-eight-hundred the next morning, Max dressed in a dark blue hijab plus what she usually wore while on assignment in Pakistan: dark jeans, suede boots, and a long-sleeved shirt, this one light blue, that buttoned all of her flesh away under cover. Only her face and hands were left exposed. She supposed Kyle was right. She could be pretty no-nonsense when she wanted to be. Besides a quick brush of her hair and teeth, dressing was all it took for her to get ready for the day. Kyle was wrong, however, in his assumption that she didn’t spend hours in front of a mirror because she was too busy, or smart. It was because time in front of a mirror would take away from precious sleep.

  She headed down the camp’s central path, her camera bag slung over her shoulder, feeling ready to walk the tightrope with JEM, despite the jumping frogs in her belly. One foot in front of the other, and keep your emotions out of it, Max: just cold, unbiased reporting. She knew how to do that.

  Ducking into the mess tent, she stuffed two sausages into a pancake, and proceeded to eat it like a burrito on her way to meet Kyle. Who needed a sit-down breakfast when that would also take away from sleep?

  When she arrived at the motor pool—if three ambulances painted in desert camo could be termed that—Kyle and baby-faced Jobs were already there, both men frowning at the unwieldy trucks.

  “I guess an armored Humvee,” Kyle murmured, “would’ve been too much to ask for.” He had a large black rifle propped on his shoulder, the arm-up position pulling the sleeve of his T-shirt tight against his bicep. He was dressed in his desert-colored wear again: khaki cargo pants and a brown shirt.

  Jobs was equally bland.

  Kyle turned to her, hesitating over the sight of her wearing a hijab—at least to judge by how he was staring at it. “So what’s the skinny?” he asked. “Have you got a briefing for us?”

  Us? She slashed a look at Jobs. “What? He’s going?”

  “Affirmative. The more muscle on this operation, the better. You told your JEM contact you’d be bringing your crew, right?” Kyle gestured at Baby Face. “Jobs will be our driver.”

  Superb. More lives to be responsible for. She jerked her chin at the rifle. “What’s with the gun?”

  “I am going into this thing loaded for bear.”

  She cut a look at him as she set her camera bag on the hood of the nearest ambulance. “You’re not supposed to be military,” she reminded him.

  “Tha’s right, sugah,” he returned in a Southern accent. “I’m just a little ol’ cameraman, packin’ some downhome heat, is all.”

  “JEM’s not stupid.” Boy, was it difficult not to roll her eyes. “Are you packing any more heat?”

  One of his eyebrows inched upward.

  If he grabbed his crotch and shook it at her, she was going back to the mess tent for more coffee.

  “A knife in one boot,” he answered, “and a Beretta nine millimeter strapped to the other.”

  She looked at Jobs. “And you?”

  His boyish smile shaved another ten years off his face. “Same. Well—” He gestured at Kyle’s rifle. “Minus the AK.”

  She exhaled, long enough and loud enough to make her feelings patently obvious. “Terrorists can be a little bit jumpy about such things.”

  Kyle shrugged. “We’ll leave the weapons in the truck.” He swung the rifle off his shoulder and placed it on the hood of the ambulance next to her camera bag. “This is non-negotiable for me, Max. You can stand there and waste time arguing or brief us on the mission.”

  “Okay. Here’s the scoop.” Max unzipped the camera bag and pulled out a map. She was a big believer in picking her battles, and this one didn’t seem like it was worth a fight. She trusted Kyle to be careful. She spread the map open on the hood. “JEM has arranged a rendezvous point for us here.” She stuck her finger on the dot marking the town of Charhoi.

  Kyle stepped up next to her, put his own finger on the map’s legend, then glanced at where she was pointing. “That’s ten klicks from our current location. Normally about a ten-minute drive, but considering we’ll be traveling along a winding dirt road by lumbering ambulance, we should plan on twice that.”

  “That’ll still work.”

  “Do you think the hostages are at Charhoi?”

  She pulled out a thermos from her bag and unscrewed the top. “I’ll dance the Macarena for you in a bikini if they are.”

  A smile entered Kyle’s eyes. “I’ll take that to mean ‘highly unlikely.’”

  “You can take it to mean ‘no way at all.’” Although she’d brought the GPS tracker with her on the extreme off chance. She offered Kyle the thermos. “Want some coffee?”

  He gave her a look of mock offense. “And share saliva with you?”

  She caught back another eye-roll, and drank a couple of gulps of warm coffee. “You and I will go through all the motions of giving JEM their sixty seconds of fame. When it comes to the hostage exchange, I’m going to insist on proof of life. So plan on a second meeting with JEM.”

  “Roger.”

  “During the proof of life inspection, I’ll slip this small GPS tracking device to one of the hostages.” She pulled the one-inch doohickey out of her camera bag and showed it to Kyle and Jobs. “No matter where the hostages are taken after t
hey have this, we’ll know.”

  “And then the SEALs have their strike zone?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Kyle glanced at Jobs. “Any questions?”

  Jobs shook his head. “I’m good.”

  Kyle gathered up the map. “Mount up.”

  Max packed up her thermos and the GPS while Jobs took the driver’s seat. Kyle hopped in next to him up front, his rifle propped between spread thighs, and she climbed in the back.

  The ambulance was equipped with four fold-down stretchers, two attached to each wall, stacked one on top of the other, all currently stowed. Supplies were kept in metal boxes secured to the backs of the two front seats. The interior of the ambulance smelled like the inside of the Smithsonian: well-scrubbed, but old.

  Max unfolded the bottommost stretcher from behind the front passenger seat, and sat, placing the camera bag at her feet.

  The engine came to life with a dieselly grumble, and they took off, driving past the main medical tent and the pole flying the IHMR flag, then passing through the aid station’s gate.

  Trees, still green in April, hugged the border of the road they traveled. The foliage was dense for the first part of the journey, but after about five minutes, began to dwindle.

  “Actually, I do have a question,” Jobs said. “What if JEM refuses the proof of life inspection?”

  Kyle turned around to look at Max, looping one arm over the back of the seat.

  He really did have the most extraordinary biceps. “They won’t,” Max said. “Not if they want their buddies out of Guantanamo.” She squinted at the road ahead. What…?

  “Shouldn’t we still have a Plan B ready to go?” Kyle asked.

  Oh, no. “Are those what I think they are?” She pointed at the two small dust clouds approximately three miles in front of them on the road.

  Kyle whipped back around.

  Like ghostly tumbleweeds, the boils of dust were rolling toward them, fast.

  “Vehicles,” Jobs confirmed.

  Kyle also squinted. “Is it JEM’s practice to meet a contact along the way?” he asked without looking at her, his ominous tone right out of Edgar Allan Poe.

  “I don’t know.” This was her first time dealing with JEM. “But I wouldn’t think so.”

  “Then are those a couple of fertilizer farmers with their morning shipment of petrified donkey patties?” Kyle pulled his pistol out of his pant leg.

  She gripped the stretcher on either side of her thighs.

  “I see two jeeps, and…” Kyle leaned forward. “Weapons,” he hissed. “Turn around!” he ordered Jobs.

  Jobs pitched the ambulance to a near stop, and cranked the steering wheel hard to the left.

  “Not an exact three-point turn, Steve! Jesus!” Kyle barked. “Do a fucking u-ie.”

  Jobs hit the gas again. The ambulance lurched into motion, continuing left.

  Max’s lungs emptied of air in an icy rush.

  Jobs’ delay had allowed the jeeps to get right on top of them. “Watch out!” she yelled as the passenger in the lead jeep stood up and pointed the long deadly snout of a rifle at them. My God, who are these people?!

  Snarling a string of curses, Kyle stuck his pistol out the window, keeping his spine pressed back against his seat while he took aim.

  The ambulance completed its left-hand turn, the jeeps wheeling by… Through the kick-up of dust, Max saw lightning flash at the end of the enemy rifle snout. Bam!

  Bam—Kyle fired at the same time.

  The standing man in the jeep folded in half, gut shot, while a bullet zinged past the front of Kyle and whacked into Jobs.

  Jobs shouted, and a small hole appeared in his arm. He drove off the side of the road into a wide, clumsy u-ie.

  They jolted and jounced over the uneven earth. Max gasped, her butt bouncing on the stretcher. She kept her attention on the hole in Jobs’ arm. It didn’t seem so…then a generous stream of blood ran out of it. She yelped as they hit what must’ve been a canyon-sized pothole. Flying off her seat, she crashed into the opposite wall of the truck. Ow.

  The ride smoothed out somewhat as they returned to the road and headed back the way they’d come…putting the two enemy jeeps behind them.

  “Floor it!” Kyle yelled at Jobs.

  Max scrambled to her feet and staggered in a drunken-like—and probably very funny-looking in other circumstances—zigging-and-zagging path to one of the ambulance’s round rear windows. Clutching the door hinge for balance, she peeked out.

  The lead enemy jeep was right behind them, so close she was able to see the driver’s face. “Oh, my God,” she breathed. She knew who—

  The driver pointed a pistol.

  She instantly dropped down, landing hard on her butt just as a hail of glass blew inward.

  Kyle came charging back. “Stay down!” he ordered her.

  She scooted over to make room for Kyle as he took a position to the side of the broken window, his back to the wall by the rear door, rifle held vertically in front of him. In the next second, he rotated into position, planting his booted feet wide and sticking his rifle through the shot-out window. He fired two rounds in quick succession.

  From her place on the floor, Max saw Kyle’s thigh muscles flex rigidly against the fabric of his cargo pants as he braced himself against the recoil.

  She heard tires jetting a rattle of dirt and pebbles, then next came the repeated bumpity-crunch of what could only be a large metal object rolling over and over.

  There went one jeep.

  “Dammit!” Kyle turned around and hurried forward again. “Jobs, the second jeep is pulling alongside your three o’clock. Maintain speed while I—”

  Kyle’s shoulder slammed into the left wall of the ambulance while Max skidded sideways on her butt in the same direction.

  Jobs had chosen that inconvenient moment to slump over the steering wheel in a faint. The unmanned ambulance careened hard right, too fast into a too-tight turn. The ambulance’s right wheels lifted off the ground, the truck tilting at a perilous angle. Max tumbled farther along, and the two right-hand stretchers slapped down, clapping back up, then down again, drumming the—

  Max’s knees hit the ceiling as the ambulance ka-whomped to the ground on its left side. The first aid boxes exploded open to release twin streamers of white gauze, and an IV bag splatted apart like a water balloon dropped off the Empire State Building. Max fell from the roof to the left side of the ambulance, her hand automatically shooting out to brace her fall. Lightning streaked through her wrist.

  She lay where she landed—on the underside of the folded-up cot nearest the roof—trying to catch her breath. She blinked through a haze of grainy dust and a white powder cloud that was probably talc. Over the thunder of her heartbeat, she heard the ambulance let out a long sibilant hiss. The stench of transmission fluid suggested that the dying radiator wasn’t the only engine part wrecked in the accident.

  Outside, jeep tires spit sand as they ground to a halt. Two men spoke in Urdu. She couldn’t understand what they were saying—she knew only the rudiments of the Pakistani language—but the low, intense tones made one thing perfectly clear.

  The two men were coming for them.

  Chapter Six

  The moment the ambulance passed through its final death throes and came to a complete stop, Kyle bounced from his side up onto his knees and conducted a quick assessment of himself. One knee felt wet, but—no—it wasn’t bleeding. Max’s thermos had rolled out of her bag and broken, and coffee was leaking out of a long fissure, mingling with saline from a busted IV bag under his knee. He tasted blood in his mouth, and used his tongue to search for…he winced. He’d bitten his damned tongue.

  He’d kept hold of his rifle, though. A man only had to lose his weapon one time in a dangerous situation for his hand to learn to clamp shut automatically around anything with bullets. For Kyle, his lesson had come when he let go of a sniper rifle during a downhill roll-a-thon on Isla Gorgona in Colombia and landed
himself weaponless into a threesome of banditos. Afterward, he promised himself never again, and it was nice to know his reflexes had honored that vow. So, other than somehow getting a pile of sand down his pants that made him feel like a toddler with a full payload of number two in his diaper, he was fine.

  He spat, relieving himself of a mouthful of blood, saliva, and, of course, sand, then hurried in a crouch toward the front of the truck to try and get a visual on the enemy. As he moved, he glanced back at Max through the gently shifting interior fog. “Are you hurt?” he called to her.

  She was in the process of sitting up—so basically okay.

  He clambered into the front cab and hunkered down next to Jobs to check on the kid. Besides the shot-up arm, Jobs didn’t look much the worse for wear. Being unconscious when they’d crashed had probably helped; he’d just flopped around loosely like a drunk driver. His pulse was also strong.

  Max teetered to a sitting position. “Trouble’s coming,” she said softly.

  Outside the fractured front windshield, Kyle saw only desert. No bad guys in view, although they were nearby. Kyle could hear them talking, same as Max. “Are you hurt?” he repeated. He leaned back into the main part of the ambulance to paw through the first aid debris.

  “No.”

  Kyle found a roll of gauze and medical tape for Jobs, and, hmm, a tongue depressor. Straddling Jobs, he used the stick to push the passenger side outer mirror up, providing him with a visual of the road. There was the jeep, parked about three hundred feet away, and—Fuck. “They’re mounting a machine gun.”

  Max stared at the wall of the ambulance across from her, no doubt realizing the same thing Kyle did: the enemy planned to fill the ambulance with holes. And them along with it.

  “They’re probably pissed because you destroyed the first jeep.” Max spoke in a strange monotone.

  He looked at her, and for the first time saw her without the full armament of her composure. When she’d talked about Daniel Pearl, she’d been tense. This was something different. It wasn’t much, he’d give her that, merely a little quiver of her eyelashes, but it was fear, nonetheless.