Seven Days to Forever

by Ingrid Weaver

  They'd brought only the bare necessities to Washington when they'd loaded the transport plane at Fort Bragg—vehicles, equipment and shelter. This self-contained temporary base of operations could be packed up and stacked in the back of a truck as quickly as it had been assembled. The living conditions were cramped and far from comfortable, but the plumbing in the warehouse bathrooms worked, and Gonzales had coaxed hot water out of the showers. Compared to other places where Eagle Squadron had set up shop, this tent was downright luxurious.

  As far as Flynn knew, the mission was still a go. According to the latest news, the damage done by the mix-up at the ransom drop and the scuffle at Abigail's apartment appeared to have been successfully contained. To everyone's relief, the team had moved swiftly enough so that no word had leaked to the media or to the local authorities. How much damage had been done to the Ladavians' negotiations with the LLA was another matter.

  Flynn turned right and headed toward the stocky, bald man who was seated in front of the radio. "Is there any word from the Ladavian Embassy yet, Chief?"

  Chief Warrant Officer Esposito shook his head as he glanced up at Flynn. His forehead creased like a pit bull's. "The LLA hasn't been in contact since they put the boy on the line."

  "How's Vilyas?"

  "Not doing well. He had to be sedated."

  "That's rough. He didn't look in good shape when I saw him at the ransom drop."

  Esposito bared his teeth, exposing a flash of gold. "I can't blame him. If anyone snatched one of my boys, I'd have to be tied down to keep from going after the bastards myself."

  "Do you think the Vilyas kid is still alive?"

  "At this point, the odds are in his favor. The ransom money isn't all the LLA are after. They want to terrorize Vilyas and the Ladavian government, and as long as their hostage is alive, they can keep turning the screws."

  "Yeah, it's a win-win situation for them. If they get the money, they finance more terrorism. And if they execute their hostage, they demoralize the royal family and gain worldwide publicity."

  "Hanging would be too easy for bastards like that." Esposito gestured toward the pack that Flynn carried on his back. "Is that the money?"

  Flynn slipped the straps of the pack off his shoulders and held it out to Esposito. "Yeah. It's all there. What do you want me to do with it?"

  "The box I used for my equipment is under the table. You could put the money in there to keep it out of the way until we're ready for the next round."

  Flynn peered under the table and spotted a battered steel trunk. He bent down to slide it toward him, stuffed the pack inside and closed the lid. By the time he had straightened up, Esposito had already turned back to the radio as if he were totally disinterested in the twenty million dollars in cash that rested inches away from his feet.

  Neither man considered the situation to be strange. People in their line of work were motivated by loyalty, honor and duty—if they'd been interested in money, they would have been accountants.

  "Hey, O'Toole. Let me take a look at that arm."

  Flynn glanced at the lanky man who was walking toward him. Sergeant Jack Norton had the easy gait and whipcord leanness of a marathon runner. His specialty was field medicine, but no one made the mistake of believing that made him soft. Norton could pop dislocated joints back into place or fish through a guy's guts for shrapnel in the morning, then proceed to take advantage of their grogginess to rob them blind at poker in the afternoon.

  "Forget it, Norton," Flynn said, moving toward the mess area. He grabbed a can of soda from one of the cases on the floor, opened the top and took a long swig. "It's just a flesh wound."

  "Yeah, I've heard that before," Jack said as he followed him. His soft Louisiana drawl echoed in his loose-limbed strides. "Humor me, anyway. It's the major's orders."

  Flynn looked around. "Where is the major, anyway?"

  Jack tipped his head toward the far corner where some extra canvas tarps had been strung to partition off a small room. "Back there, doing his best to keep any more, ah, surprises from hitting the fan. He told me to send you in when I'm done."

  "Fine," Flynn muttered. He pulled one of the chairs close to the trestle table, sat down and extended his arm. "Knock yourself out."

  Jack sat across from him and opened up the red tackle box where he kept his medical supplies. He let out a low whistle as he peeled back the blood-encrusted sleeve of Flynn's shirt.

  Flynn gritted his teeth. Not from the pain—he was trained to ignore far worse than this—but from embarrassment. He was a Delta Force commando. He was an expert marksman. He could use his feet and his hands as lethal weapons. He'd disabled three LLA terrorists less than an hour ago without breaking a sweat.

  But he hadn't been able to stop a five-foot, four-inch schoolteacher from stabbing him with a screwdriver.

  Why? Sure, the grip he'd used to restrain her hadn't been all that solid because he hadn't wanted to give her bruises, but he should have been able to catch her before she'd bolted into the parking garage. The truth was, she'd distracted him with all that wriggling in the elevator.

  What normal man wouldn't have been distracted? Flynn asked himself. His hand had been clamped over the backs of her thighs, his face had been level with the curve of her buttocks and her unbound breasts had been jiggling against his shoulder blades. He'd been engulfed by the warm scent of fresh-washed female. Even with the voices of his team giving curt reports through his earpiece, he'd been aware of every panting breath she'd drawn.

  Yet the lapse in his concentration could have been more than embarrassing. It could have been dangerous. If Sarah hadn't shown up with her van when she had, the outcome might have been entirely different. The mission could have been compromised because, instead of focusing on his job, Flynn had been thinking about how good Abigail Locke had felt against his body.

  He scowled. Hell, she wasn't even his type.

  "Hold on there, son. I'll be done in a minute."

  Flynn returned his attention to Jack. "Did Captain Fox get in yet?"

  "Uh-huh. She and your little friend are in with the major."

  Flynn's gaze strayed to the partition that defined the major's "office." He should be wondering how the security background check had panned out, or how Abigail was handling the situation. Yet instead he wondered whether her blouse had dried.

  "This looks ugly," Jack added, his voice suspiciously sympathetic as he cleaned the dried blood from the area around the wound. He swabbed on a generous amount of disinfectant. "I have to give the schoolteacher credit. She got some good penetration after she pierced your sleeve."

  "It wasn't that deep. The bleeding stopped after a few minutes."

  "I can't tell the caliber or the make of the screwdriver she used." Jack took a pair of tweezers and picked out some shirt fibers that clung to the sides of the hole. "Was it a Robertson?"

  "It was a Phillips," Flynn said.

  "Ah, yes. Now that you mention it, I can see the four points of the star." He gave the wound a final cleaning, laid a piece of gauze over the top and taped it in place. "Next time, make sure your tool belt isn't loaded."

  Flynn folded the bloodstained sleeve above his elbow and flexed his arm, watching the white bandage ride up on a ridge of muscle. He wasn't going to respond to Jack's ragging. If the men knew how much this bothered him, they'd never let him hear the end of it. "I'll ask Rafe to install safeties on all the screwdrivers, okay?"

  Jack packed up his supplies. "Good idea."

  Flynn finished his soda and got to his feet. "Thanks for the Band-Aid, Jack. Got any lollipops to go with your usual, sweet bedside manners?"

  "I'm fresh out of both." He lowered his voice. "If you're going to see the major now, you might not want to go in there unarmed."

  "He's not still pissed about the mix-up at the ransom drop, is he?"

  "Not him. I'm talking about his guest." He raised an eyebrow. "I heard she might be armed with a pencil."

  * * *

  Unbeliev
able. That's all that came to Abbie's mind. The whole situation was simply beyond her comprehension. Things like this didn't happen to people like her. She glanced around the canvas cubicle. It didn't look like a rabbit hole, and her name wasn't Alice, but any minute now she half expected to see a white hare in a waistcoat and top hat—

  The bubble of hysteria that rose in her throat frightened her almost as much as the events of the past hour. Had it only been an hour? She rubbed the empty spot on her wrist where her watch should have been. She felt naked without it, but she hadn't been able to find it when she'd been scrambling in the dark for her clothes, and then she'd gone to answer the door, and Flynn had talked his way inside, and her life had turned upside down….

  Oh, God. She had to get a hold of herself. She took a deep breath, and her head reeled at the strong aromas of canvas and dusty cement. This cubicle was the only private area of the hidden tent Sarah had brought her to. It was tiny, with barely enough space for a small table and a handful of folding metal chairs. A bare lightbulb hung on a cord from one of the poles that propped up the roof, adding a stark glare to the already-grim surroundings.

  "These are standard government nondisclosure forms, Miss Locke. You're welcome to read them over before you sign."

  Abbie jerked as a sheaf of papers was pushed across the table in front of her. She looked at the man who sat on the other side.

  Major Mitchell Redinger wasn't wearing a uniform—in his knit golf shirt and pleated khakis he should have looked more like a lawyer on his day off than an army officer—yet he radiated an air of authority. Maybe it was from the distinguished-looking silver that threaded the dark hair at his temples or the ramrod stiffness of his posture. Or maybe it was the unwavering gray steel in his gaze. Whatever the cause, the overall effect made her grateful she was facing him across a table and not a battlefield.

  She took the papers from his hand, but when she tried to focus on the words, her shaking fingers made the print blur.

  "We're sorry for the inconvenience," the major continued. "We'll take you home as soon as it's safe to do so."

  Inconvenience? she thought wildly. Was that how they described having her door broken down by three armed men and being kidnapped by a bunch of soldiers?

  Abbie moved her gaze to the third person in the room. Sarah Fox stood by the canvas flap that formed the door, her arms folded over her chest. Like the major, she didn't need a uniform to assume an air of command. Even in her lemon-yellow sleeveless sweater and her short skirt, there was something intimidating about her. She was only a few inches taller than Abbie, but she was one of those people who had the kind of presence that made her appear larger than she actually was.

  She had seemed so nice at first, Abbie thought. Before they'd left the garage, Sarah had identified herself as a member of the United States Army and had done her best to stem Abbie's budding panic. She'd explained that Abbie had accidentally put herself in the middle of a ransom exchange, then she'd calmly taken off the cardigan that matched her yellow sweater and loaned it to Abbie to cover up her wet blouse.

  It had been a kind gesture—Abbie hadn't realized how indecent she had looked with that soaked cotton plastered to her breasts. Had Flynn noticed?

  What a stupid thing to worry about. How could she be concerned about herself at all? She wasn't the only one who had been kidnapped. A child's life was at stake here, and she had unwittingly made things worse. The papers crumpled in her grasp. "What's going to happen now?" she asked.

  "As Major Redinger said, you'll be taken home as soon as possible," Sarah replied.

  "No, I meant to the child? Is he going to be all right?"

  "We're working on it."

  "Who is he?"

  "I'm sorry, Miss Locke, but in the interests of national security, we can't give you any more details," Sarah said.

  "I hadn't meant to interfere. I hadn't realized what was in that pack. I had thought that one of my students had left it."

  "Yes, we realize that."

  "What happened to those men who broke into my apartment? Were they arrested?"

  "No, we couldn't do that at this stage," the major said. "Once they regained consciousness and saw that the ransom was not in your apartment, they left. They're under surveillance, so they won't pose any further danger to you."

  "But what about the child they kidnapped? If they didn't get the ransom—"

  "Don't be concerned. They'll negotiate again."

  "But I still don't understand why the army is involved. Isn't the FBI supposed to deal with kidnappings?"

  "Normally, yes, but these are special circumstances. When it comes to hostage rescue, our expertise surpasses that of the FBI."

  Something stirred in Abbie's memory. A movie she'd seen, or some news report about a clandestine mission. The army had commandos who were trained in hostage rescue. Their skill and dedication were legendary, but they were so secret, their existence wasn't officially acknowledged. These people weren't ordinary soldiers, they were…"Oh, my God," she said. "Are you from Delta Force?"

  Sarah and the major exchanged a look.

  "That has to be why this is all so secret," Abbie persisted. "You're from Delta Force, right? Like those movies?"

  "We're a far cry from the Hollywood version, Miss Locke. We're Special Forces soldiers, not Ninjas." The major held up his palm. "Please, don't press us for more information. We want to keep your involvement to a minimum so that you can return home. You do want to help us, don't you?"

  "Of course I want to help."

  "Then all you need to do is sign those forms in triplicate and give us your oath that you won't divulge anything that has happened."

  She had to suppress another bubble of hysteria. How could she divulge what had happened? Even if she wanted to, who would believe her? She placed the forms on her lap, smoothed them out and bent over to read them. She had only managed to finish the first paragraph when footsteps sounded outside the cubicle. There was a sudden draft of cool air as the door flap was pushed aside. "You wanted to see me, Major?"

  At the deep voice, Abbie's head snapped up. It was Flynn. Or to be more accurate, it was Sergeant First Class Flynn O'Toole.

  He was a soldier, just like everyone else here. No, he was more than simply a soldier. He was a Delta Force commando, one of the most elite fighting men in the armed forces. She could see it in the proud tilt of his head, the square set of his shoulders and the rigid straightness of his spine. The rumpled plaid flannel shirt and those worn jeans didn't detract from his air of confidence. Neither did the dark stain that covered his sleeve where he'd rolled it above his elbow or the small white bandage that was taped to his forearm.

  Abbie felt sick as she saw the evidence of her attack on him. So far no one here had appeared to blame her. Sarah had seemed to find the incident amusing and had even joked about the way Abbie had been running away from Flynn.

  But it hadn't been funny. Abbie had been terrified and had believed she'd been acting in self-defense. She cleared her throat. "Mr. O'Toole…uh, Sergeant?"

  Flynn turned his head to look at her. He wasn't smiling. No, Sergeant O'Toole's gorgeous dimples weren't anywhere to be seen. He looked hard, as predatory as the last time she'd seen him. Yet he was still handsome enough to send her stomach into that doomed little dance.

  She had to fight the urge to make another run for it. "I'm sorry about stabbing you."

  "No problem, ma'am," he said stiffly. "It was a minor injury."

  "Still, I want to apologize."

  "You did what you had to do. You can't be faulted for that."

  "Are the repairs at Miss Locke's apartment completed, Sergeant O'Toole?" the major asked.

  "Yes, sir."

  "What repairs?" Abbie asked.

  "We fixed your door frame and cleaned the blood out of your carpet," Flynn replied. "I'm sorry about those red flowers. They couldn't be saved."

  It took her a moment to realize he was talking about the geraniums that had been on the booksh
elf. The pot had fallen on the tall man's head. The petals had mingled with the blood….

  Blood on her carpet. Guns in her apartment. Soldiers and secret tents and national security. Her life was spinning out of control.

  Oh, God! The sooner this ended, the better.

  The sound of crumpling paper made her glance down. She smoothed out the nondisclosure forms once more. She scanned them as fast as she could, then reached for the pen the major had placed on the table. Without any more delay, she scrawled her signature in triplicate.

  * * *

  Rumor had it that Redinger didn't have a sense of humor, but Flynn wasn't so sure. Why else had the major assigned Flynn to take Abbie home? Sarah had already established a rapport with her, so she would have been a better choice. Was this the major's subtle way of reminding Flynn of his failure to keep the woman contained in the first place?

  The major was a fair man. He never chewed anyone out when they made a mistake. Instead, he found a way to work with them to ensure the mistake wouldn't be repeated. But had it really been necessary to use this particular mode of transportation?

  Bringing his motorcycle on this mission didn't seem like such a good idea now. Sure, it was maneuverable, but it required body contact with his passenger. Requisitioning a van like Sarah's would have been better. Hell, when it came to that, maybe he should have gone with a Hum-Vee. A vehicle that size would have kept Abbie safely out of his reach.

  Riding in a Hummer wouldn't have kept him from smelling her, though. Whenever she moved, he got a whiff of apples and cranberries. The scent wasn't seductive. It was as wholesome as apple pie and Thanksgiving dinners, but it was wrapping around his senses as intimately as Abbie's arms were wrapped around his body. With each bump in the road that the bike hit, the inside of her thighs rubbed his hips. Her hands had started out clasped over his chest, but they'd gradually slid lower until they were now only a stray thought above his belt buckle.