by Bruhns, Nina
Laugh in his face, and then shoot him in the head. That’s what they’d do.
Worse, he’d planned to do it without telling her.
Before he’d moved five inches, she grabbed his arm. “I don’t think so.”
“Baby—”
“Don’t you dare ‘baby’ me, Kyle Jackson.” Even in the moonlit darkness she saw him wince.
She couldn’t believe he would do this. After last night. After they’d both let their emotions tumble out and light up the night with more sparks than the meteor shower that had rained over them in the magical lull between two amazing sessions of lovemaking. He hadn’t said the words she longed to hear, but his feelings had shone through in living color.
But now this. She didn’t know whether to cry, or shake him in frustration until his teeth rattled.
“You were going to leave me here, weren’t you? While you go off and sacrifice yourself in some kind of PTSD- induced guilt-fest.”
“Wow, that was harsh,” he said, looking wounded. “And no, I wasn’t leaving. Not for good, anyway. Not yet.”
“Oh, great. You aren’t killing yourself until tonight. That makes me feel so much better.”
He let out a huff. “I have no intention of killing myself, Rain. I’ve been thinking. About your idea with the explosives. About a diversion.”
She glared at him for a long second. “You really think they’d fall for it? I mean, you said yourself, it’s the oldest trick in the book.”
“Then we better pray they don’t know how to read.”
She backpedaled. “I know it was my suggestion, but there has to be another way.” How could a desperate Hail Mary like that possibly work? Especially with only two of them to execute it? Two dozen against two weren’t great odds. Especially when it was really more like two dozen against one and a half because of Rainie’s total lack of training.
“If there is another way, I can’t think of it,” he said. “And it’s hard enough leaving you unprotected out here without you making me feel even more guilty about it. So please, enough with the recriminations, okay?”
She sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she was. That crack about PTSD was uncalled for. However . . . the fear behind it was all too real. She knew him. He’d play the hero and end up dead. Deep breath. Let it out. “But you have to promise to take me with you this morning.”
“Rainie, there’s no need to—”
She knew it. “I swear to God, Kick, if you don’t let me help you set this up, I will shoot you myself.” At his expression of incredulity, she added, “Dude. You seriously don’t want to test me. I’m an ER nurse and know exactly where to place a bullet to incapacitate but not kill, and I’m getting damn good at tying stuff to camels.”
He actually choked out a laugh. She narrowed her eyes but he held up a hand, sobering. “Fine. You win. This is going to take both of us to succeed, so you should probably be in from the start.”
She sagged in relief. “Good. I really wasn’t looking forward to shooting you.”
His gaze softened. “Yeah, like you could have done that.”
Then he kissed her, and with his lips on hers so warm and loving, she knew without doubt that . . . yeah, she could. She’d do anything in the world, anything at all, to keep him from dying.
Because he would do anything in the world, anything at all, to keep that hostage from dying.
He was a better man than she would ever be.
And she wanted him. In her life.
Yeah, for always.
THEY ate a fortifying if fairly yucky breakfast of MREs and lukewarm sun tea, then Kick gathered the supplies he needed and stowed them carefully in his DCU pockets. Today he was wearing cammies head to ankle, looking handsome and dangerous as all get-out. He’d made Rainie wear one of his extra cammie T-shirts with her jeans, and today she covered her hair and arms with the khaki parachute-silk kaffiyeh he’d made for her after the crash, rather than the brightly visible white Bedouin head shawl.
“We’ll only take one of the camels, to save time,” he told her, “and leave it hidden while we nail down the plan details and place the explosives.”
They’d talked it out, and the idea was to rig up a diversionary explosion which Rainie would set off tonight, creating an opening for Kick to rush into the chaos and grab the prisoner. Meanwhile, she’d circle around to the other side with the camels and pick up Kick and the hostage there, then all three would ride hell-bent for the Egyptian border. STORM would already have been radioed beforehand and the air strike coordinated. With any luck that would catch the insurgents before they lit out in pursuit of them.
Pretty standard—and predictable—strategy. Unfortunately, they didn’t have the time, supplies, or numbers to get more creative. It was their only shot.
When they reached the hills, Kick hobbled the camel and they climbed up to the top of the ridge to study the camp below. She was nervous as hell being this close. She still remembered the mouth-drying terror she’d felt that first day hiding in the cave after the plane crash, and those awful men nearly finding her. Not to mention Kick’s horrific story.
The good news was that this time she wasn’t on the verge of a panic attack. She really was better.
Kick passed her a bottle of water.
“If we do this, what about abu Bakr?” she asked.
Kick grimaced, pulling out his binoculars. “With any luck I’ll run into the bastard during the rescue and can nail him then.”
Despite her continued ambivalence on the subject, she knew he would hate not completing his real mission. She’d come a long way on this journey, not just in mileage, but in mind-set. She’d killed a man herself. And come to accept that sometimes there’s no choice. It’s you or them. How could she condemn Kick for his past sins? Or agonize over what they were about to do? Killing these terrorists would save hundreds of lives, possibly thousands.
But for Kick, killing abu Bakr was highly personal. Revenge for his friends’ terrible deaths. And yet, here he was, willing to forsake that mission in order to save the life of one unknown prisoner. Her respect for him was definitely off the charts.
“I have to trust the air strike will take care of him if I can’t. The most important thing now is saving that prisoner’s life, and preventing the attacks on the Khartoum embassies.” He raised the field glasses again. “One thing . . . whatever abu Bakr’s planning, I have a sneaking suspicion it involves something inside that cement hut in the center of camp.”
She peered down at it. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s the only substantial structure in the whole camp, and the only thing besides the prisoner that has a constant guard. Something important’s in there. I can smell it.”
She recognized that stubborn tone of voice. “Don’t even think about trying to check it out, Kick. There isn’t time.”
“I know. I just wish—”
“Yeah, there are a lot of things I wish, too.” He glanced over and she met his eyes, allowing the full extent of her worry for him to show in hers. “Please don’t take any chances. I can’t make it without you.”
“Sure, you can,” he responded quietly. “If you haven’t learned that much over the past week, I sure as hell have. You can do anything you put your mind to, Rainie. There’s no doubt about that.”
She wondered if he’d deliberately interpreted her words in the narrower context of her making it out of the Sudan alive. Or if it had even occurred to him that she might mean it in a bigger sense. A whole-life sense.
But before she could say anything more, he rolled over, dug in his pocket, and handed her the funny-looking goggles he’d used briefly at the refinery. “Here. Better start getting used to these.”
“Now, what are they again . . . ?”
“NVGs. Night vision goggles. They’ll let you keep track of me in the dark tonight. I’ll have a marker in my pocket that will blink hot and cold so you can tell it’s me.” He adjusted a knob.
She slid them on and winced
at the bright green images. “Yikes.”
“The daylight messes up the optics so I’ve stopped them down, but you get the general idea. When you’re done, put them somewhere safe until tonight. I’ll rig the explosives now. And for God’s sake, stay down and well out of sight.”
She watched anxiously as he went a few yards further along the top of the ridge, hunkering down and cutting off small chunks from what looked like a brick of grey clay, which he then placed around several sandstone boulders, and connected the chunks with stiff string. Then he pulled a box out of his pocket and carefully unwrapped its contents.
“Detonator cap,” he explained. “Without this, no bang.”
Gingerly he measured and attached a long piece of a different type of string to it and stepped away.
“That’s the fuse I’m supposed to light?” she asked nervously.
“Det cord, yeah. It’s super-slow-burning so you’ll have plenty of time to get clear to the other side of the camp after lighting it.”
“You’re sure?” she asked, grim visions of Wile E. Coyote blowing himself up while lighting endless sticks of dynamite dancing through her head.
“I’m sure,” he said, handing her a disposable lighter. “Keep this safe, too.”
She slid it into her pocket.
Movement down in the camp snagged their attention. The men were gathering in an open area in front of the cement hut, laying down little rugs on the dirt.
Stricken, she stared. Oh, Lord. “They’re praying.”
“Don’t,” Kick said, taking hold of her shoulders and spinning her away from the sight. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
“But how can we—”
“Remember why those men are here, Rainie. They’re here to learn how to bomb and kill and maim. Think of the innocent people in the embassies who’ll die, and the workers in the refinery, how easily and brutally they killed them. And never, ever forget what they would do to you if they found you.”
She bit down on her lip. “I know you’re right. It just feels . . .”
“Believe me, I know. But if they were truly spiritual men, they would not be here.” He pulled her close. “I’m sorry, I have to get going or I’ll miss my window. Will you be all right?”
She sucked down a breath and nodded.
He gave her a kiss. “Be safe. And if anything happens to me down there, you know what to do.”
Her heart squeezed. “Yeah. Come in after you, guns blazing.”
He scowled. “Don’t even joke.”
How well he knew her. And yet, how little. If he were captured, did he really expect her to run off to the Bedouin and leave him here to be tortured and killed? Yeah. Snowball’s chance.
“Please don’t let anything happen to you,” she pleaded, throwing her arms around him. She was so afraid to let him go, even just to quickly set things up on the fringes of the camp. How much worse would it be tonight, to watch him charge right into the midst of the enemy and try to drag a wounded prisoner out of there?
Oh, God. This plan was never going to work.
Deep breath. Let it out slowly.
He will be fine.
We will both be fine.
One final kiss and he stepped out of her arms.
Yes. Yes, it would work. It had to.
Because there was no other way to get out of this whole situation alive.
For any of them.
He disappeared over the top of the ridge, and for a long time she sat hidden and watched like a hawk for him to appear somewhere below.
The weird, melodic chanting of the terrorists’ prayers drifted across the desert, creating a surreal soundtrack to her jangling nerves. The sun was high over the horizon now and the temperature hotter than Hades. Sweat ran down her temples and slowly soaked through her T-shirt.
But there was no sign of Kick. That was good, right? If she couldn’t see him, and she even knew he was down there, the bad guys couldn’t see him, either.
Wait! What was that? A disembodied shadow moved across the back of a mud hut, then blended into a pile of debris next to an old Jeep. He’d said he planned to disable it. And also to try and find where they stored the petrol and their extra ammo, then wire it all to blow, in order to lay down a second layer of cover.
With her heart lodged firmly in her throat, she waited for him to reappear. And waited. And waited.
There! For a split second he was a blur crossing a bare section of desert just beyond the camp perimeter, making tracks for a nearby wash. Thank God! He must be finished and heading back to her.
But all of a sudden, there was a loud shout. One of the terrorists, the one who’d been guarding that damned cement hut, yelled and pointed, then took off running after Kick.
“No!” she cried, then slapped her hand over her mouth.
Instantly, every man in the camp was on his feet giving chase.
Run, Kick! Run!
She bit down hard on her tongue, wanting to explode in rage and scream in pain, and keep screaming and screaming for him to keep running and running, until she couldn’t make another sound.
Suddenly, he just stopped in his tracks. And with a quick look up at the ridge where she was hiding, he turned, and raised his hands high.
No. No, no, no! What was he doing?
Don’t surrender!
The terrorists were on him like a pack of angry dogs. Shaking their fists and shooting off their guns, they savagely dragged him into the camp. He didn’t even resist.
Oh, dear God.
Please, God, no!
He’d given himself up! But why? Why not run? Run and hide, as he’d done on that very first day?
Because he didn’t have any way of tricking them this time, she realized with a sinking heart. He knew they wouldn’t give up hunting him until they’d found him. And . . . Oh, God. It suddenly hit her like a two-by-four what must have driven his decision to surrender so quickly. They’d find her, too.
Oh, dear Lord. Kick had deliberately let himself be captured by those monsters.
In order to protect her.
TWENTY-TWO
MACHINE guns were going off. Shooting wildly.
Shouting.
Outside the four walls of his pigsty, mayhem reigned.
What the fuck was going on?
Pig swallowed heavily. Possibilities burned through his head.
Was this it?
Had his captors finally decided to put on the Big Finale? Would they come for him now and drag his ass out into the middle of the camp and slice off his head as the video cameras rolled, amid much joy, celebration, and merriment?
Shit.
Every day for as long as he could remember he’d expected to die. Just not, like, right now this minute.
Fuck. He wasn’t ready. He still hadn’t gotten down with his redheaded Angel. Hell, he still didn’t even know her damn name. Or his own, for that matter. He couldn’t die. Not yet. He wasn’t—
Suddenly, the door swung wide. Sunlight streamed through the opening, lighting up his dark, confined world. Great. Why couldn’t he have stayed blind for just a few more weeks? Now he’d be able to see their laughing eyes as they killed him, see the glint of the curved sword they’d use to—
Someone was tossed into the small space, slamming into the back wall with a bone-crunching crash.
“Yeah! Fuck you, too, Osama!” the guy yelled, along with a string of other curses as he slid down the mud wall onto his ass.
Holy Christ, that was English! American English.
Pig gripped the edge of his tattered mattress in disbelief. The door smacked shut, cutting off the light like a switch.
“Jesus.” The single word whispered through the hut like a breeze in the tall pines back home. Back home . . . Home had pines?
And that voice . . .
His pulse shot through his veins like neutrons in a superconductor. Impossible. No. This had to be a dream. Another of the redhead’s cruel games. He couldn’t even remember what a pine tree looked l
ike. If there was such a thing. And that voice probably only seemed familiar because it sounded like the voice in his own head. He knew he was American. They’d told him often enough. American Pig!
“Hey,” he attempted to say aloud, but it came out more like a croak.
The American voice didn’t answer.
He squinted and peered but couldn’t see shit. Maybe he really was dreaming . . . He crawled closer, on unsteady hands and knees across the packed dirt floor, desperately trying to clear his fuzzy vision and wade through the dimness to see—
A man really was sitting there where he’d dropped, staring back at him. Probably in horror. Yeah, well, they didn’t call him Pig for nothing.
“My God,” the man whispered in the darkness.
“Are you real?” he asked the dim vision, hardly daring to hope. He wanted to wish—for the other man’s sake—he was only hallucinating. But he couldn’t. He was too starved for friendly human company to do anything but pray like hell the guy was for real. And friendly.
Again no answer.
He picked his way closer still. Slowly, warily, ready to roll into a ball at the least sign of violence. The guards had tricked him before. But this man didn’t move. And the guy wasn’t dressed like a guard. Were those Army DCUs and boots?
He lifted his hand and touched . . . a real face. Warm flesh and bone. Not an illusion . . .
Real fingers reached out to touch his face in return. He flinched away.
“Jesus God,” that familiar voice breathed. “It can’t be. I must be losing it. . . .” Infinitely slowly the fingers kept coming.
He couldn’t help his instinctive reaction; he squeezed his eyes shut, shrank back, and started to shake violently. Waiting for the slap, or the punch, or the grab and twist. But instead a gentle touch pushed aside his long, rat-nest hair and faintly traced the outline of his bruised cheek.
“Jesus. Jesus God, Alex. It’s really you.”
RAINIE had to get out of there. Fast.
The ugly bastard that seemed to be in command had tossed Kick into one of the shacks, then started shouting loudly. As she watched, just as she’d feared, a swarm of gun-wielding men came pouring out of the terrorist camp. To search for Kick’s hideaway, to confiscate his belongings. The hideaway where they’d foolishly left evidence of two people, not just one. Once the terrorists found it, they’d know there was a second infidel lurking around somewhere. And go after her.