by Gayle Wilson
The movement again unplanned, her thumb traced across his lower lip. Although it often seemed stern, almost hard, she had long ago discovered that his true nature was indicated by its fullness.
It moved now under her touch, his mouth opening slightly. For an instant she expected him to kiss her thumb as he’d done so many times in the past. He continued to watch her instead.
Other than that seemingly involuntary parting of his lips, he didn’t move again until she laid her palm against his cheek, much as she had comfortingly shaped Mike Mitchell’s. Landon turned his head slightly so that her fingers were no longer in contact with his face.
It was obvious he didn’t want to be touched. Not by her. And just as obvious that whatever the reason he’d come to find her, it hadn’t been to renew the physical relationship they’d once shared.
Although she was embarrassed by what had just happened, other than explaining that he’d awakened her in the middle of an erotic dream about him, she couldn’t think of anything to say that would explain her actions. She began to push up instead, realizing that every muscle in her body was stiff.
Considering that climbing mountains was something she didn’t do on a regular basis, that was hardly surprising. The thought of continuing what they’d done last night in this condition, however, made her want to cry. Except she was no more willing to give Landon James that satisfaction than her captives.
“Don’t you think you can discard the disguise?” She looked pointedly at the patch that covered his right eye. “There’s no one up here to see you. Besides, it can’t be easy judging distance with that thing on.”
His lips closed, tightening into a straight line. And then he opened them to ask, his voice cold, “What disguise?”
She almost answered before she realized there was no mockery in his tone. The single dark eye held on hers, daring her to pursue the subject.
What disguise? That question made no sense unless…
She looked away, breaking the contact between them in order to deal with the revelation. Was that part of whatever had happened to him here in Afghanistan? Part of what had made him leave the CIA even before the dissolution of the External Security Team?
“Finish the rest of what’s in there,” he said, nodding toward the skin she’d been sleeping on.
Again, stupidly, she thought about refusing. She unscrewed the cap instead and poured the remaining water into the horn cup.
“What about you?” she asked before she raised it to her lips.
“I’ve had mine.”
Her eyes considered the still-bulging sides of the skin slung over his shoulder. It appeared as full as it had been last night. If he was attempting to save the water for her at his own expense—
Then that must mean he knew more than he’d told her about the difficulties that lay ahead. There should be enough water for them both if all they had to do was to finish the descent.
Although she hadn’t asked, she had assumed all along that Landon had arranged for some form of transportation at the foot of the mountain, just as he’d left the water skins and the clothing she wore hidden on the trail. If he hadn’t, and he was expecting her to walk across the border, she would need every ounce of strength and resolve she possessed.
She tilted her head, draining the water from the cup. Then she replaced the cap and held the goatskin pouch up to him. He took it, sliding it as far back under the overhang as it would go, before he held out his hand.
After running her fingers across his mouth, like a schoolgirl with a crush, it would be silly to refuse to take his hand. Besides, the way the muscles in her legs and back ached, she was afraid she might literally need help in getting to her feet.
She reached up, putting her fingers into his. Without any visible effort, his pulled her up.
For the first time since he’d awakened her, she became conscious of the darkening sky. Landon had kept his promise. The sun that had burned relentlessly all day was sinking below the horizon. Soon the chill of the desert night would set in, and the memory of today’s heat would seem like a fantasy.
Traveling in the darkness would be easier for so many reasons, not the least of which would be that she would no longer have to see whatever had been in that single dark eye when she had touched his face.
Chapter Six
“Son of a bitch.”
Although Landon had muttered the expletive under his breath, on some level he had known Grace would hear it. But then there seemed little point in trying to keep this disaster from her.
The truck he’d purchased across the Pakistani border wasn’t here. Nor was the man who was supposed to have driven it to this spot and then waited for them to meet him.
Ahmad was a former Afghan freedom fighter, who had once battled Russian tanks from horseback. He was also someone Landon had worked with innumerable times during the years he’d spent in this country. Someone he had trusted implicitly because he had never failed him.
Not until now.
“What’s wrong?” Grace asked.
“Our transportation hasn’t arrived.”
He turned to look at her over his shoulder, reading exhaustion in her eyes, as well as her posture. Despite the demands he’d made, however, he hadn’t once heard her complain. Not even when they’d finished the water in the second goatskin sometime before dawn.
“Are you sure this is the right place?”
Landon didn’t bother to answer, knowing he was likely to take out his frustration with the situation on her. The question would have been reasonable under almost any other circumstances. When your life depended on having transportation across miles of desert, however, you didn’t make that kind of mistake. You couldn’t afford to.
There was no doubt in his mind about the location he and Ahmad had agreed upon. This was territory that was very familiar to them both.
“Landon?”
“I’m sure,” he said, the words clipped.
“So…what do you think happened?”
That was something he’d rather not speculate on. He still believed that if Ahmad were physically capable of it, he would have been here. Since he wasn’t…
“Nothing good.”
That bleak assessment was honest. Although the region was a hotbed of terrorist and militia activity—on both sides of the border—arranging for Ahmad to meet them here rather than farther inside Pakistan had seemed worth the risk. Landon had had no idea about Grace’s physical condition. Or that of her companions.
Maybe he’d just been hoping for some of the luck he’d become famous for through the long years of covert missions. Something he didn’t seem to be getting on this one.
“What do we do now?” Grace asked.
It was a damn good question. Unfortunately he didn’t have an answer for it.
With the intensity of the sun and the time that had passed since their last fluid intake, they had perhaps an hour, two at the most, before they would begin to suffer the effects of dehydration. And the water and supplies he had planned to use on this phase of their escape had been stowed in the back of the missing truck, along with his satellite phone.
He hadn’t wanted to carry that into the camp of Grace’s captors because if he were captured, it would have been a dead giveaway of his ties to the West. Actually, he had hoped not to have to use that form of communication at all, not with the Agency’s “eyes in the sky.” He had no proof the CIA had anything to do with Grace’s captivity, but until he had her safely on a plane back to the States, he preferred they had no idea she was with him. Or that he was even here.
He looked up from the place where the battered Toyota should have been waiting. A seemingly endless stretch of sand and rocks lay between their current position and the nearest outpost of civilization.
It wasn’t that the area was uninhabited. The problem was that it was impossible to know where the loyalties of the tribes who lived along this stretch of border might lie at any given moment. Those changed, depending on who was high bidde
r for their services.
Thanks to Cabot, Landon was carrying enough cash to offer some bribes of his own. In the person of Grace Chancellor, however, he was carrying something that would have a far greater value than the money.
“We go down and take a look around,” he said in answer to her question. “Maybe there’ll be some indication of what happened.”
He didn’t expect any startling revelations from the rocky ground, but maybe he could determine if Ahmad had arrived and had then been attacked. Besides, even if they were forced to continue from this point on foot, they would have to make this final descent. They had come far enough from the encampment of Grace’s captors that, without water, there was no turning back.
Son of a bitch.
This time he refrained from expressing his growing anxiety aloud. As smart as Grace was, she would eventually figure out without any help from him just how much trouble they were really in.
WHEN THEY REACHED THE BOTTOM of the slope, there was no visible indication that the truck or Ahmad had ever been here. The hard-packed dirt of the road, in actuality little more than a trail, was constantly scoured by the wind, making it impossible to track the passage of a vehicle.
While he’d surveyed the area, Grace had leaned against a boulder and watched. She’d asked none of the questions he’d been expecting. Of course, she’d already voiced the relevant one. And he still didn’t have an answer for it.
“Landon.”
He’d been stooping, balanced on the balls of his feet, as he tried to glean any information from this desolate piece of earth. In response to an unexpected note in Grace’s voice, he raised his head to find her staring at the rocks behind him.
Even before he turned, the hair on the back of his neck began to lift. His survival instincts were well honed, but he’d had no warning this time.
His first thought was that the men who stood behind him, their Soviet-made SKS rifles pointed at his belly, must have been waiting here for whoever the truck and its driver had come to pick up. His second, a more logical one, was to wonder if that were the case, why they hadn’t left the vehicle in place in order to lull his suspicions?
Of course, that ploy had hardly been necessary, Landon acknowledged, since he hadn’t had a clue anyone else was around. Certainly not the six or seven stone-faced guerrillas confronting him.
He thought about trying for the Glock stashed in his belt. As his gaze moved along the ridge above, he was able to pick out at least a half dozen other fighters stationed behind the natural coverage the rocks provided, their weapons also pointing at him or at Grace. The odds didn’t inspire confidence for any kind of fast-draw contest.
The man nearest him, taller and broader than his companions, gestured with a quick lift of the muzzle of the newer and more sophisticated AK-47 he held, urging Landon to get up. Moving carefully, he stood, at the same time bringing his hands away from his body in a universal sign of surrender.
There was no sound at all but the ever-present wind. He waited, expecting to feel the impact of a bullet in his gut at any second.
Disguised as he was, there was nothing to indicate to these tribesmen that keeping him alive might prove profitable. Grace, on the other hand…
“We need a guide to take us across the border,” he said in Dari, deciding to make his proposition before they came to the inevitable conclusion that he’d be less trouble dead.
Although Dari, the Afghan version of Farsi, was one of the two principle languages of country, considering the polyglot linguistics of the border regions, Landon had no way of knowing whether they would understand a word of he’d just said. And even less reason to believe they might be interested in hiring out as guides.
Especially when they realized that a far more lucrative and less strenuous proposition was at hand. Despite the loose robe and turban that again covered her fair hair, it wouldn’t take them long to recognize the potential value Grace Chancellor represented.
Of course, there was always the possibility they didn’t know about the massive search for her and her fellow prisoners taking place on the other side of the mountains. If not, they would have no incentive to return her to an area where the coalition forces might stand a chance of finding her.
Even if they didn’t, they would still recognize how profitable an American woman could be to them. They could sell her to the remnants of the Taliban, who had once ruled Afghanistan. Or to Al-Qaeda, who would love to get their hands on a senior CIA analyst, for propaganda purposes if nothing else. Or they might just decide to use her for their own pleasure.
Which meant Grace had probably been better off before his “rescue,” he acknowledged bitterly. Apparently Cabot’s faith in his abilities had been seriously misplaced.
Maybe he’d been out of this game too long. Maybe things had changed too much in a region he had once known like the back of his hand. Or maybe, he admitted with brutal honesty, he wasn’t the operative he’d once been. And Grace would be the one who would pay the price for this failure.
“Who are you?”
Something nagged at Landon about the accent of the man who had gestured with his weapon for him to stand, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. At least the leader spoke the language, which meant they would be able communicate.
Now he needed to settle on which story to try and sell them. Since they might already know some of it, sticking as closely as possible to the truth seemed the best plan.
“A friend was supposed to meet us here with transportation,” he said instead of answering what he’d been asked. “He didn’t show up, and now we have no way to get to Peshawar.”
The dark eyes of the man with the AK-47 didn’t change. Nor did the aim of his weapon, still pointed at Landon’s heart.
“I have funds there,” Landon went on. “I can pay you something now, and the rest when we reach Peshawar.”
“You have business in Peshawar?”
“My wife and I—”
“Tell your wife to remove her scarf.”
Fear cut through Landon’s chest, as cold and sharp as the blade of a knife. “Surely you don’t wish to dishonor her before these men…”
He was silenced by another movement of the automatic weapon. This time it was clearly threatening.
“Do it. Do it now before I lose patience and blow a hole in you.”
Before Landon reached the unpleasant conclusion that he had no choice but to obey, Grace reached up and pulled the scarf off her head, revealing her hair.
“Grace Chancellor, I presume?” The mocking question had been asked in English—American English—its only accent a slight Southern one. “We’ve been looking for you,” the man with the AK-47 continued.
“Then…I suppose I should presume you’re Special Forces,” Grace said, smiling at him. “Army?”
The weapon that had been pointed at Landon’s midsection didn’t waver, even as the man returned her smile. In response to his expression there was a slight relaxation along the line of the dozen or so men arrayed behind the rocks at his back.
“Forgive me if I don’t provide that information, Ms. Chancellor. Some of us who are presently searching for you are normally occupied in slightly more…irregular activities. I hope you’ll understand.” The American’s eyes considered Landon’s face a moment before he added, again speaking to Grace, “I should have introduced myself. Operating this far from civilization one quickly forgets its conventions. Steven Reynolds, Ms. Chancellor. Very much at your service.”
The name had been followed by neither rank nor affiliation, information Reynolds clearly didn’t intend to provide. He was undoubtedly one of the lone wolf operatives who worked with tribal groups sympathetic to the goals of the coalition. Although the intelligence they provided about this lawless region was invaluable, their job was incredibly dangerous.
“What can you tell us about your captors, Ms. Chancellor?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. I’m not even sure who held us. Or why. All I know is that
they moved us every time the coalition forces got too close.”
“And who’s this?” The muzzle of Reynolds’s gun was raised slightly to indicate Landon, who was still standing with his hands raised.
“A friend. He rescued me from the camp where I was being held. Somewhere on the other side of the mountain.”
The black eyes assessed Landon, but there was no response to her information. And no change in the focus of the weapon.
“And your name?”
For some reason, Landon was reluctant to supply it. Maybe that was nothing more than a caution created by years of covert operations. And listening to his gut was something else he’d learned from Cabot.
“John Sloan.” That was an alias he’d used on other missions.
“And you were out here looking for Ms. Chancellor on behalf of…?”
“A friend of Ms. Chancellor’s in the States sent me to find her.” He didn’t add “since no one else seemed able to,” but the implication was there.
“I see,” Reynolds said, obviously picking up on the implied criticism. “You’re to be congratulated, Mr. Sloan. You were able to accomplish what the rest of us couldn’t. And I wonder just how you managed to pull that off.” The suspicion that kept Reynolds’s weapon pointed at Landon was reflected in his voice.
Since he himself would have been just as leery of someone else in this situation, Landon could only respect his caution. Reynolds knew nothing about him other than Grace’s acknowledgment that he was a friend. And this was a region where friendships mattered less than anything else.
“Since I was traveling alone, I slipped in under their radar.”
Reynolds nodded as if that made sense. “And you went in unarmed?”
There was no point in prevaricating. The American could always have him searched. Something he preferred to avoid.
“Hardly.”
“Then perhaps you won’t mind if I asked you to lay your weapons at your feet. Strictly for Ms. Chancellor’s protection, you understand.”