by Gayle Wilson
It was, of course. Landon had deliberately driven off in the opposite direction to the one they’d taken.
“Then who?”
“Almost anyone,” Landon said, his gaze shifting from the road to touch again on the low ridge they were traveling parallel to.
“But… It could be someone attached to the Special Forces. Someone looking for us.”
“It could be,” he acknowledged, although he didn’t slow the vehicle. “There’s no way to know that or anything else. And it makes me very nervous to have someone watching me when I can’t see them.”
She didn’t remember that the road had been this rough. Every bump and pothole now seemed magnified because of the sensitivity of the newly abraded wound.
“But…you can’t just assume it’s someone who intends to do us harm.”
“You bet your sweet ass I can,” he said, deliberately echoing the phrase she’d used only minutes before. “That’s exactly what I’m going to assume. At least until I have a good reason to think differently.”
“Then how in the world do you think we’re ever going to—”
Her words were abruptly cut off as the truck topped a rise. Below them a convergence of vehicles blocked the road. In addition to a couple of lorries, comparable in size to the one they were driving, there were perhaps half a dozen pickups, most of them the ubiquitous Toyotas that were the favorite mode of transportation for the region.
A couple had been parked so that they were facing in the direction their truck was headed. Men with rocket launchers had been stationed in the beds of each of those. And right now, they looked as if they were preparing to fire.
“Christ.” Landon said the word so softly it seemed an invocation rather than a profanity.
Obviously not the good guys, she thought.
He spun the wheel, putting the truck into a tight circle that didn’t take it far off the road. As soon as the front end was headed away from the roadblock, he floored the accelerator, sending the vehicle roaring back toward the top of the slope.
Before they could reach it, an explosion rocked the truck’s frame. The rocket hit near enough that gravel and a spray of dirt struck the windshield with a frightening velocity.
Unthinkingly, Grace threw up her arm, trying to protect her eyes from the debris coming in through the open window. The resulting agony quickly reminded her of why she’d been holding it so tightly against her body.
“Hold on,” Landon warned.
She tried to obey, but not only was there no seat belt, there was nothing else to hold on to. She put her palm against the front of the dash, but it didn’t help.
Giving up, she crossed her arms over her stomach, hunching her shoulders and sliding as far down in the seat as she could. Still, she was thrown from side to side as the truck bounced along the narrow road.
Through the partially obscured windshield, she could see well enough to realize they were approaching the place where Landon had noticed the reflection. Considering the known danger pursuing them, she supposed that unknown watcher was the least of their worries.
She could hear the now-familiar sound of automatic weapons fire behind them. Despite the noise of the straining engine, she also heard bullets ping against the metal at the back of the truck.
“Son of a bitch.”
She turned and, through the window on his side of the truck, saw what Landon had reacted to. Horsemen streamed across the area between the southern ridge and the road. And those riders would intersect it before they could get by.
An ambush that had been far better planned than the one Reynolds had devised. Which argued Landon had been right about that, too. The ridges on either side of the road cut off any chance of escape they might have had by going across country. And with the trucks behind them carrying rocket launchers—
A bullet struck the windshield and thudded into the seat between them. The hole it left in the glass centered a spider web of cracks. As they drew nearer the horsemen, other shots began to ricochet off the body of the truck, whining away into the heated air.
“Get down,” Landon ordered grimly.
As she tried to obey, she felt the truck begin to slow. He couldn’t be stopping. Despite the odds against them, anything would be preferable to just giving up.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to keep you alive. Trying to keep both of us alive.”
“Don’t do this,” she begged, but the deceleration of the truck didn’t change.
Landon put his left hand out the window, holding it up, elbow bent, to signify his surrender. She couldn’t believe he was giving up this easily. They could have attempted to outrun the riders. They could have attempted something.
She’d told him the only thing she feared. And it wasn’t death. At least not this kind. The quick brutality of being struck by a bullet or even of having the truck hit by a rocket would be a blessing compared to one of the gruesome executions the world had watched in stunned horror.
“We can outrun them,” she argued. “They’re on horseback, for God’s sake.”
“We can’t outrun rockets. Look behind you.”
Her glance through the back window revealed what Landon had already been aware of. The pickups that carried the launchers had topped the rise and were being positioned to fire again.
Far better than an execution, she thought, even as she watched in fascinated horror as the men prepared to send up the next rocket. Better, too, than the slow, lingering dying Mike Mitchell had suffered.
Except maybe he hadn’t. If Reynolds was right, the man at her side had been ruthless enough—or perhaps merciful enough—to free him from his suffering. And that was all she had asked of him for herself.
“Promise me,” she said, gripping Landon’s arm.
“What?”
“What I asked you before.”
“I promised I’d keep you alive. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
He turned to shout something out the window at the riders who were now circling the slowing truck. Apparently, whatever he said had the desired effect. The gunfire had stopped.
In the sudden, almost eerie silence, she could hear only the thud of horses’ hooves and the keening celebration of the tribesmen who had forced the truck to a halt. In response to something one of the horsemen shouted through his open window, Landon began to apply the brakes. As soon as the vehicle lurched to a stop, he shut off its engine, removed the keys and tossed them out the window.
Maybe Landon could convince them that the coalition would be willing to pay a great deal of money—
In the midst of that hopeful fantasy, the driver’s side door was jerked open. Hands raised, Landon turned in his seat, preparing to jump down. Before he could, the horseman who had wrenched open the door reached in and grabbed a fistful of his tunic, pulling him out of the cab.
The rider held on to Landon’s clothing as he backed his horse. Then he released him abruptly, causing Landon to stumble a few steps.
Another of the circling riders kicked at him, catching him in the back and sending him staggering forward. Despite the blow, Landon somehow managed not to fall.
That obviously hadn’t been the intent of the exercise. Before he’d completely regained his balance from the kick in the back, one of the riders urged his horse forward at a gallop, literally ramming his mount into him.
This time Landon went down. As he did, he covered his head with his arms and rolled in an attempt to escape the hooves of the horse that was now being ridden over him.
Grace couldn’t tell if he’d been successful, but somehow he managed to get to his knees. His hands were again out to his side, but Grace was unsure if that was a sign of surrender or if he was preparing to protect himself from the next assault, which happened almost instantaneously.
Another of the riders sent his mount careering toward the downed man. Landon tried to scramble to his feet, but as the horseman passed him, he kicked out with his booted foot, catching Landon under the jaw.
Unable to sit and watch whatever came next, Grace opened the door of the truck, sliding down from the high cab. She hit the ground too hard, falling back against the side of the vinyl seat and jarring her arm.
Ignoring the pain, she ran around the front of the vehicle, dodging the milling horses. One of the riders reached for her, catching her shoulder, but she jerked away.
She pushed past the man who had kicked Landon. Still in the saddle, he was hovering over him as if he couldn’t wait to strike the next blow.
“Stop,” she said in Pashto.
Most Afghans, except for those in the most isolated regions along the country’s borders, spoke the language—at least well enough to understand that rudimentary command.
The man who’d kicked Landon leaned down and grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling hard enough as he straightened in the saddle to make her eyes water. She thought that he literally intended to drag her by her hair behind his horse. Laughing, he turned to say something to one of the others.
Definitely not Pashto.
Acting on instinct alone, she reached up and, using the hand of her uninjured arm, jerked the captive strands from his fingers. As soon as she was free, she knelt beside Landon.
Her heart in her throat, she focused on his chest and was rewarded by its regular rise and fall of his chest. Alive. Thank God he was alive.
She had no time for more than that thought. The man from whose hold she’d just escaped jumped down from his horse, landing almost on top of her. She dodged away from him, but his fingers again tangled in her hair, using it to turn her head so that she was looking up at him.
His other hand was already raised to strike when one of the Toyotas that had been part of the first prong of the ambush screeched to a halt beside the truck. Several of the horsemen surrounding it had had to scatter to avoid being run down.
Like everyone else in the group, her assailant froze, his hand poised in midair. As the dust the pickup had stirred up began to settle, the door on the passenger side opened. In the almost breathless stillness, Grace could hear her own breathing, quickened from fear and the run she’d made to get to Landon.
The man who stepped out of the Toyota was imposing. Perhaps six foot four or five, he probably weighed well over three hundred pounds.
In contrast to the tribesmen around her, who smelled of dirt, grease and horses, he was fastidiously—almost femininely—dressed. His sleeveless weskit was snow white, and it was worn over what appeared to be a gray silk tunic, which had been heavily beaded and embroidered. His beard was precisely trimmed and gleamed with oil. On his head he wore a silk turban, arranged in a style she’d never seen before.
“Ms. Chancellor, I believe.”
The flawless English, with its slight British accent, was almost more startling than his appearance. Because of that, it took a split second longer for the fact that he knew who she was to register. Despite what his men had done to Landon, there was a flutter of hope in her chest.
“Who are you?”
The fat man smiled. “I think in this situation asking the questions is my prerogative.”
“Are these your men?”
“Acting under my orders, I assure you.”
“Then your orders are responsible for their attack on a man who was attempting to surrender.”
“So you say. If I asked them, I might receive an entirely different explanation.”
As he spoke, he began to walk to where she was still kneeling on the ground. The tribesman had already released his hold on her hair. He began to back away respectfully as the fat man approached.
He stopped only a foot or two away, so that she was forced to look up at him. The position not only emphasized his height, but was clearly designed to place her in a subservient position.
“May I help you up, my dear?”
A ruby the size of a robin’s egg gleamed on one of the manicured fingers of the hand he held out. The entire performance was like something out of The Arabian Nights. As if he were some ancient pasha, offering a favor to a servant girl.
Grace didn’t want to take his hand, although her own was filthy in comparison. To hide her reluctance to touch him, she glanced down at Landon, hoping for some sign that he was regaining consciousness.
His lips were parted, just as they had been when she’d reached him. The eye that wasn’t hidden by the patch was closed, black lashes lying unmoving against the dark cheek.
There was nothing to indicate he was aware of what was happening. Or that he would be of any help in dealing with the man standing over her.
“Ms. Chancellor?”
His tone was still polite. When she looked up into the fat man’s eyes, however, she knew that whoever he was, he was her enemy. They were as black as a piece of obsidian. And as cold.
Her options were extremely limited. Ignore the outstretched hand and struggle to her feet on her on, perhaps alienating him even further. Or put her fingers into the pale ones he had offered, at least giving the appearance of cooperation.
The flood of adrenaline that had sent her rushing fearlessly through enemy horsemen had faded to be replaced by a sense of helplessness. Although she recognized that what she was feeling had been compounded by blood loss and fatigue, the wave of despair that washed over her was impossible to deny.
Reaching up with her good hand, she put her fingers into those of the fat man. They were softer than her own and slightly moist. Her immediate reaction was one of repugnance, but the thick fingers closed around hers with a surprising strength, easily pulling her to her feet.
He released her hand immediately and turned to give an order to one of the tribesmen, who had begun to edge closer. Whatever dialect the fat man spoke, it wasn’t any of the languages she had knowledge of.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ride in the back of the truck, Ms. Chancellor. It’s rather crowded up front.”
She could imagine it would be. And she had no desire to be crushed between his perfumed body and that of the driver.
“Come, my dear,” the fat man urged. “We really don’t have all day. In these troubled times, this road isn’t as isolated as one might wish.”
More isolated than she wished, she thought bitterly. Despite all Landon’s talk about the people who were looking for her, they’d encountered no one from the coalition.
“What about—”
She stopped, remembering Landon’s reluctance to identify himself to Reynolds. Her hesitation over his name didn’t seem to matter, however, since she had turned to look down at the unconscious man.
“Ah, yes. Mr. James. I haven’t forgotten him, I promise you.”
Moving incredibly fast for a man of his bulk, the fat man took a couple of delicate running steps forward. Then he drew back his foot, incased in a gleaming calfskin boot, and kicked Landon in the ribs. The thud of the blow was audible over her gasp of reaction.
Despite the fact that Landon didn’t open his eyes, there had been a definite reaction to its force. A low sound—almost a sigh—escaped the parted lips.
“Stop it,” Grace said, grabbing the man’s arm in an attempt to pull him away.
Again his response was both swift and brutal. He gripped the wrist of her bandaged arm, twisting it behind her back. She screamed once in agony and then sank her teeth into her bottom lip, determined to keep from crying out again as he pulled the arm higher.
Using his hold to propel her forward, he shoved her toward the back of the truck and the tribesman waiting there to help her in. Then he released her so suddenly that she stumbled and would have fallen had the tribesman not reached out to steady her.
“As I said, delay is dangerous. Especially dangerous for Mr. James. Why don’t you do your friend a favor and get into the truck as I suggested. Of course, if you wish to prolong his sufferin
g, I can’t tell you how happy I shall be to oblige.”
As if to suit words to action, he turned and started back toward Landon. Horrified, but now convinced that he meant what he’d said, Grace desperately looked up into the weathered face of the tribesman standing beside her. She thought she detected a glimmer of sympathy in the dark eyes.
He laid the weapon he carried down on the tailgate and vaulted up into the bed of the truck. Then he reached down, grasping her good arm just above the elbow. This time there was no hesitation on her part.
She put her foot on what appeared to be a trailer hitch. Then, using the last reserves of her strength, she gripped the wiry arm with her own fingers. Despite the pain, she put her other hand on the tailgate, using it to boost herself up as he pulled her effortlessly into the truck.
When he picked up his rifle, he used it to gesture her toward the front. Holding her hand under the elbow of her aching arm, she eased down on one of the ammo boxes stacked inside.
When she looked up again, two of the tribesmen were lifting Landon’s seemingly lifeless body up onto the tailgate. The guard who’d helped her in bent, and with the assistance of the others, dragged it to the center of the bed.
The two men who’d carried Landon jumped down, closing the tailgate behind them. The man with the rifle sat down on another of the boxes. He leaned back against the side of the truck, his gun across his lap, his hands still positioned so that he could raise it in an instant.
In a matter of seconds she heard the engine start. Surrounded by the horsemen and a thick cloud of dust, the cavalcade began to move. Fighting tears of despair, Grace looked down at Landon, whose head lolled helplessly from side to side as the truck raced over the same rough ground they’d covered only minutes before.
Chapter Fourteen
The women who had helped her bathe had been kind, exclaiming with concern over the bandage on her arm. They had also shooed the guard with the automatic weapon—which, she noted, was neither old nor Soviet made—out of the room before they stripped off her clothes and helped her into the bath.
Although she had still had no contact with either the man who’d brought her here or with Landon, it was amazing what being clean and having something that wasn’t filthy to put on had done to banish her sense of hopelessness. If their captor wanted Landon dead, she had told herself, then he could have managed that easily during their capture. The fact that he’d taken the trouble to load him into the truck to bring him to this village high in the mountains argued that Landon was still alive.