Take No Prisoners

by Gayle Wilson

  Please, God.

  She took a breath, refusing to allow any other possibility into her head. Their captor knew who she was, which meant he must also be aware that the Special Forces in this region were searching for her. No matter who he was or how powerful he believed himself to be, the might of the United States wasn’t something anyone could afford to ignore.

  She hadn’t been able to come up with an explanation for him also knowing who Landon was. Despite thinking about all this for most of last night and today, she still wasn’t sure of the implications of that. She was sure, however, that they weren’t good. Nor for either of them.

  The attack on Landon had been highly personal, she acknowledged, picking another bit of roast lamb out of the stew the women had brought her. That kick in the ribs had been delivered with a viciousness that connoted something more than casual brutality.

  As she again pictured that moment, she remembered their captor’s treatment of her. The hand that had been in the act of carrying food to her mouth fell. No matter how she tried to spin this, there was no getting away from the reality that they were in the hands of a sadistic bastard who apparently had a personal score to settle with Landon. And now he had the opportunity to do exactly that.

  She knew Landon had spent years in Afghanistan. His last assignment before the dissolution of the External Security Team had been in this very area.

  Despite her clearances, she’d never been able to learn what had happened during that mission. Obviously Griff Cabot had believed that, whatever it was, it was no one’s business but his and Landon’s.

  Personal. Just like the fat man’s attack on Landon. Which might mean…

  That the man was an old enemy? She had certainly glimpsed enmity in his eyes, but at the time she’d been willing to assign that to the same anti-Americanism that drove the terrorists.

  And it was possible that that was all it was. Yes, he had kicked Landon and deliberately twisted her injured arm, but then, why would she not expect that kind of treatment from the same people who crashed planes full of innocent people into occupied buildings?

  Al-Qaeda.

  She had known from the moment the chopper went down that they would undoubtedly be the high bidder for her and the others. And the only thing they would enjoy more than having a high-ranking CIA analyst under their control would be to have both an analyst and a longtime Agency operative. Two victims for the price of one. And in the end, they hadn’t even had to pay for that privilege.

  Or had they? Steve Reynolds was likely to be the source of the information that had allowed the fat man to set up his ambush. If Landon was right, then maybe Reynolds, having lost the opportunity to carry out his own carefully arranged execution, had decided to do the next best thing and sell their whereabouts to the terrorists.

  Except, Landon also believed that Reynolds was an independent contractor working for the Agency and that having her end up in the hands of Al-Qaeda was the last thing the CIA wanted. It would be very bad for their image, both at home and abroad.

  Sighing, she put the half-eaten bowl of stew aside. There was no way to know exactly how they’d ended up here. Or how their captor knew Landon’s identity.

  Just as she decided that, the door to her room opened to reveal the guard who had escorted her to this part of the sprawling house. He indicated that she should come with him, stepping back from the doorway to allow her room to walk by him and into the hall.

  She hadn’t forgotten her captor’s lesson about delays in following his instructions. Of course, she’d always been a quick learner. As long as he had Landon under his control, she was determined to give him no reason to punish him for her mistakes.

  She rose, smoothing her hands down the front of the tunic the women had provided. Made of pale blue cotton, it was long and narrow, with a high neck and sleeves that fell partway over the backs of her hands. Under it she wore loose, matching trousers. A scarf in a darker blue had been laid out beside it, but she hadn’t put it on. If it were important for wherever they were going, then surely her escort would send her back for it.

  Instead, he turned as soon as she’d stepped out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her. He said something she didn’t understand. When she looked back at him inquiringly, instead of repeating whatever the instruction had been, he prodded her between the shoulder blades with the muzzle of his weapon.

  As good as words, she thought, stepping forward. Wherever he was taking her, maybe she would be allowed to see Landon again. Simply knowing she wasn’t alone here would help her to bear whatever was to come.

  Please, God.

  IF HER CAPTOR was trying to intimidate her, he had succeeded. The huge room to which she’d been brought was elaborately furnished. The colors of the silk that had been hung at the windows and used as coverings for cushions on the floor were both rich and varied.

  At the far end a massive chair, intricately carved and then gilded, had been set up on a low dais. Between that and the door through which she’d entered stretched what seemed to be a half mile of intricately patterned carpet.

  On either side of that, the men who had participated in the ambush were seated on the floor, legs crossed, their eyes all on her. Their robes and turbans were now spotless, but the weapons they’d brandished yesterday lay across their laps.

  Fat boy’s throne room.

  The thought was deliberately mocking. She was trying desperately not to let this display of power and wealth browbeat her. After all, her captor might be head honcho in this particular bit of desolate wilderness, but that’s all he was. She, on the other hand, was a representative of the greatest nation on the face of the earth.

  And it’s thinking like that which makes half the world hate us.

  Still, it was a reality she was determined to hold on to. Especially since she had so little else to cling to right now.

  That wasn’t true, either, she reminded herself. Landon was here. And there was no one she would be more willing to bet on in any kind of fight—even one that seemed as one-sided as this.

  Besides, as he had told her from the start, a hell of a lot of people were working to find her. The most elite forces of the greatest military power the world had ever known.

  And I hope that gives you a proper sense of inferiority, you fat bastard.

  During her journey here, always conscious of the armed guard behind her, she’d been trying to remember everything she’d ever read about the psychology of the treatment of prisoners. On both sides of that equation.

  This whole setup was exactly what she’d thought before—an attempt to intimidate her. Everything from the silent, seated army to the guard at her back to that huge, empty chair.

  As if that thought had been a signal, one of the tribesmen pulled aside a silken curtain behind the “throne,” allowing her captor to enter the room. The garb he’d worn yesterday had apparently been some kind of field uniform.

  Today he was arrayed in a yellow silk robe over a red tunic that had been generously cut to disguise his bulk. Matching trousers had been tucked into a pair of lambskin boots. His turban was a darker shade of the material from which the outer robe was fashioned. Although she couldn’t see his hands, she would be willing to bet they were heavily adorned with jewelry.

  As the fat man seated himself, he adjusted the long robe so that it draped appropriately. Only then did he look up.

  Finally he gestured with a Queen Elizabeth twist of his wrist. Grace wasn’t sure if that was directed at her or her guard, but once more the muzzle of his weapon in contact with her spine left no doubt about what she was supposed to do.

  Taking a deep breath, she began to walk down the carpet. Although she refused to look anywhere but at the man who waited at the end of it, she was aware that the eyes of the men seated on either side followed her progress.

  Let them look, she thought, her chin inching up a fraction. Let them look their fill.

  As she neared the dais, she saw that the man seated there was watchin
g her with a slight smile on his lips. A wave of anger, as strong as that she’d felt yesterday, washed over her.

  Enjoy the show, you bastard. Believe me, it’s going to cost you more than you can imagine.

  “Ms. Chancellor.”

  The fat man inclined his head as if he really were granting her an audience. She expected him to hold out that damn ruby for her to kiss.

  Dream on.

  “How charming of you to join us. I assume your accommodations are to your satisfaction.”

  “The women who attended me were very kind.” She’d be damned if she would thank him for holding her prisoner.

  “Indeed?” He sounded surprised. And then he added, “I shall speak to them.”

  Obviously not to compliment them on their behavior. She wished she’d chosen any other remark than that, but it was too late to mitigate the damage she had done. She swallowed hard, her lips closing over her natural inclination to defend them. If she said nothing else, perhaps he would forget to carry out that threat. After all, he had more important things to think about.

  As she worried about what he might do to the women, the smile she’d glimpsed between the oiled beard and mustache had widened. He was obviously enjoying this, she realized.

  Despite her attempts to keep her spirits up, he clearly had the upper hand. And after yesterday, she knew he would not hesitate to use it. She could only try not to do or say anything that would give him an excuse to demonstrate his power.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering what has become of Mr. James.”

  “Of course.”

  There was no need to lie about that. He wouldn’t have believed her in any case.

  “Would you like to see him?”

  There was something about the tone of that which caused the hair on the back of her neck to stir. Something…diabolical. Gloating.

  “Or perhaps I’ve been misinformed about your relationship.”

  “Since I have no idea what information you’ve been given, or by whom, I can’t say whether or not you’ve been misinformed. However, I would very much like to see Mr. James.”

  She almost added something about Landon’s condition the last time she’d seen him, but caught the words back at the last second. There was no reason to allow this man to take more satisfaction in his cruelty than was absolutely necessary.

  “Then you don’t deny your relationship?”

  “As I said, since I have no idea what you believe the nature of that relationship to be…” Deliberately she let the sentence trail.

  “That you were his whore. Do you deny that?”

  She could feel the flush of color in her throat, but it was created by fury rather than the embarrassment he expected. She had no cause to feel the latter. Certainly not over her relationship with Landon, however this man might characterize it. She knew very well how Landon felt about her—

  She had known, she realized with a blaze of insight that shocked her. She had always known that he’d loved her. And nothing this bastard could say could change that.

  “Perhaps your understanding of the word is flawed,” she said. “English is such a difficult language for foreigners.”

  For a moment the same cold enmity she’d seen yesterday replaced the amusement in those black eyes. He controlled it with an effort, forcing his mouth into a semblance of the smile it had worn before her challenge.

  “Or perhaps it’s your understanding of your situation that’s flawed. If I may enlighten you…”

  He nodded at someone behind her. Grace refused to look around, assuming his gesture had been another order to the guard who’d escorted her here.

  She tried to brace herself for whatever “enlightenment” her intemperate tongue had just earned. Despite scoring high on the Agency’s stress profiles, she had always wondered how well she would be able to stand up to physical or psychological torture. She prayed she wasn’t about to find out.

  “Ms. Chancellor?”

  She looked up into the eyes of her captor, acknowledging that her momentary inattention, while understandable in light of his threat, had been foolish. She would need every bit of intellect and courage she possessed in order to endure whatever he had planned for her.

  “I believe you expressed a wish to see Mr. James.”

  The fat man inclined his head toward the door through which she’d entered. Grace tried to steel herself to deny him the reaction he so clearly wanted to evoke.

  The worst would be the sight of Landon’s lifeless body. And then, remembering the stories of atrocities that were so casually committed in this part of the world, she knew there were a thousand things that would be more terrible than that.

  She swallowed, trying to unobtrusively draw air into lungs that seemed to be frozen with horror. Whatever was behind her, she knew that she had no choice but to do her captor’s bidding. After all, he could forcibly make her turn around. And for her own sake, she needed to maintain the pretence that she had some control of her actions as long as she could.

  She turned, her heart once more crowding her throat. At first she couldn’t quite grasp what she was seeing. And then, when she had, she was forced to blink to clear the tears that, unbidden, sprang to her eyes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the open doorway at the end of the patterned carpet, Landon stood between two guards. His hands were tied in front of him, the leather that bound them looped once around his neck. One of the guards held the end of it like a leash.

  She searched Landon’s face, looking for signs of abuse besides yesterday’s bruises and abrasions. The single dark eye was locked on hers, but she could read nothing of what he was feeling or thinking there. It seemed as cold and lifeless as those of the man on the throne behind her.

  He was dressed in a clean white tunic and matching trousers. Over them was one the traditional Afghani sleeveless weskits. It appeared he had at least had the luxury of a bath and fresh clothing.

  That was all she could be sure of. If he’d been tortured—

  “Would you care to make the introductions, Mr. James? Something we didn’t have time for yesterday, I’m afraid.”

  There was a split second of hesitation, and then Landon said. “Grace, this is Abdul Rahim.”

  It was a name that would be familiar to anyone who knew this region. Although their captor was frequently referred to as a warlord, it was in the opium trade that he had acquired both his wealth and whatever standing he had in this society.

  Landon’s tone as he’d said the name had been flat, apparently free of emotion. She knew him well enough, however, to know that her earlier speculations had been correct. Landon and Abdul Rahim were old acquaintances and undoubtedly old enemies, as well.

  “Politeness demands that one also provide some identifying information. Perhaps you’d care to try once more.”

  Although Abdul Rahim’s words were delivered in the manner of a parent correcting a child or a teacher instructing a student, it was clear they contained a threat. One Landon would have no choice but to respond to.

  “Abdul Rahim is the…ruler of this province. As was his father before him. He was educated at Eton and Cambridge and returned to Afghanistan to take the reins of government from his father’s hands.”

  After he murdered him.

  Landon didn’t say that, of course, but it was in the intelligence material she had studied after learning of her reassignment. The man had, naturally, never gone to trial for that crime, but his guilt was widely assumed. Certainly at the CIA.

  “And what can you tell me about Ms. Chancellor? I understand that you two are intimately acquainted, although she objected quite strenuously to my characterization of your relationship.”

  “Ms. Chancellor is a senior analyst with the Central Intelligence Agency and formerly its assistant deputy director in charge of Middle Eastern Affairs.”

  “Formerly? But how unfortunate. My sympathies, Ms. Chancellor. And her current position?”

  Again there was a slight hesitation. Grace
turned to face her captor, deciding that he’d played puppet master long enough.

  “I’ve been assigned to eradicate the processing of the opium poppy into heroin in Afghanistan and its distribution beyond its borders. I’m sure you’re already aware of that.”

  “And you intend to speak for Mr. James? In our culture, women are silent unless they are spoken to.”

  “In our culture, whoever is most closely involved in the situation, and therefore the best informed, answers the questions. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  Abdul Rahim laughed. “If there’s one thing I’m very sure you are not, Ms. Chancellor, it’s sorry to have offended me. However, since I was exposed to your customs while at school, I’m well aware of the behavior of Western women. I shall attempt to be tolerant of yours. After all, I’m sure you’re under an enormous amount of stress right now.”

  “Really? And why should you assume that?”

  “Because whatever else you may be, you’re not a fool. And therefore you know that the task you’ve been given is intended to make you appear foolish.”

  There was nothing she could say to that. It was only the truth, bluntly stated.

  “Ms. Chancellor has friends who will pay a great deal of money to have her safely returned to Kabul.”

  The fat man’s laughter this time was so loud and prolonged that several of his lieutenants joined in. Their titters appeared almost nervous in comparison.

  Grace doubted any of them had understood enough of Landon’s offer to know why their leader was laughing. Apparently they had found it was politic to emulate his mood, whatever it was.

  “Do I strike you as someone who is in need of money, Mr. James?”