by Leslie Jones
“Jesus!” Gentle hands traced the welts across her back and ribs. Some had split and oozed blood. Jace swore under his breath. She heard a rustle and a rip, then cold on her back. The antiseptic burned. Heather clamped her lips shut. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll be as quick as I can.” Jace cleaned the cuts methodically, taping a bandage over each. Moving to her arms, he ran his hands down them, pausing at the obviously hand-shaped bruises on her upper arms. Some of them, the older ones, were brilliant shades of blue and purple. His fingers soothed her skin.
“Who did this to you? Was it al-Hassid?”
Heather shivered. Whether it was from her memories of the big man, or due to Jace’s light touch, she couldn’t say. “It does not matter.”
“Doesn’t . . .” Jace muttered a curse. He lifted her wrists, and she hissed. “Sorry.” He examined the torn skin. “I’m not going to try to clean these out. The wounds are open. We need to get you to a doctor.” Leashed fury laced his tone.
He wrapped them loosely in gauze, then traced the massive bruise on her left side. “This concerns me the most. There might be blood in your kidneys. If I’m right, you need surgery.” He glared at the ceiling as though he could command the sandstorm to vanish. The high-pitched shriek of the wind scratched eerily against her eardrums, along with a heavy pressure that compressed the air inside the hut. “Damn it.”
Her head dropped forward. He had a point, but there wasn’t a thing they could do about it until the storm passed and they could move again. Although how she was going to keep moving stumped her. She could barely stay conscious as it was.
Jace eased her shirt back down. “May I look at your feet?”
“Yes.” Her voice came out as little more than a whisper.
He unlaced her boots and pulled them off, then cut away the crude bandages he and his teammate had tied onto her feet. She flushed when she saw that the soft bandages against her soles were actually feminine napkins. He almost smiled. “They’re more absorbent than Army-issue; what can I say?”
He checked her feet thoroughly. “Like your wrists, you need a doctor.” He shifted around to the first aid kit. “They’re not as trashed as I thought they’d be, to be honest. You’ve got bleeding blisters and hot spots, but it could have been a lot worse. You’re lucky you have runner’s calluses.” He hesitated, and it seemed as though he was going to say something else, but instead he turned away and pulled several items out of the bag. He covered her feet with the pads and wrapped them in gauze. Finally, he taped them.
A SOFT CHURR from his pocket distracted Jace. He moved away from Heather to answer his phone. She pulled on her boots and laced them. Scuttling to the corner nearest the door, she put her back against the wall and sat down.
“We’re outside,” Tag said. “Didn’t want to surprise you.”
Jace went to the door and wrestled it open, and five ghostly bodies tumbled inside. Sand caked every inch of their bodies—heads covered by helmets, eyes protected by goggles, faces wrapped in cloth, and all of it white. They looked like creatures from another planet. They forced the door closed again, shutting out most of the terrible roaring.
Small to begin with, the hut shrunk even more with the addition of five more large bodies. Heather scooted back as far as she could, practically squeezing herself into the corner. There was a lot of stamping and shaking, and sand flew around the inside of the hut.
Alex coughed, pulling down the cloth tied around his nose and mouth and yanking off his goggles, leaving pale rings on his face. “Damn, Sandman, you sure live up to your name,” he said, grinning. Apparently, the worse it got, the better the young operator liked it. He was fitting in just fine.
“Oh, man!” Sandman pretended to double over with laughter. “You so funny, man. Oh, wait. No, you’re not.” He set his rifle against the wall next to Jace’s and sat on the floor to unlace his boots, knocking the sand out of them as Jace had done earlier.
Tag and Mace dropped their packs at the foot of the bed, but kept their weapons with them. They brushed off the sand as best they could.
“No more problems?” asked Jace.
There was a lot of headshaking and negatives all around.
“Child’s play,” said Gabe. He glanced at the woman and away again. They all seemed to understand she needed a few minutes to adjust to their presence.
With a gesture, Jace sent his medic over to check on Heather. Alex stayed on guard. The rest of the team settled around Jace.
“Well, this is a clusterfuck.” As usual, Gabe cut to the chase. His bluntness made him invaluable as a second-in-command, even though his lack of tact would eventually hinder his path to promotion. Jace had to agree, though. What should have been a simple op had gone comically awry. They had no vehicle, they’d missed their extraction via helicopter, and they now had an injured Heather to bring to safety. “We contacted HQ. They’re happy to come get us when they can fly again, but right now everything in this area is grounded. Pied Piper told me he lent out our ride to ferry around a bunch of damned VIPs for the president’s visit to al-Zadr Air Base. Sandstorm better end soon, or Fat Jack might kill someone.”
Jace grunted. “I hear ya.” Their pilot hated dealing with bureaucrats.
“Best bet is to get to Masrzhad and find a car or truck.” Alex spoke up, eager to prove himself. “It’s barely five miles from here. And maybe we could get a boat?”
Tag shook his head even while he agreed. “We might not have a choice. We could get lucky. But al-Hassid’s gonna send his troops here first thing. It’s the closest village. Once the sandstorm’s over, we gotta move fast.”
Jace grunted assent. “We’ve lost our lead time. There’s no assurance we could get there first. They have trucks.” He glanced over at Mace and Heather. “And we have baggage. But the good news is, we found . . .”
A shout from the other side the hut interrupted him. Jace was on his feet and halfway across the floor, weapon out and looking for targets, before he registered what was happening. Mace cradled Heather, who slumped in his arms.
“Report.” He knelt beside Mace and pressed his fingers to her neck. Her pulse was strong, but too rapid.
“She passed out.” Mace laid her carefully on the floor. “She’s been runnin’ with a concussion. All our traipsing around made it worse. She told me she was woozy and queasy. Not to mention, she’s been beaten. That’ll take it out of a person.” Mace canted a look at his boss. “Does she remember the convoy attack?”
“Hasn’t said yet. Doesn’t trust us. Fed me some bullshit story about being a kidnapped university student.” Without hesitation, Jace unwound the turban from her face and pulled it off. And stared. Underneath the bruises and cuts, she was unbelievably beautiful. He’d never seen her up close. She took his breath away.
“Hey, isn’t that . . .” Alex started. Hadn’t the kid been paying attention? A check in the minus column for that.
“Yeah,” Jace said. “It is. She’s our missing soldier. Lieutenant Heather Langstrom.”
Chapter Nine
August 16. 9:12 A.M.
Bhunto, Azakistan
JACE CAME ALERT, completely awake in seconds. Darkness shrouded the hut. His team had hammered the broken shutters shut and covered them with their emergency blankets to keep out the sand. The wind had died down at some point. The storm was over.
Heather stirred. The small noise had woken him. He could barely make out the shapes of his teammates. Four sprawled in various parts of the hut, asleep. Mace perched on the edge of the bed, both keeping an eye on Heather and guarding the door.
She’d been out for about two hours. He’d sat near her almost the whole time, worried she would take a turn for the worse before they could get her airlifted out. Mace had finally shooed him away.
She sat up. “I have to pee,” she whispered. Mace helped her off the bed. She picked her way to the door. Ma
ce grabbed the small folding shovel and placed it in her hand.
“Go outside, to the northwest corner of the hut.” He pointed. “Dig a hole.”
The wooden door seemed hard for her to manage, but Mace was right there, opening it for her and closing it behind her.
Jace checked his watch — quarter past nine. Grit scraped the insides of his eyelids, and fatigue pulled at his bones. “How is she?” he asked the medic.
“About the same. It’s a small bleed, I think. They cleared a medevac to take off about ninety minutes ago. It’ll be here in sixteen minutes,” Mace said.
“Good.” Jace stretched and angled himself so he leaned against the mudbrick wall. “We’ll need to move fast. Al-Hassid’s men will be heading this way.” Both men kept their voices muted so as not to disturb the others.
He mentally reviewed the landscape. The helicopter could land just outside the village, on the flat patch of ground to the north. They would be up and out in a matter of minutes.
Seconds ticked into minutes. She should have finished and been back by now.
“Where the hell is she?” The Sandman’s low voice was irritated.
“Yeah. She’s been gone too long.” Jace rubbed a hand down his face. He’d been straining to hear any sign of her return. Why hadn’t he told her earlier he recognized her? It was important that she knew they were on the same team. Was she lost, or had she run? Or worse, had she passed out again, unable to call for help?
Sandman uncapped his canteen, tossing the water directly into his own face and hair, then shook his head to dislodge the droplets.
Mace said, “I’ll go. She might need medical help.”
No one was going after Heather but him. He needed to know she was all right, and he needed to know now. “Get rucked up and ready to move,” he told his team. “I’ve got this.”
Jace saw her the minute he stepped from the hut. The tightness in his chest eased. An old stone wall squatted nearby; half of it had crumbled, and there was nothing to indicate why it had been built in the first place. Heather rested on it, unmoving, head slightly cocked as though listening to something. An unnatural hush had settled over the landscape in the aftermath of the sandstorm, a silence so deep he imagined the desert itself held its breath. Heather released a breath slowly, as though unwilling to disturb the stillness.
He parked himself on the wall next to her. She tilted her head his way.
“We notified your command we had you,” he told her. Even if she didn’t remember the ambush, even through the trauma of her incarceration, she knew who she was. “They’re sending a medevac.”
She tried to hide a start of surprise.
“Yes, we recognized you. It’d be hard not to. Your face has been plastered all over the news for days.” He tapped a finger against the pocket carrying her photo, then withdrew it and handed it to her. “Part of my mission out here was to find you.” Why had he said that? It wasn’t even true. They’d wanted to find her, but had never expected to run across her so far from the site of the attack. He was angry with her for her suspicion, he realized, however unreasonable it might be. “It would’ve saved a lot of time if you’d just trusted me.”
If he had not recognized her, if he hadn’t known who she was, they might not have . . . what? It really wouldn’t have changed anything. They still would have missed their extraction. They would still be bringing her to safety. Only their destination had changed. Still, it irked him that she had lied to him. Assumed he was a gun for hire.
He couldn’t explain his reaction to her, not even to himself. When he’d realized the hardy woman he’d almost killed, then saved, was his Heather, it had thrown his entire world out of whack. His precious photo come to life. He wanted her to rely on him. To turn to him, as she had in his fantasies. To lie warm against him, as she had in the cave.
She took a lot of air into her lungs. “You’ve been kind to me. Truthfully, I’m not sure what I’d’ve done on my own,” she said. “I haven’t been able to think clearly since the ambush. I banged my head pretty hard.”
“All the more reason to get you to a hospital.” It would make life simpler if he could just tell her who he was. His own government still did not acknowledge the existence of his unit, though, and secrecy was part and parcel of belonging to Delta Force. Did she still think he was some sort of mercenary? “We really are the good guys, Heather. American Army, okay? That’s all I can tell you, but, honestly, you can trust me. I’m going to get you home.”
Chapter Ten
August 16. 9:30 A.M.
Bhunto, Azakistan
HEATHER HEARD THE helicopter a shade before Jace. She knelt and shaded her eyes, watching the speck grow larger as it approached. Soon, the racket drowned out everything else. The team circled up to defend the Blackhawk medevac as it came in for a landing. The rotor wash nearly knocked her over. Almost before the wheels touched down, Jace wrapped an arm around her, lifting and supporting her weight as they approached the red cross on the door. Two medics hopped out and took over, guiding her inside and directly onto a litter. The rest of the team piled in, and the bird lifted into the sky.
One of the medics, a fresh-faced, freckled woman, inserted a large-bore peripheral IV into the back of her hand and taped it down, checked the drip of the saline, and then hooked her up to a monitor. Her vitals began to appear on the screen. Blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen levels. The medic frowned at the monitor and placed an oxygen mask over Heather’s nose and mouth.
Now that she knew she was in good hands, everything inside Heather relaxed. That also meant she could no longer compartmentalize the pain of her battered body, which became a seething mass of misery. Her vision began to blur again.
“I’m going to start you on morphine,” the flight medic said. “Scale of one to ten, how bad is it?”
The pain came in at a killer solid ten, but Heather managed a shrug, avoiding the other woman’s gaze. “I’m all right.”
The medic squeezed her shoulder. “That you are, Lieutenant. That you are.” She produced a syringe, checked it, and slipped it into a vein.
A tingling glow spiraled through Heather’s body, softening the agony until it vanished under a wash of weightlessness. Time slowed. She stared at the ceiling, grateful to whoever had developed the drug, drifting in a cocoon of warmth. The medic checked her other injuries, pronounced herself satisfied with Jace’s handiwork, and updated her patient’s status on the rugged combat laptop bolted to a shelf.
Jace came over, hunched so he wouldn’t hit his head on the equipment stored above him. He peered down at her, worry flickering in his eyes. “How is she?” he asked the flight medic. The interior of the medevac was relatively noiseless, so she heard him with ease.
“Stable. We won’t know the extent of her injuries until we get her to the Emergency Department. They’ll need to run tests,” she said. Eyes bright, she added, “It’s great you found her!”
Apparently the crew knew who they’d flown out to retrieve. Heather frowned, uncomfortable. What had Jace said? She’d been on the news?
Jace grinned at the flight medic. “Damned straight. It’s freaking amazing. Is it all right if I sit here?”
“Sure. Holler if anything changes.” The medic strapped herself into a jump seat a few feet away.
Jace squeezed himself into the narrow seat next to her litter. Heather rolled her head toward him, scrutinizing him for the first time without trepidation. He’d told the truth. He was one of the good guys. The relief felt more intense than it should have.
She allowed her gaze to run from his face to his shoulders, then all the way down his body to the sturdy combat boots planted on the metal plating beneath him. The fact was, even with sweat-matted hair and streaked camouflage face paint, he was gorgeous. From his high cheekbones to his strong jaw and hard body, he was sheer male perfection.
When she peeked a
t his face again, she found herself ensnared. The intensity in his eyes unnerved her, but she couldn’t seem to look away. She fumbled for his hand. He scooped hers up, cupping both of his around her fingers.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
A tender smile softened his features. “My pleasure,” he murmured back.
JACE CHECKED HER VITALS. She remained stable, which was a relief, since they were still an hour and a half from the trauma center at al-Zadr Air Force Base. A quick survey of his team showed most of them dozing. He should be getting some shut-eye, too, but he could not seem to force himself away from her side. She watched him out of eyes unfocused from the morphine running through her bloodstream, as though afraid he would vanish if she closed them.
He’d found her, or rather she’d found him, but she’d relied on him to get her to safety. The buds of trust had bloomed. There was nothing more to the look. It was wishful thinking on his part to believe there might be anything more.
How could she know how many hours he’d spent mooning over a stupid photo? And if she did know, why should she care? She had people waiting for her, a family, a . . . a . . . Oh, shit.
“Are you married?” he blurted out. Why hadn’t he ever considered the possibility that she had a husband waiting for her back Stateside?
“What?” A tiny laugh escaped. The throaty sound mesmerized him. She reached up and took the oxygen mask off. “No. I’m not.”
“Boyfriend?” Why was he asking her that?
“Not at the moment, no. You might say I’m married to my career.” Pride and conviction rang in her tone. “I’m going all the way. And I’m doing it my own damned self. Nobody’s given me shit.”
He didn’t doubt she could do it, either. She’d shown herself to be strong, capable, and cool under pressure. “The survivors from your convoy reported you’d been kidnapped, but no one had any idea where you’d been taken.”