by Carla Cassidy, Evelyn Vaughn, Harper Allen, Ruth Wind, Cindy Dees
Last week. This day started last week sometime. Last year, maybe. And if she let herself slow down now, she’d lose her edge. She couldn’t allow herself to slow until she was ready to crash. Nice, safe laundry room. A few hours. That’s all, just a few hours.
Selena slowly turned the latch, nudged the door open. Only silence. She opened the door another inch, just enough to peer out, not really enough to see anything, her hand still resting loosely on the latch—
The door jerked forward, out of her grasp. Without its support Selena fell, and she turned it into a roll, the hall a blur of olive and khaki all around her. Shouts erupted; hands landed on her, pinching and pulling and grabbing—
But not shooting.
Alive. They want me alive for now.
She wouldn’t make it easy for them. She squirmed, striking out with her feet, lashing out with both the hammer and the ice pick; the aggressive shouts changed to pain and alarm. Still they came at her. She found her way to her knees. Someone snatched her hair; she lost the ice pick in his arm. She surged to her feet, now thinking only about staying alive and escape and the exit beyond the blood-smeared kitchen floor. Escaped, she wouldn’t do the hostages any more good…
Can’t do them any good in Tafiq’s hands, either.
She went for it. She wielded the hammer like an old war ax and kept them at bay—were there only three of them?—and when she spotted an opening she went for it, pure fullback style.
And then suddenly she slammed into the wall. The hammer fell to the floor from her numbed arm and she looked up, bewildered and somewhat betrayed, to discover a fourth man holding his Abakan by the muzzle. He’d not been allowed to shoot her but he’d found a way to use the rifle on her nonetheless, and now suddenly her arm began to hurt, a deep, hot throb that told her just how hard he’d hit her.
Another figure stepped into the suddenly quiet tableau, a stained hallway full of panting combatants and their wounded prey, finally brought to stand. Great. Just what I need. Tafiq Ashurbeyli, only moderately more ruffled than the last time she’d seen him. Still fully in command of the situation. Of himself.
And now of her.
Ashurbeyli spoke into a quiet punctuated only by the heavy breathing of his men and Selena’s own gasps, as much in pain as for air. “You should have run when you had the chance.”
“Probably,” she said. She didn’t shrug, because it would have meant moving her arm. At least it was the right arm…at least she was left-handed. “Gave you a chance to find a decent use for those silly Abakans. Damn, you didn’t have to hit me that hard!”
Ashurbeyli looked around at his battered men, at the blood splattering the walls from one of her particularly good hammer blows. Someone lay on the floor behind him, moaning in pain. “I think we did. Yes, you should have run. But I consider it our good luck that you didn’t.”
“More than luck that you were waiting for me here.” She tested her ability to make a fist, found it distinctly wanting. Otherwise she remained still. Nonthreatening. Giving them no reason to hit her again.
Though she was excruciatingly aware that they weren’t likely to need a reason.
Ashurbeyli merely smiled. Handsome…beyond handsome, with the sheer charisma of his presence. But predatory, oh, yes. And far too knowing. “Perhaps it was.” He gestured at his men with paired fingers, and two of them stepped forward, hovering in overeager readiness as Ashurbeyli stepped in and gestured that she should raise her arms and submit to a search.
Resigned, she did just that. More or less, since her right arm had no intention of functioning just yet. The novelty of being searched by men had worn off long ago, and she barely paid attention other than to note Ashurbeyli was just as thorough as he needed to be, hands following her every curve—but he didn’t linger, didn’t take advantage. He retrieved the paring knife from her belt and the pens and Buck knife from their most recent cache in her back pocket, handing them off to a third Kemeni who stepped forward just at the right moment.
They worship him.
That would make it harder. Foot soldiers who believed…foot soldiers who were dedicated to both their leader and their cause.
She wouldn’t waste her time exploring potential rifts between them. She’d give him the respect they felt he deserved, and now and then they might just see her as a person instead of a blank-faced Enemy Barbie.
It wouldn’t be hard. He was a man who commanded respect.
He stepped back, having discovered everything worth taking, his hand hesitating only once—on the lower curve of her left breast, where the tiny blood dot from the ice pick interrupted the olive-green of her borrowed shirt. He met her gaze long enough so she knew they’d talk about it later, and then stepped back. “Take her to the ballroom. Don’t harm her further unless she gives you reason—but I don’t think you’ll do that, will you?”
This time Selena did shrug. It was a painful facade of movement, hiding her fear and awareness. She’d be blind in the ballroom, unable to call Cole, unable to feed him information…unable to keep the hostages out of the line of friendly fire.
And mostly unable to hear the reassurance of his voice, the voice of a man who spent his time successfully doing exactly what Selena had just failed to accomplish. Seat of the pants. Casual, confident, ops-on-the-fly. What she wouldn’t give to hear that voice right this moment, breaking up this little party and turning it into his own.
Damn. I’m in trouble. But she wasn’t quite ready to admit—even to herself—that she was scared. So she shrugged again. “I’ll be good,” she said. “This time.”
Ashurbeyli shook his head, a sharp, short motion. “It’s too late to think beyond that,” he said. “Your fate, I’m afraid, is thoroughly sealed.”
She glared back at him, glad for the arrogance that had sparked her back into anger. “That makes two of us, buddy.”
He might have hit her. One step and he could have smacked her head back against the wall. For a moment, she thought he would. And then, oddly, he inclined his head ever so slightly in her direction and then strode away.
She had to admit, they could have been nastier about that walk to the ballroom. Perfect opportunity to snatch her arm and yank her around, and she didn’t think she’d stay on her feet if that happened. But one of them aimed his rifle at her midsection in a most casual manner while the other, the bigger of the two, clamped a hand at the back of her neck and guided her to the long hallway that paralleled her recently abandoned false corridor.
She tried to shake the impression he could pick her up like a puppy and snap her neck. She tried to forget him altogether. If it had only been the two of them, she’d have found the right moment to make a break for it. The closer they came to the lobby, the better her chances of diving out that door to freedom, even if it meant rolling right down all those stairs.
But it wasn’t just the two of them. The entire ballroom contingent followed, and only two of them broke away to continue whatever guard duty they’d been about before she distracted them. And handcuffs…there were handcuffs, of course.
So Selena walked unresisting, arm throbbing, taking in the details of the men and their reactions to one another and to her, and all the time wondering how they’d been so ready for her.
You took too long with the hostages, that’s how.
Maybe. They’d had time to disarm her little distraction, to search the area and realize it was nothing more than a distraction. They’d had time to trickle back to the ballroom, or to rush to all the potential exits on this floor and make sure no one was on the way out—or in. But to be waiting for her in silent ambush, at just the right spot? It’s not as if she’d left muddy tracks to follow or even a handy little blood trail.
They took her to the main ballroom entrance just off the lobby, offering her a tantalizing glimpse of freedom—the ornate capitol doors with their hidden armor and the bright-as-day grounds, halogen lights shining through the tall, narrow windows fronting the lobby. An unexpected inner voice full of p
rimordial fear shrieked run! runrunrun! She stiffened enough to draw her escorts’ attention…and she didn’t run.
At the moment, she was still alive. Still had the opportunity to work the situation. The chance to do some good.
Running would end all that. Ashurbeyli might want her alive, but the Kemenis would never let her near those armor-core doors.
They pushed her into the ballroom and shoved her in a posh padded chair in the haphazard group of chairs and tables that had been shoved aside to make way for pallets and blankets. On the way she got a glimpse through the open door to the next function room, and she caught the shocked reaction of one of the students. Don’t give me away! she thought fiercely, although it hardly mattered now if the Kemenis knew she’d spoken to them.
Just instinct.
They left her to her own company and took up already established positions around the room. She didn’t mistake their casual ease to mean they’d stopped paying attention to her. A quick count tallied one rifle and three automatics pointing in her general direction. She sighed, slumped in the chair with every appearance of resignation and tried to consider her options. Not that she had any. And not that she could think in the first place, given the throb of her arm and her general disgust with the situation. She flexed the arm, testing…pushing.
It bent. Barely, but fingers, hand and arm all moved at her command. Not broken, then. Not terribly useful, but no jaggedy edged bones messing with nerve and blood vessel. She wouldn’t bleed to death internally without even knowing it. She’d just hurt a lot. Even through the layers of her turtleneck and borrowed shirt, her hand hovering over her biceps could feel the heat of the swelling.
Her stomach growled.
Knowing Berzhaani would never serve her better. “Hey,” she said. “You fellows have anything to eat?”
They froze in group disbelief that she’d asked.
“Look,” she said, “Tafiq might well decide to starve me, but then again maybe not. He might actually want to talk to me, in which case it would be good if I wasn’t too faint from hunger to speak respectfully to him.”
She didn’t think they’d go for it. She thought she might as well put her head down on the closest table and catch some sleep while she could. She looked across the long, narrow room with a gaze so tired as to be entirely neutral. Most of them had camped out on the padded carpet of the raised section spanning the front of the room. A long table snugged up against the back wall, shoved there and now covered with supplies, including a stack of black hand-held controls of some sort and a pile of sturdy travel cases meant for electronics jarringly adjacent to prayer rugs. The cases left her puzzled, but the rest of it only reinforced her first impression—that they’d come prepared for the long haul.
At least, they’d come prepared with supplies. Looking at the faces of the men sprawled in chairs and on the floor, Selena wasn’t sure they’d also come prepared for the emotional drain of holding the entire building hostage. Only eight hours in, and already she saw signs of strain and tension. How would they feel after a few sessions of Salat in this far-from-holy place—or worse yet, a few missed sessions? And sooner or later they’d realize the futility of this takeover. They’d get tired and careless and they’d leave an opening for the forces hovering outside in wait for just such a moment.
Not what she’d normally expect of any crew run by Ashurbeyli—except that the Kemenis had been at the end of their collective rope before this had even started, their funding cut, their people hounded.
And where was Jonas White? Off rifling government offices? It wouldn’t surprise her. Ashurbeyli defied the Berzhaani government openly and brazenly, taking what he wanted, while Jonas White hid behind false names and front men and slunk around gathering secrets to use against anyone he could.
She looked over at the men; they looked back at her. Oh, well. She sighed, put her head down on the table and prepared to go hungry. But one of the men cleared his throat and said, “There’s that batch of bad MREs. They’re not halal.”
Another snorted. “Filth for filth.”
Oh, yeah, Selena thought. Bring on the filth.
And the filth was good. The filth went down quite well. Selena made a series of reality checks, but at this point her stomach didn’t seem inclined to object. Just a bad day after all? She patted her tummy low between her hip bones, once again tugged through the series of conflicting emotions that came with the thought of pregnancy. All the overwhelming not nows, somehow balanced by that tiny little hope that it might be true.
Because she did want a child. And she wanted a child with Cole. But…not now.
Hard truth…she didn’t know what she wanted. She just knew the hope of it made her ache in so many ways she couldn’t begin to count.
And Cole…Dammit. Why? Try as she might, she couldn’t reconcile his presence in the park with his CIA position. By definition, Cole’s work was done on foreign soil. And foreign soil was exactly where he should have been—not right under her nose in D.C. Kissing.
Gah. She trusted him completely…and not at all. No way to start a family—no way at all. Not unless she wanted to continue the streak of the Amazing Divorcing Shaws. Grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles…siblings. A divorce-enabled clan.
Selena growled a little under her breath. When she realized what she’d done she swiftly checked the Kemenis, but they were busy showing each other pictures and telling exaggerated stories of their family loyalty to the Berzhaan that should be. Not so busy they didn’t have an eye on her, but a little growling was apparently only to be expected.
She shoved the MRE trash aside, licked a last crumb of cookie from the corner of her mouth and cradled her head in her arms. Athena training had started her young…endurance courses, survival in the White Tank Mountains of Arizona…they’d taught her she could do more than she thought she could. Always. Always one more sit-up, one more mile, one more day. But now, with this very long day and several terrorists behind her, drained by illness and lack of food, she thought she’d just take advantage of the quiet moment she’d been given.
And then she’d find some way to get Allori, Razidae and the kids to safety. Poor, scared kids. They were holding up well….
But then, to judge by the Kemenis’supplies, this had only just started.
“—hadn’t expected you’d trust us enough to sleep so deeply.”
Say what? Selena opened her eyes, got an up-close-and-personal view of the tabletop, and discovered her head had slipped from her arms, her cheek mashed against the surface, her breath misting the lamination with each exhalation. She blinked, took a deep breath and lifted her head with as much dignity as possible. “You said you wanted me unhurt. I didn’t think they’d dare defy you.”
Besides, they probably figure they’ll get their chance later.
She didn’t know how long she’d slept, but to judge by the crick in her neck and her grumpy frame of mind, it had been a while. She rubbed the side of her face, swept her hair back and stretched as though she didn’t have a care in the world. Huge mistake, because she had plenty of cares—and as soon as she moved her battered arm, pain swelled in protest. She couldn’t help but wince.
His expression remained unreadable. “You’re right about that much. They won’t touch you until I say they can.”
Until. Not if. Great.
“I would apologize for keeping you waiting, but I see you’ve made good use of the time.” He nodded at the MRE trash as he reached for a chair, putting it opposite her and so close that their knees nearly touched.
“No problem,” Selena said, carefully bending her arm so as to get a glimpse at her watch—5 a.m. A nice little nap at that. “I’m sure you keep pretty busy with all your terrorist things. You know, phone calls to Berzhaan to make threats, phone calls to various embassies to make threats, strangling puppies and boiling rabbits….”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Ire or amusement, she couldn’t tell—and that imposing set of features gave nothing else awa
y. Not even a smudge of fatigue…how unfair. She decided he must have had a nice nap, too, and felt better immediately.
Quite abruptly, he asked, “Who are you?”
She grinned. Her face had stiffened, but she grinned anyway. “Can’t figure me out at all, can you?”
“American woman,” he said. “You came with Allori, and the guards knew you. You speak Berzhaani as fluently as I’ve heard from any foreign tongue. No doubt you’re from the embassy…one of their CIA plants, perhaps.”
Selena snorted with such expressive spontaneity that he suppressed a smile and said, “No, then. Their loss, perhaps.”
“Thank you. For that, you can call me Athena.” She hadn’t thought ahead…it had just come out. But she supposed there was no harm in it. In fact, it bolstered her—made her think of the strength she’d found at the Athena Academy…the way the young women there never gave up. “And for the record, I also speak Russian, Euskara, Portuguese and probably any other language you care to name offhand.”
“Athena.” This time he downright smiled, as dry as it remained. “Appropriate.”
She didn’t respond. She let the silence stretch between them, tight as it was. Until he finally broke it, quite matter-of-factly. “You’re going to help me,” he said, and sat back in the chair as though it were a done deal, his knees still close to hers. He’d changed, she suddenly realized—he no longer wore his expensive suit, but blended in with the others in Kemeni chic—an olive-green military sweater that he wore like a cover model, and khaki cargo pants not unlike her own.
Quite reasonably, Selena told him, “No, I’m going to stop you.”
He smiled, a tight expression but this time true amusement. “Unlike your government, you say what you mean. If you continue to do so, you might not find your death so unpleasant after all.” He nodded at her, and his expression hardened. “What did you do with the man who once wore that shirt?”
She’d told Atif…if they get close enough to see the blood, I’ll already be in trouble.