Athena Force 7-12

by Carla Cassidy, Evelyn Vaughn, Harper Allen, Ruth Wind, Cindy Dees

  They fed her more of the excess standard MREs—beef chili macaroni, the one that tasted good even cold. Even for breakfast. They allowed her water. She got glimpses of the hostages in the next room as they now occasionally made escorted trips to the facilities and shared rudimentary meals—was once even able to exchange a meaningful glance with Dante Allori—enough for her to send him a fierce message. I’m not hurt. I haven’t given up. Not yet.

  Other than that, they tolerated very little movement on Selena’s part. She sat at her table, thinking about anything but the previous day’s illness…trying not to wonder if it would happen again. She eyed the haphazard pile of cell phones along the wall—every one belonged to a hostage, and they’d all been turned off after the constant, plaintive ringing irritated the Kemenis beyond endurance. She sneaked in isometric exercises, she wiggled her toes, she quietly flexed her stiff arm. She would have preferred an ice pack, even in the chill of an obviously faltering furnace.

  And every now and then such practical things made way for a burst of adrenaline from nowhere—demanding action, demanding escape, demanding anything but this waiting. It seized her with a strength akin to panic until she resorted to deep breathing, looking anywhere but at the terrorists…because if they knew how close she hovered to giving in, they’d come bash some sense into her. Or they’d simply shoot her outright.

  That would be the smart thing to do.

  She drew a deep breath, hearing again the shot that had killed Atif. Yeah, shooting her outright would be the smart thing.

  But somehow, when Ashurbeyli walked through the door only moments later, she didn’t launch herself at him. Her pulse pounded through her body, but she schooled herself back to the cool demeanor for which she was known, only one leg twitching to give away her impulse. It twitched again as Jonas White followed Ashurbeyli, looking well rested and refreshed enough to hold a press conference. She’d never guess his age at over sixty; his round face held deep grooves from nose to mouth and impressive scowl lines ridged his forehead, but his hair remained dark—just enough gray at the temples to deny a dye job. Unlike everyone else in the room, he’d clearly been getting enough food—and if he was worried about the success of this crazed new venture, it didn’t show in his body language.

  Perhaps just a little, right around the eyes.

  Ashurbeyli caught her watching White and sent her a grim little smile that meant she hadn’t been forgotten. He exchanged a few more words with his men, low murmurs that Selena dearly wished she could hear. They all seemed satisfied enough. She wasn’t sure why…several hours had passed since Atif’s death and there’d been no indication of change in their situation. The Kemenis were as they’d been, patient and prepared and not, somehow, quite as concerned as the situation demanded.

  Then again, maybe he’d been smart enough to expect such delays…even the failure to gain the control over Berzhaan that he sought from this strike. Maybe he knew he’d have to go to the extreme of killing some college kids—or Razidae himself. Hell, for that matter, maybe he’d made contingency plans. There were any number of grand gestures at his disposal, and most of them involved death. If he had a Javelin anti-tank missile or two—even one of the old Dragons—he could take out a big chunk of Berzhaani troops right on the street, not to mention reporters from around the globe. Or maybe he’d just bring this building down around them while he made his escape in the mess—and in the resulting chaos, the Kemenis could strike elsewhere and strike hard. Strike with success.

  Maybe he planned to bring this building down around them.

  The thought sent chills up her spine, coalescing around every previous doubt she’d had. Those moments wondering what the Kemenis thought to accomplish, Ashurbeyli’s calm lack of reaction when she’d said as much. Her incredulity that he hadn’t figured out the futility of this pathetic coup attempt all on his own.

  But he’d known better all along. He had another purpose here, a true purpose—and she had to figure out what it was. She glanced over at the careless pile of black devices. Remotes? Ashurbeyli might well have turned this place into a death trap. She had no doubt he’d do it if he believed it would lead to a successful coup. Or that he’d sacrifice every single hostage in the process, perhaps even many of his own men.

  She had no doubt Jonas White would urge him on.

  Something must have shown on her face. Ashurbeyli lifted his head from his conversation and looked at her with sharp attention. A few more words to his men and he straightened, reaching into his pocket as he moved toward her. So casual. He caught White’s eye along the way and White moved away from his own, less intense conversation—by necessity, as he didn’t seem to speak Berzhaani.

  Indeed, Ashurbeyli made his opening comments to her in English. “You seem to be faring well enough,” he said, an oddly innocuous opening. “Not too lonely, I hope. We really must keep a better eye on you than on the others.”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Selena said in her polite diplomatic party voice. “And have you and Mr. White been having a nice chat? Did he perhaps explain those Abakans?”

  Jonas White cleared his throat with annoyance. “No need for that,” he said, “since I didn’t have anything to do with them.”

  Selena nodded wisely. “Sticking to the story, are you? Haven’t you figured out it’s best to come clean now? Because your Kemeni associates are going to be really, really upset at you when they learn that you’ve lied to them—lied to their faces. In their own way, they’re much more honorable than you on your best day. And you’ll hardly be able to hide your interest in their oil when the time comes, although I imagine you’ve already got a new henchman lined up to front your activity in that sector.” She frowned slightly, thoughtful. “Then again, none of it matters, since this whole hostage business is going to blow up in your face.”

  She used the words quite deliberately—and she saw in White’s eyes a flicker of smug reaction.

  Oh God. Couldn’t it have just been my overactive imagination?

  A wave of queasiness washed over her.

  No, no, NO.

  But White didn’t notice. He squinted at her, far too thoughtfully critical for her tastes. “Who is she, Tafiq?”

  “She had no identification,” Ashurbeyli said, watching White more carefully than he did Selena. Good. Maybe he’d see that she’d actually made White uneasy. As much as he hid it, she made him uneasy. Ashurbeyli shrugged, the most insouciant of gestures. “We have not cared enough to find out. It matters only that she no longer interferes.”

  “Oh, I think it matters more than that.” White narrowed his eyes at her. No dummy, he. He couldn’t afford to have her continue what she’d started, filling Ashurbeyli’s ears with the truth. “If you prefer to keep her as a pet, then ask the others. Someone here must know her.”

  Yes. But he wouldn’t talk.

  “Or take one of those sniveling kids and carve off a few inches of skin. She’ll tell us. It’s not that hard, if you really want to know.”

  Her stomach did a lazy flip-flop at the thought. She wasn’t here to risk the lives of the people she’d stayed to save. Ashurbeyli cocked his head slightly; he’d read that answer on her face.

  “Would you care to save us the trouble?” he asked. “Athena?”

  “Of course.” She didn’t hide her irritation. “Because it’s really not worth that kind of trouble. My name is Selena Shaw Jones. I work at the U.S. Embassy. If I were of any real importance, you’d have known who I was from the start, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps,” Ashurbeyli murmured. “Perhaps not. It is, of course, a pleasure to have a name for you. Selena.”

  But she didn’t like the thoughtful speculation in his eye. Or that barely perceptible nod, as though he’d made a decision. A reluctant decision…and not one that was likely to bode well for her. Best to take his mind off it. She turned the conversation around. “And did you get what you came for?”

  He affected surprise, but she thought she saw a smile. App
reciation. As though beneath the surface, he enjoyed their sparring—perhaps even sought it out. “My English fails me. I can’t imagine what you mean to say.”

  Selena’s mouth quirked in skeptical reaction. “Mmm,” she said, making plain her disbelief. But she didn’t argue it; she gestured from herself to White and said, “This. Between us. Me pushing his buttons, exposing his lies for you.”

  White’s heavy brows drew together; those formidable frown lines gathered on his forehead. But Ashurbeyli waved him off. “Please, Jonas, do not concern yourself. Do you think I can’t tell she’s trying to disturb our alliance?” He turned his near-black gaze on Selena and added in Berzhaani, “You only help me. Such suspicions have no impact on this moment, but I will see to them afterward.”

  White’s scowl only grew deeper. “Tafiq.”

  Ashurbeyli turned to him with ease. “It is of no matter, Jonas. A crudity unsuited to your language.”

  “Loosely translated, it means ‘don’t bend over to get the soap,’” Selena told him, smiling serenely at White’s narrow-eyed reaction.

  “Ah,” Ashurbeyli dug into his pocket, a pretense of sudden memory. “There was another reason I came.” He pulled out his hand and extended it in her direction, closing the space between them until it entered that realm of intimate with which he seemed so comfortable. When he uncurled his fingers, he revealed a dull gold ring in the center of his palm. A wedding ring? “For you,” he said. “Because I chose him on your behalf.”

  Atif’s wedding ring.

  Chapter 12

  Atif’s wedding ring.

  She didn’t know why it had such a sudden, profound effect. He had been a traitor—twice a traitor, even as he’d hidden Selena’s captured terrorist cache.

  And just a man, trying to survive. Not deserving to face terrorists, not at the back of the kitchen, not on the capitol steps.

  Selena’s stomach flipped again, a slow, lazy roll. The blood drained from her face, leaving it tingly. Leaving it as suddenly green as she felt.

  “I need—” she said, and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Ashurbeyli, stranger and terrorist, understood immediately. It mattered not that he reacted to keep this room clean—for some of his men were forced to pray here so the hostages weren’t left unattended in the next room, and her illness would defile it. It mattered not that the apparent kindness had nothing to do with Selena’s comfort at all. All that mattered was that he reacted in the first place. Even as Selena bent double, clamping down on a gag, Ashurbeyli swiftly produced the key to her cuffs, released her from the chair, and gestured at the door. She didn’t know if he meant for her to go all the way to the bathroom or simply as far as the hallway. She didn’t care. He’d stop her if she went too far.

  She staggered out toward the hallway, hesitated on another gag right beside the pile of phones—and then let herself fall so she could scoop one up, her mind caught in a surreal place of lightning thought and total disconnect from her roiling stomach. She didn’t know if she’d been seen and she didn’t wait to find out, not with bile eating at the back of her throat. She flung herself down the hall the short distance to the bathroom. The main facilities for the ballroom, its anteroom surrounded her with equal opulence. She barely saw it; barely heard the Kemenis who followed her as far as that anteroom while she went through the second swinging door to the bathroom itself.

  But by then she found the spell passing. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, waiting. Only the faintest unease from her stomach remained, giving her no clue as to the origin.

  Except the obvious. She’d fought, she’d killed, she’d been captured, she’d spent many tense hours fearing for her safety—and possibly her child’s—and preparing for an assault she considered inevitable. The ring was a final insult, a reminder of Atif’s death and Ashurbeyli’s all-too-casual attitude about it. Such evoked revulsion would make anyone ill, pregnant or not.

  From outside the door came a brief spate of conversation, Berzhaani too muffled for her to catch. Standing in the stall door, eyes darting around the room, Selena responded to sudden impulse. She produced a truly outstanding series of visceral noises, flushing the toilet even as she ran out of the stall to examine the room—prowling under the enclosed sink counters, running her hands over everything she found. Hunting for sharp or pointy or anything else that inspired her imagination. As her eye fell on the demure tampon dispenser, the toilet ceased its noise and she went back for another round of Oscar-worthy retching, her heart pounding just as fast as if she’d actually ended up sick.

  Because she thought she’d seen…

  She flushed the toilet and went straight to the tampon dispenser, her fingers scrabbling at the bottom flap—the thin aluminum that kept people from reaching up inside to grab the product, yet flipped aside so the purchases could descend. It was askew, all right. Crooked and damaged, as though someone had tried to reach up in there. Someone caught unaware at a fancy dinner, and without the proper Berzhaani coin…Selena could well imagine it.

  But she tugged to no avail. Desperate, watching the door, she wiggled the flap back and forth, felt the weakness, felt her injured arm fail her—and knew she could never rip it loose by hand. Nice, thin aluminum…probably jagged at that. She ran back to the stall and flushed again, engaging in a quick tug-of-war when the loose handcuff tangled with the toilet handle.

  Ah.

  Back to the dispenser, she scrabbled at it, hunting a handhold and gouging her fingers, but finally getting enough purchase so she could cram the end of the open cuff into the small space she’d created between flap and body of the dispenser. She wiggled the cuff fiercely, working it toward the secure end of the flap, and—

  “Are you done?” A harsh demand, not Ashurbeyli—though she thought she heard him in the background.

  “Please,” she said, and keeping her voice weak and breathless came without any effort at all. “Please, give me a few more minutes.” She couldn’t believe they’d left her alone this long. After all she’d done to them, they still couldn’t take a woman as a serious threat?

  Don’t look a gift horse, eh?

  “Hurry!” the man demanded.

  She thought it was his pride speaking. Not great duty, lurking outside the bathroom door. Worse if he had to come in. “Please,” she said, adding a tremulous note to her voice. And then, “Oh, no, I—” and back to the retching noises it was, only this time she couldn’t reach the toilet for the convincing sound of flushing. She stretched out a leg and reached the closest sink, batting the faucet on with her pointed foot. And never, during all of it, hesitating in her efforts with the handcuff-turned-prybar.

  Quite suddenly, the metal flap came loose. Selena grunted with surprise, almost losing her balance, and barely took the time to examine her prize. Eight inches long, two inches wide, and a satisfactory edge of partly sheared metal—and now it had to be hidden.

  She yanked up her shirttails with one hand, flipped the cell phone open with the other, and headed for the toilet stall to once again flush the toilet. Even then she left the water running, and went to spit in the sink a few times. She knew Cole’s number so well she barely had to look to dial it, and then tucked the phone under her chin—not an easy task with today’s slick little phones and her arm crying protest over all the activity—as she went to work securing the strip of metal at her waistband, tucked between her turtleneck and the borrowed shirt.

  Above the running water and the rustle of material and her own quick breathing, Selena could barely hear the ring of Cole’s cell. But ring it did, and by God he picked it up. His greeting came across as wary—he’d seen the caller ID. But Selena rushed right in. “Cole! It’s me.” What to say, as fast as possible, the most crucial information?

  “Selena! Are you—”

  “No!” she said, giving him no more than that, checking herself in the mirror for signs of the hard-won tool. A tampon tool. It would scandalize Ashurbeyli even to think about it. “Listen! Check what you c
an see of the building, I think they’re going to—”

  The bathroom door slammed open. Not the guard, but Ashurbeyli, suspicion on his face turning to fury. He slammed her against the edge of the sink; she felt the metal strip slice her skin but oh, please, not too deep and the phone went spinning away over the tile. Ashurbeyli backhanded her hard enough to bounce her off the sink, hard enough to send her sprawling after the phone, her arm in agony and her vision a swirl of image and darkness. She sprang back to her feet in an instinctive, animalistic survival reaction right down to the snarl in her throat—a snarl that died as she heard the unmistakable clatter of rifles coming to bear, shoulder sling hardware clinking against metal, safeties going off—

  Selena froze. She checked herself and she froze, only slowly taking in the full view of three Kemenis in the ladies’ room, ready to shoot her down. In the center spot stood Ashurbeyli, his face a study in tight fury—and, she realized with astonishment, betrayal. He hadn’t expected that she’d try to pull anything over on him, not in the one moment of compassion he’d offered her—offered anyone—since this started. She felt an absurd impulse to apologize, but instead she pressed careful fingers to her heavy, burning cheek—the other one this time—and gestured at the other two. “Hey,” she said, hoping against hope that the warm blood seeping against her side didn’t soak through the shirt or her waistband. “Blame them. The gagging was real, but they still should have seen me grab that phone.”

  Astonishingly, he did not have her shot on the spot. More astonishingly, he actually nodded, taking a visible breath to regain his control. “They will regret that they didn’t.”

  I might live past this moment after all.

  Or not, for anger still tightened his features. He gestured at the phone. “And who, may I ask?”

  Ah, back to being civilized. Or at least a veneer thereof. “Same as last time. My husband.”