The Protector

by Marliss Melton

  Jackson glanced at Ringo, who sent him a short nod, then he released the trunk from inside the car. Ike grabbed up his gear and dove into the back seat. “Go,” he growled.

  The Taurus rocketed from the parking lot.

  Cold, hard determination usurped Ike’s earlier agitation. He refused to consider that Eryn could be dead right now, killed in the most horrifying manner possible. God forbid. He’d die inside if he were too late. He would absolutely die. The only acceptable outcome was locating the RV and apprehending the terrorist.

  “Drive faster.” The verdant pastures mocked him with their expansive apathy.

  “Pedal’s to the floor,” Jackson answered, glancing in the rearview mirror. “They can’t have gone more than ten miles, not with the tank leaking like that.”

  They zipped off Highway 33, following the stain in the asphalt as it arced onto a smaller, winding road, one that climbed toward the height of Green Mountain.

  Ike’s thoughts went back to the last time he’d hunted terrorists. He’d been forced to watch his fellow teammates fight for their lives and get picked off, one at a time. He’d thought there couldn’t be anything more awful. But there was. His men were warriors, trained to fight. Every one of them had taken several combatants’ lives before succumbing to his wounds. But Eryn was no warrior. And even with the training he’d given her, she was no match for a man.

  “Who is this guy?” he demanded, wanting more information. “What kind of profile do you have on him?”

  Jackson and Ringo shared a sheepish look.

  “We don’t know who he is,” Ringo confessed. “If he’s the one who bombed the safe house, then he’s blown up one civilian and slit the throats of five men already, counting Caine.” His voice had become as rough as sandpaper.

  “I served in Iraq,” Jackson added. “I knew this guy was a fanatic when I saw his handiwork. I don’t think he’s a national.”

  A desert-like breeze blew through Ike’s mind. “Then you don’t mind if I kill him,” he said, his tone impassive, his heart devoid of any emotion but justice.

  Ringo gave a nervous laugh. Jackson darted Ike a warning look. “I don’t mind,” he said with conviction, “but the FBI needs to question him to make certain there aren’t any others.”

  Ike nodded and went to check his ammunition. He considered their best approach once they came upon the RV. Anything to keep from envisioning what Eryn had to be going through. Don’t go there, he ordered himself. Don’t fucking feel. But when it came to possibly losing the woman you loved, that was easier said than done.

  **

  With a click that made Eryn jump, the door to the rear room swung open. A rope sailed through the air, landing at her feet.

  “Tie up the dog or I will kill him,” the terrorist demand, slamming the door shut again.

  Eryn eyed the rope as she would a snake. Then she looked at Winston, noting his bared fangs, his bristling coat. She could hear Ike’s voice urging her to let the dog attack. Winston was her only weapon. Ike had trained him well, and the terrorist was clearly wary of him.

  Only, she couldn’t. She couldn’t let her loyal Shepherd mix get stabbed because of her. Tears of frustration and fear gushed from her eyes as she bent over and picked up the rope.

  Pulling her dog closer, she attached it to the sturdy ring on his collar, praying both the knot and the collar would hold. Then she looped the other end of the rope around the base of the second bolted chair, knotting it as securely as she knew how.

  “Five seconds,” warned the terrorist through the door, “or I’ll shoot him dead.”

  “It’s done,” she called in a small voice.

  The door opened an inch. As he peeked inside, Winston rushed at him, snarling. The rope pulled taut, catching him back. As the muzzle of a gun appeared, Eryn leapt in front of her dog, defending him. “Please don’t do this.” In a voice that quaked with fear, she tried negotiating. “I’m not your enemy. I’ve never meant you any harm.”

  The man’s soft chuckle, brimming with bitterness, made her fall silent. “You are the daughter of my enemy,” he replied. Seeing that the rope restrained the dog, he opened the door wider. “Your father killed my son. Did you know that?”

  “No.” She saw him differently, then, as a father tormented by grief. But then she remembered Itzak, whom this man had killed. Itzak had also had a father. And so had Caine. “I’m sorry about your son,” she said, praying that if she kept him talking, she might convince him to abort his plans. “What was his name?”

  “Osman. He was a Taliban chieftain, a warrior. Come.” He crooked a finger at her. “Come out, or I’ll shoot your dog first and then you.”

  She would rather be shot than to have her head cut off, wouldn’t she? And yet, seeing him release the safety, she found herself obeying him, too much a coward to accept a bullet so willingly.

  As she edged closer, he seized her, pulling her out the door swiftly. Winston flew into a rage, but the rope caught him back, and then the door shut between them, muffling his distress.

  Feeling the gun prod her back, Eryn let herself be propelled toward the galley where she could see that the terrorist had set up a laptop and a webcam on the table. A chill seeped through her veins, turning her blood to ice.

  “Sit.” He forced her onto the bench in front of the equipment. She was startled to see her pale reflection jump onto the screen. “Look! More than thirty thousand Muslims have logged on to watch your execution,” he said, with delight. “Yours shall be the first of many, as my students take back the cradle of Islam from our enemy invaders.”

  Depositing the gun inside the open briefcase on the opposite counter, he transferred his grip to her hair. The blade with which he’d killed Caine reappeared, flashing before her eyes as he pressed it to her throat.

  Eryn struggled wildly, but terror in a dose she’d never experienced, sucked the strength from her, making her efforts as feeble as a child’s. With just the grip on her hair, he was able to subdue her, forcing her to sit before the webcam.

  He hit a key, and the program began filming. As stream of Arabic issued from his mouth, she realized he was reciting scripture. Sure enough, he switched abruptly into English, translating what he’d just said.

  “The only reward of those who make war upon Allah and corrupt the nation of Islam is that they will be killed or crucified, or have their hands and feet on alternate sides cut off, or will be expelled out of the land. Such will be their degradation in the world, and in the Hereafter. Theirs will be an awful doom!”

  Dear God, thought Eryn. I don’t want to die this way. Not now. Not like this. Not when I have so much to live for.

  **

  “There it is!” Ringo cried, pointing up at the road that wound through the trees above them.

  Jackson had already caught sight of it. There was no mistaking the Mobile Command Center’s silver hull for anything else.

  “Get as close as you can without exposing us,” the former SEAL instructed.

  “Roger that.” Jackson slowed his approach.

  There had been no overt discussion of who would be in charge. When the HRT had updated them minutes ago that they were still twenty minutes out, Jackson had glanced at Ringo, who grimaced and shook his head. They weren’t going to sit around with their thumbs up their asses. They were going to put Calhoun’s specialized skills to work. And that meant doing exactly what he told them to do.

  “Right here,” the former SEAL said, and Jackson pulled them alongside a holly bush to conceal their vehicle. “Maddox follows me. Ringo, you hang back fifty feet in case he’s not alone and someone gets past us. Weapons check,” Calhoun added.

  There was something hugely inspiring about the man’s focus. Eryn was up there in the clutches of a fanatic intending to behead her, and the former SEAL was making them count their rounds and back-up magazines. “Let’s go. Keep quiet.”

  They leapt from the vehicle, crossed the road and moved swiftly and stealthily through the woods to
ward the MCC, startling a kestrel pulling entrails from a dead mouse. As it winged away, Calhoun signaled Ringo toward the street. He and Jackson proceeded further uphill, making their way to a boulder just a stone’s throw from the RV.

  Jackson felt like he was back in Iraq, sneaking up on an insurgent stronghold. His heart pounded somewhere in the region of his Adam’s apple. He would have thought after all the military action in which he’d taken part he’d be inoculated to the stress. But nothing ever went down the same way twice.

  “There’s something you should know,” he gasped, having pushed himself to keep up with the more fleet-footed Calhoun. “The MCC is supposedly bullet proof, though we’ve never tested it. All the windows are air tight. The only way in is through the front door, which requires both a key and a fingerprint scan.”

  Calhoun glanced at him sharply. “Do you have a key?”

  “Caine had it last. The terrorist must have taken it. But we can shoot the electronic key pad which might slip the magnetic lock. Or it might lock it permanently.” In which case, they’d be screwed.

  The former SEAL shut his eyes briefly. “Describe the RV’s layout,” he said in a flat voice.

  Jackson described the interior as quickly and concisely as possible.

  “You shoot the lock,” Calhoun said, glossing over the possibility of it jamming. “I’ll go in first while you cover me. You clear right, I’ll clear left.”

  “Keep in mind that any bullets fired inside might ricochet,” Jackson added. “Don’t kill the terrorist.”

  “You hear that?”

  Jackson could hear Winston barking stridently inside the RV.

  “Now,” grated the SEAL, bolting from their hiding place.

  Jackson scrambled after him, chasing his shadow around the back of the MCC. Calhoun waited by the door as Jackson blasted bullets in rapid succession into the biometric lock, sending the components flying, sparks spraying.

  Inside, Eryn screamed, a sound that spiked Jackson’s adrenaline. Dropping his empty magazine, he slammed a new one into his pistol as Calhoun tried to wrench the door open. To their mutual dismay, it didn’t budge.

  “Fuck!” Calhoun threw his shoulder into it, and the lock released with a clunk. He practically ripped the door off its hinges as he flung it open, ducked into a crouch, and stormed inside. The only way to cover him was to fire up at the sky.

  Ike honed in on Eryn like a heat-seeking missile tracking its target. But training dictated that he clear his left corner first, as Maddox cleared the right. Only then did he let himself absorb the horrifying vision that awaited them.

  His revulsion made him want to fly headlong at the enemy without any thought to the consequences. He reined himself in, shifting over to give Maddox room to join him in the living nightmare.

  The terrorist held Eryn captive, one bloodied arm locked around her neck, a knife pressed to her chin. Ike assumed the blood was hers, but then he saw puncture wounds on the man’s forearm and realized Winston must have bitten him. Hooyah!

  On one side of the terrorist stood a laptop and webcam; on the other, an open briefcase containing a copy of the Qu’ran and a nine millimeter pistol. Looking back at Eryn, Ike was dismayed to see a thin line of blood sliding over the blade toward the terrorist’s hand.

  Her face was ashen, her pupils dilated. She appeared to be in shock, but—thank you, Jesus—she was still alive and that was exactly how Ike intended for her to stay.

  “FBI!” Maddox announced. “Release the woman and back away.”

  With his left hand, Ike withdrew the Python holstered under his arm. He aimed it at the terrorist’s forehead, while lowering his rifle. Firing at this range, even with the Python, would splatter gray matter all over the RV. What a shame he’d been told not to kill the fucker.

  Maddox tried again. “Surrender now or be shot.”

  The terrorist pressed his cheek closer to Eryn’s while shrinking behind her frame. “We will die together,” he predicted with preternatural calm.

  “Like hell,” Ike growled. He thumbed off the safety.

  “Don’t,” Jackson warned under his breath. “I’ll take him down.”

  He did have a better angle, but if the terrorist moved at all, Eryn might take the bullet that was meant for him. “Wait,” Ike pleaded. “Eryn.” He addressed her directly, desperately. “Change the dynamics.” If she ended up shot, he’d never forgive himself.

  Recognition flickered in her eyes. Her fingers flexed on the terrorist’s arms. “Remember?” he prompted.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Hope hit Eryn’s nervous system like a mainlined drug, beating back the fear that had kept her docile. She knew what Ike was asking her to do.

  Ignoring the blade tip embedded in her chin, she ordered the sequence of motions in her head. Now!

  Time seemed to slow as she executed each step with all the precision and power she could muster: tug, breathe, bend, sweep, twist, yank.

  Yes!

  She had no sooner wrenched free than a loud Pop! left her ears ringing. The terrorist screamed in agony. A deep red stain blossomed on his thigh as he crumpled to his knees beside her. She stumbled against the kitchen cabinets, adrenaline storming her system.

  The terrorist’s gun gleamed in the open briefcase right beside her. Eryn snatched it up, whirled, and aimed it at him. Over the residual buzzing in her ears from the gunshot, she heard Ike’s voice telling her distinctly to put the gun down.

  “You!” she raged, her focus entirely on the terrorist. “You pathetic excuse for a man. You killed Itzak and Agent Caine. Don’t you think their fathers loved them, too? Don’t you?”

  Clutching his wounded leg with one hand, his knife with the other, the terrorist gaped at her uncomprehendingly. “Shoot me,” he pleaded, clearly terrified of being captured.

  “Don’t listen to him, Eryn.” It was Jackson’s voice this time, sounding like it came from a great distance.

  She would never have to fear him escaping from jail if she shot him, would she? She wouldn’t miss, either, not at this range.

  “Do it,” the terrorist pleaded, his eyes brimming with desperation.

  The desire for vengeance burned in her, making her grip tighten. But then she realized killing him would make her just like him. “No.” She shook her head in horror. “I’m not like you,” she insisted, lowering the gun.

  With a roar of frustration, the terrorist turned the blade in his hand and plunged it unexpectedly into his own chest.

  Eryn’s legs folded with shock. She fell to her knees at the same time that he keeled over, landing on the floor right next to her. A grunt tore from his throat as he pulled the knife out again. Blood spurted out like a fountain. With a cry of alarm, Eryn scuttled away, running into Ike’s legs.

  He hauled her up swiftly. Scooping her into his arms, he carried her past Jackson, who’d dropped down beside the convulsing terrorist to staunch the wound with a towel.

  Without a backward glance, Ike transported Eryn out of the RV into the sunshine.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Gripping Ike’s neck in a hold that might have strangled a smaller man, Eryn took in her pristine surroundings in amazement. How could such a God-awful experience have happened here, in this untainted landscape?

  The soaring trees formed a canopy of every shade of green; the sky beyond it was a deep, cerulean blue. Not even the stench of gasoline could overcome the fresh purity of mountain air or the familiar scent of the man she loved. He carried her wordlessly past Ringo, who charged into the RV, and crossed the road, lowering her on a bench-sized boulder on the other side.

  “Let me see,” he said, inspecting the slit that oozed blood down her neck. In the next instant he was ripping the material off the bottom of his T-shirt.

  “I can’t even feel it,” she reassured him, surprised by the unfamiliar tremor in his fingers.

  Ike was obviously shaken, his glazed eyes reflecting all the things that might have gone wrong.

  �
�It’s okay,” she reassured him. “You saved me, Ike.”

  Her words had him blinking furiously. “You saved yourself,” he insisted, smoothing her hair from her face. “I promise you’ll never have to again,” he added.

  The words were uttered with such solemnity that she sensed some special significance to them, but, just then, Winston bounded toward them, giving her no time to decipher what he’d meant. The dog flung himself onto Eryn, licking her face and barking with unbridled joy.

  “Oh, Winston.” She hugged him fiercely, grateful that he’d come out unscathed.

  Finally, Ike pulled the dog down. He briskly rubbed his ears. “You bit that bad guy, didn’t you? Good boy.”