Lamp cords had been threaded through holes drilled in the immovable tables and nightstands. Mirrors in the bathroom were plastic, as were all other objects not attached.
By concentrating on her surroundings, she could keep her mind from obsessing about all the bad things. Like what the hell the hijackers wanted her helo and crew for and what they’d do to them once they were finished. That she’d met two of the four men only a week or so before was proof positive they’d carefully planned and executed the hijacking.
She took a deep breath and stopped in the middle of the room, hands on hips, her mind sorting possibilities. She rolled her shoulders and blew out a disgusted breath. Hell, she’d been trained in drug interdictions, even terrorist attacks, but most of her real-life experiences dealt with saving lives, not taking them. She briefly closed her eyes. Thank God she had a doctor with her crew.
Anxiety fluttered in her chest like a pennant in a gale-force wind. Except the last time she’d seen Stillman, he’d been unconscious. And bloody. Despite the air-conditioning, sweat coated her palms and prickled her underarms.
Ryan was wounded, maybe dead, Clay was somewhere in the Gulf, hopefully still alive, but not likely. No one knew where they were, so it all came down to her ability to get her remaining crew out safely. Oh yeah, and stopping the bad guys from whatever the hell it was they were planning to do with her helicopter.
Jesus, get a grip! She shook her head sharply. Even if the Emergency Locator Transmitter hadn’t been tripped by her hard landing, the ping locator would be sending off a traceable signal for days. She ran a shaking hand over her disintegrating French braid. Second-guessing things out of her control accomplished nothing. She needed—
The sound of metal scraping metal spun her around to the door. It swung open and one of the hijackers stepped in, his gait slightly unsteady, his eyes overly bright as his gaze freely roamed her body.
Shit. She didn’t need to add sexual assault to her list of worries. Anger followed irritation and she gave him a tight smile. She’d just bet he’d expect her to do whatever he told her to do. And beg him not to hurt her while crying for mama. Oh boy, was he in for a surprise.
He closed the door and motioned with his automatic gun. “Take uniform off.”
Caitlyn took a step toward him and moved her hands up to the zipper on the front of her flight suit as if to comply. “Yeah, right,” she said. Adrenaline flooded her bloodstream fueling an aggressive response. She moved closer, eyeing her best approach. Nondescript, with dark eyes and hair, he’d been in the back of the helo with Stillman and Joe. From his body odor, personal hygiene had been low on his list of priorities. Two steps closer and she could smell alcohol, as well. So, okay, maybe this would be easier than taking on her street-fighting instructor.
A slow tug on the front zipper of her flight suit rounded his eyes like beach balls and he lowered his hand, the gun apparently forgotten. He said something harsh and guttural—probably nothing she’d want translated.
Nerve endings sparked, primed for action.
She rocked forward on her toes, delighted her heavy flight boots had steel tips. While she’d love nothing more than to punt his balls deep into the end zone, she figured she needed to be more practical and take him out with something longer lasting. Fast and dirty should do the trick.
With that in mind, she raised her leg and stomped the side of his knee, letting the heel of her boot scrape down his shinbone on its way to his instep as he howled in pain.
* * *
Stillman ignored the short man’s prodding with his gun and continued to stare at Yellow-Poncho.
The man tipped his head forward in a slight bow. “Ray Atwah. We have need of your helicopter...and its talented pilot. Though it would appear some repairs may be in order after her...unfortunate landing.”
The irritation in Atwah’s tone made Stillman smile inside. Queeny’d put a kink in their plans with her unexpected crash.
“I need you to assess this man’s condition. How bad his injuries are.” He turned to the other hijacker and fired off several commands.
The man grabbed Stillman’s arm and jerked him into the bathroom.
The bright globe-lights surrounding the mirror emphasized the two-inch laceration above Stillman’s right eye. Could use stitches, but he’d have to make do with butterfly bandages. He washed his hands and face then pulled out a small first-aid kit he kept in one of the many zippered pockets of his flight suit. Ignoring his captor’s growling gestures with the MAC-10, Stillman made quick work of closing his wound. It might not stop the bleeding completely, but it would slow it down considerably.
He rewashed his hands and said, “All right, let’s see what’s happened to our patient.”
He retrieved a pair of latex gloves from another pocket and snapped them on as he walked back to the bed. The towel wrapped around the man’s head was now soaked in blood. He glanced at Joe. “Could you open the jump kit and hand me what I need?”
“Sure thing. I know the routine.” Joe picked up the case the hijacker had carried in and unzipped it. “We took off the helmet when we brought him in here. Tried to keep his neck straight in case of spinal injury.”
Stillman set to work removing the blood-soaked towel and evaluating the damage to his patient. The man remained unconscious during the exam, making it easier to work on him, but raising Stillman’s concern.
The helmet he’d worn had been too big and not fastened, meaning his head had bounced around inside the protective shell, adding to the trauma. His cheekbone was shattered with extensive damage to the underlying sinus cavity. After careful probing Stillman sat back on his heels.
“He needs surgery to repair his face. I don’t like the lack of responsiveness. It suggests brain damage.” Swelling inside the skull could be life-threatening.
He looked at Yellow-Poncho, who’d watched the exam without comment. “He needs a hospital. Now.”
The man reached under his rain gear and pulled out a nine-millimeter Glock. He spoke rapidly to the other man then handed him the gun before turning his attention back to Stillman. “Your work here is done. I will take you to your own man now.”
No emotion showed on his face, nothing to indicate he took Stillman’s advice seriously.
Stillman stripped off his bloody gloves, turning them inside out, and tossed them into a wastebasket by the bed. “He needs—”
“Your job here is over. Take your emergency bag,” Yellow-Poncho said, his voice clipped, his eyes flat and dead looking.
Shit. Stillman stood with his hands fisted, filled with impotent rage. He let Joe repack and zip closed the first-aid case while he controlled the urge to punch something...or someone. Joe’s scowl told Stillman he’d figured out Yellow-Poncho’s order, as well. They couldn’t do a damn thing about his death warrant.
* * *
Caitlyn’s attack snapped the man forward at the waist and she grabbed the back of his head, raising her knee to meet his nose with a soft scrunch she felt as much as heard. His head popped back and he dropped to the floor without so much as a whimper.
Caitlyn swayed, her hands propped on her knees as if she’d been sick, her breath coming in short, gasping pants. Adrenaline mixed with anger made for an ass-kicking cocktail. She started to giggle and realized she was losing it. Shit, just get the hell out—
An openhanded slap to the side of her face sent her to the carpet. She rolled away, her arms up protecting her head. Goddammit, why hadn’t she grabbed the gun when she’d had the chance?
“Stupid...” Her new attacker quickly lapsed into his native tongue and Caitlyn realized it was the man of her nightmares—the one in the yellow Mickey Mouse poncho. But his barely controlled anger was directed at the hijacker Caitlyn had coldcocked. She scooted across the carpet, putting more space between them.
He kicked the downed man
but there was no response. More harsh words, then before she could guess his intention, the MAC-10 came up, spitting fire and death in a short burst of deafening sound.
Caitlyn screamed and scuttled backward until she hit the bed. Blood marked a trail across the fallen hijacker’s torso and the smell of gunpowder burned her nose for the second time that night.
“You will do as you are told or I will eliminate your crew. One man at a time,” he said. “Get up. I am moving you to another location.” He motioned her toward the door with his gun.
She stood, her leg muscles quivering and her eyes burning with unshed tears. That son of a bitch would not see her cry. She straightened to full height, grimly satisfied that in her combat boots she stood taller than him, and gave her very best regal glare. “I demand to see my crew. To ensure they’re safe and their injuries have been taken care of.”
A muscle in his jaw bunched and his eyes narrowed. Shit, Caity, poked any rabid pit bulls lately? She held her ground when he stalked over to deliver a backhanded slap.
When she regained her balance she even produced a smirk, despite the taste of blood. Hell, she’d grown up in a houseful of displaced kids with belligerent attitudes and never once walked away from a fight. She folded her arms across her chest, mostly to hide the tremors that had started with the deadly burst of gunfire. “My crew.”
The man’s face darkened and he exhaled sharply. She mentally braced for another slap, or more likely, a fist. But he won back his control and grabbed her upper arm with a grip that would leave bruises. He dragged her from the room without another word.
* * *
Stillman finished bandaging Ryan’s shoulder wishing again for more drugs and better supplies. He should have brought his normal field kit, but it was supposed to have been a simple training mission. Hell, the way things turned out, he should have brought a gun.
“Hey, it’s gotta beat conditions...in a war zone,” Ryan quipped with an unsteady voice.
Shock had him drifting in and out of consciousness. He needed blood, antibiotics and some assurance one of those maniacs wouldn’t decide to put a bullet through his head like they had—
“Yeah, we haven’t been shot at for hours now. And I’m guessin’ we’re not likely to see a sandstorm anytime soon either,” Joe added. He sat on the far side of the bed and stared at Stillman with the unasked question shining in his somber brown eyes. Would Ryan make it?
Stillman gave Joe a brief nod before gently covering Ryan with a cotton blanket. “Hell, this is the fucking Ritz. We’ve got a latrine with running water and dormitory beds with honest-to-god sheets.” He scanned Ryan’s pale face. Barring infection, or another round of bullets, he should recover.
“Try to get some sleep. If we limit pain meds to nighttime, you’ll get more rest and mend quicker.” Unsure of how long they’d be stuck without help, he decided to err on the side of caution and ration their limited medical supplies.
Ryan’s eyes drifted shut, then opened with a start. “Caity. Where did they take her? You don’t think they’d—” He stopped and swallowed audibly, looking scared and surprisingly vulnerable. His eyes were wide with naked fear and frustration—emotions Stillman could relate to.
None of them had put a name to their worst worry for Caitlyn. He grasped Ryan’s good shoulder and squeezed. Maybe if they never said aloud what they were all thinking, she’d somehow be okay. Hell, if they were all moving into the land of denial, might as well build a condo—
The rattle of the door’s lock jerked Stillman’s attention from Ryan. He stood and turned, putting his body in front of Ryan and Joe’s. In his mind they’d become his crew. And while it would gall the hell out of Queeny, he outranked them all. Especially when it came to dealing with ruthless enemies.
As if conjured by their collective psyches, Caitlyn stumbled through the doorway. Ray Atwah followed, one hand clasping her upper arm, the other holding a MAC-10 aimed in their general direction. Her eyes widened in obvious surprise, then she gave a lopsided grin.
Stillman’s belly tensed and his hands clenched. The corner of her mouth was swollen and smeared with blood.
“Wow, the gang’s all here,” she said with obvious bravado. A shadow flashed over her face and her grin faltered.
Shit, she was thinking about Clay, the young swimmer who’d been dumped in the Gulf.
“Silence!” Atwah yelled and shook her roughly.
Stillman took a step forward, but Caitlyn mouthed no in warning even as the automatic weapon centered on his chest.
“Stop. Your medical services are appreciated, but are not essential. Tonight you will be sharing this room. In the morning you will begin repair of the helicopter. If it cannot fly by Friday—” he shrugged “—then I have no more use for any of you.”
He shoved Caitlyn forward, then stepped back and slammed shut the metal door. Stillman caught Caitlyn against his chest, the flutter of her heart more welcome than the press of her breasts. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hair as he inhaled her now-familiar scent. He closed his eyes, his senses filling with fierce possessiveness. More than anyone, or anything else in the world, she, damn it all to hell, belonged to him.
She gave a shaky laugh and shifted against him. “I’m okay. Really. How’s Ryan?” she asked softly, her eyes searching his.
Stillman let his arms drop to his sides and exhaled some of his frustration. She was okay. He could see it in her unguarded expression.
“Stable. I took out two bullets and stitched him up. He could use a blood transfusion and better drugs. Now that you’re here, safe and sound, he’ll do even better.” Hell, they all would.
She straightened even more, settling her royal mantle firmly upon her shoulders. The queen was ready to resume her duties. Tough, he had no intention of giving in so easily. She narrowed her eyes. He’d swear she’d heard his thought and taken it as a direct challenge.
“Joe, did you get a chance to inspect Fly Baby?” she asked, sidestepping him and walking briskly to Ryan’s bedside.
Fly Baby? He twisted to catch Joe’s reaction. Surely she hadn’t given the antiquated-government-issued-hardware a stupid pet name. Joe’s grin said differently.
He’d circled the bed to envelop Caitlyn in a bear hug, rocking her from side to side. “Nah, but that old bird’s used to your slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am landings. We’ll get her back in the air by Friday. No problem.”
“Hey, I’m the one who deserves a hug,” Ryan complained from behind them.
Stillman shook his head as Joe released Caitlyn. How the hell could she maintain crew objectivity if they were all so damn kissy-faced?
Okay, maybe that was a little green-tinged, but still...ah, shit, her crew would walk through a minefield if she asked. He rubbed the back of his neck. Fuck. So would he.
Stillman gave her and Ryan privacy by retreating to the third bed under a small barred window. Instead of worrying about Caitlyn’s leadership style, he should be working on an escape plan. Joe, familiar with the area they’d flown over, estimated they were on a private island on the western edge of the middle Keys. So they weren’t far from help and—
“Busy planning our great escape?” Joe asked and plunked his ass on the end of the narrow bed.
Startled, Stillman flicked a glance across the room. Caitlyn sat on Ryan’s cot, leaning over him and speaking softly. “Booted you out, did they?” he groused.
Two weeks ago, he’d have laughed his butt off if someone had suggested he’d be jealous of a guy with bullet holes in him. He twisted his neck trying to loosen the tension. Now just look at him.
Joe shrugged. “It’s okay. They’re close.”
Stillman thought he’d hidden his reaction, but Joe smirked at him.
“Brother-sister close, dickhead. Me, I’m kinda like a kissin’-cousin.” He punched Stillman’s shoulde
r. “Gotcha.”
His expression sobered and he lowered his voice. “The Coast Guard doesn’t like to lose personnel and equipment. They would have launched a search plane, maybe another Jayhawk to look for us. Even if they don’t pick up Clay right away, they’ll be thinking hostile action. We should be out of here by dawn.”
Stillman began shaking his head before Joe finished. “We can’t assume anyone is going to come get us,” he said. “If they show up, fine, but we need a plan in place in case they don’t, or can’t locate us.”
“I don’t have a problem with that.” He grinned. “Sitting around waiting isn’t my style.”
“We better make sure they don’t decide Ryan’s a liability.” Stillman watched realization harden Joe’s eyes.
“Since they think you’re just a doctor, we’ll convince them Caitlyn can’t fly without a copilot,” Joe said.
Neither one voiced their fear Ryan could be eliminated like the injured hijacker had been.
Jacksonville, FL,
Wednesday, 21 September, 2210 hours
Valerie Wooten sipped a glass of pinot noir then carefully tapped another entry into her smartphone, while a cable news station kept her company with background noise of world events. Tomorrow was going to be very busy, a board meeting, another interminable staff meeting and—
Her cell phone began playing Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl,” generating a sad smile. Her admin assistant loved loading different songs on her phone whenever she was minding it for overseas calls. This song had been Valerie’s husband’s favorite.
“Hello?”
Static then rapid-fire Arabic filled her ear. The words didn’t make sense until she realized she was hearing both sides of the conversation this time. One voice demanded money and more personnel, the other refused until he had proof of something to do with a helicopter. Between the bursts of static and equally loud bursts of foul language she caught reference to a bomb.
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