No time left. He thrust her into the yawning opening, and as soon as her knees landed on the metal flooring, she scrabbled like a baby further inside. A crewman grabbed her under the arms, pushed her into a seat, and buckled a shoulder harness and seatbelt around her. She was handed a helmet, and before putting it on, with tears rolling down her cheeks, she met his gaze through the wide door of the helo.
No, he mouthed, shook his head. Don’t cry.
He should be happy this was over and that a large amount of money would be deposited into his bank account. She was grateful, and he’d become too involved. But a healthy jolt of lust connected them when they touched. Hell, just looking at her turned his balls molten. He was a mercenary, and she was an artist from Chicago. They were worlds apart.
Christ, man. You’re an idiot.
The helo rose, hovered. He saw bewilderment, then panic in her eyes. Her mouth moved. He heard her voice in his head.
“Thank you, Peter Pierce.”
Acting more cocky than he felt, he tapped his forehead in a mock salute, and mouthed back, “You’re welcome, Sara Stewart.” He watched until the helo was out of sight, a long time in the clear, bright sky. Thoughts of home blindsided him. He’d hated the small Kansas town he grew up in and couldn’t wait to leave, couldn’t wait to get out in the world and do something important. Now he just felt abandoned, as alone as he’d felt for years. His father died when he was in college, and his mother lived in a nursing home now. He wondered if he’d ever have a chance at a normal life. As normal as it could be for a guy who knew ten different ways to kill a man, and had used them all.
Goodbye, Sara Stewart. The words lingered in his head for a long time before he thought to get out of the hot, desert sun.
Chapter 4
“Sara, are you sure you’re ready to open the shop again?” Her father, Jeff Stewart, posed the question at their weekly dinner out.
This had become a habit since she’d come home after her harrowing experience in Egypt. Dinner out once a week with her parents. She realized they needed to keep tabs on her. Depression and a sense of loss had hit her when she was out of danger. Her sleep had been disrupted too many nights. She’d been a little afraid to be in the shop alone, so she delayed opening it back up.
She hadn’t told her parents everything about Rowdy. Certainly not the sexy parts. Those were the memories she hung on to and the ones she missed the most. Her emotions had gone from terror to sexual attraction in a very short time, and she was extremely confused.
At that last moment on the helicopter, the sight of him through the doorway ripped a hole in her heart. If she hadn’t been strapped in, she would have leaped out and back into his arms. The sense of lost chances, of knowing this was the last time she’d ever see the most exciting man she’d ever met made her stomach burn.
He’d looked bleak, too, staring back at her. She was sure he felt something for her. His kisses had been tender and sensual. And fierce and erotic. Was he attracted to every woman he rescued? She didn’t want to think so.
Focusing her attention back on her dad, she said, “I’m ready. There have been several messages on the answering machine asking when I’d be back in. The holiday season is heating up, and I don’t want to miss out on that.”
“I don’t like the idea of you being there alone,” her mother said. Candace had always been overprotective of her only daughter. “Maybe you should hire a security guard.”
Sara knew who she’d like to have guarding her, but he wasn’t available. He was probably still back in the Middle East saving lives.
“I could call Pierce’s firm and get a local recommendation.” This from her father.
“No. Don’t, Dad,” she responded quickly. Too quickly.
“Why? Did Pierce do something wrong?”
She took a deep breath. She was losing it.
“You’ve never told us much about what happened over there, honey.”
Trying to pass the whole incident off as a closed book, she said, “Oh, it was just your average rescue and escape. Rowdy was a good guy, and I’ll be forever grateful to him.”
As if her mom understood, she placed a hand on her dad’s. “Sara is back safe with us, thanks to Peter Pierce, and that’s all that matters.” She glanced at her daughter sending a message that they wouldn’t intrude on her privacy. At least not in front of Dad.
Later, in the ladies’ room, Candace said, “Did something happen between you and this Pierce guy? You haven’t really said much about him. Every time we mention his name, you change the subject.”
“Mom.” Sara made a big production of washing her hands. “He saved my life. I have so many feelings for him that I can’t sort out.” She looked her mom in the eye. “Yes, something happened.”
“Do you think he felt the same?”
Sara huffed wryly. “Who knows with a man, but yeah. Maybe it was just for the moment, though. Everything was so intense.”
“Would you want to see him again?”
Would she? Oh, yeah. A little smile quirked her lips. She couldn’t help it.
“Well, honey, I guess that answers my question.” Candace’s smile was understanding, if not a little sad.
“I guess it does, but it’s pretty unlikely I’ll see him again. And I do need to get back to work.”
“Will you hire a guard?”
“I’ll think about it. Let me see how I feel being back in the shop.”
* * * *
The sounds of the Guns N’ Roses hit, Welcome to the Jungle, his homage to the memory of his high school years, filtered out from the pocket of his pants. He answered the cell, “Pierce.”
“Hey, boss, we got a call.” Rowdy’s second in command, Butch Lohan, didn’t waste any time.
“What about?”
“A woman and child were kidnapped off a city bus in Kabul.”
“Yeah?”
“American woman.”
“Okay. Do they know where she was taken and by whom?”
“All that’s known right now is militants, but no one’s been contacted yet.”
“Who called us?”
“The husband. He’s Afghani.”
“Shit. What the hell’s she doing over there?”
“They’re Christians.”
“Say no more. Make the arrangements to get you and me into Kabul.” Butch’s phone call had caught up with him in the Rome airport. He’d been on his way back to the States intending to hunt up Sara Stewart. Well, he’d have to put that aside for now and go on one more job.
* * * *
By the time he and Butch got to the Afghan capital, the husband had been approached and a ransom demanded. They were damned lucky for that, because there was nothing to keep this group of militants from killing the hostages. They were interested in the notoriety as much as in the money.
He arranged a meeting in the souk with Arif, his local contact. It would be their last meeting near this particular stall. They couldn’t be too predictable. Sitting at a small table, he ordered an Elnakhleh coffee with its customary sprinkle of cardamom and waited. With his heavy, grizzled beard and native clothing, he looked like a local and not the American mercenary he was.
“Assalam u alaikum.” Rowdy greeted Arif with the traditional Pashto for hello.
Arif repeated the words as he slipped into a chair opposite.
“Did you find out where they are?” Rowdy murmured.
“Bálee. Yes. The house behind this souk.” Arif pointed to Rowdy’s left. “That direction.”
“Are they alive?”
“Bálee.”
“How many guards?”
“Just two.”
“Good. Makes it easy. Do they change shifts?”
“At eleven at night.”
Rowdy pushed the newspaper he’d placed on the table toward his contact. Arif knew an envelope with his payment would be found within the pages. “Drop the newspaper in front of the house as you pass, then pick it up. And shúker, rafiq. Thanks, friend
.”
Arif left first. Rowdy followed at a distance, noted the location of the house the woman and child were being held in, and strolled on by. Back at the safe house, he and Butch laid low until night fall. He slept first, then would spell Butch, taking the watch just before the mission began. All they had to do was wait, something he hated but knew was necessary. You couldn’t go in guns a-blazing like in the old west.
At precisely two in the morning, he and Butch left the house dressed as locals. They’d wrapped gray turbans around their heads, donned black wool shirts and pants called payraan tumbaan, and gray vests. Each had nine millimeter weapons tucked in their waistbands, knives strapped to their ankles, nylon rope, and canteens. Rowdy carried a small medical kit. Butch carried a burqa to disguise the woman. They were about as prepared as they’d ever be.
By this time of night, the bad guys would be dozing. The strategy was to enter the house, scoop up the two hostages, and get out with a minimum of violence. They were armed for worse case scenario, but hoped for the best.
The street in front of the house where the woman and child were held was quiet. No light came through the cracks around the windows. He didn’t know exactly what part of the house they were in, but it was small. It wouldn’t be difficult to find them.
Butch stood guard at the front. Rowdy crept behind the house and peered in a window. Good news. He spotted something through a curtain left slightly ajar, but what he saw chilled his bones. Son of a fuck! Not good. He needed to warn Butch. Stepping back, he murmured into his throat mic, “Woman tied to bed. Naked. No sign of boy. No hostile spotted. Over.”
“Understood. Let me know when you’re in. Over.”
They were in the middle of the city. He didn’t want to blow anything up, so the alternative was to break in as quietly as possible. Drawing his knife, he pushed up the window sash and winced when it creaked. A glance at the bed showed no movement from the woman. Hoisting himself over the sill, he dropped silently into the room.
He had excellent night vision, and his eyes adjusted quickly to the dark room. He confirmed neither kidnapper was in the room and whispered “clear” into his mic. That would tell Butch that the men were likely in the front room.
Approaching the bed, he was sickened by what he saw. She’d been tied naked, spread eagle onto the bed and gagged. The fucking bastards had raped her, probably repeatedly. But his job was to get her and her child out of there. Where was the child? He glanced at her and almost had a heart attack. Her eyes bored into him, watching his every move.
“I’m American,” he whispered, drawing closer to her.
Her eyes widened, in understanding he hoped.
Quickly, he sliced the ropes holding her down and removed the gag. “Your son?” he murmured.
She pointed to what looked like a small ball of rags in the corner. It was the boy, staring at him and frozen in fear. The things he must have seen. No time to think about that now.
Grabbing a rough blanket off the bed, he wrapped it around the woman, motioned her to collect her child, and herded them toward the window. He climbed out first and reached in for them. She passed the boy out first. “You’re safe now,” he whispered, the shivering kid’s eyes wide with terror. He seemed, though, to understand Rowdy. It was difficult for her to keep the blanket around her, but she climbed out too.
“We’re out,” he reported into his mic.
“Me too.”
Good. Butch was okay. In this scenario, in the best of all possible worlds, they were to head back to the safe house separately. He wished he had the burqa to help conceal the woman, but he readjusted the blanket over her head and around her body. Hoisting the boy to ride piggy-back behind him so his hands were free to draw his weapon if necessary, they started walking quickly away from the house.
The boy began to whimper.
“Shush, it’s all right, son. You have to be quiet a little while longer. You can do that. You’re a brave boy. Okay?”
They stole through the quiet streets. It took twenty hair-raising minutes to reach the safe house. Once they were inside, the woman started weeping silently. Maybe she’d been crying the whole way. He gave her the boy. She hugged him fiercely, murmuring soothing words. Traumatized, she had enough presence left to comfort him. That was a good sign.
“My name is Rowdy. You’re safe now.”
She didn’t respond, just stared at him as he moved about the room and unpacked the medical supplies.
He motioned her to a sofa. “Let me tend these cuts.” Tenderly folding back the edges of the blanket, he swallowed down his bile at the sight of her injuries. The sons of bitches had cut her thighs. Her wrists and ankles had thick rope burns. Her face was bruised. “Was the boy hurt?”
“He’s not hurt.”
Rowdy could barely hear her whisper.
“Let me clean myself. Please,” she begged.
Silently, he handed her the cloth. “Would you like to take a shower?”
She frantically shook her head. “I’ll just wash a little. Where’s my husband?” All the while, she cuddled the boy against her.
Rowdy pulled out his cell, punched a number. “They’re safe. Bring Mr. Abdel.” Turning to her, he said, “He’ll be here in ten minutes. Let me hold the boy while you clean up.”
He sat on a chair, held out a hand, and the boy scrambled into his lap. “You’re a good boy. So brave. What’s your name?”
“Gadi,” he said in a timid little voice.
“How old are you?”
“Five.” He held up his hand to show all five fingers. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Rowdy. My friend Butch will be here any minute. You’ll like him. He can do funny voices.”
“Can you do one?”
Rowdy dug into his own childhood and brought out the only thing he could remember how to do. “Icky-may ouse-may ives-lay in isney-day um…” He huffed a laugh. Apparently, pig Latin wasn’t a significant language in his repertoire. He heard the knock at the door.
Mrs. Abdel glanced up in alarm.
“It’s my partner,” he said. Just to be on the safe side, he urged mother and son into the other room, drew his gun, and opened the door.
“Papa!” Gadi flew from the back room into his father’s arms and burst into tears. The man headed right to his wife and held them both tightly.
“You can go in there for a little while, then we’ll move you out of the country.” Rowdy gestured to the bedroom to give them privacy. When he and Butch were alone, he asked, “Did you have any problems?”
“No. Are they all right?”
“I hope so. She was raped repeatedly. Her body’s full of cuts and abrasions. I think she was more scared for the boy. Do you think Mr. Abdel will be understanding?”
“Yeah. He couldn’t wait to get here. I warned him about what you saw in the room.”
Rowdy threw himself into an old easy chair, scrubbing his face with his hands. Seeing the woman tied like that, knowing she’d been raped, brought back memories of Sara. He’d been in time to prevent her rape, thank God. How was she doing? Was she trying to forget her ordeal and forget him?
The only time he didn’t think of her was in the heat of a mission, at least not until the action died down. Now this one was over, and he wanted to be on his way back to the States.
“You heading to Chicago now?” Butch asked, as he swung a kitchen chair around and straddled the seat.
“You think you got me figured out?”
“Yeah. You’ve been mooning over Sara Stewart for weeks now.”
“Maybe I’m not in the right business to risk a relationship.”
“Well, then, maybe you just need to get laid,” Butch suggested.
Rowdy leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Shut up, Butch.”
His friend laughed, then turned serious, and asked, “Who says you have to go on any more missions? You have employees to do that. And you can run the company from anywhere. All you need is a cell phone and a comp
uter.”
Rowdy plopped back in the chair, rubbing through his grizzled beard. “I’ve gotta get rid of this.”
“Oh, boy, you’re in trouble, pal, if you’re thinking about your pretty face.”
“Fuck you,” was Rowdy’s response. “But what if she’s moved on?”
“Okay, what if she hasn’t?” Butch raised an eyebrow.
Rowdy rubbed his jaw, smoothing his fingers over his lips. Butch was right. All his life he’d taken risks. This was one more risk that was possibly more dangerous than any other. He’d been rescuing people for years but had never wanted to see someone again.
He and Sara had connected, emotionally as well as physically. Maybe she’d just been grateful, but what if there was more to it? He was only a few years short of forty. When he allowed himself to slow down, he realized thoughts of family crept in. Was Sara part of that? Was he such a coward he was afraid to find out?
Well, dangerous risks had been part of his life for as long as he could remember. What was one more? It would be the most important one of his life.
Chapter 5
Rowdy watched Sara through the store’s window. Just as she’d said, her shop was tucked in between stores with upscale designer clothing and extremely expensive bed linens. He didn’t want her to see him just yet. She probably wouldn’t know him clean-shaven. That could hurt. He’d know her anywhere.
She held a piece of jewelry in her hand, studying the display cases as she came down the center aisle from the back workroom. Hot damn, she looked great, no longer the grubby, frightened girl he’d rescued. She cleaned up good. He’d always thought women who wore pressed and creased jeans were pretentious and uncomfortable, but hers looked soft and lucky cupping her ass like that. She also wore pointy-toed stilettos making her legs look like they stretched forever. Long enough to wrap around his waist. Oh, yeah.
Before he could make his move, another man entered the shop. She greeted him with a smile, and they kissed each other’s cheeks. “Fuck.” His stomach roiled at the thought this could be her boyfriend. He’d come all this way to see her and would kill any man in his way. The two turned to a display case as she slipped behind the counter to pull trays out. They bent their heads over the counter, and she held a ring up for the customer/boyfriend.
Mercenary Desires (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 3