She’d actually gotten lucky and found a well-stocked saddle bag leaning against the corral fence, so she’d only had to scavenge for a few items. She’d managed to easily knock out both guards at the pen and hide their bodies behind the trough. And lucky her, they’d both been carrying small automatic rifles with full magazines, which she’d stashed in the holsters on the back of the saddle. Now, as long as she could hold Merc up on the horse, all she had to do was make good time into the mountain trails, find a decent cave, and tend to his wounds.
Hopefully, she’d be able to stabilize him long enough to make a run to the nearby town on the west side of the mountain range and contact her father. The clock ticked by faster with each passing second, increasing the likelihood of her unit’s annihilation at the hands of their enemy.
Merc’s huge body shuddered in her arms. He wouldn’t make it much further. She kicked the stallion into a full gallop, ignoring the fresh waves of blood tracking down her arms from Merc’s chest.
Dammit, why did she have to hear him taunting Salaam to save her life? She’d known that’s exactly what he was doing, trying to get his captor to go against him instead of her. And the whole time he’d failed to rescue her, she’d believed him incompetent. Weak. Worthless.
Instead he’d been brave and strong and fierce. He’d saved her after the blast and all but offered up his own life for hers. Now she felt like she owed him even more.
If only she could hate him.
Nightshade spied a break in the brush to her right and turned the horse from the road. The mountain took a sharp upturn, but she’d spotted a dark blot behind some boulders above them. She made for the cave, praying it was big enough to hide the horse and them.
The stallion faltered but she spurred him onward. Merc’s heavy weight on her arms pulled the reins so tight it cut off her circulation. At this rate, she wouldn’t be able to physically support him much longer.
Finally, they crested a small ridge to the mouth of a medium-sized cave, big enough for them all to fit. Her head almost scraped the ceiling, and Merc’s would have, if he wasn’t slumped over to the right.
The shallow cavern ended abruptly about thirty or so feet into the mountain. The floor was hard rock and dirt, seemingly too far beneath them. Nightshade dropped her cheek to Merc’s back, startled at how hot his skin burned. He needed medical attention, but she had no way to safely lower him from the horse.
There was no getting around it - she’d have to let him fall to the ground and pray he didn’t break something. But first she had to dismount.
She carefully peeled the reins off her arms and hands, revealing red raw skin beneath that looked so much worse than it felt. Nightshade flexed her fingers, or at least tried to — they’d gone numb over an hour ago and were now swollen and white. Pain stabbed into her hands as blood flow started to return, and her skin seemed to swell and tug on the fresh wounds down her arms. Merc’s body shifted slightly to the side and she stopped looking at her arms and dismounted, grabbing the saddle when a sharp stab of pain slammed into her side and a wave of dizziness hit her by surprise.
With shaking hands, she parted her tan robe, dread filling her as she saw the stab wound to her side. She’d thought the guard had just nicked her. As if taunting her, the wound seemed to spasm, stealing her breath.
Merc. Get Merc down. Compartmentalize.
She quickly tied the horse to a nearby boulder inside the cave, yanked off a bedroll and unfolded it on the ground. If she was lucky, Merc would fall on the blanket, which offered a little cushion from the rock bottom.
With her left hand pressed to her side, Nightshade withdrew her dagger and sliced the ropes. Merc slid from the saddle and crashed to the ground, landing half on the blanket with a heavy thud. The stallion whined and stamped his foot, and she rounded to his front, quickly settling the beast before it stepped on the unconscious man at his feet.
As soon as he settled, she ripped the saddlebags free and slung them on the ground, rolling Merc to his back, not bothering to hide her gasp at the sight before her. His entire chest was a mass of blood and flesh, obviously not only worked over by the flogger.
Anger welled inside her. If Salaam wasn’t already dead by her hand, she’d go back and finish him.
Working as fast as she could, she shifted him as much as possible onto the bedroll. Then she covered his lower half with the other blanket she’d managed to steal from the camp. She emptied the saddlebags, shoving food and water pouches to the side for fresh strips of linen bandages and the bottle of iodine, silently thanking God that Merc was unconscious. She’d been treated with iodine in the field before and it wasn’t a memory she liked to revisit.
Side throbbing, her hands burning, she tilted the bottle over his chest, careful not to waste any of the precious disinfectant. In his fevered sleep, Merc groaned and flung his arm around, catching Nightshade in the cheek. She flew sideways, ears ringing, and hit the dirt. The bottle slammed into the far wall and spilled.
She lay there, stunned and staring in despair as the only possible way she had to fight Merc’s infection drained onto the ground ten feet away.
What now? How was she supposed to save him now? She’d only splashed a small amount on his enormous chest, barely enough to clean one wound.
With the last dredge of her strength, she got to her feet and stumbled over to the bottle, turning it upright before the last drop spilled. Her head heavy and pounding, she made it back to Merc and collapsed onto her knees. He lay on his side, panting and sweating. She carefully placed the bottle out of his reach and pushed him onto his back. This time, she poured the precious little remaining iodine onto a cloth and blotted his chest, hate for Salaam growing in her belly with each fresh well of blood.
She should have razed the whole tribe. No one, not even her worst enemy, deserved this.
She'd never seen a man so wounded still able to walk, let alone climb up on top of a huge stallion. He was a machine, almost making her wonder if he’d been somehow enhanced in a secret government program led by the senator.
He groaned and shifted but didn’t wake, and for some reason she couldn't explain, despite her father's warnings about Merc’s lethality, she didn’t want him to die.
She’d felt an almost kinship with him and his ferocity after she heard him taunting Salaam even as the man beat him bloody. This man was willing to give up his life to save her sister.
Another pang of empathy struck her. He was a fighter, just like her. She owed him her life, but if he ever found out her real identity...
A sound penetrated her awareness — the faint click of a stick breaking. Normal for the outdoors, but not normal for the side of a mountain.
They’d been found. Already.
Chapter 8
Heart thudding, Nightshade lurched to her feet and yanked both ARs out of the saddle holsters. Ignoring her burning side, she cocked both, slung them over her shoulder and belly crawled to the edge of the cave. She had one extra magazine for each weapon. From her vantage point, she could take out the entire party if she didn’t pass out from blood loss and if they didn’t get off a lucky shot.
No matter. She’d go down fighting. If re-captured, she knew they’d both die a slow and painful death. Better to take a bullet in the head now and get it over with. Not that she planned on doing that.
She dropped her head to the ground and took a deep breath, pushing the pain to the wayside as she focused on the silence surrounding her.
Nothing. Not even a rock tumble.
Carefully, she lifted her head and surveyed the terrain. Large and small boulders dotted the side of the mountain, interspersed with thick brown brush and spurts of dead limbs. Perfect to hide behind.
After a few minutes, she almost started to wonder if she’d imagined what she’d heard. And then she saw it, the smallest movement. A black-clad shoulder at the edge of a rock down to her left.
Biting her lip, she dragged the rifle to her shoulder, sighted in on that one little blip a
nd pulled the trigger. The bullet tattooed the corner of the rock. The man cursed and ducked down, his shoulder disappearing. Nightshade smiled, confident she’d at least nicked the bastard, and started scanning for more men.
At a sound to her right, she turned and fired. Another curse. Satisfaction curled in her belly. She wasn’t team leader of Mayhem for nothing. She’d been training with a rifle since the age of seven years old, could take out a target at over two-thousand meters with the right equipment, and with an AR she was a deadly opponent. Something Amir’s men were about to brutally discover.
“Dammit, Merc. It’s us. Stop shooting,” a deep male voice called out.
Nightshade held silent and kept her eye to the rifle scope. How stupid did they think she was?
After a few more seconds, she saw a hand shoot up over a rock. “I’m coming up. Don’t shoot. We’re here to get you out.”
Nightshade pulled the trigger, absorbing the rifle’s recoil like a lover’s caress.
“Shit! Merc, stop. It’s Hunter, and I fucking order you to holster your weapon!”
Hunter? Nightshade thought back to the Task Force Scorpion files she’d spent hours memorizing. Hunter James, team leader. Ranger James, assistant team leader. Brothers.
Had Merc’s GPS belt buckle actually worked? Only one way to find out.
“Show yourself,” she demanded while staying zeroed in on his voice’s direction, ready to take him out.
There was a long pause, and her vision blurred for a second and then righted.
Shit. Running out of time.
“Caroline?”
“Who sent you?” she countered.
“Your father, Senator Cotter.” Another pause. “Where is Merc?”
“He’s here, with me.” The effort it took to push air up and out of her lungs cost her severely. She lifted a shaky hand to her face. “How do I know you were really sent by my father?”
“Your name is Caroline Cotter. You have a heart shaped birth mark on your right flank and a scar on your left knee from a bike accident when you were ten years old. Your favorite song is Vicarious by Tool. Which is awesome, by the way,” Hunter said.
For the first time in days, Nightshade felt a tinge of relief. She’d studied her sister’s file just as closely as TF-S’s and Senator Cotter’s and knew Hunter was legit. “You can come up.”
She put her eye back to the scope, watching as Hunter rose from behind the boulder. When he stood fully, she lowered her weapon.
“I’ve got the whole team with me. They’re coming too.” Hunter stayed where he was, waiting on her to respond.
“Did you bring a field medical kit?” she called out.
“Right along with my medic.”
“Good. Hurry, Merc’s hurt.” She watched as the rest of his team rose like specters from the earth, jerking back in surprise when Hoyt Crow, TF-S’s sniper, appeared not even ten feet away. Nightshade gave a mental shake – no man had ever snuck up that close without her knowledge.
Leaving one rifle and keeping the other with her, she crawled back to Merc and laid a hand across his forehead. “He’s burning up. I tried to treat him with what I could, but he needs real help.” She’d had enough medical training to know how to stitch an open wound and stop blood flow, but long-term care was well out of her league.
“Christ, what happened? Are you okay?” Aaron Speirs, came and knelt next to Merc, dropping his black medical bag on the ground. Speirs, Chief Medical Sgt, light brown hair and beard, 6’1”, about 195 lbs.
Nightshade blinked rapidly, fighting to stay awake even as the cold took a hard grip on her body. Aaron had been at Caroline’s wedding. “I’m fine. Just a little tired.”
Merc’s team filled up the cave, blotting out the moonlight. Every single one of them was huge, but not as large as Merc.
“Riser, get over here. I’m gonna need some help.” Aaron ripped open his bag and started pulling out supplies.
Riser Malone, assistant medical sergeant, made his way toward them from the cave’s entrance, and Nightshade reluctantly scooted down near Merc’s knee, out of the way, as Aaron filled a needle and stuck it in Merc’s arm. “Antibiotics.”
A shadow fell over her, and she glanced up to see Hunter staring down at them, his black gaze filled with worry. She realized that every single one of them were covered in black from head to toe: black bandana, face paint, shirt and tactical pants.
Mercenaries.
No matter how much training she’d had, she couldn’t stanch her trepidation at their presence. She’d been able to handle being alone with Merc. But as a unit, the men were overwhelming.
“Caroline.” Riser touched her hand and Nightshade jerked. His gaze darkened with sympathy and worry. “Can you tell me what happened to him? The more we know, the better we can treat him.”
Caroline. Remember who you’re supposed to be.
Nightshade stammered, “I – I don't know. Merc tried to rescue me, but Mr. J…he strapped explosives to my chest. Merc cut them off, but the blast must've knocked us out. When I woke, I was in a tent in the middle of the desert.”
For the first time since donning the disgusting outfit forced on her by Amir’s wives, Nightshade was glad for the clothing. It would support her story. They’d dressed her like something out of the Arabian Nights wet dream. The halter top had sheer puffy sleeves with just enough material tightly tied in the front to shove her breasts up and together so they practically spilled over the top. The low-cut velvet and satin lined pants had just enough solid material to cover her ass. The rest of it was sheer, ballooning out to cuff at her ankles.
At least it covered more than the time she had to pretend to be a stripper in South Africa and take out a warlord who’d murdered over a thousand innocent villagers. After that mission, she swore she’d never wear anything with the word pasty in it again. Plus, she’d tossed on a black robe so as long as she could keep it together, she’d be able to cover her injuries so they would direct all the medical attention to Merc.
“Do you have any idea where you were?” Hunter asked in a gentle voice.
“I don't know for sure, no one there spoke English. They kept me locked up in a tent the whole time.” Her words faltered when she saw Merc’s bloody and crusted chest.
“It’s okay.” Hunter squatted beside her. “We have you now.”
“They beat him. Cut him. Please, you have to help him.”
Hunter regarded her with such sympathy. Nightshade fought the uncomfortable feeling brought on by Hunter’s warmth and caring. She’d never been around men that openly cared for her feelings.
Ethan Slade, who’d also been present at her twin’s almost marriage to General Rainier, Cotter’s political ally, came to squat next to Hunter. “Caroline, I’m so sorry about what happened. We all failed to protect you at your wedding. You should’ve never been taken.”
The open sincerity brought a swath of tears to her eyes. She wiped them, almost furiously, even though they probably aided in her act. Nightshade didn’t cry. Not even when her own father had laid a hot poker to her flesh to teach her a lesson. “It’s okay. I don’t blame you.”
How could she when she’d helped her father orchestrate the kidnapping? There was no way in hell she’d have allowed Caroline to marry General Rainier, a man over twice her age.
Ethan stayed close, pinning her to the spot with his genuine concern. “We got Kate back. She’s safe at home. And so is Celine.”
Kate? She’d never been briefed on a Kate.
He waited expectantly. Nightshade felt every eye on her, as if waiting for some kind of big response. “That’s great. I mean, I’m glad they’re okay.”
She’d have to find a way to avoid the women. They might trip her up – she hadn’t bothered studying them or had any idea of their connection with Caroline other than Celine’s unplanned kidnapping after witnessing too much. The men they’d hired were supposed to only take Caroline, not anyone else. Celine had been someone they’d had to get rid of,
and fast, so Nightshade hadn’t bothered studying up on the girl.
She shook off that thought and focused on the present. The most important thing now was Merc. “Can you save him? He’s been bleeding with a fever and unconscious for a really long time.”
“He’s our brother. We will do everything possible to save him,” Ethan said gently. “And you.”
Nightshade nodded, surprised at the easy tenderness in these soldiers’ words, their actions so incongruent with everything she’d learned about them while prepping for this mission. She’d come in contact with plenty of mercenaries in her life — cold-blooded killers and psychopaths, soldiers on a rampage, uncaring if they injured or maimed an innocent unfortunate enough to get in their way. But these men acted as though their every move could affect someone else, and they were cognizant of that fact and acted to prevent any further injury.
A stiff breeze blew through the cave and a hard shudder wracked her. Even with the robe, she was so cold. Nightshade pulled her hands into the long sleeves, attempting to keep her core temperature stable.
Hunter turned toward the mouth of the cave. “Hoyt, call in the bird. We need to med flight these two out pronto.”
“Roger.” Hoyt Crow, scout sniper, touched his neck and said, “Big bird, need carry out.” A second later, he told Hunter, “ETA five minutes. He’s gonna land on the road.”
“Is he stable enough?” Hunter asked Aaron.
“Yeah, lemme bind his chest first, then we can get him downhill. I’ll IV him when we get on the helo and finish treating his wounds in flight.” Aaron began to wrap a large white bandage around Merc’s chest and Nightshade couldn’t help but stare as fresh blood immediately soaked it through.
“Caroline,” Ethan stepped a little bit closer. “Can you walk?”
“Yes.” They had to move fast. She could hear the low hum of the helo growing louder in the distance. With one last glance at Merc, she got slowly to her feet. As soon as she stood, though, her side spasmed and she toppled forward. Ethan grabbed her before she hit the ground.
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