by Zara Chase
The question was answered for them two long days later when they were again dragged before the leader.
“Not quite so sure of yourselves anymore, I see,” he said cheerfully, casting an amused glance over their bloodied and bruised bodies. “However, the resolution is in your own hands. As you are well aware, you only need to admit you are American spies, tell us what you came here to find out, and it will all end.”
Yeah, Raoul thought, permanently. They would be paraded in front of the cameras and given a public execution on prime time television.
“However, that is not what I wanted to talk to you about.” The man casually lifted a tiny cup of thick, black coffee to his lips and inhaled. The rich aroma caused Raoul to salivate, but he kept his expression impassive. “I called you here to inform you of some sad tidings. Unfortunately, the young lady proved to be more stubborn than we anticipated. She refused to join us, or to marry the man we chose for her.” He shook his head. “So unreasonable. We have no use for unpatriotic females.”
He turned a laptop toward them. Both men called upon their training not to gasp when they saw a gaunt, battered Cantara tied to a chair, defiance in her eyes. A man struck her, she spat at him, and so he struck her again with considerable force. The chair toppled over and Cantara’s head hit the ground. Blood pooled beneath it. In the next shot, she was laid on a clean bed, beautiful green eyes wide and staring, but no longer full of sparkle, defiance or any other emotion.
The woman they loved was dead, which changed everything.
* * * *
Back in their cell, the two men huddled together, grieving and seething. They were also getting weaker by the day, thanks to the physical abuse they had endured, and lack of food. They had to get out of here soon, or they never would.
“Tonight,” Raoul whispered, knowing there were only ever two guards on at night and that they had become lazy because they thought Raoul and Zeke were too weak to put up any resistance.
Zeke nodded. One of his eyes was swollen shut and his face was as battered as Raoul’s, as was the rest of his body. But they were fighting mad, vengeance the only emotion they allowed themselves to feel. They had no weapons other than their bare hands. That was more than enough, even in their weakened condition.
One guard sauntered into the cell with their evening gruel, and spat in it, laughing at how clever he was. It was the same man who so enjoyed beating up on Raoul. Good! Zeke moaned, rolled over and appeared to pass out, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth because he’d taken the precaution of biting his lip, reopening one of the many cuts he’d received over the past few days.
“He’s dead!” Raoul screamed in Arabic. He flashed an angry glare at the guard, then felt for a pulse that was actually strong and regular. The guard gaped but didn’t move. “Come and check for yourself, if you don’t believe me.”
Raoul knew they were to be kept alive, either as bargaining tools or for propaganda purposes. Two of America’s elite, taken down by poorly armed and trained freedom fighters was the stuff to reassure the foot soldiers and send a message to the world. The guards would be blamed if one of them did die, and they knew it. Fear passed through the eyes of the one in the cell with them now.
He leaned over Zeke, who obligingly poked a finger in his eye, directly on target. Before the man could scream, Raoul bashed him on the back of the head and he fell to the floor, his face landing in the lukewarm broth. Raoul knew they had little time to spare, but took a moment to grab him by the hair with one hand and knock his teeth down his throat with the other—payback for all the abuse he’d taken from the slob.
Zeke moved with a speed that defied his weakened condition. He stood behind the door when the other guard rushed in, gun drawn, to see what was going on. Zeke crashed his hand against the man’s forearm with such force that he probably broke it. His gun skidded across the floor, and Raoul picked it up.
Silently and swiftly, Raoul and Zeke stripped the two guards, donned their clothing and confiscated their weapons. They gagged them so they couldn’t call for help when they came to, took their keys, and locked them in the cell.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Zeke said, grinding his jaw.
“Soon. But first we have one more score to settle.”
Zeke nodded and together they made their way to the room they were taken to when the head honcho wanted to see them. They listened outside and heard voices. A man’s, which they recognized as belonging to their tormentor, the one who had ordered Cantara’s murder, and the soft laughter of a woman. Raoul nodded, and they burst through the door together.
“When did you forget to knock?” the man demanded in Arabic. He was seated in an armchair with a scantily clad Western woman on his lap. He gasped when he saw who had barged in and pushed the woman aside, reaching for a weapon.
“Don’t even think about it, asshole,” Zeke said, aiming the guard’s gun directly at his head.
“He’s mine,” Raoul growled.
“No, please. I can pay you. I can help you get away.” Tears sprang to the man’s eyes as he begged for his life. He no longer seemed quite so tough. The smell of urine implied he’d wet himself. “I could have had the two of you killed, but I did not.”
“Your mistake, asshole.”
Raoul walked up behind the man, who was quivering with fear, sweat running down his brow. He yanked his head back hard, and saw petrified eyes staring up at him. Cantara. She was all he could think about. The only good thing in his life had been snatched away from him by this sniveling coward. Grief and the burning desire for revenge fuelled Raoul’s anger. Using the razor-sharp knife he’d taken from the guard, he sliced the man’s throat so deeply and with enough force to almost decapitate him.
Blood spurted, filling the air with its sharp, metallic tang. The woman screamed, but there was no one to hear her. They’d already checked. There were just the two guards at night to keep watch over Raoul and Zeke, and ensure no one disturbed the boss man when he was entertaining his floozy. Raoul had no idea where the rest of the goons he’d seen hanging around slept, but it was presumably close by. He didn’t plan on staying around long enough to find out.
“Take me with you,” the woman pleaded. “I didn’t want to be here. They made me.”
Raoul merely shook his head and he and Zeke left the room, locking the door from the outside and pocketing the key.
It was surprisingly easy to slip from the building. They didn’t see another person, which was just as well because in their present frame of mind, anyone who crossed their path would not have survived the experience. Outside, the night air was cool, but sweet and fresh after days locked in that stifling cellar.
“What now?” Zeke asked.
Raoul’s eyes adjusted to the near dark, and he pointed. “Over there.”
“Shit!”
To their utter astonishment, they saw the motorbike they’d ridden parked up in a corner of the compound, the keys still in the ignition.
“Fucking amateurs,” Zeke muttered.
“Get the gate. Careful, though. Check for guards first.”
Zeke peered through the spyhole, clearly saw nothing, and cautiously opened the gates. Raoul knocked the bike off its kickstand and wheeled it forward. Every bone in his battered body protested but Raoul was running on adrenalin and barely felt the discomfort. Zeke shut the gates again once they were outside, both men astonished that they still hadn’t been challenged.
“We must have given a fucking good impression of being at death’s door,” Zeke said. “Otherwise there would be more guards.”
“What worries me is that no one is out here on guard.” Raoul pointed to a pile of cigarette butts near the gate. “I guess we got lucky and caught them taking a leak, or whatever, but they’ll be back any moment. We have to assume we’ll be missed and the alarm will be raised.” Both men pushed the bike further away from their prison as Raoul spoke. “Shoot if anyone so much as looks at us the wrong way.”
“Count on
it, bud.”
Raoul straddled the bike and started the engine, waiting for Zeke to climb up behind before speeding off, glad to see the tank was still almost full of gas.
Shooting proved to be unnecessary. They made it back to the checkpoint without being challenged. Once there, they got off the bike with hands raised and told the Israeli guards who they were. They were taken into a small room and searched. Then a senior officer strode into the room and smiled.
“Welcome back, gentlemen,” he said. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
They were taken back to headquarters, where Pool and Hassan greeted them. Pool looked justifiably anxious. They showered, had the worst of their cuts attended to, moodily subjected themselves to physicals and then ate something. After that, in spite of the fact that it was three in the morning and they hadn’t slept properly for the week they had been held, they confronted Pool and Hassan again.
“Cantara is dead,” Raoul told them in a flat tone.
“I am so very—”
“Don’t you fucking dare offer me condolences!” he yelled at Pool. “I told you what would happen…I warned you.”
Hassan sighed. “How did they get on to you, and how did you escape?”
Raoul was grateful for his professionalism. Facts he could handle, and they spent an hour retelling everything that had happened to them.
“So,” Raoul said at the end of the debrief. “The question remains, which of your trusted inner circle sold us out?”
“You must have gotten careless, let someone see you,” Pool said. “I told you it was a bad idea for you to go.”
Zeke had to hold Raoul back. Otherwise he would probably have spent the rest of his life in another prison cell for killing the bastard.
“Don’t you fucking dare question our professionalism, colonel.” He growled.
“Get some sleep,” Hassan said, hastily stepping between a snarling Raoul and Pool, whose entire face had drained of color. “I’ll start asking questions and will know more by the time you wake up.”
“Let’s hope so,” Raoul replied, “because, I gotta tell you, if you don’t find the mole, we sure as hell will, and I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes when we do.”
Raoul and Zeke slept for a few hours in quarters other than those they had shared with Cantara. They would never go back to those. Even so, Raoul had his sleep haunted by images of the woman they loved, and was sure Zeke did, too.
They looked a little better when they woke but felt worse after six hours in the sack than they had before they hit it. Realization had struck home. Cantara was gone. They would never see her beautiful face again, and Raoul would never forgive himself for allowing her to go on the mission. He felt tears prick the back of his eyes and made no effort to hold them back. He had known, known, it wouldn’t work. He should have tried harder to convince her of that. Damn it, he was an idiot!
They took breakfast then reported to Hassan.
“I have found the man who betrayed you,” he said in a hard, crisp tone. “My adjacent, Levi.”
Raoul nodded. “I thought it had to be him. It had to be someone at this end of the operation and he seemed like the most obvious candidate.”
“Why did he do it?” Zeke asked. “No, let me guess. He got caught in a honey trap.”
“We think so.”
“Christ, how could he be so fucking stupid?” Raoul asked. “People in his position are prime targets. Surely he knew that?”
“Evidently not.” Hassan sighed. “He isn’t talking, yet, but we’ve searched his stuff and it’s looking like there was a woman involved. All sorts of intimate e-mails to a female who isn’t his wife. We’re checking it out.” He shook his head. “The man’s been with me for years. I thought I could trust him absolutely. It just goes to show.” He stood up. “Gentlemen, I am so very sorry but, if it helps, Israeli justice is swift and brutal.”
“Give me five minutes with him,” Raoul said. “I’ll save you the trouble.”
“Sorry, but you know I cannot.”
“Just five minutes, come on, you owe me that much after we put our necks on the line for you. Five minutes is all I ask. Come on, come on, I…”
Chapter Five
Raoul woke with a start, pulled from his recurring nightmare by the sound of his own voice crying out for five minutes with the man who’d ruined his life. With the sheet twisted around his body, he was covered in perspiration, and racked by the devastating pain of loss. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair. Shit, would it never go away? It had been three years now, and he thought he had gotten over the worst of it—if a person ever really did get over that sort of loss. The guilt, the what-ifs, the regrets.
The sex…dreaming of it felt as though it had happened yesterday. He felt her emotions, her reactions, lived her thoughts—at least in his dream. Only in his dreams. His dreams were the only place he could still be close to his beautiful, wilful wife, and he never wanted to part with them, even if they left him feeling the raw grief all over again when he woke up. He gazed at the opposite wall to his bed, where he had hung an enlarged black and white photograph of Cantara, her head tilted playfully, her sloping eyes sparkling with mischief. It was the first, the only, thing he wanted to see when he opened his eyes each morning.
“Come back, baby,” he muttered, his eyes moist. “I can’t hack it without you. Neither of us can.”
Zeke was hurting too, but unlike Raoul he did his grieving mostly in silence. His Native American belief that Cantara’s soul had passed to the spirit world and that she would be reincarnated helped him to get through. Raoul wished he had a faith network to lean on, but he’d seen too much crap go down in this world to believe the next one would be any better—if there even was a next one.
“Fuck it, darlin’, why didn’t you listen to us?” he asked her picture. “Why did you insist upon leaving us?”
Now that he was awake, he remembered why the nightmare been so vivid this time. It was exactly three years ago today since she had been taken from them. He and Zeke had celebrated the anniversary eve by getting wasted and not talking about it. Raoul still almost tore his buddy’s head off whenever he mentioned her name. In Raoul’s case, talking most definitely did not ease the pain. Instead, it just reinforced his devastating loss.
With a jackhammer beating away inside his skull, he got out of bed, opened a drawer, and took out the only thing he kept in it. The pink panties that Cantara had recklessly thrown at him on the day she did her striptease for him and Zeke. They were his talisman, his lucky charm, his remaining connection to the love of his life. Zeke tried all the time to get Raoul to move on with his life. To find someone new and start again, but Raoul couldn’t do it. There wasn’t another woman on the planet who could replace Cantara, or erase his guilt for letting her down. And for all his talk, Raoul knew Zeke felt the same way.
Besides, there was unfinished business they needed to attend to before they gave any thought to their long term future.
Levi, the man who had caused Cantara’s death by leaking word of her marriage to Raoul to the wrong people, had escaped from Israeli military detention and was still on the run. Raoul shook his head, mindless of the headache pounding at his temple. So much for Israeli swift and brutal punishment. They couldn’t even keep one man locked up. Someone had to have helped the guy, Raoul reasoned. Presumably the same people who persuaded him to turn traitor. He and Zeke needed to stop feeling sorry for themselves and assuage their guilt by finding the answers that continued to elude them. No more hanging out in Wyoming, waiting for something to happen. It was time to be proactive. They would exact justice for Cantara, cut down in her prime, when all she had wanted to do was make a difference to a troubled part of the world that she loved so much. It was the very least they could do to keep her memory alive.
Levi had left his wife and family and hadn’t been heard from since he went on the run. Allegedly. Raoul wasn’t sure he believed that, so it might be time to pay Mrs. Levi a perso
nal visit and put some pressure on. He had people looking everywhere—places where the average citizen would never gain admittance—convinced Levi would surface eventually. But so far he hadn’t. It took money and influence to disappear completely when so many people wanted you found.
“We’ll get the bastard, babe,” he said, rubbing the panties against his cheek, convinced her perfume still lingered on them.
He replaced them carefully and wandered into his bathroom to splash water on his face before diving into the shower and turning the jets to freezing—a surefire hangover cure. He forced himself to endure the cold water cascading down on the top of his head for two minutes, distracting himself by recalling what had happened after Levi’s escape and Pool’s embarrassing efforts to save face. The man was a walking disaster area, Raoul thought as he gratefully shut off the faucet, stepped from the shower stall, and vigorously rubbed his limbs to install some warmth into them.
When it became apparent that nothing was being done to track down the people who had taken Cantara for fear of derailing the peace talks, such as they were, Raoul and Zeke became totally disillusioned. They decided they’d had enough of taking orders from incompetent men like Pool and that it was time to dish them out instead. They wanted out, and forced Pool’s hand to make it happen, even though they both officially had time to serve.
They left the army and set up the Clandestine Affairs Investigation Agency, which they ran from their high-tech ranch buried in the Wyoming countryside. It was manned by tough ex-forces guys for whom kicking butt was a way of life. Few people knew of the agency’s existence, and Raoul and Zeke were very selective about which assignments they took on.