by Ronie Kendig
God … What? What did he pray? He walked into this knowingly. Did God’s mercy cover idiocy? Just help me find her.
Only as his heart settled with a strange warmth that spread through his limbs did Dean realize Burnett wasn’t in the room. Scanning the room, his gaze collided with a chilling pair of eyes.
Crap!
The cold emptiness in his gut boiled as he stared at the man. Behrooz Nemazi.
A door opened behind the man, who stared back unabashedly, and Dean’s pulse thudded. Burnett being hustled down a hall by the burly guy and two men aiming guns at his head.
Dean lurched forward.
But suits surrounded him.
Instinct kicked in.
A weapon in his face, Dean grabbed the muzzle and jerked it toward himself even as he stepped into the fight. Rammed the heel of his hand into the guy’s nose, sending the cartilage into his gray matter.
Something flew at him from the right. He ducked and wheeled around, his leg swiping the target’s feet out from under him, and yanked the weapon free. Armed with the Kalashnikov in his right hand, Dean brought it up as he squared off with four more. He fired twice.
But a half-dozen men dropped on him. He punched and kicked, knowing he was supposed to surrender, but the adrenaline drove him. The panic of dying. The terror of facing torture and unimaginable pain.
A weapon stock drove into his face. He rolled with the momentum of the blow, pain booming across his cheekbone and knifing through his right eye, which he felt swelling shut as he came back up.
Another hit nailed his jaw. Split his lip. Blood glanced along his tongue.
His knees went out from under him.
Pain exploded across his neck. Seconds later, he blinked and found himself on the floor with what felt like a dozen men on his back. He grunted and tried to arch his back. In a blur of black, the world vanished.
CHAPTER 37
Presidential Residence, Balkh Province
Son of a biscuit—get off me!”
Lance struggled against the wrestler’s hold that had his face pressed into a soft cushion, his arm strung up along his spine, straining the tendons and ligaments as the man held him down.
“It’s better this way.”
“You sorry piece—let me go. They’ll take my guy. I can’t let them!”
“It’s better this way,” the man repeated, his knee in the small of Lance’s back. “Trust me.”
“Not after this. Never again.” Lance struggled.
“It’s clear.” One of the two who’d stabbed their Glocks into his side and ordered him to walk out without Dean returned, his face bearing a sweaty sheen. “We must hurry.”
“I thought you were a friend,” Lance growled to the man holding him hostage. The handsome Sikh had not exactly been an American ally but a source of credible information. He’d saved their rear ends more times than Lance cared to admit or record on paper. Takkar’s skills and connections were as unfathomable as his rejection of radical Islam. Lance hadn’t fully trusted him. Ever. But he hadn’t expected this … this betrayal!
Tall, broad-shouldered, Sajjan Takkar stood unfazed, the white turban making him taller than his six-two height. “I am the only friend you have here, which is why you’re still alive.” Strong-arming Lance, he pressed forward, looking at Lance from behind. “Are you ready to play nice?”
“If by nice you mean punching your lights out—”
The man hauled him up and pushed him out the side door. They hurried down a service tunnel and into a waiting armored SUV.
“Don’t do this,” Lance shouted. “I can’t leave. Let me go—I have a man inside there!”
“As for your man, that I cannot help you with, but right now, your country needs you.”
“I can’t serve my country by being a coward—what do you mean you can’t help my man?”
“A dead coward isn’t going to do you much good either.” Takkar ushered Lance into the back of the SUV and climbed in behind him. “Go.” The locks engaged as the SUV spun out of the driveway.
Lance pounded his fist against the window, cursing. “Take me back. Take me back right now!”
“They knew what you were doing.”
“Of course they knew—we made sure they did.”
“No. They knew you planted the information. They know your friend was not Zarrick’s fiancé but a soldier on a mission.”
Lance stilled. “No …”
He nodded gravely. “You are alive because I bought your life. They were going to kill you both.”
“How … how did they know?” The vehicle drained of oxygen. His head spun. “They’re going to kill him.”
CHAPTER 38
Somewhere in Afghanistan
Sleep came in snatches. With the shouting, the wailing, the moaning, the hinges groaning, the guards shouting or banging on walls—or her guilty conscience screaming against the murders of two people—Zahrah embraced what little rest she could find. Against the heaviness of exhaustion and starvation, she leaned on the wall and gave a soft snort. Never thought she could sleep without a pillow, then she came to Afghanistan and to her kaka’s house, where she was just grateful to sleep on a mattress on the floor.
Now, she’d kill for that mattress. Or a blanket. Anything to ward off the chill seeping into her bones despite the heat of summer. Arms folded over her chest, she fought off the memory of the near-rape. She pressed into the wall, wishing she could disappear into it.
What had the Chinese man meant about everything changing?
She wouldn’t change her mind. At least, she hoped not. It was easy to say—even sitting here in prison—that she would not do anything that would violate her conscience. But when they resorted to torture, to rape … would she still be strong?
It scared her. She thought of how nearly she’d caved when Dean asked her to return to the States. Just to please him. Just to honor what he thought was best. Not because she was weak willed, but because she trusted him.
She let her mind follow the trail that led to Dean Watters. The only happy thought she could find in this dank, dark cell. His intensity. His focus. She saw a bit of the man he was in the work he did, digging out Ara’s broken body. How he’d shown up and helped in a gruesome task when he could’ve just hidden out on the base. But he hadn’t. He’d cared.
He’s a good man.
She leaned her head back and stared up at the grimy window, etched by a halo of gray light that pushed past the filth clouding the glass. Why couldn’t she have met Dean two years ago? How different things might have been! She certainly wouldn’t be here. Maybe they’d be off in Greece or something.
Does he like Greece?
What would he do for fun? Maybe camping with his family.
Oh. Would his mom even like Zahrah? Or would his mom be the way her father was, hating every potential candidate for her affection?
She smiled at the way her father had growled that she didn’t need to get messed up with some grunt. But in that same gruffness, she heard a tinge of respect not only that the man she talked about was like her father, but also that he was Special Forces.
Zahrah shook her head. What are you doing? Fantasizing … No, keeping hope alive. God, I know You told me stay, so I’m just going to trust that You have a plan here.
Funny thing about God’s plans, they almost never matched the plan she’d laid out.
“Quickest way to make God laugh is to tell him your plan,” her father had said many times.
To which she responded, “He’s a lot like you, then?”
As fear gusted over her fond memories, Zahrah struggled to breathe without grief. Please let me see Dean again. A warm tear slid down her cheek. Even if it was with a dying breath. “Don’t be so melodramatic.” She huffed a laugh and pushed to her feet, walked the cell, determined to keep up her strength and wits.
“ ‘They that wait upon the Lord …’ ” She began Isaiah 40:31 as she made her circuit, not only to reassure herself with the promises in t
he Word, but also to challenge her mind. Stay alert. On about her twelfth circuit, she changed to the 23rd Psalm.
Her door groaned.
Zahrah’s mind erupted with a thousand questions—would they break her this time? Is today the day she’d betray everything she knew and loved because she preferred her own pain relief to sacrifice?
No. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t fail her country. God help me.
As the door squawked open, Zahrah tucked herself into the darkest corner and folded herself out of sight—as much as possible. She wouldn’t make it easy for them. Ever.
A half-dozen men, clustered and struggling to navigate through the opening, crowded in.
Drawing in tighter on herself, she clenched her eyes.
Thud!
Rancid air whooshed over her.
Steel squeaked and protested then locks engaged.
Zahrah slowly braved a glance—had they really left her? What did they do? Sure enough, the door was closed. Her gaze dropped to a mound on the floor. A mattress? She twinged toward it but then froze.
A body!
She yanked back. Who had they murdered this time?
A grunt startled her. An arm dragged out from under the body. The palm pressed against the dirt. A man … he pushed up. Collapsed with a groan.
Zahrah couldn’t move. Wouldn’t. Whoever this was, they wanted her to care. And she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not again. Not watch him die. Because of her. Back of her hand to her mouth, she leaned into the shadow. Prayed this man, whoever he was, wouldn’t see or notice her.
Again, the man pushed up. Again, he collapsed. Grunts and groans issued. He flopped onto his back. Sucked in a breath. He arched his back and froze.
Zahrah craned her neck. Had he died?
But a hand raised to his head as his chest slowly lowered. Released another long breathing grunt. Finally, his hand fell away. He rolled his head to the side as if checking his surroundings.
Her heart jammed into her windpipe. “Dean?” Her voice squeaked.
He lifted his head and looked in her direction—and that’s when she saw the damage they’d done. His left eye vanished beneath the red and bloody swelling. A deep, angry cut slashed his right eyebrow. His lip was busted and bleeding.
Zahrah threw herself across the room. “Dean!” As she scrambled closer, he collapsed. “No!” Hovering over him, she felt the tears pouring down her cheeks. “Dean, please!” He couldn’t show up and die here, not right in front of her. Not like Majeeb or the guard. She couldn’t do that. Couldn’t let Dean die. She pressed a finger to his throat, frantic to detect his pulse against the hammering of her own.
Strong and sure, his pulse thumped out the reassurance. Beaten to a pulp and lying there out cold, he had never looked more beautiful. But dead, too. Hands trembling, she framed his face with her fingers. “Dean … Dean?”
He groaned and his head shifted in her hands.
“Dean,” she whispered, bending close. “What are you doing here? You were supposed to rescue me.” But he was here. For only one reason. To use him to secure her cooperation. Her eyes slid closed. Twenty minutes ago, she’d been convinced she’d never surrender to their demands. Now, she knew it was only a matter of time.
She shoved to her feet and hurled herself at the door. Banged against the steel. “Open this door! Get this man out of here! He’s a”—she nearly choked on the words but forced herself for his sake to release them—“a child killer!”
CHAPTER 39
Somewhere in Afghanistan
Something hit his cheekbone. Soft, wet. Dean blinked, words sifting into his awareness … rescue me. … The voice collided with a mental image—Zahrah! Blinking, Dean groaned. She hovered over him, her hair tangled and hanging free. No hijab.
“You stupid, foolish … courageous man.” He noticed she held his face. “Why … why did you come?”
Breathing through the pain, he grimaced. “To rescue you.”
She snorted through a laugh. Face twisted in grief, she shook her head. “No.” Shoved away from him. “I can’t … do this.” She stumbled to the door. “Get him out of here!”
Her screams yanked Dean off the floor. He didn’t care how much his ribs hurt. He could still breathe, so he guessed they weren’t broken, only bruised. Still, the fire hitting his lungs felt a lot like walking the fires of hell.
“Take him out. Right now!” She banged on the steel door.
“Stop,” he tried to say, but his throat was dry, and the word died before it made it past his vocal cords.
The door flung back. An armed guard shoved Zahrah backward. “Shut up!”
“Get him out,” Zahrah said as she stabbed a finger at Dean. “I don’t want him in here. He’s a child murderer!”
Stunned, Dean sat on his knees, bracing his side and hunching through the pain. Ignored the accusation. Hated that she thought of him that way.
“He stays,” the guard said with a smirk.
Recognition flooded Dean. The man from the school, the one who’d threatened Zahrah. He knows. Kamran had been there when Raptor team had shown up, when he stepped in for Zahrah. The last nugget of hope crumbled. Strangled by the defeat, Dean struggled to his feet. Struggled past the blinding pain. When he lifted his chin, the man’s smirk was gone. His weapon was up. Aimed at Dean.
Zahrah yelped. “No!” She reached for the weapon.
The man smirked and shoved her toward Dean. “You both stay.”
The ruse he’d planned, to remain aloof, to keep distance between them, was futile. This was what the captors wanted, the reason they’d taken Dean. They knew. Knew he’d come for her. He tucked an arm in front of Zahrah and nudged her behind him.
Nodding with a sick smile, the man slid the door closed. Locked it.
“Why—why’d you do that?” Zahrah cried. “They’ll kill you!”
“No. They won’t.” He shifted toward the wall.
“They will! They’ve killed everyone else—Majeeb, a guard, anyone I’ve looked at.” Zahrah shoved her hands through her long brown hair. “Now, they’re going to kill you, too.”
“They won’t.”
“Are you listening to me?” She came closer. “They’ll kill you just like they killed the old man who gave me a piece of moldy bread.”
“They won’t.”
“They will!”
“No, they won’t. Not me.” Dean felt sick to his stomach.
“Why? Why are you so special?” Her sarcasm was coated with hot fear.
Had to choose his words carefully. “Because they know I mean something to you.”
Zahrah stilled. Her face drained of color. She drew back. “How … how can they know that?”
“The guard who opened the door—”
“Kamran.”
“Right.” Dean gritted his teeth. “He’s the one from the school, the one I interdicted at the school when he was mistreating you?”
She nodded.
“And he’s the one who took you, right?”
Again, she nodded. Then squeezed her eyes closed and tilted her head back. “He followed me—sat in the parking lot.”
“Probably wire-tapped you, too.” Dean touched his swollen-shut eye as he stretched his jaw. “Your frantic demands to get rid of me just now probably cemented any suspicion he had about your feelings for me.”
Pink tinged her cheeks. Twisted a knot in his stomach. Scraggly dark brown hair dangled as she shook her head, gaze at the ground. “But … but they’ve killed the others.”
“To wear you down, test your resolve.” Dean eased against the wall and slowly lowered himself to the ground. “But they’ll use me to break you. And vice versa.”
“It terrifies me what they will force me to do.” She crumpled to her knees beside him. “I’m not strong. Not like you and my father. I can’t do this. They’ll break me. And then I’ll be the cause of thousands of lives being lost. I might as well die now because I can’t live with myself if I do that. I can’t.”
; Dean heard her panic. Heard the cry of her heart in those words. He’d seen violence—he’d effected violence as a Special Forces operator against terrorists … She hadn’t. He turned to her. Saw the wide eyes. The pale, damp skin. “Hey.”
Zahrah’s chin dimpled in and out again. “They’ll make me kill my own people.” Her wild brown eyes searched his face. “I never killed anyone!” She lifted her hands to him. “They’ll cover my hands with blood of American soldiers, men like you—maybe even you.”
“Hey!” He slid a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her attention to his. He held her face, his heart thumping hard. “Don’t do this. Don’t deliver your own judgment. You’ve done nothing.” But he’d been here before. Not in this prison but in this situation. “And no matter what happens under duress, it’s not your fault.”
Tears slid down her face.
Dean tugged her neck to jog her free of that paralyzing stupor. “Got it?”
She gave a weak nod as she looked down again.
Dean let her go and settled back, too aware of his own involuntary reactions to being so close to her. “What do you know about this place?”
“Nothing.”
“Have you been outside this cell?”
“Yes.”
“What’d you see?”
“Halls, doors, stairs.”
“So, two levels?”
She nodded. “They take me upstairs to a computer. Order me to hack it.”
“What else did you see?”
“A … hole. A massive empty room cordoned off with only a rope. I don’t think there’s any stairs, but they don’t allow me to investigate.”
“Good.”
“How is that good?”
“The more we notice about our surroundings, the more we improve our odds of getting out.” He closed his eyes, closed out her vulnerability, her beauty. So much like Ellen … yet stronger.
Quiet drenched their cell worse than the stench that clogged his nostrils. He had to shift her away from this dark talk. “Besides, if I don’t bring you back alive, your dad will hunt me down and kill me himself.”