by Ronie Kendig
Lance frowned.
“This operation—I’ve been reading the underpinnings of it for years. Whoever is behind this—and I would tell you if I knew—”
“You know who they are, but you stand there and lie to me, say you don’t know.”
Anger sparked in the dark eyes that always kept Lance wondering if the guy had switched sides. “It is not hard to finger the subordinates, the ones who will take the fall. They will be hard to find, but you will find them.” Meaning flashed through his irises. “But the top player, the one driving this?” He gave a grave shake of his head. “I am not convinced he will ever be found.”
“Not good enough. We have to kill this at the source or we remain compromised and vulnerable.”
“The horseman of your apocalypse is headless, unidentifiable.”
Lance tugged at his collar and straightened his tie, fidgeting against the omen cast by Sajjan Takkar. And as he did, something ominous wormed into Lance’s mind. “Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute—invaded my base? The command center?”
Coldness spilled into Lance’s gut, and it wasn’t his Dr Pepper this time. He swiped a hand across his brow, his mind racing. He traced the thoughts across the vinyl, across the chairs, his desk. “Mother of God, help us!” Dread replaced his rage. “We have a mole.”
CHAPTER 41
Somewhere in Afghanistan
02 July
My father always told me I was stronger than any son he could’ve had.” Zahrah arched her back, stretching aching muscles and straining to shake off the gloom hugging the shadows. “I’m not convinced.”
“I am.” Dean had been an impenetrable rock since the guards dumped him in here three days ago. They’d beaten him and used electroshock, and his determination, his focus, never wavered.
She sat close to him, hoping, praying she could siphon strength and courage from the Special Forces warrior. They were almost shoulder to shoulder against the cold stone wall. He with his legs bent and arms over his knees. She with her legs crossed as she held the chunk of bread the guards had tossed in minutes ago. She lifted it to her mouth—
“Hey.” Dean reached over, took the bread, and tore it in half. Then in fourths. “Ration it. They aren’t dependable with sustenance, and as we hold out, they will too.”
Eyeing the pieces he’d returned to her hands, Zahrah thought of Jesus. If He could feed the five thousand, surely He could feed Dean and her. And maybe … maybe that’s what he’d done by having Dean come.
“How … how do you do it?”
He shifted his head a bit so he could look at her. “Do what?”
Her gaze traced the walls, the dirt, the metal door. “Keep your wits. Stay in control.” When he didn’t answer, only closed his eyes, Zahrah felt foolish for asking. He sat there as if waiting in the chow line. He’d been trained. That was the answer. “You make it look easy. I’ve been here a week longer, watching them kill those men, people I didn’t even know, and I can’t shake it. Then the way you were able to focus when they strapped you to that bed—”
“Hey.” Dean’s head came off the wall and he turned to her, his features as stern as his tone. “Don’t do that.”
Confusion darted through her.
“Don’t doubt yourself—you’re right. You’ve been here longer, but I’ve also been a prisoner longer.”
Zahrah scowled. “You’ve only been here—”
“Ten years ago, I was held for six weeks with my unit—what was left of my unit.” He shifted as if saying that caused him pain. “We were ambushed. Death by IED.”
“I–I’m sorry.” And yet, she wasn’t. That he survived the experience gave her even more hope. It meant he’d been there, done that. He put his training to use, and it’d worked for him. “How—?” She looked at the bread again. No, it wouldn’t be right to ask that.
“It’s okay. You want hope,” he said. “We need every lifeline we can dig up in here since they have no rules of engagement. They don’t fight fair.” Dean nodded. “I was newb, barely wet behind the ears and on my first deployment.”
“So, you weren’t Special Forces then?”
He grunt-laughed and shook his head. “Signed up at seventeen, chomping at the bit to get away—” His lips snapped into a fine line. He looked to the side. Then back to where she laid out the bread crumbs in her lap on the long tunic. “It was an out, joining the Army. I had no goals of heroism or good deeds. The only good I wanted to do was for myself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Joining was an escape.”
The question hung on the tip of her tongue, but Zahrah had the incredible feeling of standing on sacred ground—that piece of information he’d bit down on was something he didn’t talk about. At least, that was her best guess. But she wanted to know. “Escape from what?”
Another grunt-laugh. He sat there for a while then finally turned to her. Caught the back of her neck and tugged her close, so his mouth was almost on her ear. A tickle skidded down her neck and spine as he whispered, “They’re listening in, but they know everything, Z. They know how you feel about me and that I’m here to get you out. They’re going to use that against us. In every way possible.”
Zahrah swallowed—hard.
“We need to play their game, but only better.” He leaned back, his nose almost touching her as those green-flecked eyes searched hers. “One way or another, we’ll get you out.”
She took a shuddering breath and nodded.
“No matter how bad things look, do not lose hope.”
A smile she couldn’t stop seeped through her, soaking her weary muscles and heart. “I can’t lose hope—God sent you.”
“Yeah?” Dean snorted. “Just wait. You’ll get to where you feel like you’ve lost everything.”
She smiled bigger. “They can never take God from me—”
With a half shake of his head, Dean let out a huff and dropped back against the wall.
“What? What was that?”
“Nothing.” He reached over and took her hand. A thrill raced through Zahrah as she looked at their intertwined fingers. “You’re undauntable.”
“I’m not sure that’s a word.”
“It should be—and right next to the definition is your picture with that chocolate hair, sans hijab.”
Zahrah’s hand went to her hair before she could stop it.
“Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
“So you do know how to flirt.”
Something zipped through Dean’s face, but he looked away just as fast.
“You know, I can’t figure out if it’s a good thing or a bad thing you’re here.”
This time, he looked offended.
She laughed. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad. I wouldn’t want any other hero with me right now.”
“I’m not a hero. I’m a sheepdog.”
She smiled. “Some people are sheep, some are wolves, and then—”
“There’s sheepdogs.” He almost cracked a smile. “Hooah.”
“My dad loved that.” Why was he holding her hand? He’d never made a move like that before. “You’re a lot like him.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
She nudged his shoulder with hers. “Of course.” And then without warning, she felt very shy. “He’s the best man I know.”
Voices drew close to the cell.
Like lightning, Dean was on his feet. He leapt to the corner, back to the wall, shoulder pointing to the door as it groaned open.
A guard stepped in, weapon lazily held in front of him.
Breath stuck in her throat, Zahrah froze.
Dean threw a hard right, followed with his left and snatched the weapon from the guard just as Dean’s fist connected with his jaw. The guard spun and stumbled. With the butt of the weapon, Dean slammed it into the guard’s face. His neck snapped back.
Another guard entered.
“Behind!” Zahrah yelped.
Angling, Dean dropped and sw
ung his leg back. Caught the second guard’s foot. He flipped him. Dean pounced, punching the guard. Again. Again. He’d moved so fast. Neutralized the guards in seconds. Hope surged. She might actually survive. Dean knew what he was doing. He kept his fight, his head in the game.
Dean’s face, alight with the fight, jerked to her. He held out a hand. “C’m—”
Zahrah took a step.
A board swung out of nowhere. Smacked into the back of Dean’s head. He pitched forward. Went to his knees. But didn’t go down. Not all the way. He groaned and shook his head, apparently trying to shrug off the daze.
Zmaray entered. Aimed a gun at Dean. Fired.
By the time Zahrah’s scream reached her vocal cords, it’d registered that the gun didn’t have the normal crack. She looked at Dean, one leg tucked under him, a hand propping him up as he leaned heavily to the right. Swayed. Yanked a silver vial from his chest.
Dart gun?
She looked to Zmaray.
“Bring her.” He started out. “And teach the captain a lesson.”
Dean threw a hard right.
Met nothing. Sailed wildly. His feet tangled.
Everything hurt. Burned. Ached. A blinding blow cracked against the back of his head. Teeth rattled. Something warm and metallic squirted through his mouth. He pitched forward. On all fours, he spit the blood from his mouth. Coughed—and seized as pain racked his body.
In a split second, he saw the boot flying. Braced himself. Not enough. The room tilted. Spun. Went black. Another cough as the air whooshed from his lungs. He shook his head, the stones spinning crazily. Still, he wasn’t going down without a fight. But when he pushed up, agony tore through his arm. He crashed against the wall, groaning.
“Do not think you will be the hero this time, Captain.”
Vision blurred, hearing partially blocked, Dean squinted up at the man towering over him, his tunic spotted with Dean’s blood.
“She will cooperate.” Kamran squatted in front of him, the guards standing over Dean with the business end of their weapons hovering over Kamran’s shoulders and aimed right at Dean. “And I have the great pleasure of making sure you are in pain to force her hand.”
Dean spit at him.
With flared nostrils, he used his sleeve to wipe the spittle. “And I will take great pleasure—more than I do in beating you—in breaking her.”
White-hot rage shot through Dean. He threw himself, agony and broken body, at Kamran.
The guy went backward. Fists. Feet. Shouts.
Crack!
Flying sideways, Dean howled through the fire that seared his back. His body convulsed, the pinpricks of a Taser throttling him full of electricity. The squawk and thud of the door shutting allowed Dean to relax. He visually cleared the room then let his head drop back. He stared up at the cement ceiling and stared at the light. Let that blur his realities. The past, the present, the fantasy.
Zahrah. Beautiful and free. Laughing, surrounded by children. Teaching them.
Ellen, at the base, playing basketball like one of the guys. Laughing. Alive.
Mom. He couldn’t remember her laughing. But smiling, at some of his antics. Chewing him out—man, what he wouldn’t do to hear her chew him out again. Because that’d mean she was alive.
Rolling onto his side took every morsel of strength he had left. But he did. And scooted so that he could see the door. Slowly, he surrendered the fight. His body needed rest. His mind needed it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t find a way out of here. It was all up to him now that they’d fried the transmitter.
He couldn’t cling to any false hopes. Zahrah’s life, the entire military establishment depended on them getting out of here alive. Hoping the transmitter had emitted a signal before it’d been killed was a fool’s dream. They would escape.
“Escape from what?”
Zahrah’s innocent question rocked the vault he’d stored those answers in years ago. Her hand felt so small, so delicate yet strong in his. He had to convince these goons that she meant as much to him as he did to her. That’s what their captors wanted. But he hated himself for it. Hated the way she hung on his every word. Hated the way she looked at him with those beautiful brown eyes. Hated how she’d responded when he took her hand. She had expectation filled with an unwritten promise of more.
But there couldn’t be more. Not when he was faking it.
But she didn’t know that. And he couldn’t let her know that. Because under duress, she might tell them it wasn’t real. He had to convince her it was real. He just wasn’t sure how to do that.
Let it be real.
No. No, can’t do that. Heaviness pulled and tugged at him, dragging him into a black abyss.
Voices thudded against his throbbing head. Holding his side, Dean opened his eyes. Couldn’t see the door. But heard the keys rattling on the other side. Gritting through the fire and pinching in his side and chest, he hauled himself up.
The door shrieked open, the hinges badly in need of some lubricant.
Two guards dragged in a waif of a teen boy.
What was this?
They released him.
The boy dropped to his knees and stayed by the opening, head down, shoulders sagging. Short hair chopped at weird angles and angry red welts along his neck and arms.
“What is this?” Dean clambered to his feet, unsteady but determined. “Where’s Zahrah. What have you done with her?”
Sniggers trailed the guards as they stepped out.
Clang! Thud!
The teen jumped at the noise of the locks reengaging, his head coming up just briefly. Brown eyes—
Dean’s breath hitched. He pushed himself forward. “Zahrah?” Steeling himself against the pain, he squatted in front of her. This is my fault. He’d mentioned her hair. Psychological warfare. Break their minds and spirits. More than ever, Dean knew they were listening. Watching. Very closely. To find the straw that would break their will.
God, help us.
Her brown eyes rose to his. Morose. Disheartened.
Dean cupped her face. “This changes nothing. Hair is a dressing, like clothes.”
A tear trickled down her cheek.
He was reminded of their conversation earlier. “You’re still beautiful.”
She sniffled. “But not beautiful enough for you.”
Smothered by her words, Dean stilled. “You’re the most beautiful woman I know.”
Her eyes widened. She drew in a breath that she didn’t release.
“What? What’s wrong?”
Her chin quivered. “They said you’d say that.”
Dean inched closer. “Z, don’t let them get in your head, okay?”
“But they know … they know everything I’m thinking.”
“They want you to think that.”
“No, they know. They know how I feel about you, know what I’ll say—what you say.” She held his arm, his hands still bracing her face, as she looked up at him. Watery brown eyes, like liquid chocolate, seeped through his defenses. “I’m so scared.” Her lids slid shut, squeezing out more tears. “So scared of what they’re going to make me do.”
Dread poured through Dean as her words echoed through him. “No.” He wanted to curse. She’d already surrendered her will. Expected them to win. “They can’t make us do anything we don’t want to do. Everything we say or do is a choice.”
“But—”
“No.” Dean pressed his forehead to hers. “Be resolute, Z. No matter what they do to me, or to you, you have to determine there is no line in the sand. Nothing that will make you stand in front of a thousand American soldiers and pull the trigger.”
Zahrah pulled away from him. Pushed to her feet and stuffed herself in the corner. “That’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not. But that is exactly what you’re doing if you give them what they want. Think of the men on my team. Think of your father and his friends. All those upper echelon that you’ve had in your home. Friends. The men and women on the base who took car
e of Rashid.”
She whimpered and slid down the wall, shaking her head.
Dean went to her and knelt again. “Z,” he said, his breathing heavy. His conviction so raw, so vigorous, he could hardly breathe.
“I believe in you. It’s why I came after you.”
Her brows tugged together. “Came after me?”
“I knew when I walked into the president’s home, that I would be captured.”
She shook her head.
He tugged off his shirt, swiveled around in his hunched position, and showed her his bare back.
Zahrah gasped. “What—?”
Dean tensed at her touch. “That’s what happened to me ten years ago. Scars from torture, from beatings, electric shock.” Threading his hands through his shirt again, he turned back. “I knew what they could do to me. What they could do to you. I came here because I knew … I knew if you had something you cared about, you’d remember why you’re fighting.”
Head back against the bulging rocks, hair looking like something out of a zombie flick, she eyed him. “I can’t figure you out, Dean. And I’m tired.”
He dropped his gaze. Losing this fight with her now meant it was over.
“When you first arrived, you acted like I was just an American you came to rescue. Nothing more. Then you held my hand, as if I meant something.” She shuddered. “Now, we’re back to this—you came here because you knew I cared for you.”
This was sliding downhill with a rocket-propelled assist.
“Am I just a mission to you, Dean?”
CHAPTER 42
12 July
Screaming hard-rock music punched Dean’s answer out of the air. The walls shook with the booming bass and the shriek of a death metal lead singer’s voice. Zahrah covered her ears, hunching against the deafening noise. “What are they doing?”
“More psychological warfare,” Dean shouted just as the light popped off.
Fear coiled in Zahrah’s stomach. Darkness. Thundering, shrieking music.
Something touched her hand. She jerked away.
In the blaring insanity, she heard, “Hold my hand!”
Reticent but desperate for a lifeline, she relaxed. Dean’s strong hand enfolded around hers. Then a little tug. He wanted her to move. She followed in the darkness, walking … He led her around the perimeter of the room in a steady pace. She felt the vibration of the music against her breastbone, tickling her feet. How long they walked, she didn’t know. Only that her legs and feet hurt. Her back ached.