by Ronie Kendig
“Captain Watters has grown stronger because he knows their time is short.”
“All the more reason we not give him another day to consider the outcome.”
“No.” Nianzu jerked to Kamran. “You will not kill him. Kill him, we lose her completely.”
“Or maybe she will feel she has nothing to lose.”
Nianzu sneered. “She is much stronger, both in mind and heart, than any of your warriors, Kamran. Do not underestimate her.” He went to the desk and lifted his briefcase. “I must return to China for a few days.”
Already the greedy glint appeared in the man’s eyes.
“You know how far my reach goes. Do not force my hand against you.” With that, Nianzu strode out of the complex and slipped into the sleek black Mercedes. He lifted his phone from his pocket as the car pulled away from the complex. As the road smoothed out, the call connected.
“Boss Man!”
“Send me a link to the live feed of the prison.”
“Feed from the—I have no idea …”
“Ah, you thought I was ignorant of your devices. Perhaps this will teach you, Boris, not to tempt my patience.” He breathed in heavily. Then out. “The feed. Now. Or you will need a speech-to-text to finish your contract.”
“I … coming your way.”
Nianzu ended the call and checked his e-mail. The link slid into his inbox. He accessed it. Scanned through a few cameras until he found the right one.
He almost laughed. It had been too easy. It paid to know your friends, but it paid even more to know your enemies. Through the dark shadows of the passage that led to the cell holding Zahrah Zarrick and Captain Dean Watters, Kamran stalked with sick, malicious intent.
CHAPTER 44
Somewhere in Afghanistan
20 July
They’re escalating,” Dean ground out through bloodied lips.
They’d beaten him to a pulp … again. But still he hadn’t bent his knee, his will. When would enough be enough for him? The question scared Zahrah because she realized “enough” would’ve come much sooner for her without Dean.
Stomach roiling, she knelt beside him, hand on his shoulder—one of the few spots not splattered in his blood. Even with the brutality, she couldn’t ignore the tattooed wings spreading across his back. A dagger thrust upward along his spine. She had to drag her thoughts from the inked design. “Wh–what do you mean?”
“Our time is short.” He held his side, his jaw muscle bouncing. “We have to find a way out. Now.”
Her gaze flitted between his pulverized back, the tattooed wings and up-pointed dagger marred, to the door. Locked. Bolted. Guarded. “Why, what’s happened?”
He shook his head, staring at the wall. “Just trust me on this. The first chance we get—we take it.”
Uncertainty darted through her, along with a hefty dose of adrenaline.
Dean met her gaze, sweat and blood trickling down the sides of his face. His eye had swollen shut again. His other was bloodshot. He could convince her to scale a hundred-foot cliff. But she was still terrified.
“You can do it, Z. Have to.”
He’d read her thoughts. Which unleashed all the fears swirling around them. “I … I can’t fight like you.”
He smirked. “Fight like you. Don’t need brawn.” He grimaced and arched his back slightly. “You need brain.”
If he’d just give her a sign, an indication that she meant something other than “the strongest woman….”
“Hey.” His dirty, blood-crusted hand cupped her face. “Promise me. Promise you’ll fight. And this won’t be a nice, clean fight, Z. We fight hard till we get what we want.”
“What’s that?” A stupid question but she needed to hear him say it.
“Freedom.” Conflict traced his brow. “I know you’re not trained, but we have to hit them hard. It’ll be ‘kill or be killed.’ ”
She wilted. She’d do anything for him. But what if she fell short? What if he died because of something she did? “I’m scared.”
He grinned through bloodied teeth. “You and me both. But I’m not going to let them win.” Fierce determination tugged together his brow and tightened his jaw. “Not this time. Not with you.”
Those three words pounded against her heart. “Dean …” Everything in her ached for him to say he cared about her. That she was more than a friend. Three weeks in this prison, all day every day with him. She’d known the first time she met him that he was special. That he stood head and shoulders above the rest. This time of captivity cemented that.
But those thoughts were foolish. They were faced with death. “I want to see my father again. My cousin.”
He nodded.
“What about you? Do you want to see your family?”
Misery crowded his face. He tried to smile. “Raptor’s the only family I have.”
“What about your parents?”
“Dead.” He lowered himself against the wall, grimacing as his raw back rested against the stones. “My brother killed them.”
Zahrah blinked. The surprise she felt couldn’t have been more pronounced. “Dean,” she breathed, “I’m so sorry.”
Eyes closing, he gave a slight nod. “They weren’t the best parents, but they didn’t deserve that.” He stilled, his face going pale.
“What happened?” She traced his obvious injuries then tore a swatch off the hem of her tunic. Kneeling over him, she dabbed the mess from around his eyes.
“Donny was always in trouble. Came home from a party, drunk and ticked. Desi said Dad tried to punish him with the belt.” Dean’s expression grew distant as the past once more took hold of him. “Donny was as big and meaner than Dad. Their yelling woke me up. Scared me, both of them in a rage. When I heard the gunshots, I climbed into the dirty clothes pantry—it was one of those built-ins that had a small swinging part.” He snorted. “I stayed in there with smelly socks and dirty underwear till the cops came. Even then, I was too scared to come out.”
“Who’s Desi?”
He blinked. Lifted his head a little higher, as if he’d just emerged from a pool of bad memories. “What?” He focused on her. And his skin seemed to go green.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” Zahrah dropped the question as she tended him, unable to not admire his handsome features, despite the cuts, bruising, and swelling. Because there was so much more and more beautiful to Dean Watters than his looks.
“Nah, it’s okay. I just … I’ve never told anyone about them.”
When he looked into her eyes, in that moment she saw his meaning. Felt the meaning—he’d given her a gift in that deeply held secret. “So, you were young?”
“Eight.” He winced as she tried to wipe clean his brow. “We got put in the foster system.”
Zahrah stilled. “We?”
He smirked.
Always with the mysteries. “Is that—the tattoo on your back. Is that why you did that?”
“Nah.” Head propped back, he closed his eyes. “Got the scars ten years ago. My first deployment. We were on a supply run, our caravan, when we got ambushed.” A long sigh seemed to end the story and forced quiet into their cell. “She didn’t make it.”
“Who?”
“Private First Class Ellen Green. Prettiest thing in camos I’d ever seen. Sweet …”
Greedy green talons dug into Zahrah’s heart. She’d never heard him talk about anyone like that. Ellen must’ve been something special to him. Be a friend, Zahrah, not a jealous snit. “What happened to her?”
“They raped her to death.” Once more, Dean’s face had gone stone hard. “Right in front of me.”
Zahrah inhaled the terrible words and froze. Tears sprang to her eyes. So much made sense about him now. About his need to control. To protect her.
“I should’ve died a dozen times, but”—he shook his head, looking to the ceiling—“for whatever sick reason, God wanted me alive. Everyone told me I had an angel watching my back.”
Her mind snagged on the mental image s
napped of the tattoo. “Angel’s wings.”
His lips twitched. “And a dagger. When I came back, I was ready to drive that dagger through the heart of any enemy.” Dean let out another grunt, holding his side.
“Smart man to realize where your help came from.”
“You’re too smart for my own good.”
“Yeah, someone tried to tell me that before, and I ignored his advice.”
“Hey.” Dean touched her face. “You had a purpose, remember?”
Zahrah stilled as his fingers traced her hacked-off hair, the side of her face. As she looked into his bloodshot right eye, she felt a dart of exhilaration and attraction. But also … the answer. The answer to the elusive sense of purpose that existed just below her awareness. “You.”
Dean frowned a bit, his hand trailing down her arm. “What?”
Out of habit, as she’d always done when nervous, she tucked hair she didn’t have behind her ear. “Remember, I told you there was another reason I was here, one I couldn’t quite figure out?”
He hesitated as if anticipating her answer.
“It’s you. You’re the reason I’m here.”
“No.” He scowled. “No!” He punched to his feet.
Zahrah stood, holding the bloodied rag. “Why … why does that make you mad?”
He jerked toward her. “Have you seen me? Do you know me?”
“I … I think I do.”
“Wrong!” Fury reddened his face. “Did you not hear what I just said about my family? I don’t do relationships. I don’t have a need or desire for one. Never have. My team—Raptor is what I live for.”
“Dean—”
“No, no platitudes. Just get it out of your head. I’m not made for relationships. I’m not worth saving.”
“That is not true!” She strode the half-dozen paces to the other side of the cell, where he stood by the door. “You’re the best man I’ve ever met.”
“Wrong. Get over your attraction because it won’t happen. I’m not dating. I’m married to the Army. I won’t marry anyone.” He shook his head and shuffled around, his hand on the back of his neck. “I won’t do that to anyone. I won’t … let that happen.”
“Then this”—she held out her hands to their cell—“is where you belong.” Calmness replaced her surprise at the dialogue that had opened between them. She’d hit a nerve talking about family. “Because you were a captive to those wrong beliefs before you ever entered this prison. They have held you hostage, kept you in fear, and forced you to sacrifice what you want.”
“Yeah?” he growled, his face a simmering pot of rage. “And what is that? You? Are you going to tell me you are what I want?”
Zahrah looked at him. Prayed for wisdom, prayed to see beyond the poison spewing from his anger and to see the wounds behind those words. Asked God to help her reach the man standing before her, the one who’d been so strong and quiet and now stood in rage of fear and panic. God, help me help him … just like You planned.
And like a cool breeze, she remembered. “When was the last time you talked to Desi?”
Dean jerked as if she’d slapped him. “What do you know about her?”
“Is she your sister?”
He froze. Then turned away. Facing the wall.
Zahrah went to his side, touched his arm. “You don’t need bars, a crust of bread, and water to be a prisoner. If your past is holding you hostage, then it’s time to break out.”
His nostrils flared as his chest rose and fell unevenly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He breathed. In. Out. In. Out. “What about you?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly. “You’re here. You’re a prisoner.”
Zahrah inched into the space between his chest and the wall. “I’m not a prisoner, Dean.” She smiled, feeling the liberation of the words before she spoke them. “I’m right where God wants me.”
Voices outside jerked Dean around. The broken soldier, the raw one, was gone. In his place was the one always in control. The one ready to do violence.
CHAPTER 45
Somewhere in Afghanistan
25 July
Too far away to do serious damage, Dean would let the players enter his domain. He’d assessed the threat. Knew if he was fast, if he moved with violence of intent, he could do this. He’d had enough. Enough idleness. Enough inaction. Enough … enough of her. This was it.
Too far away to take them upon entry. He’d have to just use the element of surprise.
Two guards entered. Fear—of him?—made their grips tight but sloppy. Sweat on their brows. Which meant their hands were probably sweaty, too. Easier to disarm.
Kamran stalked in. His breathing was … odd. His gaze on Zahrah.
Like a battering ram, knowledge of that man’s intent struck Dean. He knew that look. Knew the hunger in the man’s eyes as his gaze slid over Zahrah. Knew without any doubt what this sick perv had in mind.
Dean’s anger slid up another notch as the men marched in. Weapons raised and aimed solely at Dean.
This is it. Had to end this now.
Dean grabbed the muzzle of the M16. Rolled his shoulder into the guard. Jerked back his elbow into the man’s face. Slid his hand toward the handgun holstered at the guy’s thigh. Yanked it up. Spun. Aimed it at the second guard. Fired.
The man, face frozen in shock, stumbled backward and fell across the door’s threshold. As Dean came round to take on the second guard, in his periphery he saw Zahrah kick out—nail Kamran in the knee. The man howled as she came at him with a controlled punch.
Satisfied she could hold him for a second, Dean whipped around. Sent a double-tap through the temple of the first guard.
Shouts yanked him up. A half-dozen armed guards flooded the room.
“Secure him,” Kamran shouted. Limping, he held Zahrah’s neck in the crook of his arm, her feet off the ground as he hauled her out of the cell.
Dean flung himself sideways, right between two guards. He lunged. Dived into Kamran. The captor and Zahrah pitched into the wall. Zahrah’s soft grunt pushed Dean to fight hard. This was it. They had to get out of here. This puke of an Afghan was going to do unmentionable things if he could get free. Dean couldn’t allow that. Wouldn’t.
He dragged himself on top of the man. Threw a hard right into the guy’s nose.
Kamran sliced his hands into Dean’s sides.
White-hot fire shot through Dean, fuzzed his vision. He gritted through the excruciating pain. Had a fist-hold on his tunic. Used it as a homing beacon. Kamran threw his own punch. Connected with Dean’s jaw. Dean squeezed hard with his knees. Resisted being thrown. Dropped and pressed his forearm into the man’s throat. Grunting and straining, Kamran struggled. Dean felt the power infusing him. The surge to make this guy take his last breath.
Crack!
Before Dean could react, he found himself slammed against the wall. Numbness spreading down his neck.
A blur of camo and gray uniforms descended on him.
Dean struck out.
A fist cracked across his jaw.
“Lock him up!”
Hands, so many of them, pawed at him. Dragged him. Dean scrambled for purchase, watching as Kamran stumbled backward, limping, his arms wrapped around Zahrah’s midsection. She flailed against the man, her attention glued to Dean. She reached for him, screaming and kicking as another guard tried to assist the oversized Afghan.
“Dean!” Her shriek echoed through the dark, narrow passage and thunked right into his heart.
“Fight!” Dean howled as he threw a hard right, sending one backward. Coldcocked another. “Don’t stop fighting!”
After another whack against his head, Dean’s responses blurred. Slurred. He shook his head—and the world tilted. He felt himself falling. Or climbing. Something hard collided with his shoulder. He didn’t care. Zahrah—had to get to her. He blinked. Gathered his senses. Inside. He was inside the cell. Door sliding shut.
He threw himself at the barrier. Banged. Kicked. Cursed. Sho
uted. Cursed himself. Cursed God. Rammed his foot at the steel again and again. Everything hurt. Nothing hurt—not when he knew what was happening to Zahrah.
God gave her to you to protect.
And I failed. Just like always. See? This! This is why he didn’t deserve someone like her. Why he didn’t deserve to be happy.
The thought sobered him. Palms flat against the steel barrier, Dean stared at the rust. At the door. At nothing in particular. Drank heavily of the guilt. Of the defeat.
But his heart, something deeper than that—his soul!—clung to the first part. God gave her to you.
No. No, good things didn’t belong to him. He didn’t deserve them. If he couldn’t protect his parents, if he couldn’t save Ellen, he didn’t deserve Zahrah.
A scream knifed the rank air. Drew Dean up tight. He listened, his heart sputtering. Knowing … knowing what was happening.
He kicked the door again. Roared. Hopped around. Drove a heel into the cement wall. “Where are You?” He shouted to the ceiling. To the sky. To God!
“You.” The way she’d said that. The conviction that flooded her eyes and her words, her belief so utterly resolute that her real purpose for being in Afghanistan was Dean.
“No!” Condemnation drowned him. If it weren’t for him, she’d have gone back. If it weren’t for him, Zahrah would be home. Safe. Unhurt. Whole.
Dean’s legs wobbled. Failure pushed him to the ground. His shoulders sagged. Head hung, he reached for the only tendril of hope. “God …”
Memories crashed in on him. Smells. Darkness. Gunshots. Desi screaming and crying. Head against the steel door, Dean let them come. Let the nightmare take him.
Running scared. Bullied at school. Bullied at home. His brother had a thing for power, just like their father. And Dean had had enough that night. More than enough. The Watters blood held poison and generational curses. Some genealogy charts held heroism and valor. His held violence and cowardice.
“Dean, you can’t change what’s inside on your own, son. It’s an uphill battle that never ends.” In his standard blues, Sergeant Elliott showed up to talk with Dean after his shift one night. It’d been a bad week—month. His foster brother had called him the brother of a murderer. Dean punched him. His foster mom called Sergeant Elliott. “But with God, you can.”