Pussycat Death Squad
Page 12
“Impressive, isn't it?” the captain asked. “Twenty-five-year-old scotch; it's literally worth its weight in gold.”
“I would imagine that in this part of the world a load of booze would be worth a fortune,” Patrick said.
“I do well enough, though the risks are definitely increasing,” the captain rejoined.
Patrick leaned back against the boat's railing, a risky move given that to all appearances it seemed to be rusted through. From this position, he studied the ship's captain. The man was built on a small frame, with sharp, aquiline features and a full beard. Oddly enough, his beard was fully white, even though the hair on his head was totally untouched by gray. He glanced over at Stark, who was apparently struck speechless in his rapturous enjoyment of the scotch. He'd taken the bottle out of the captain's hand and was pouring himself another glass with the reverence usually reserved for Christian relics.
The captain resumed the conversation. “You gentlemen are quite physically fit. You've more than compensated for the two crewmen I had to displace in order to accommodate you.”
Patrick raised a brow. “You mean, in addition to our very generous cash payment.”
“There is that. Doing favors for Americans is extraordinarily risky. For this”—he gestured toward the bottle of liquor—“I might lose a hand. If I'm caught with you on board, I'll lose my head.” The captain laughed. “Even so, I still have to fish. A fishing boat that returns to port with no fish is bound to raise suspicion, no?”
“I'm sure that's true, but I doubt you had to get rid of any crewmembers to make room for us. This boat, such as it is, is probably more than large enough for a dozen or more extra people.”
“That may well be true, but surely you don't begrudge a man his profit.” The captain raised a sardonic brow.
“Of course not. It's hardly worth speaking of. Besides, working for our passage has given me something to do besides worry.”
“I certainly understand that. My mother used to say, 'Why pray when you can worry?' Hard work relieves the mind, does it not?”
Patrick nodded.
“But then, when the workday is done, a man is entitled to a certain amount of pleasure.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigar. “Would you gentlemen like to join me in a cigar to accompany your scotch?” When both shook their heads no, he lit his expensive contraband and puffed away contentedly, and the boat continued toward their destination.
* * *
“Hate to mention it, but you guys reek.” Astaria turned up her nose, giving Patrick and Stark a disgusted smirk.
“That's what happens when you're smuggled into the country in a fishing boat.” Patrick tried hard not to smell himself. Amazing what eighteen hours in a fishing boat could do for your appreciation of fishing, especially when he'd paid an exorbitant amount of money for such a disgusting privilege. He glanced at the soldier who had accompanied Astaria to this clandestine meeting. “Who is he?”
Astaria immediately allayed his suspicion. “Don't worry; he's my brother. It would be dangerous and suspicious for a woman to travel unaccompanied at this hour of the night. We have a good cover story, visiting our ill mother. This is her house.”
“Yeah, and finding it wasn't exactly easy.”
“That was the point. I thought you said you were bringing the Marines.” She nodded in Stark's direction. “Surely you could muster more men than this.”
“As far as I know, you've only got one prisoner to break out of prison,” Stark interjected. “Having two marines is probably redundant.”
Patrick interrupted before they could continue the time-wasting pissing contest. “Do you have a plan?”
“We're going to sneak in dressed as male soldiers. Halil here will get uniforms for us.” She pushed back her hijab to reveal her newly cropped hair.
“Why can't we just shoot our way in? We've probably got them on superior numbers,” Stark asked.
“That would probably mean all-out war when the Colonel needs to save face. We're hoping to avoid that,” Astaria said.
“Who gives a shit if we start a war?” Stark asked. “It's not like it'll be the first one.”
“Says the man who's not in his own country,” Astaria derided. “Lelia most certainly does care. She doesn't see the point in bloodshed if it can be avoided.”
Patrick raised his brows. “You've talked to her?” he asked, feeling hopeful for the first time that she might still be alive.
“No, but as her second I know what she'd want. Lelia has a horror of civil war. If I can avoid it, I'll do what she wants.”
Patrick nodded in agreement, remembering how Lelia's parents had died in the last conflict. “It seems like a good plan. Stark and I—”
“Do either of you speak Arabic?” Astaria interrupted.
“Enough to get a taxi and find someplace to eat.” Patrick sighed. “That won't be enough to get us in,” he conceded, not bothering to hide his frustration. He'd go insane lying in wait instead of being part of the action. It went against everything he believed in to have someone else going in after his woman. But he knew she stood a better chance of surviving with Astaria taking point. He'd just have to suck down his ego and live with it.
Astaria, clearly surprised by his quick capitulation, gave him an understanding look. As a warrior herself, she knew how hard this was for him. “Don't worry, Trick. I fear there will be plenty of gunplay. Probably even enough for your trigger-happy friend here.”
* * *
Patrick gritted his teeth as he struggled against the urge to move around. Waiting was always the worst part of any operation, and as the getaway driver, all he could do was sit tight until the rest of the operation went down. He and Stark had been hiding in the back of the truck for less than thirty minutes, but time seemed to be waxing, second by second as they waited. The back of his neck itched with impatience, and he resisted the urge to scratch. Unlikely as it was, it was possible that the truck, which was supposed to be empty as part of the palace fleet, was being watched.
Stark, apparently suffering from the same malady, asked in a barely audible voice, “Do you think they're in yet?”
Glancing at his watch was a rookie mistake, but Patrick succumbed to it anyway. He barely nodded his head in response. “If everything is going according to plan, they should be on their way out by now.”
Their plan was almost absurdly simple. Astaria and two other soldiers would present themselves at the Bilal Palace, which is where they had concluded al-Fariq had to be holding Lelia. It was the most isolated of his palaces, and it was the only one that the Amazonian Guard was never detailed to. It had also been rumored to be the Colonel's secret prison for political prisoners for years.
They would tell Lelia's guards they were there to escort her to a new prison. They had forged papers and had deliberately chosen a late hour because no one would dare awaken al-Fariq to confirm the transfer.
The sounds of the night surrounded the large truck. Insects chirped as night birds took wing to search for their evening meal. Patrick struggled to empty his mind of all thought, almost impossible to do, especially when his heartbeat thrummed with fear.
He'd finally accomplished his goal of calming his racing pulse when Stark articulated what he'd been thinking for the past five minutes. “Something's wrong, dude.”
Patrick gave his friend a brief glance. “Let's go.”
Chapter Nine
Lelia stood in the doorway of her cell watching as Abdullah, her assigned guard, read the papers he'd been given. She'd recognized Astaria and the other three soldiers immediately and was thankful no one had said anything to her. She doubted she could have spoken with her heart beating so erratically in her throat. Their coming for her was a fait accompli, but still she had prayed they would take another course and simply let her meet her fate. Sweat trickled down her back under the uniform she'd insisted on wearing in spite of the oppressive heat, a small act of defiance that helped keep her mentally acute and prepared f
or the rescue when it came. Now that they were there, she struggled to overcome the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.
She choked off a sigh of relief when the guard moved behind her to place handcuffs on her wrists. Maybe this would work after all. She met Astaria's gaze, then lowered her head. Where was Patrick? She realized she should probably ask a few questions, though she doubted any answers would be forthcoming. Anyone who knew her would be suspicious if she just blindly went along without any objections. Even so, she didn't have to fake the tremor fear had placed in her voice.
“Where are they taking me, Abdullah?” she asked the soldier she'd known practically all her life.
“Colonel al-Fariq is having you moved again. It's going to be all right,” he responded kindly. Lelia guessed that al-Fariq had forgotten that she and Abdullah had grown up next door to one another and their parents had been close friends. Pride had kept her from asking for quarter, and he wouldn't have granted any. But he'd been kind to her while she was incarcerated and had provided amenities that she knew were not available for most of the inmates. Al-Fariq had never been one to coddle those he considered to be his enemies.
Lelia was impressed with Astaria's understanding of how al-Fariq's mind worked and the canniness of developing an escape plan that took advantage of it. Having her moved on a regular basis played into his usual paranoid methods and no one would be suspicious of it.
Astaria took one of her arms to lead her out of the room. Lelia desperately wanted to run but knew that would raise suspicion, so she forced herself to walk at a slow, almost reluctant pace. They'd almost made it to the exterior door when one of the soldiers they'd left behind gave a sudden shout. She and Astaria took off at a dead run, crouching so as to make as small a target as possible. She almost collapsed in relief when Patrick and Stark burst through the door, their weapons drawn and ready.
Lelia lost her footing when Astaria pushed her through the open door as she drew her own weapon. Lelia landed several feet away, turning in a catlike motion to avoid landing on her face. As the firefight started, she struggled to her feet, encumbered by her restrained hands. She knew that they were overmatched by at least two men. Frustrated by her inability to help, she looked around for the vehicle that would be their means of escape. Perhaps she could at least have the truck ready to go when they emerged. Her eyes had just adjusted to the darkness enough to make out the outline of a four-ton truck, when the sound of automatic gunfire intensified. Her heart sank. The getaway hadn't worked. Unable to help in her own escape, she crouched in the shadowy recesses around the corner from the entrance, watching the door, fearing who would come through. Were they all dead? The cold knot of fear in her belly tightened as she visualized Patrick's lifeless body. He was so vibrant and full of life, it was almost impossible to comprehend that he might be gone. What about her soldiers? She could hardly bear the notion of being responsible for even more deaths.
Lelia was so caught up in mourning that for a moment she feared hallucinations when the doors suddenly burst open and Astaria and Sarai began backing out, still steadily firing their weapons. She watched her soldiers retreat even as the gunfire abruptly stopped. She squinted against the darkness, seeing only muzzle flashes in the night. Where was Patrick? Her panic increased as she looked around frantically. When he came charging out, with Stark right on his heels, she wanted to leap into the air. Patrick paused for a moment on the stoop, clearly looking for her. When she emerged from the shadows, he grabbed her arm, and they began running toward the truck. Their harsh breathing sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness after the firefight. Lelia struggled to stay on her feet without the use of her arms as they ran full tilt away from the palace.
Stark jumped into the driver's seat with Astaria riding shotgun while Patrick practically threw Lelia into the back of the truck. Sarai and Mura barely had time to jump on board before Stark gunned the motor, burning rubber out of the parking lot.
Lelia peered into the darkness as Sarai uncuffed her hands. Patrick and Mura were kneeling near the tailgate, their weapons raised just in case they were being followed. But Lelia could tell there was no one behind them. That was strange. Why weren't they being pursued?
Patrick responded as though he had read her mind. “It's the damnedest thing. They had us dead to rights, more men, more firepower, but they stopped halfway down the hall and quit shooting at us.”
Lelia breathed a sigh of relief. Abdullah had come through for her. She sent up a brief prayer of thanksgiving that Allah had been so generous.
* * *
Once it became obvious that they weren't being followed, Lelia relaxed against the side of the truck. Patrick and Mura holstered their weapons, and he slid over to her side. She sat staring at him, just eating him with her eyes as they bumped along in the back of the truck. There were dark shadows under his eyes and they were more than a bit bloodshot, but considering that she'd spent the past ten days convinced she'd never see him again, she didn't care how he looked. She just delighted in seeing him at all.
Lelia inhaled sharply when he reached out a callused hand and traced a finger along the path of a tear slipping silently down her cheek.
“My little commando,” he murmured softly. “I thought you were too tough to cry.”
Lelia sniffed loudly. “Those aren't tears. Your smell is making my eyes water. What did you guys do, swim all the way here?”
Patrick didn't take the bait. “I'd swim through hell itself to get to you.”
Lelia closed her eyes briefly. “Now I am going to cry.”
Her breath caught as Patrick cupped his hands around her face and then lowered his mouth to hers. The sudden hunger overwhelmed her senses and Lelia opened her mouth as wide as possible, taking in as much of him as she could. She tangled her tongue with his, pressing herself so close against him that not even a breath separated them. She felt rather than heard his groan as he grabbed the back of her head in his hands, slanting his mouth over hers. He began devouring her, his lips insistent against hers, his body pressing her against the side of the truck. Heat bloomed along her nerve endings, leaving her oblivious to the discomfort of the metal digging into her flesh. During her incarceration, she'd become convinced that she'd never feel this way again. Having it returned to her so unexpectedly left her almost light-headed with joy. Lelia shivered uncontrollably relishing the moment.
Somehow she heard Sarai's sardonic, “I know you probably haven't noticed, and really, who could blame you? But, Sergeant, you two are not alone. Thought I might mention that before this gets really embarrassing.” From the soldier's tone of voice, Lelia suspected it wasn't the first time she'd tried to intervene. Lelia opened her eyes slowly. Patrick's were still tightly closed in a grimace that almost looked like pain. She reached up to smooth his brow and whispered against his lips, “Trick, darling, we have to stop.” Patrick groaned again and the grimace briefly deepened; then, as though he had suddenly come back to reality, he slowly pulled away. He stroked her face for another long moment, then leaned down to press his forehead against hers.
“I didn't think I'd ever see you again,” he murmured, his thick tones almost incomprehensible.
Lelia placed her hands over his. “I know,” she whispered back. “I felt the same way. I was so scared.” She closed her eyes as her voice broke. “I thought I would die; then I thought you were dead.” She exhaled heavily. “I don't ever want to be that scared again.”
He pulled her closer against his chest. “I know, baby, I know.”
She rested against him, relieved to absorb his strength and revel in the knowledge that for the first time in her life she had someone to lean on. Gradually, she became aware of the air around them changing. The salty tang was unmistakable. She raised her head, looking around at the vehicle's other passengers, then back at Patrick. “Where are we going?”
He grinned down at her. “It's our escape route, sugar. Don't worry. You'll come out smelling as good as we do.”
* * *
Mura dipped her head. “Didn't seem like a lot to ask to keep you from losing your head.” She squirmed uncomfortably on one of the straight-backed chairs that occupied their tiny cabin.
Lelia was too overwhelmed by emotion to give a real response for that. The sacrifices they'd made and the risks they'd taken left her humbled. It was almost more than she could bear. To distract herself before she began weeping again, she studied the small cabin the captain had placed all four women in. Possessing only one narrow bunk and a few mismatched chairs lined up against dingy paneled walls, the room was less accommodating than her cell—and with more people. Thank goodness they expected to rendezvous with another vessel for the rest of their trip across the Mediterranean. She couldn't imagine having to sleep there. The captain had taken Patrick and Stark back topside. Neither man had seemed surprised. Apparently they'd worked on their passage to Laritrea and fully expected to do the same on the way back.