The Princess And The Mercenary

by Victoria Paige

  The son of a bitch gave them up to the general in exchange for Al-Fayed’s location.

  With Yara’s primary tracker unreachable, the military refused to deploy their SEALs on standby. This was fine with Kade. The objective of the SEALs was either to kill or capture Al-Fayed and seize any intel on terrorist activities; Kade wasn’t about to have Yara become collateral damage.

  BloodTrak serum was part of Garrison’s secondary protocol in case a covert op went FUBAR. The injectable was more effective, but for purposes of portability, most military contractors who could afford them, kept the pill form.

  The CIA man had activated it on either himself or Yara. Kade had half a mind to leave Garrison’s ass behind for selling them out.

  It had been a risky move on Kade’s part to go face-to-face with Nasir, but killing the man was not an option. His proposal was for the rebel leader to step down and turn over control to Tariq, stopping further bloodshed. If Kade killed a man because of his political beliefs that would make him the bloodthirsty mercenary Yara despised.

  Tariq was in the other chopper with the rebel soldiers. There were objections from his advisors about going on the mission because of his newly appointed position, but he argued he owed it to Yara to get her back himself.

  With Kade in the chopper were the recently freed Roarke, Russo, Jed, plus Bob who had the BloodTrack app he used to track Yara. He kept both helicopters updated on their target. The only rebel with them was their pilot who appeared used to flying this piece of junk.

  Their chopper rattled and dove twenty feet, engines screaming, as it struggled to keep them in the air.

  Son of a bitch. This thing was a death trap.

  “Shit, man, I think I’m gonna puke!” Roarke shouted from the back. Despite the stomach-churning ride and his anxiety over Yara, Kade smiled. It was damned fine to have someone he trusted on his six again.

  “They’re heading to Bayda as suspected,” Bob hollered.

  Kade checked his GPS and recalibrated. “Ten minutes.”

  They had the cover of night on their side.

  Hang on, Tink. I’m coming for ya.

  Jamal Al-Fayed did not look like a man who ordered the bombing of planes or U.S. Embassies. He did not look like a man who sent explosive packages to New York to use during Fourth of July celebrations, and he certainly didn’t look like a man who would behead someone in front of a camera for the world to see.

  He looked like a scholar with his round-lensed frameless glasses.

  He stood before Yara and Garrison, a kufi on his shaved head, wearing long gray robes typically worn by Arab men.

  When they entered the jihadist’s lair, they were led into a sparsely furnished living room.

  “Please remove their bindings,” Al-Fayed told one of his men. He talked in soft-spoken English, with a hint of a British accent.

  When the zip ties were cut, Yara flexed her arms and wiggled her fingers, welcoming the relief of blood flowing back into her limbs. Garrison stood beside her, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  “Please sit.”

  They sat.

  Six Al Qaeda guards surrounded them, all armed with AK-47s.

  A woman brought out refreshments. A tray holding a pot of tea, ornate tea cups, and an assortment of sweets. Yara’s brows furrowed as she watched the woman lay down the tray and serve them. She looked familiar.

  The woman looked at her and smiled. It was a sad smile.

  It was Abdul’s daughter.

  Yara dragged her eyes from the woman, heart thumping, and looked at Al-Fayed.

  “Please.” Al-Fayed gestured at the refreshments. At their hesitation, he went ahead and took a sip from a cup. “It’s not poison.”

  “Where’s the general?” John asked.

  The Al Qaeda leader sighed. “He’s checking out some of our prisoners. Some of his soldiers were cowards and tried to run away. He’s teaching them a lesson.”

  Al-Fayed popped a sticky sugar pastry in his mouth and chewed slowly. After taking another sip of his tea, he looked at John. “Not hungry? You should really eat.” He smirked. “This is all you’re going to get before you lose your head.”

  Yara gasped.

  The terrorist directed his gaze at her. “Don’t worry, Ms. Emerson. That will not be your fate. Contrary to what the Americans believe, we are not total monsters.” He smacked his lips. “I am feeling benevolent which is more than I can say for your military and CIA.”

  He was feeling benevolent? Did she feel relief because Al-Fayed was going to spare her life? No. Because the ransom he would get for her would be used to make bombs to kill innocent people. Children.

  Al-Fayed’s eyes cut back to Garrison, narrowing with the slightest emotion. “You bomb our lands and attack our homes. Drag our brothers away and lock them in prisons to torture and treat us like animals.”

  Garrison made a sound of derision. “Are we forgetting you sent a plane into the World Trade Center? Attacked our embassies?”

  “Because the West supports Israel. Our hearts bleed seeing U.S. troops in the land of Mohammed. We cannot watch our Muslim brothers suffer.”

  “Muslim brothers?” Garrison scoffed. “You’ve been killing each other for centuries, not to mention right here and right now.”

  “That is our business,” Al-Fayed said quietly. “And the West interferes once again with the peace talks.”

  “You’re afraid of being left out of the negotiations table,” Garrison continued his attack. “You hate the Saudi monarchy for turning to the Americans for help. You scrounge whatever crumbs you can get from the general to fight against the rebels because your own country—Saudi Arabia—does not recognize your caliphate. They’ve branded you and your thugs enemies of the state and declared the U.S. its ally.”

  What the hell was John doing? Yara thought wildly as the congenial mask of their jihadist host began to crack.

  Al-Fayed’s cup trembled in his hands and he had to set it on the table. His eyes dropped to the assorted items before him as if contemplating the flakiness of the baklava, or the painted flowers of the teapot, but, Yara suspected, he was really contemplating the numerous ways he could decapitate John.

  Yara gulped, turned her head to the CIA man, and glared at him to shut up.

  John spared her a brief glance before returning his stare at their host, a smirk forming on his lips.

  Al-Fayed rapped his knuckles on the table and lifted his gaze, a tight smile etched on his lips. “Yalla. We’re wasting time. I believe Mr. Garrison is anxious to get the show started.”

  The AQAP leader brought them to his propaganda room. Banners hung on the wall. A series of light bulbs strung along a beam casting the room into an atrocious incandescent glow. No wonder these jihadist recordings felt like a seventies Tarantino noir film. The faded yellow paint chipped and peeled from the surface. Yara avoided looking at the blood-stained concrete floors and the drain in the middle of the room. The smell of chlorine mixed with a coppery twang—the smell of blood.

  One of Al-Fayed’s men stood in front of the tripod-mounted camera, pointed ominously at Yara. “Shall we begin with your manifesto?”

  “I don’t know if I can read this.” Her voice cracked, looking at the sheet of paper thrust in front of her. The meticulous handwritten declaration, written in elegant script, alluded to Al-Fayed’s impeccable education. On their way to this room, the jihadist leader recounted his time as a student of philosophy at the University of Birmingham, conversing with Yara as if they were acquaintances discovering a shared experience.

  “Don’t you agree it’s the truth?” Al-Fayed said.

  “Anyone who watches the video will know I’m being forced to say this.”

  “Then you’ll have to make it convincing.”

  “The U.S. won’t pay—”

  “Let’s not pretend that your parents won’t pay the ransom.”

  “The State Department won’t allow it,” John interrupted. “You need someone like me to make a bac
kdoor deal.”

  “Trying to make yourself indispensable, Mr. Garrison?” Al-Fayed scoffed.

  “Just telling it as it is.”

  Al-Fayed’s mouth twitched as if wanting to rebut John’s statement, but turned his attention to Yara instead. “Yalla. We’re wasting time. Do as you’re told, Ms. Emerson. I’d hate to resort to threats.”

  This isn’t a threat already?

  Be strong. Think of Kade. Think of the innocent people killed because of these fanatics’ religious beliefs. Think of a united Yemen. For Abdul’s daughter. Hope for young girls like Laila.

  “You may begin.”

  Yara glanced down at the paper they’d given her, denouncing the United States and its presence in the Middle East.

  “My name is Yara Emerson,” she started. “As a humanitarian aid worker in Yemen, I’ve seen the devastation caused by this civil war. We need to end this conflict.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Al-Fayed tap on his hand signaling her to get on with what was written on the paper. “The United States …” Her voice faltered. “The United States must re-evaluate its support of Saudi Arabia—”

  “Miss Emerson!”

  “They’re the state sponsor of terrorism!”

  “Miss Emerson! Stop the recording, Omar!”

  “Yara … goddammit,” Garrison growled.

  Yara glared at Al-Fayed. “You’re a motherfucking coward. You hide behind your twisted interpretation of Is—”

  Pain exploded on her cheek and she toppled from the chair. A sandaled foot kicked her between the ribs.

  “You spineless bastard!” John shot up from his chair. They zip-tied his hands behind his back again. A rifle point poked at his chest. “Leave her alone. I’m here. Take it out on me, you motherfucker.”

  Al-Fayed dragged Yara by her hair and set her back on the chair. “We will do this again.”

  “Sit down,” he ordered John and shoved him back to his seat. Al-Fayed unsheathed a machete and held it to John’s neck. “You don’t do as you’re told, Ms. Emerson, and your CIA friend will lose his head … sooner.”

  “Now or later, what difference does it make?” Garrison snarled.

  “Shut up, John,” Yara snapped.

  “You shut up,” he snapped back. “You started it.”

  “Both of you. Quiet!” Al-Fayed’s uncharacteristic outburst startled his cohorts and his soldiers looked at each other nervously. The blade on Garrison’s neck depressed and drew blood.

  John’s mouth thinned and Yara’s heart lurched in her throat. It was one thing to put your own life on the chopping block, but it was a whole different story when another person’s life was dependent on your compliance.

  “Don’t look at me, honey,” John whispered. “Look at the screen. Do as you’re told.”

  Yara bit her lip as she tried to swallow a sob. The nightmare finally bled into her veins as the shock of Kade’s death lifted and the knowledge John’s life was in her hands settled.

  That she could not make a difference shredded her to the core. She would remember this day as the worst day of her life.

  If she survived it.

  The camera light went red.

  “My name is Yara Emerson.” Her voice shook, and a sob hitched in her throat. “I …”

  A sound cracked outside their room and the lights went out. An explosion shook the floor and a gust from shattered debris blew through her, particles pelting her.

  She screamed. Men shouted.

  Gunfire erupted and then, in a split second, only sounds of fighting, of flesh hitting flesh remained.

  She rubbed her lids, desperate to get the grit from under them.

  Yara could hardly make out the big shadow approaching her.

  “Who …” she started.

  Strong familiar arms engulfed her in a tight hug.

  She was afraid to hope.

  “I got you back,” was whispered in her ear.

  “Kade?”

  “I’ve got you, Tink.”

  Earlier …

  “Signal’s coming from a group of mud houses at the edge of Bayda,” Bob informed Kade as they hovered near the location. “I can pinpoint the exact site once we get closer.”

  “Our choppers are not exactly stealth,” Kade shouted above the sound of the rotors. “That’s gonna be a problem.”

  “We can land at a hospital two miles from the target,” Bob replied. “Nothing but dried-up agricultural fields lead to the buildings. Our guys can make tracks to the location.”

  “No choice,” Kade replied. The last thing they wanted was an RPG taking down the rickety chopper. He missed the BlackHawks and their fifty cals. Landing behind the hospital could give them a MEDEVAC cover.

  Nine men made the infiltration trek to the site—Kade and four of his men, Tariq, and three of his. With more experience on recovery missions, Kade and his team led. Tariq and his soldiers stayed behind to lay cover fire if needed. They’d also identified the transformer that supplied power to the buildings and would coordinate the shutoff.

  The area surrounding the buildings had an abundance of rock outcroppings, perfect for concealment; and the moonless night worked to their advantage. Bob had his gizmos at work, the most useful was the heat-signature scanner which pinpointed every warm body in the cluster of buildings.

  There were seven perimeter guards.

  Four in front, three in the back. Tangos were scattered all over three two-story buildings.

  The signal was coming from the building on the left on the second floor. Unfortunately, Bob’s gadget didn’t reveal how many partitions were in each building.

  Leaving Bob with Tariq and his men, Kade, Roarke, Jed, and Zeke crouch-ran toward the target building.

  Kade and Roarke easily capped the two hostiles guarding the entrance with simultaneous suppressed rounds, cutting them down like marionettes with severed strings. The clock was on. Guards usually checked in every half hour according to Tariq, so they had less than that to get in and out.

  Their four-man squad cleared the first floor, taking down another two men in the living room. They quietly navigated the steps to the second floor after getting the go ahead from Bob. Before they turned into the hallway of the second level, Kade used a mirror to check the floor. It was clear of hostiles.

  He counted three doors. From Bob’s heat signature coordinates, all the warm bodies were in the room behind the third one. Roarke guarded the corridor, while Kade and the others entered the adjacent room to where the warm bodies were registering.

  Zeke attached the demolition charges, calibrating so as not to take down the support beam.

  “Tariq,” Kade spoke through their comms, retreating just to the mouth of the room. “We’re in position. Cut the lights.”

  “Right,” the new rebel leader replied.

  Several tense seconds and then …

  Crack!

  The dark night grew darker.

  Zeke pressed the trigger.

  Boom!

  Kade battled through the ringing in his ears, lowered his NVGs, and, as a unit, they stepped over the opening in the wall and fired methodical shots.

  It was over in seconds and he rushed over to Yara who had her hands over her eyes.

  His peripheral vision caught Garrison doing some ninja shit, battling with a jihadist. He’d sort out his feelings about his colleague later. At that moment all he could see was Yara.

  Holy fuck! He got her back!

  The ice he’d coated around his heart melted to a degree and his knees almost buckled with a relief that overwhelmed him, but danger was far from over.

  He hauled her into his arms and squeezed her tight. “I got you back.”

  “Kade?”

  “I’ve got you, Tink.”

  “Kade, they’re swarming!” Bob spoke through comms. “Get out of there! EXFIL B! EXFIL B!”

  Barrage of automatic gunfire exploded from the outside.

  “Roger that.

  “EXFIL B!” Kade roared. Taking
his arm from around Yara, he grabbed her hand and dragged her behind him.

  “Some help here!” Garrison yelled from the floor. He had a jihadist’s neck in a leg lock, his wrists—still bound—under the man’s chin. Roarke cut his bindings and helped secure the surviving jihadist, hauling the man up.

  “Is that …” Kade started.

  “Yes.”

  Holy fuck. They got Al-Fayed!

  Garrison accepted a gun from Roarke and then, passing Kade, he squeezed his shoulder and gave Yara a clipped nod before pushing their prisoner ahead of them.

  As they reached the first floor, hostiles burst through the door but with the advantage of night vision, Kade and his crew cut them down quickly with staccato pops.

  They made it outside the building. The fiery arc and exchange of gunfire lit the courtyard.

  With EXFIL B, they weren’t regrouping with Tariq’s group that were keeping the hostiles pinned at the courtyard. They were escaping from the side of the building into the fields.

  Kade guided Yara into the uneven terrain. She stumbled behind him, but like the trooper she was, she did not complain and did not slow down.

  “Shit. How do we get back to the helos?” Zeke spoke, but Kade couldn’t hear him through comms. “Bob … Bob?”

  Fuck, was Bob okay? Static.

  “We lost comms,” Kade yelled to their group. “Keep going in the direction of the city lights. The hospital is at the edge.”

  They jogged for what seemed like forever until they made it to a clearing. The sound of gunfire faded in the distance.

  They spotted an airfield, a helicopter, an assortment of aircraft parts and, in the lit hangar, a plane parked right at the opening.

  Kade could work with that. “Looks like we got our ride.”

  “This is where we came in,” Garrison said.

  “What do you mean?” Kade asked.

  “That’s General Boustari’s chopper,” Yara said, coming up beside him and nodding at the helicopter parked outside the hangar.

  They crouch-sprinted closer to the building and Roarke made a signal that he was going to scope it out.

  Kade nodded for Jed to go with him as the rest of them took cover behind dry thickets.