by Zoe Dawson
It didn’t matter. He’d lost her anyway.
“Wha—what are you doing here?”
“Mission, Solace. It’s always a mission.”
“In Somalia?” She started to nod to herself. “That’s why we were put on alert. They didn’t tell us anything else.”
Their marriage had culminated down to a special ops mission that had left the SEALs, an injured pilot and Solace on the ground surrounded by forces they couldn’t win against. The chopper had been hit while flying the SEALs for insertion to take out a warlord in Nigeria. One who had been brutally and forcefully recruiting children and causing country-wide health issues by stopping humanitarian aid during an Ebola outbreak.
It had been nothing but black pain, terrifying, blind horror, and a failure he would never get over.
Never.
When they had gotten back to safety with only he, Solace and four of his eight-man team, he had ordered, without mercy, that she get out of the Night Stalkers. Challenging her had gotten her back up, and she’d accused him of undermining her career and making demands that weren’t his to make. There was no communication, no conversation, only his adamant pressure that she quit. When she refused, he walked out in a black rage that left him bereft. The incident had destroyed their marriage, a marriage that had been hanging by a thread for a long time due to their deployments, distance, and disagreements.
He’d lost five men on that mission, the only time he’d ever lost lives in his career. He’d gotten a medal for getting them out on sheer guts and unrelenting determination. He wasn’t so sure it had anything to do with the brotherhood or the mission, and more to do with the woman he loved beyond reason.
He regretted those deaths, all in the line of duty, but he would have sacrificed his own to save Solace.
“They didn’t tell you because this is highly classified and need to know. It’s not going to be pretty.”
He squeezed his free hand into a fist to stop the sudden trembling. He wasn’t prepared for this right now. He was going on little sleep and food. His hope was to recoup both before this mission executed.
She set her hands on her hips, hands that flew Black Hawks, Chinooks and lethal, heavily armed Little Birds. There wasn’t any condition she wouldn’t fly in—bad weather, tricky terrain, enemy fire. After Nigeria, he couldn’t handle knowing that she was in that kind of danger. After Nigeria, he was bitter and angry, and it had taken him years to put all that anger in perspective.
“We both know it never is, Ford.”
Someone called her name. A man who was standing on the flight deck.
The twinge of jealousy sparked through him and brought anger, but he tamped it down, paid attention to his duty. She didn’t belong to him anymore…if she ever had. Solace was her own person, independent and headstrong. They did nothing but clash, except in the bedroom. There, they ignited.
He focused on her sweet mouth. The anticipation of kissing her riddled through his blood like a burning fuse on its way to detonation. When he met her gaze, the hot look in her green eyes told him she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Fast Lane’s gaze narrowed, irritated with that still. Waving to her co-worker, she held up her finger. Fast Lane sighed. She walked toward him, stopping when she reached him. “Good luck with whatever you’re here for, Ford.” She took a step, then turned back. “The years look good on you, you bastard.” Then with a self-satisfied smile, she walked away.
Feeling like a man tottering on the brink of insanity, he scowled. With a soft curse, he turned on his heel and headed for chow and a bunk. What he needed was sleep and food, and to get his head on straight.
What he wanted…what he dreamed of and craved was his ex-wife.
Aella hit the ground hard, dust rising at her impact.
Get up! Get up! Get up! The mantra thundered in her head, even as she shook off the dizziness of the blow. That voice in her head sounded way too much like Zach “Saint” Bartholomew. That was a man who never gave up, and she couldn’t either.
It wasn’t her own life and virtue at stake anymore. That bastard Omar had made sure of it. He was always upping the stakes. The three days she’d been here, he’d finally gotten impatient and sent her into the ring with two men. She’d beaten every opponent to Omar’s disgust.
The bonfire lit up this area of the city near a courtyard surrounded by tires that doubled as their fighting ring. His rebels surrounded her in a circle, betting, yelling, catcalling. She was at their mercy and was well aware it would only be a matter of time before she lost.
Omar would see to it.
She pushed off the ground before a bare foot could crush her head. She rolled, transitioning right to her feet.
Warm blood pooled in her mouth. She spit it out, and the man smiled. His tag team partner laughed from behind him. The moan slid back down her throat, denying him that victory. They would enjoy her scream, but she offered no sound except her struggle for air.
She kept her head tucked, her hands up, shielding her face.
Between his feet scraping in the dust and his macho posture, she listened to his indrawn breath and watched his eyes. It’s where his attack would come from.
Her stomach coiled noisily, acid simmering on nothing. Food was a memory, and she closed the mental door and kept in position, waiting for another strike. She would get to eat soon enough, her captivity meaningless stretches between bouts.
She envisioned the man’s face to be Darko’s, the other one Zasha. Their visages fueled her anger and determination to fight until she couldn’t fight anymore.
“Stop stalling and finish it,” Omar said, his accent scraped along her nerve endings with a guttural sound. His words more a threat than an order. These two men, her combatants, knew what was in store for them if they lost.
She wanted to kill Axmed Omar. He knew it. His demands were more frequent and theirs was a twisted relationship. He talked and tried to grope. She barely spoke and fought him off. She wondered if his nose still hurt.
He sat at the apex of the circle with the girls around him, like his mini-harem: Hani, twelve, Idil, eleven, Khadiija, nine, Sagal, thirteen, Yasmiin, fifteen, and Uba, six. They had arrived on the second day of her imprisonment. Tiny, beautiful little girls kidnapped from their village. Her protective instincts mingled with her fighting instincts. There was so much at stake here.
Young lives, their honor and innocence in her hands, in her battered senses and body.
Her closet opponent clasped his hands together and cracked his bruised knuckles. It had to hurt, but he didn’t seem affected. Her face throbbed where his fist had connected. She hoped he hadn’t broken her cheekbone.
Then he moved and she waited. He feinted at her, and she reared back, successfully dodging the left hook she had expected him to throw to the side of her face. The feint was to knock her off balance, but she was a seasoned MMA fighter, and it would be a cold day in hell that some amateur rebel fighter could do that.
As soon as his left hook sailed harmlessly past her face, she stepped into him and executed three jabs to his face, then she set up for her right uppercut. She had to be quick and brutal here. Her goal wasn’t to gain points in a match, but to knock him out and eliminate him from the fight.
Her fist connected, and his head recoiled with a satisfying snap. He dropped to the ground onto one knee, and she grabbed his head, brought up her thigh and slammed her knee into his face. He went limp like a rag doll, then hit his back, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. One down. One to go.
She bent over, her sore hands on her knees. He’d let her bind her hands, but not with the boxing tape she was used to. This was just cotton and not strong enough to protect her knuckles.
The second man moved forward, and it was clear Omar wasn’t going to give her time to catch her breath or allow her water like he’d done in the past. Fairness had gone out the window.
The man gave her no chance to even move back into a fighting stance. He launched himself at her.
She backpedaled, almost lost her footing, but recovered, crouching as his wild punch drifted over her head.
He was an undisciplined fighter, young and wild. It would be to his disadvantage.
Still in a crouch, she turned twice to get some distance, popped up and with all her remaining strength, twisted into a roundhouse kick, her heel hitting his face a stunning blow. He staggered and almost went down, but he righted himself and shook his head. With a malevolent look, he pierced her with his glare.
He ran at her, and she struck, once in the throat, the nose, then a hit under his arm. The man folded, then hit back three times in a beat down that took everything Aella had to fight off. She landed a blow under his jaw and the man staggered, collapsed. Aella lurched back, poised to strike, but the guy dropped into a squat and swept her leg, clipping her behind the knees. Aella fell, her back smacking into the hardpacked dirt. She didn’t think or try to catch her breath. If he got her pinned, it would be over. But she was a fraction too late, he tumbled his weight on top of her. She felt her ribs give. She clapped his ears, stunning him, then rolled hard, gripping the bastard’s arm and getting him into a wrestler’s choke hold. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she squeezed his neck as hard as she could with all the pressure she could muster.
She heard a crack, and he went limp. She scrambled out from under him. Her body and face throbbing from the blows and the take down.
She knelt in the dirt for a moment, refusing to be cowed or beaten. With deliberate movements, she rose to her feet and stood there, bloody but defiant.
For a moment she panted and met Omar’s shocked, then admiring gaze, giving him a smug look.
He wiped it off her face when he motioned a fresh man into the ring.
The next thing Aella knew as she woke with a start was that she was inside a room. She had fought two more men, but the last one had the advantage. She was exhausted, starved, dehydrated and injured. He’d knocked her out when her reflexes had slowed down. After a blurry, bleary moment, she recognized it as the place where she had been imprisoned.
With a sinking heart, she understood she had finally lost.
Her head throbbed and her jaw ached like hell. She clenched her teeth, wondering if she still had them all, relieved when there was pain but everything seemed intact. The inside of her cheek was shredded, but physical injuries would heal.
The six girls were scattered around her, the youngest snuggled up to her supine body. Aella reached out and smoothed her hand over the child’s wiry hair. She mustered as much reassurance as she could at the remaining five terrified faces above her.
The door jiggled, the lock releasing, then Omar came through. “You are a formidable fighter, my amazon, but you have lost and now you must give me what you bargained with.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You are a cheating, dishonorable monster,” she spat out, knowing that her and the girls’ sexual abuse were days if not hours away.
“You will be given time to heal. Then you will be mine along with your young allies. Heal well. You will need to be at your best for what I have in store for you.” He came close and said, “Her. The oldest one. Take her.”
One of the guards grabbed Yasmiin, but Aella put herself between them and fought him off. Omar laughed and motioned in another guard. He came to Aella and hit her in the face twice, then pinned her down. All the girls started to cry and huddle together, holding on to Yasmiin with their small arms and hands.
“Aella!” Yasmiin screamed as they dragged her out of the room.
“It is time you all learned your places,” Omar said, then with a swirl of his robes, he was gone. She held back hot tears, wishing Saint were here. He would never have given up.
The girls rushed to her as she gathered them close.
If it was the last thing she did, Omar would die regardless of what he did to her.
She vowed it.
2
Saint rolled over on his bunk after checking his watch for the millionth time. It was as if time was moving at a snail’s pace. He heard snoring in the barracks where they were billeted. He had slept for a bit, but fitfully. Unable to lie there any longer, he sat up.
He ran his hands through his hair as he glanced out the long, small windows. The sun was setting on a beleaguered city, and he and his teammates were about to leave the safe zone.
Somewhere out there in the southeast of the city was Aella. They had an idea where she was from triangulating the cell phone that had demanded the ransom for her. But Saint suspected that Omar had no intentions of giving up Aella and the request for money was nothing but a stalling tactic so he could do what he wanted with her.
Fuck Zasha and Darko. He’d had enough of both of them. He wasn’t at all deterred by the fact that they would be hard to find but reveled in the team’s blanket mission to find them and take them out for good. There would be a lot of justice served.
That’s what SEALs were. The marshals that cleaned up the world so decent people could live their lives in peace and security.
Those double trouble thugs were up to their old tricks. Two of the most dangerous and most wanted people in the world.
Saint rose and headed for the bathroom. Inside he stripped out of his shorts, hanging his towel on the small hook by the showers. Turning on the water, he closed his eyes and let the heat pour over him. Frustration bordering on anger churned in his gut, and he wished like hell he had Omar in his sights.
As the steam curled around him, he tried to shut down old feelings, feelings he had no right to feel, but they kept rising up in him without mercy. Gritting his teeth against the rush of emotion, he clenched his hands into fists, trying to stop the response. He didn’t want to feel as if his skin was rubbed raw every time he took a breath.
He was well aware he had nothing under control and that was jarring for him. He’d walked the line a few times, came close to insubordination on a couple of missions, but in the end, he obeyed orders.
But Aella, from the moment he’d laid eyes on her in Bosnia in her catsuit getup, had thrown him for a loop. His first instinct was that she was going to fuck him up. His plan had been to cut all ties with her in DC. He couldn’t in all good conscience say he didn’t regret it, but it was for the best. It would save them a lot of heartache down the road.
Little did he know how much she would fuck him up.
He soaped up and washed his hair. God knew when he would get a chance for another shower. In his line of business, he took the comforts where he could find them.
He stepped out and dried off, jerked the towel to his face, anger surging in him. He wanted to smash someone’s face in. That son of a bitch Omar came immediately to mind.
He tucked the towel around his neck and went to one of the sinks. He looked at himself in the mirror. His beard was bushy and somewhat overgrown, but was perfect for this op.
He looked up and met Pitbull’s eyes in the reflection.
“What’s up with you?” his teammate asked. Errol “Pitbull” Ballentine was aptly named, and he was like a dog with a bone when he sank his teeth in deep.
“I’m worried about her,” he said in a clipped tone that did not invite any conversation, but that didn’t matter to their point man. Saint was aware that he had LT’s ear and he would have to work around this minefield.
Not that Pit would rat him out, but for the good of the mission, he would tell Fast Lane that Saint was struggling.
“We all are. But it’s something more with you. What exactly happened in Bosnia?”
“You don’t know? I thought for sure, 2-Stroke would have spilled the beans.”
“I didn’t tell them jack, Saint. That’s your business.” 2-Stroke, completely naked, came into the bathroom and walked to the shower. He rubbed his face and shrugged. “The fact that you haven’t stayed in touch with her says plenty.”
“Anyone with eyes could see he had a thing for her,” Mad Max said, his towel around his neck and his shorts riding low on his hips. “Didn’t you see t
he way he took care of her compound fracture after he saved 2-Stroke?”
“No, I was too busy trying to make sure no one else got shot,” Pitbull said, eyeing Saint. He wasn’t letting it go.
“Admirable, mate,” Dodger said, a towel around his waist, his shower kit in his hand. “But sometimes you’re an unobservant wanker.”
“Who you calling a wanker?” Dragon asked as he came in.
“Pit. He doesn’t know that Saint has it bad for that sweet ATF bird.”
Hemingway laughed softly as he entered. “Dodger, how do you know? You weren’t even there.”
“Professor filled me in, didn’t he? There’s always good gossip after a mission.”
All of them started to talk at once. Saint shook his head and exited the bathroom. At his bunk, he stowed his kit and got dressed.
“Zach,” Pitbull said.
“Just drop it, Pit. Whatever we had is over. I just care about her. I’ll keep my head in the game.”
He nodded and walked back to his bunk as Saint heard laughter and towel snapping in the bathroom. Sometimes he thought he was working with a bunch of jackasses. But they were his jackasses and he loved them like brothers, even when they were being intrusive jerks.
Fast Lane hadn’t slept well…hell, he’d barely slept. He wasn’t sure if it was his jumping brainwaves that were telling him there was more going on in this country than the usual terrorist activity or if it was because Solace had hardwired him into reacting to her even after all this time had passed.
There was a buzzing at the base of his skull that told him his SEAL instincts were reacting to bits and pieces of intel that were manifesting into a whole, but the revelation was eluding him.
Fast Lane visualized every mission parameter, beginning to end, before his team was set in motion: Terrain maps, satellite coverage, INFIL procedures, team movement, target response, counterinsurgency probabilities, backup plans, more backup plans and EXFIL procedures.
