Taking Fire

by Cindy Gerard

  “Over here!” someone called out.

  Near collapse, Talia lifted her head to see one of the young Marines who provided embassy security rushing their way.

  When he reached them, she let him relieve her of Taggart’s weight and help them both to a hastily set-up triage station.

  “Stay right here.” The Marine headed off toward more victims, some walking, some being carried away from the ruined building. “The nurse will take care of you soon.”

  She didn’t need someone to take care of her. She needed to get out of here.

  The lone nurse spotted them, rushed over, and guided them under a tarp rigged between two emergency vehicles.

  “Please, sit down over there.” She nodded toward the makeshift benches made from long planks and packing crates. A woman sat on the bench crying, and others lay on tarps spread on the grass.

  The nurse handed them each a bottle of water, and Talia gratefully accepted it and drank half of it down before she came up for air. Beside her, Taggart did the same. They both needed rehydrating badly.

  “I need your phone,” Talia told the nurse urgently.

  “I’m sorry.” The kind-eyed nurse exhibited amazing calm, considering the chaos and the cries of the wounded she was caring for. “I have to keep this line clear to consult with the embassy doctor in Kuwait.”

  Talia wanted to beg, but she knew all about protocol. “What time is it?” she asked, as the nurse quickly looked her over, then checked her vitals.

  “Last time I looked, it was seven thirty.”

  An hour and a half since the explosion.

  “Now, please, stay quiet so I can get a good look at you.”

  “I don’t have time. I have to get to a phone. I have to get to my car.”

  “You need a hospital,” the nurse insisted when coughs wracked Talia’s body and made it impossible for her to speak. “We’ve engaged the Omani military to help. They’ll get you to a medical facility for further evaluation. And you need to be fully debriefed—so you aren’t going anywhere.”

  She moved on to Taggart, removed the makeshift dressing from his head, and quickly examined his wound. Then she checked his pupils.

  “He needs further treatment, too. He may have a concussion or something worse.” She efficiently cleaned the wound, then taped a sterile gauze dressing over it.

  “Look,” Talia insisted when she found her breath again. “I’ll take care of him. I’ll get us both to a hospital. The others need your help much more than we do. We’ll be fine.”

  Now that he was off his feet and had downed his second bottle of water, Taggart had rallied. His strength was returning, and his eyes were clearer now. And they were full of contempt when he looked at her.

  He could hate her all he wanted, but she wasn’t letting him out of her sight. Every day for six long years, she’d regretted leaving him. Whether this chance meeting was God’s will or an ironic twist of fate, she didn’t care. Too many things had been left unsaid between them. Things she couldn’t tell him when she had left him in Kabul.

  Things he had a right to know.

  And she needed him to help her save her son.

  “Tell her you’re okay.” With a meaningful look, she begged Taggart not to fight her. “Tell her you’re coming with me.”

  Sirens and shouted orders and the chaos all around them faded to the background before he finally turned to the nurse. “You heard her. I’m fine.”

  Relief and hope flooded Talia’s chest. Then he crushed both when he told her, “But I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m going back in.”

  The nurse easily pushed him down with a hand on his shoulder when he tried to get up. “Sorry, sir, but—”

  “My friend’s in there!” His voice was scratchy and raw from the toxic air, but that didn’t weaken his determination. “I’ve got to get him out.”

  Talia reached for his hand before she could stop herself. His hard glare made her pull it back. “You can’t go back in there,” she said.

  “All I needed was fluids.” Ignoring the desperation he must see on her face, he reached for another bottle of water. “Couple more of these, and I’m good to go.”

  “Look,” the nurse said in a no-nonsense voice. “No one is to leave the triage area unless they’re in critical need of a hospital. I’m to call a Marine to restrain anyone who tries to leave. I don’t think you want that. And I don’t think you want to take a Marine away from rescue and recovery to babysit you.”

  “She’s right. Let them do their jobs,” Talia said. “Please.”

  His eyes met hers, and for a moment, before they iced over, she saw them as she’d seen them when he hadn’t hated her.

  He looked toward the ruins of the embassy building. Let out a deep breath. “Fine,” he said, finally backing down.

  She’d seen the moment he’d accepted that in his current condition, he’d be more in the way than helpful.

  Someone cried out, and the nurse looked back over her shoulder. “I’ve got to go. If you start feeling worse, call me.”

  As soon as she left, Talia moved in to help him up.

  “You heard the lady. We’re to stay put,” he said.

  “Yeah, I heard. Now, let’s go before she gets back.”

  “You know that when our bodies aren’t accounted for, we’re both going to end up on a short list of suspects.”

  They kept a daily log of everyone who entered and left the embassy. She’d been here less than a week, and Taggart had arrived just today. So yes, she knew. But she couldn’t let it matter.

  She dragged his arm over her shoulder again. “Let’s go,” she repeated.

  He muttered something under his breath and grabbed two more water bottles, and without a word, they started walking.

  * * *

  Fatigue started winning out over adrenaline; it no longer blocked the pain. Every bruise, every cut—­especially the ones on her feet—stung like fire as they hurried across the lawn toward the parking lot.

  She knew she had to keep moving. Anything inside the embassy compound was considered the sovereign territory of the United States government. If any of the Marines guarding the embassy caught them attempting to leave, they’d detain them for certain. They’d want to clear everyone before they were allowed to leave the bombing area.

  She couldn’t let that happen. Using the background pandemonium and the emergency vehicles as cover, she kept moving. Until Taggart stopped abruptly, and she almost took a tumble.

  “What’s going on?” he asked sharply. “What do you want with me?”

  “Later. We need to get to my car and get out of here.”

  “You need keys for a car. I don’t see any, and you sure as hell aren’t carrying them on you.”

  He would know. There wasn’t a part of her body that hadn’t pushed, pulled, collapsed, or rubbed against his as they’d fought their way out of the building. Her ruined tank top and what was left of her skirt couldn’t have concealed a breath mint.

  “I’ve got it covered,” she said, and pushed on until they finally reached the gate. Then she felt her heart stop when she realized it was locked.

  “Now what?” Taggart asked.

  She couldn’t panic now. And when an ambulance rushed up to the gate from the bombed building moments later, siren screaming, she knew this was their chance.

  “Be ready to move when I do,” she said.

  When the Marine walked to the driver’s side of the ambulance, she hurried Taggart around to the opposite side. As soon as the gate swung open, Talia, pumped on her last burst of adrenaline, hurried alongside the vehicle, out of view of the guard, and slipped through the gate. Then she rushed into the thick knot of people standing outside the perimeter.

  Once the Marine closed and locked the gate and returned to his post about ten yards from the perimeter fence, she
took off toward the parking lot.

  She didn’t look back to see if they were being followed. Her car, while a good city block away, was in sight, which meant they were almost clear. They made it another ten yards before a moving wall of people stopped them. A dozen news crews swarmed around them like sharks around chum.

  Everywhere she looked, a microphone or a camera appeared, snapping pictures, shooting video, as reporters shot questions at them like bullets.

  “Were you in the building when it exploded?”

  “Can you give us an account of what happened?” A camera zoomed in close on her face.

  Oh, God, they had her on film now. Her face would appear on TV and the Internet, on news channels around the world via instant feed. The video was probably streaming live right now.

  And her enemies could be watching right now, gloating over their victory—and suddenly discover that they’d failed when they saw she was alive.

  There was no question now. They would immediately go after Meir. These vultures had just made certain that her son was now a target.

  “Did you see who did this?”

  “Was this the work of terrorists?”

  “Get out of my way!” With Taggart’s help, she pushed through the crowd, now frantic to get to a phone and warn Jonathan.

  A balding man shoved a microphone in front of her. “Do you know if the American ambassador was in the building today? Can you give us your name and tell us how bad the casualties are?”

  The large crowd felt like a pulsing wall of bodies, closing in and pushing against them. They leaned in and around her, pummeling her with questions.

  When one of them stepped directly in their path, Taggart lost it. “Get out of our way, or I’ll break your fucking face!”

  As if he were Moses, the crowd fell silent and parted like the Red Sea.

  13

  Winded, head pounding, Bobby leaned against a light pole gathering strength, while Talia sprinted barefoot across ten yards of hot pavement to a white Ford Expedition. Heat waves shimmered over the parking lot. It had to be at least 110 degrees, even though the sun had dropped behind the nearby buildings.

  The pavement would be even hotter and had to hurt like hell, especially on top of all the damage she’d done to her feet. When he pushed away from the pole and caught up with her, the pain etched on her face almost had him feeling sorry for her.

  She hurriedly punched a code into a key panel on the driver’s door, wrenched the door open, and dived inside, moaning in relief.

  “I could have carried you.” Maybe.

  She just leaned over the wide front seat and unlocked the passenger door for him. Then she reached into the glove box, pulled out a single key hidden beneath the box’s lining, and pushed it into his hand. “Behind the license plate. Hurry.”

  She’d stopped surprising and disappointing him six years ago. So it came as no shock that when he tugged on the plate, it dropped down and revealed a hidden lockbox.

  If he hadn’t been hurting so badly, he’d have laughed when he inserted the key and opened it up. Of course, she had a secret compartment with an extra set of car keys, a cell phone, and an automatic pistol with three extra magazines.

  He quickly drew the Glock 26 out of its holster and pulled back the slide to make certain a round was chambered. Then he slapped the bottom of the magazine and slid it back into the holster, securing it before digging back into the lockbox.

  And holy God, he spotted several passports. This time, he did laugh. What woman needed passports under multiple names?

  He gathered everything but the passports, then stood up too fast. A wave of vertigo slammed him against the car. He closed his eyes. Breathed deep. Waited it out. And made an attempt to process everything about every single moment of this fucked-up day.

  The bombing. Talia. Ted—possibly dead. He should be back there looking for him. The hell with Marines restraining him; they’d have to catch him first.

  Which, he admitted as the dizziness slowly passed, wouldn’t have taken much effort.

  So he was with Talia instead. The one woman he’d promised himself he would never let affect him again.

  There was no question she was balancing on an edge as sharp as a razor, and now that his mind was almost back to functioning at full capacity, it was clear that whatever drove her ran even deeper than surviving the bombing.

  For some reason, she wanted him with her. He wanted to know why.

  Steadier, he made it to the passenger door and climbed inside.

  He held up the Glock. “I’m going to go out on a limb and assume we’ll be needing this.”

  She ignored him and snatched the cell phone out of his hand. Her hands shook as she turned it on and then, with the impatience of a thoroughbred at the starting gate, waited for it to power up.

  “You said to wait until we got to the car,” he said. “We’re here. So what’s going on?”

  “Not now.” She shook her head sharply as the phone came to life.

  They sat in the sweltering heat as she punched in a number. Closed her eyes. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, held her breath.

  Apparently, no one answered, because after several seconds, she ended the call. Her hand fell to her lap. The despair on her face hit him like a punch to the gut.

  What the hell?

  She’d hauled him step after painful step out of the blast site, her elbows and knees scraped raw, her arms and feet bleeding, and she’d never made a whimper. Yet an unanswered phone sent a tear trickling down her ash-streaked face. I. Do. Not. Cry.

  Her words came back as if she’d said them yesterday, not six years ago in her room at the Mustafa Hotel.

  He had to look away, before he did or said something stupid. She didn’t have the right to his sympathy. But he had rights. A whole shitload of them.

  “What’s going on, Talia?”

  His voice seemed to snap her out of her momentary letdown, yet she ignored him, swiped away the tear, and reached for the keys.

  * * *

  This day just kept getting better. Bobby scrubbed around in the glove box, looking for something for his headache, as she fired up the Expedition and backed out of the parking space. He’d just found a bottle of painkillers and popped the lid when she slammed on the brakes.

  Tylenol pills flew out of the bottle and up into the air like popcorn.

  Fuck.

  He looked around to see what was going on and swore again. The traffic—emergency, police, and military vehicles, news crews and lookie-loos—­continued to rush to the bombing site. The congestion they’d created was so thick she couldn’t get out of the lot.

  “Looks like we’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” he said, and turned on the AC full blast.

  He found three Tylenol on the seat, opened another bottle of water, and drank half of it down along with the pills.

  He offered the other half and some pills to her.

  She shook her head and glanced behind her. “Buckle up.”

  Executing a perfect bootlegger’s turn, she swiftly jerked into reverse, smashed the gas, whipped the vehicle around in a one-eighty, then slammed into forward gear and put pedal to metal. They shot up over the curb and climbed up the grass berm that made a bowl around the parking lot.

  “Chi-rist!” he swore, as they bumped to the top, then nose-dived down the other side, across a wide cement walk, and jumped another curb. They barely missed hitting a fire truck, and then she cut across the street sideways and barreled over a planted median separating four lanes of traffic.

  The tires squealed on the hot pavement as she blasted off like a Formula One racer, finally going the right way.

  When she rounded a corner on two screaming wheels, he braced his feet against the floor and got a grip on the door handle and console. “If you’re going to roll this thing and kill me, I’d at least
like to know what I’m dying for.”

  “You’re not going to die. At least, not here.”

  That was reassuring.

  She was all focus and purpose as they screamed through the city. She took her eyes off the street long enough to grab the phone from her lap and shove it into his chest. “Hit redial.”

  There was a lot he could have said right then, none of it nice. He just clenched his jaw, punched redial, and listened to the phone ring. And ring. No one answered. No voice message picked up to tell him to leave a number.

  She shot him an anxious glance.

  He shook his head.

  That scared vulnerability surfaced again—just for an instant, before the tough girl was back—and left him wishing he could convince himself that he was immune to her pain and whatever was causing it.

  “Keep trying.”

  He dragged a hand across his jaw and stared at the white stone buildings flashing by. Then he stared at her and wondered, again, why he was in this vehicle with her and her bleeding bare feet. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t outmuscle her—well, on any other day. It was more that she was a force of nature, and he’d had no choice but to bend to her will.

  And, Jesus, look at her. Who wouldn’t be compelled to find out what drove her?

  Her hair tumbled wildly around her face where it wasn’t plastered against her temples and neck with perspiration. Her ruined skirt had ripped well past her knee. Black ash and gray dust covered her ­everywhere—her clothes, her bare arms and bare legs, and that amazing face.

  And blood was everywhere. Her blood. His blood, he reminded himself grimly, flashing back to the moment when she’d ripped her jacket apart, cleaned his face, and made a bandage to slow the bleeding while blood seeped from her own arm in a slow, steady stream.

  He whipped his attention back to the street and hit redial again. She’d saved his life when she could have left him. The least he could do was dial the damn phone.

  But why the urgency? They’d survived the bombing, so that left . . . what? Was she still running away from something? Or was she running toward it?