With No Remorse

by Cindy Gerard

  “Brace yourself. This is going to hurt like hell.” He quickly cut the cord binding her wrists together.

  She sucked in a sharp breath, hunched her head into her shoulders, but otherwise didn’t make a sound.

  Kick-ass.

  “We gotta go,” Gabe said urgently.

  “Get Chamberlin moving. We’re right behind you, ten seconds tops.”

  He hadn’t gotten this far to risk losing her by a bad decision, and wasn’t moving her another inch without making a quick assessment. He skimmed his hands over her body, checking for more broken bones. He’d heard of men bleeding to death because a field medic had missed a broken femur. She bit back a cry when he touched her ribs.

  Fuck. He was so not finished killing these bastards for putting her through this.

  “Give me a deep breath.”

  She gave him enough. Badly bruised, maybe a couple broken ribs. But no lung puncture.

  Satisfied he could move her, he helped her to her feet. “Let’s go, Angelface.”

  Careful of her damaged ribs, he supported her against his side and followed the others outside. Gabe and Reed were already twenty yards ahead of them, halfway up the rise with Chamberlin. Like them, he skirted wide of the crossfire zone to avoid getting hit by friendly fire.

  And that’s when their luck ran out.

  An AK-47 blasted from the camp behind them, and the ground by his feet exploded in flying divots of dirt.

  Luke hauled ass, half-dragging, half-carrying Val along with him. Sweat ran into his eyes, blinding him. His night-vision goggles now distorted his depth perception rather than enhancing his vision, so he whipped them off, racing forward as the camp erupted in gunfire.

  Answering fire cracked from the ridge. Gabe had broken out his M-4, Rafe and Nate were leaning on their MP5-Ks, while Crystal and B.J. laid down fire with their sniper rifles.

  An explosion rocked the earth twenty or so yards behind Luke and he knew that one of the girls had set off one of the charges the guys had planted.

  “Stay with me, babe,” he urged Val—and stepped in a hole. He heard something pop; excruciating pain ripped through his leg, and he went down hard, letting go of Val so he didn’t take her down with him.

  He knew immediately that it was his hamstring.

  Fuck and fuck again!

  Reeling with pain, he dragged his SIG out of its holster and shoved it into Val’s hand. “Go,” he ground out.

  She dropped to her knees beside him. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “You fucking are leaving me! Get your ass out of here! I’ll radio for help.”

  Tears filled her eyes and she shook her head.

  Goddamn it! If he didn’t love her so much, he’d kick her ass with his good leg. He wanted her out of harm’s way, and there was only one way he was going to get it done.

  “You are not doing me any favors,” he yelled through a blur of pain as the gunfire escalated and the decibel level shot off the charts. “Right now you’re just a liability. So go, damn it!”

  For a split second, he was afraid she wasn’t going to buy it. Then she leaned in and kissed him hard. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

  She rose to her feet and started sprinting up the hill.

  He expelled a relieved breath and struggled to his feet. Pain screamed through his leg as he started hobbling after her.

  He hadn’t taken two steps when he knew someone was behind him. He whipped around—and stared straight into the muzzle of an AK.

  In the split second when he knew he was about to die, he saw Val’s face in his mind, and wished he’d had the chance to tell her—

  Thunkthunkthunk

  Three dark circles spread across the gunman’s khaki shirt, dead center in his chest. He dropped to his knees, then fell forward in the dust. Dead.

  Luke whipped around . . . and there stood Val, the SIG extended, her broken wrist propping up her gun hand, the weapon rock-solid steady.

  “Sonofabitch,” he uttered in disbelief.

  She seemed to come out of a daze, hurried to his side, and slung his arm over her shoulder. “We’re leaving here together.”

  Two steps later, Reed and Joe came roaring out of the dark.

  “You are such a grandstander, Colter,” Reed said as they took Luke’s weight off Val’s shoulders.

  “And you,” Reed told Val with a grin as they all scrambled for cover, “are one kick-ass warrior woman.”

  “Keep ’em clustered together,” Nate ordered as the team’s gunfire pinned down what was left of Sesay’s company. “Rafe’s on his way with the truck.”

  Luke had set up a makeshift triage area out of the line of fire, and now worked frantically over Santos. He was pretty banged up, but Luke had pumped some IV fluids into him—all five hostages were dehydrated—and his vitals were starting to stabilize. He’d done all he could for Waldrop. They were dealing with a concussion at best, a brain bleed at worst. If he lasted until they got him to a hospital, Luke was going to throw a party. Carlyle was stable enough that Luke had been able to give him something for the pain and he was in the process of choking down an MRE.

  Val—God, would you look at her—had insisted that Luke tend to the men before she’d let him touch her wrist. It had to be killing her, even though he’d splinted and wrapped it, but she handled the pain in stoic silence, even helping by holding Santos’s IV bag.

  Chamberlin was in a mild state of shock. He had a nasty head lac and a bruised thigh, but other than that he was in pretty good shape. He sat huddled beneath a blanket, staring into space.

  Headlights flashed behind them, the grind of a diesel engine mixed into the sound of gunfire, and the transport truck pulled in.

  Reed pushed to his feet. “Don’t let it be said that we didn’t keep our end of the bargain,” he said and jogged over to help Gabe set the blasting caps and detonators.

  Sesay wanted his weapons? No problem. The BOIs were going to jam them down the bastard’s throat and then they were going to blow him into particles of red mist.

  With the exception of what they’d needed for the assault, every last weapon, every last case of ammo in Ryang’s inventory had been stacked into the box of one truck. Before they’d left the warehouse, they’d wrapped det cord—plastic explosive in a flexible tube—around strategically placed one-pound blocks of C-4. Then they’d fed the cord through the ejection ports and ammo crates, essentially wrapping the weapons in explosives.

  Reed and Gabe jumped down from the back of the truck. “All set.”

  Rafe climbed up onto the running board and got behind the wheel of the idling truck. He hammered down on the brake and shifted into gear, then he wedged a block of wood between the steering wheel and the dash so the truck wouldn’t turn off course.

  This was it.

  He eased off the brake, gave it a little gas, rode it until it got a little momentum, then jumped clear.

  He hit the ground, rolled, then crab scrambled back up the rise and dove behind the ridge onto his belly with the rest of them.

  Luke watched the truck bounce across the rough terrain and slowly pick up speed. It was halfway down the hill.

  “Duck and cover!” Nate shouted. “Plug your ears!”

  Luke huddled over Val, covering her head and shoulders to protect her from the possibility of flying shrapnel.

  Any second now, Joe would hit the detonator and Sesay’s world would light up like the fires of hell. Anything within thirty yards of that vehicle would be a memory.

  “Fuck! It stopped.”

  Luke jerked his head up to see what Joe was talking about.

  Double fuck. The truck had hit a rut. The left front tire was buried up to the wheel hub fifteen yards from the designated kill zone. The engine had died.

  “Plan B,” Nate said, regrouping. “Gabe, Jones, Mendoza, and Reed. Keep a steady stream of fire on the camp. B.J. and Crystal. Pop off a few of the perimeter Claymores to make sure Sesay and his thugs stay put. We need to keep them pinned right wh
ere they are, before they figure out what’s going on and beat the hell out of there.”

  “You are not running down there and starting that truck,” Crystal said, reading Nate’s face and realizing what he had in mind.

  “Someone’s got to do it,” he said.

  “Jesus,” Luke said, not believing what he was seeing. “Someone already is.”

  A lone figure ran full out down the hill, heading straight toward the truck.

  It was Chamberlin.

  Val gasped. “Oh, my God. What’s he doing?”

  “The right thing,” Luke said grimly, feeling respect for this man who had done so many wrong things to this woman but was finally doing something right.

  “Give him cover!” Luke shouldered an M-4 and, like everyone on the hill, emptied his magazine.

  “Son of a bitch,” Reed whispered in awe. “He made it.”

  Luke lifted his eye off his rifle sights and watched as Chamberlin crawled up into the truck.

  “Careful, careful, don’t flood it,” Rafe muttered as Chamberlin ground on the starter.

  The engine turned and rumbled to life.

  They all watched, dumbfounded, as the big truck rocked forward, rocked back, then lurched out of the rut and barreled straight into the belly of the Sesay beast.

  The door swung open, and Chamberlin burst outside and started running back up the rise.

  “Head down!” Luke shouted out in warning.

  Their M-4s and MP5-Ks opened up and every team member laid down cover as Sesay’s camp returned fire.

  “Come on, come on, come on!” Luke yelled, urging him on.

  Chamberlin was within fifteen yards—he was going to make it!

  The gunfire was deafening. They never heard the shot that hit him. His legs just stopped moving, his arms flew wide in the air, his head snapped back. His body jerked spasmodically as an AK riddled him with bullets, and he fell face first to the ground.

  Val screamed. Luke pulled her close to his side, covered her head with his hand.

  “Fry those suckers,” Nate yelled on a savage roar and Joe hit the detonator switch.

  The truck exploded in a monstrous fireball that lit up the sky like a shuttle launch. Luke ducked his head against the lightning flash brightness. Then came the roar, like God’s own hand smashing down on the earth; louder than every thunderstorm he’d ever heard all compressed into one violent millisecond. It felt like every molecule of air was sucked from his lungs. Beneath him, Val gasped for breath as shrapnel whistled overhead.

  Then there was nothing left but the fire and the sound of ammo cooking off.

  And the silent weeping of the woman he held in his arms.

  The fire was still blazing when they heard the whump whump whump of a chopper.

  “That would be our ride,” Nate said. “Let’s get these casualties ready to load.”

  Luke leaned over Santos, protecting him from the prop-wash as the chopper hovered above them, then slowly settled down close by.

  By the time the bird landed, Luke recognized it as an Mi-8—a big old Russian transport bird. As the main rotor blades wound down, Mike Brown jumped out of the aircraft and, ducking low, ran toward them.

  “Jesus, Nate,” he said as the fire from the explosion continued to blaze, “I know I asked you to leave a light on, but this is overkill, don’t ya think?”

  “Glad you could make it.” Nate extended his hand. “We’ve got casualties. We need to rock and roll.”

  Brown sobered and without another word started helping with the transport.

  Val’s eyes were filled with sorrow as she watched Gabe and Rafe walk by carrying a plastic tarp that contained Chamberlin’s body.

  “There was good in him,” she said, leaning into Luke when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

  “Yes,” he agreed, pressing his lips against her hair. “There was good.”

  32

  Twenty-four hours later

  BBC news report, Macau.

  “We interrupt this regularly scheduled financial report to bring you breaking news from Freetown, Sierra Leone. Government sources have confirmed that Augustine Sesay, the grandson of convicted war criminal and former leader of the Revolutionary United Front, Issa Sesay, is dead.

  “Recent speculation on the international terror watch front had raised concerns that for the past several months, Sesay had been gathering support from sympathizers of his RUF reunification movement, and had plans in the works to stage a military coup on the now democratic Sierra Leone government, a country still recovering from a brutal civil war that ended less than twelve years ago. Our sources also implicate Ryang Wong Jeong, a North Korean official, as the primary facilitator of numerous illegal weapons transactions involving Sesay, which are in clear violation of international gun control treaties. Wong Jeong is rumored to have been highly regarded by Kim Jong-il prior to the abdication of his leadership to his younger son, Kim Jong-chul, late last year. The North Koreans have remained silent on the incident, but unofficial reports are that they disavow any association with Wong Jeong.

  “Our sources further state—”

  Ryang flicked off the TV with his remote. He had DVR’d the original report and replayed it several times since he had closed himself in his office an hour ago, when the story first broke.

  He had brought disgrace upon himself. Unacceptable media attention to his government. Forgiveness was a weakness of Western culture; Kim Jong-chul would not tolerate this horrific mistake.

  He had prepared for this possibility long ago. The moment he recovered from the shock of the newscast, he had initiated his plan. Under assumed names, his wife and daughter were now on a flight to the British Virgin Islands, where he maintained a safe house. No one knew of its existence. They would be safe there.

  The stealthy footsteps outside his office were expected. And when the door behind his desk swung quietly open, he did not turn around.

  There was no need. He knew he was already a dead man.

  Aboard Africa Mercy, Port of Freetown, Sierra Leone

  Luke hadn’t realized he’d dozed off until he damn near fell sideways off the chair at the side of Val’s hospital bed. He set himself straight, dragged his hands over his face, and rubbed his bleary eyes. Dim light fell softly in the room; the scent of antiseptic filled the air. From out in the hallway he could hear the sound of monitors, soft voices, and the swish of crepe soles on polished tile floors.

  Inside this small berth aboard the Mercy fleet’s largest charity hospital ship, there was only the sound of Val’s soft breathing and the tick of the wall clock.

  It was 11:48 p.m. Val was asleep. Finally. Except for the angry purplish bruise on her cheek, her face was pale. Reed had been the first to scrawl his name and his phone number—wink, wink—on her white fiberglass cast. Primetime Brown, of course, had crossed out Reed’s number and replaced it with his own.

  The entire team had added their John Henrys and their good wishes before they’d caught their flight back to B.A.

  They’d been damn lucky that the Africa Mercy had chosen Freetown for its port of call this year—and that Primetime had connections that had cleared the way for them to set the Mi-8 down on her deck. The floating medical facility was well equipped and staffed by some of the most dedicated medical personnel in the world.

  Carlyle was resting comfortably after surgery; they’d had to pin his ankle. Waldrop and Santos were still in ICU but they were stable. If there were no setbacks, Santos might be upgraded from critical to guarded condition in the morning. Waldrop had a little tougher row to hoe, but the reports were promising and Josh was a fighter.

  Luke rolled his head on his shoulders to work out the kinks and forced himself to stand up. His leg throbbed like a bitch but other than that, and a little residual ringing in his ears from the explosion, he was fine. Forgoing the crutches, he hobbled over to the small portal—the only window in the berth—and stared out over the lights of the harbor.

  Val had ten stit
ches in the back of her head and two badly bruised ribs in addition to her broken wrist. Physically, she would heal within a couple of months. Emotionally . . . recovering from her captivity and from Chamberlin’s death was going to take a while longer. The horror of watching him die would stay with her for a long time.

  Nate had personally accompanied the senator’s body back to the States. Just as he’d made certain the team’s anonymity remained secure, Nate had ensured that the press was aware of Chamberlin’s heroics in the operation. Right or wrong, at this point it didn’t matter. The man was dead. The press would be all over the story and yeah, the whole truth about his dealings with Ryang would eventually come out. For now, though, he would return home a patriot—because in the end, that’s what he’d been.

  “You should be sleeping.”

  He whipped his head around to see Val watching him.

  “Hey,” he said softly and limped back to the side of her bed.

  “Why aren’t you using your crutches?”

  “What do you take me for, a sissy?” He grinned when he got the eye roll he’d expected, and eased down on the chair.

  “How you feelin’?” He touched a hand to her forehead, gently brushed back a fall of dark, silky hair.

  “I think I might feel better than you look.” One corner of her mouth tipped up in a brave smile. “You don’t need to sit with me.”

  “Got noplace else to be, Angelface. Noplace else I want to be.” Though he hadn’t needed to be admitted, the staff had taken pity on him and told him he could hang around. Like a few rules would have stopped him.

  He carefully lifted her casted hand to his lips, kissed her swollen fingers. He’d come so close to losing her. “I was so scared. When I saw that picture of you on Sesay’s SAT phone . . .”

  He choked up; lowered his head and pressed it lightly against her curled fingers.

  “It’s okay,” she murmured, lifting her other hand to his hair. “It’s okay.”

  His heart felt huge; he ached with feelings for this woman. And he couldn’t keep them in any longer. She was hurting and emotionally drained, and this was the worst possible time to have this discussion—but he couldn’t stop himself. “I love you, Val.”