by Loye, Trish
He fell back against the wall; one hand held his stomach while the other pulled his gun out. “Bitch,” he wheezed. “I’ll kill you.”
She leapt at him. Pain shot through her when she landed on her bare feet and she staggered. Yusef fumbled with his weapon. She lunged at him, pushing the gun aside, digging her fingers into his wrist, forcing him to let go. She couldn’t afford for a shot to be heard. She’d never last against reinforcements.
A streak of fire lashed across her back. Dahab whipped her hard and fast. Sarah grunted at the pain. She couldn’t let go of Yusef’s gun hand; she had to focus on the greater threat.
Yusef started to yell and she grabbed the knife hilt lodged in his stomach with her other hand. She yanked hard, slicing across his abdomen. His scream turned to a gurgle.
Her back burned with pain, but at least her clothing provided some protection.
Yusef still gripped the gun. She twisted the knife again, the hilt of the blade now slippery with blood. His hand spasmed open as he let out a low groan and crumpled to the floor. The gun fell from his limp fingers.
She spun on her swollen feet and caught Dahab’s hand before she could bring the whip down again.
“Kuffar,” Dahab hissed, calling her an infidel. “I will kill you for this.”
“I don’t think so.” Sarah kept hold of her whip arm and grabbed Dahab behind the neck. She yanked Dahab’s head down while bringing her knee up at the same time. A crunch sounded as Sarah broke her nose. Dahab crumpled to the ground.
Sarah followed her down and landed on her chest, digging her knees into her upper arms, pinning them in place. Rage exploded in her. And she slammed Dahab’s head into the floor.
This was the woman who held Besma and the others prisoner.
Bang.
This was the woman who would have sold Jalila’s virginity.
Bang.
This was the woman who betrayed her own sex.
Bang.
Blood splattered the floor. Sarah pulled back and stared at what she’d done. Her stomach turned over at the sight of the woman’s head and the blood staining her hands. Her emotions had controlled her. Yes, this woman deserved to die, but not this way.
She stood, gasping when she put her full weight on her battered feet. She had to get out of here.
She shoved Yusef’s gun under her abaya and snagged her boots from the floor. She sat on the cot and eased them on, swallowing her groans.
“You’ll never make it,” Yusef whispered. Blood trickled from his mouth. “Allah will see you dead.”
She stood and moved closer to him. “I’ll take my chances.”
His hands hugged his stomach. Blood pooled around him and a putrid scent reached her. She must have opened his bowels.
He would most likely be dead soon. But what if this monster somehow survived?
She pulled her knife from his stomach and, while his eyes glared his hatred, she slashed his throat. She wiped off her blade on his sleeve before sheathing it.
Footsteps strode down the hallway outside. Fuck. She pulled the gun from her waistband and aimed at the door. She would go down fighting rather than be tortured again. The handle turned and the door opened.
Zahir stood in the doorway, his eyes wide as he took in the bodies around the room. He held up his hands when he saw Sarah’s gun. “Don’t shoot,” he said. “I brought your friend.”
“Sarah?” Dylan stepped past him and into the room. “Are you okay?”
“What are you doing here?” Her knees buckled. She’d thought she’d never see him again. She forced herself to stand tall. “Where’s Ja— Where’s our package?”
“Safe.” Dylan’s gaze swept the room before he handed Zahir a flash drive.
Zahir took it, walked to Yusef’s body and spat on it. “I can give you ten minutes before I’ll have to sound the alarm.” He held up a flash drive and nodded at Dylan. “Thank you for this and for the warning. My wife and children are on their way out of the city. Also, I am sorry, but if I see you again, I will be obligated to kill you.”
Sarah wanted to feel angry, but just felt numb. Too much had happened; she needed to focus.
Dylan touched her arm. “Let’s go.” He nodded at Zahir and pulled her away. She took a step and shuddered, but suppressed any sound from escaping.
Dylan’s eyes narrowed on her, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t release her either, just watched her as they walked from the room. She paused on the way out and yanked her knife from the soldier’s throat and gave it a quick wipe on his shirt, before sliding it home in her arm sheath. After that, she tried to step as normally as possible, but it felt like she walked on hot coals.
Dylan shut the door behind them. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” Sarah tried to walk as normally as possible but couldn’t stop herself from flinching each time she put a foot down. She wanted to crawl to get off them as they screamed with each step.
“Let’s go,” she said hoarsely. She put her hand on the wall for balance.
“If you’re fine, then why are you walking like your feet have been branded?” He looked away and cursed. “They whipped your feet.” His voice was low, dangerous. He looked back at the room.
She bit her lip and took another step. She could do this. “I’ll be fine.”
“You can’t run,” he said. “Do you have a veil? I’ll carry you. Pretend you’re sick.”
“In this place?” She shook her head and pulled out a face veil. Dylan moved to help her put it on and she waved him away. “Stop fussing. I’ve got it.”
“Are you always cranky when someone rescues you?”
The question surprised a laugh out of her and Dylan grinned. Damn, it was good to see him. She took a step and winced. Dylan was immediately there, putting an arm around her waist and taking most of her weight.
“You have to let me walk on my own,” she said. “If you touch me then we’ll be questioned.”
“Shit,” he muttered. “You’re hurt.”
“Yes.” She grimaced with each step. “But I can handle it. I’ve had worse and so have you.”
“It doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
She snorted. “No. You just have to help me get through it.”
“Wait, are you asking for my help?”
“Idiot,” she said without any heat.
He gave her a rueful smile. They kept walking, and if he stood closer than was acceptable, she didn’t say anything. It was a comfort to know he’d be there if she stumbled.
They passed the elevators and went to the end of the hall to the stairwell. It was empty.
“What time is it?” She eyed the stairs down. “And what floor are we on?”
“Seven forty-five. Fifth floor,” he answered.
Shit. “The strike is scheduled for eight,” she said.
Dylan nodded, looking calm and confident, though she saw the tension in his jaw muscles. “Can I carry you now?”
She knew he would. But as soon as someone saw him carrying her, they’d be stopped and questioned. They didn’t have much time. And she’d just wasted some of it by moving like a turtle down the hall.
They wouldn’t make it. Not together.
“Go,” she said.
He scowled. “You want me to leave you?”
* * *
Was she out of her mind? Dylan shook his head. “Do you really think I’d leave you?”
“You have to,” she said. “I’ll slow you down. Go make sure the girls get out of the city.”
“Rakin has them. It’s you I’m worried about.” He would just throw her over his shoulder and jog down the steps. He’d kill anyone who tried to stop them. He moved toward her to do just that when she stepped back and held up a hand.
Her voice held too much pain when she spoke. “We won’t make it in time.”
“Don’t you give up on me,” he said.
“I’m not,” she snarled. “I’m trying to save your life.”
“
Stop insulting me.” Did she really think he would leave her?
She tore off the veil. Her face was flushed, her eyes feverish.
“That’s it,” he said. “I’m carrying you out of here. We’ve only got fifteen minutes until the drone strike. We’ve got to bolt.”
“Even if we make it to a car, we’re fucked,” she said. “Dammit, Dylan, why’d you come back?”
Damn him? “I came back for you,” he growled. “Now shut up. You’re really starting to piss me off.” She was right, though. The window to escape the drone strike was closing fast. “Keep moving. We’re not giving up.”
She hobbled down the steps. “I never give up. I just don’t want to drag you down.”
“I said, shut up.”
They moved faster, as if their verbal sparring incited Sarah to ignore the pain. Maybe he just needed to keep her pissed off.
An alarm sounded through the building.
“Fuck,” Dylan said. “He said ten minutes.”
Sarah didn’t say anything.
Time was up.
He swung her into his arms and bolted down the steps. She didn’t complain, just slung her arms around his neck. He was going to get them out of here.
Fuck, he wished he could fly them.
He stopped dead and squeezed Sarah tight. “I have an idea. A crazy idea, but—”
“What is it?” she demanded.
He set her down. “No time. Go to the roof. Wait for me.” He ran down the steps faster than before, jumping steps.
“The roof?” she called.
“Trust me,” he yelled, praying she actually would. He had one chance to save them both and he wouldn’t fail.
Dylan sprinted down the stairs, slowing only marginally when he opened the door on the first floor. He turned right to head to the kitchens and the back door there. Soldiers rushed past him, carrying rifles. He nodded at them, but kept striding along, acting as if he belonged here. He was just another soldier.
He didn’t see anyone else and jogged until he hit the back entrance. He threw back his shoulders and pushed the door open. Double the usual amount of soldiers patrolled the outside of the building. He and Sarah would never have made it together. The guards checked in on radios.
Without looking in either direction, he strode across the parking lot, his gaze on the hollowed-out building at the back.
22
Sarah watched Dylan speed down the steps. The roof? Why did he want her to go up there?
Trust me.
Did she trust him? Even as she asked the question, her body turned and she started back up the two flights of stairs to the roof. Her feet screamed and her blood thundered in her ears. But apparently she trusted him.
Logic and all of her training told her to go down. To escape the building due to be bombed in mere minutes. Instead, she found herself headed for the roof, as if to meet the drone strike coming.
Why was she doing this? She shook her head and urged herself to go faster. Did it really matter why she was heading to the roof, to her possible doom?
Admit it.
No. Dammit. She had no time to be distracted by this. She used the railing to help haul herself up, her breath almost sobbing as she ran up the steps. The alarm cut off somewhere on the trip up. She made good time. A piece of wood held the access door open. She stopped and listened in the silence.
Voices.
“A man and woman, they said,” a man shouted in Arabic.
“Can you see them?” another voice shouted back.
Fuck. Soldiers on the roof.
She took stock. She had the two knives and the gun she’d picked up from Yusef. Only one knife was balanced for throwing at any distance. They had rifles.
She needed to get rid of them quietly and quickly. But she had to get close enough before they fired a shot or reported on their radios.
What the fuck was she doing going to the roof?
No. That wasn’t the question. She trusted Dylan. The question was how was she going to get on the roof.
She pulled both knives and gripped them each differently. One to throw and one to stab. She would do this as quietly as possible. She slipped through the door and nudged the piece of wood out, easing it shut, and making sure it was locked. She crouched in the shadows nearby, blending in with her dark robes.
The two soldiers leaned over the edge of the roof, one at either corner. Each covered a section of wall, their gazes trained on the ground. At least the alarm had helped with that. The soldiers were looking for her fleeing the building, not coming up behind them.
She took the soldier closest to her. Moving with slow, quiet precision, she got into position to throw her knife. She raised her arm and exhaled, concentrating on the back of his neck. She threw.
“Watch out!” the other soldier yelled.
Her target turned and her knife sliced his jaw as it passed by.
Fuck. The far soldier had seen her.
They both raised their rifles. She hid her other knife back in her sleeve and put her hands up.
Well, Dylan, she thought, I’m on the roof. Now what?
* * *
Dylan skidded to a stop by the edge of the burnt-out building. He took a quick peek around the concrete wall.
Bingo.
The Black Hawk wasn’t there, but the Kiowa sat in full view. The pilots hadn’t put it in the makeshift hangar yet. Dylan prayed the engines were still warm, which would quicken the takeoff. The Kiowa worked better for him anyway. He’d been taught to fly on a Bell 206 JetRanger, which was just a different version of the Kiowa Warrior. Also, unlike the complex twin engine Black Hawk, the Kiowa only had one engine. Meaning a shorter time to get into the air.
One pilot walked around the outside of the bird, studying it. The other sat in the pilot’s seat with a clipboard in hand. They were doing a pre- or post-flight check.
He approached the first pilot, the man outside of the helicopter. As the pilot bent to look at something in the engine, Dylan drew his weapon and held it along his leg.
It was almost too easy to creep up behind him and use the butt of his gun to hit him behind the ear near his jaw. The man thudded to the ground. Dylan left him and, keeping out of sight of the other pilot, he approached the cockpit. Both cabin doors had been taken off. The other man sat, looking at his clipboard, oblivious to what had happened behind him.
Dylan tapped on the polycarbonate sheeting of the window. The pilot looked right into the barrel of Dylan’s weapon.
“Get out,” Dylan ordered in Russian.
The man’s eyes widened, but he didn’t move.
Fuck. He didn’t speak Russian. Dylan was acutely aware of time ticking away. He waved the pilot out with his other hand, keeping the weapon trained on the man’s head.
“Out,” he repeated.
The pilot put up his hands and eased out of the cockpit. He said something in Arabic when he saw his friend lying unconscious on the ground.
Dylan kicked the man behind the knee, dropping him to the ground beside his friend. As the man turned his head to look back at him, Dylan swung the butt of the gun again and struck the pilot. His head snapped to the side and he toppled onto his prone friend.
Dylan didn’t have time to do a preflight check. He just made sure the rotor wasn’t tied down before he hopped into the pilot’s seat and pulled on a helmet. He turned the battery on. The fuel gauge read full. He hit the starter button and the rotor blades began to turn with a slow whine. They gathered speed quickly. He buckled in and then wound up the throttle to a hundred percent and slowly pulled up on the collective with his left hand, while holding the cyclic steady in his right.
The bird lifted gently into the air. He hovered it for a moment to get a feel for it, before pulling harder on the collective and zooming straight up into the sky.
He pushed on the cyclic in his right hand, moving the bird straight and using the foot pedals to turn him toward the rooftop where he’d told Sarah to meet him. At least she should have an ea
sy go of it once she made it there. It hadn’t been guarded the night he and the team had rescued the CIA agent.
He tilted the stick to bring the bird closer. His heart stopped. Muzzle flashes lit up the night. There was a firefight on the roof.
23
“Get on your knees,” the soldier bellowed at Sarah.
She eased herself down, cringing when the skin on her feet stretched as she moved. She kept her hands up but lowered her head, though she still watched the soldiers through her lashes.
They both approached; one of them reported in on the radio.
“Who are you?” the lead soldier asked.
Sarah didn’t say anything. She needed them closer.
The lead soldier scowled and obliged. He held his rifle in one hand and raised the other to strike her. “Tell me who you are,” he demanded.
The other soldier swung the muzzle of his rifle away from her as his friend stepped in front, his fingers clenched into a fist.
Perfect. She palmed the hilt of the hidden knife.
He swung at her. She grabbed his forearm and yanked him down onto the knife she thrust up into his gut. He gave a strangled cry, but she dismissed him and focused on his partner.
Sarah surged to her feet. She grunted at the pain before she leapt at the other soldier. He swung his rifle toward her and she grabbed it, pushing the barrel away from her. She kicked him hard between the legs. He groaned. She didn’t wrestle for the rifle, because she was in too close for him to use it on her. She gripped her knife and stabbed at his throat.
He blocked her strike with his other arm and her knife cut a line along his neck; blood streamed down.
“Bitch!”
He tried to step back to open up space between them so he could use his weapon. But she stayed close. She whipped her elbow across his jaw. He grabbed the arm using the knife, pulling her with it. Sarah grabbed his face and dug a finger into one eye.
He screamed, dropped his rifle and pushed her back hard.
She went with it, rolling backward toward the fallen soldier.
