Wings of Gold Series

by Tappan, Tracy

  The full sneer made it onto Kyle’s mouth. “You’re defending them?”

  “Of course not. I’m only saying there’re two sides to every story.”

  His silver-blue eyes pierced through her. “Well, sorry, Max, but I have nothing but hate for them, same as they do for me.”

  “Okay.” He probably had to in order to do his job. “But not right now.”

  She heard footsteps behind her. Their hosts were coming over.

  Her anxiety skittered. “Please, Kyle…not right now.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A relieved breath escaped Max as she watched Kyle’s face morph from black hatred into something closer to intensity…something that could pass for the expression of a jacked-up TV reporter.

  The Pakistani driver appeared in front of them. “Go.” He used his rifle to gesture them toward the shrine. “Abu Majid is inside.”

  She, Kyle, and their two hosts started for the two-story building.

  The report of rifles across the compound sounded again, and a muscle flinched in Kyle’s cheek.

  Tension sat in a tight knot beneath Max’s sternum.

  Their foursome stepped inside the shrine to find blinding white walls and a man wearing flowing robes intricately embroidered with mauve, hunter green, and gold thread at the cuffs and collar. A white turban covered his hair, a length of the fabric left to dangle over one shoulder, and his dark beard reached down to the middle of his chest. He was standing near a rectangular table sandwiched between two benches. On the end of the table closest to Max, she saw a plate of unleavened lavasa bread and an etched metal teapot surrounded haphazardly by eight or so porcelain teacups banded with gold stripes near the lip. A few cups were half filled with a light pink drink, undoubtedly Kashmiri chai.

  On the other side of the robed man was a small round table set beneath an arched enclave in the wall with a candle tucked inside it. On the table were a closed laptop and a satellite phone.

  Half a dozen men were standing behind Abu Majid, heavily armed, dressed in the baggy pants and the black, high-top, Cheetah-brand sneakers favored by terrorist fighters, plus several were wearing kufiyas on their heads: a triangle of fabric held in place with a braided circlet, like a sheik might wear. Their eyes were narrow and mean in the way of experienced, hard-bitten soldiers—a totally unnecessary presence of force for a press meeting.

  If this was a press meeting.

  The knot in Max’s chest went cold. Something wasn’t right.

  The driver of the blue truck spoke to the turbaned man and showed him Kyle’s Beretta.

  The leader’s cold, expressionless eyes passed over Kyle, then landed on her.

  Why did she suddenly feel like she was in a scary movie, a skeletal hand wrapped around her ankle, pulling her down to some unknown horror? She went through the motions, anyway, inclining her head slightly at the robed man. “Abu Majid,” she greeted. “I’m Samantha Dougin from the LA Times, as you requested, and this is Rick Sagget from CBS News. I’ll be doing the written article on Jaish-e-Mohammed, and Mr. Sagget here will handle the live coverage.”

  Kyle unzipped his bag and placed it on the floor at his feet, the camera peeking out. “Is this where you’d like me to set up for filming?”

  Another Pakistani man rushed in, a worried look on his face. He drew up next to Abu Majid and spoke quietly in his leader’s ear. Max didn’t hear much of the conversation, and understood even less, but she did pick out the words problem and Taliban. Were JEM’s rivals stirring up trouble again? Would the drive back to the aid station be a rerun of the jeep attack?

  Abu Majid waved off the messenger, then barked something at his entourage.

  The hardcore soldiers came out from behind Abu Majid and made a beeline for Kyle. One soldier’s foot clipped the duffel bag, and Max heard glass splintering as the camera broke.

  Max frowned. What the—?

  Kyle took a startled step backward, but it happened too fast.

  The soldiers grabbed him by the arms and slammed him down on the picnic table, bending him back over the top in what looked like a painful angle. Kyle barked out an expletive. The teapot shimmied and a couple of teacups rattled in their saucers for several moments, then settled. Kyle’s arm muscles bulged, but there were too many men holding him down for him to free himself.

  Max rounded on Abu Majid. “What is this?” she demanded, a vein in her temple pounding frantically. “Mr. Sagget and I have come here in good faith.”

  “Have you?” Abu Majid inquired in a casual tone which the rising hairs on the back of her neck told her was utterly false.

  She didn’t say anything, her mind racing over what JEM could’ve possibly found out. If they discover the double-cross, then my head will, quite literally, roll. Yours, too, in all likelihood. Her stomach tried to drop into her feet, and her palms went clammy.

  “You were instructed not to involve the military,” Abu Majid said aridly.

  Every nerve and cell in her body went on red alert. Had JEM uncovered Kyle’s true identity? But, how…? Was it because of the Beretta? “And we haven’t broken those instructions,” she lied. Unless…did several of the Pakistani guard take it upon themselves to follow the battered truck?

  Abu Majid waved his hand, a gesture of irritation. “I saw the dead ISI men who ambushed you. They were shot with military-trained precision. So either you or this man are not who you say you are. I would say him.” Abu Majid pointed at Kyle, and one of the soldiers wearing a kufiya produced a knife and jammed the tip of it under Kyle’s chin.

  Kyle hissed and tipped his head back, angling away from the sharp point.

  For a moment of surreal disconnection, the surroundings shuttered around Max into black and white, everything…except for the slow, winding drizzle of extra-bright blood working from the tip of the knife down the arched length of Kyle’s throat, inking his beard red.

  Max couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t swallow. She’d been so focused on her own well-being on this mission, she’d never stopped to consider what it would be like to watch her cameraman come under attack. It was…horrendous, worse than a threat to herself.

  She regarded Abu Majid. “Richard Sagget is ex-military.” She spoke in the kind of deliberate syllables she hoped came across as careful patience and not what it really was: a struggle to keep her voice from giving out on her. “If you check his biography online, you’ll see for yourself.” And thank God she’d thought to include it.

  Abu Majid spoke in Punjabi to his men, then two things happened.

  The driver of the truck went over to the laptop and flipped it open.

  Just as Max heard the mechanized whir of the computer booting up, two of the hard-bitten soldiers came at her and grabbed her. Her breath shot out of her lungs in a startled cry as they pushed her onto the table next to Kyle, bending her over the top in the same position, her arms stretched out. The tablecloth smelled of rancid chicken grease, and a heaving roll of nausea scaled the length of her throat.

  One of the soldiers set the muzzle of his rifle against her right elbow joint.

  “If I don’t like what I hear from my man,” Abu Majid told her, “you lose your arm.”

  Her lower intestines turned to water and an icy rash of goosebumps sprayed over her flesh. What…what do I do for us now? Her brain decided to remove itself from the question, and stick with panic-inducing scenarios. Without an arm she’d never be able to race the breaststroke again. She wouldn’t be able to work, or not as well, and…and…so many other things. Sweat soaked through her headscarf and ran down her neck. She licked her lips. She tasted the metallic threat of thunder and rain on the back of her tongue.

  Across the shrine, fingers slowly struck laptop keys. Click. Pause. Click. Pause.

  Her heart seemed to slow to the same dirge-like rhythm. She’d never sweated so much in her life.

  A ferocious clap of thunder shook the shrine, and she jumped against the hands restraining her. Oh, God… A rush of tears stung her eyes and n
ose. It was probably sheer dumb luck the man holding the rifle to her elbow hadn’t startled and fired, accidentally blowing her arm off. And the next time…?

  Okay, I take it back. Watching Kyle come under attack wasn’t worse than being threatened herself, but just as bad. She turned to glance at him, but her eyelids were trembling so much, her lashes obstructed all but one thing.

  The scar on Kyle’s jaw was a livid shade of red in the wheaten terrain of his beard.

  * * *

  Kyle pulled his attention away from Max.

  Looking into her eyes—now doused of the brilliance he’d come to associate with everything right in the world—was robbing him of control, and he needed to be stone-cold focused right now. He was officially classifying this mission as FUBAR.26 Which meant it was time to go medieval on some rag-head ass. He might not have been able to speak the words I’m not going to let anything happen to you! directly to Max, but that didn’t mean he was going to roll over and actually allow anything to happen to her. Bad enough these asshole jihadists were frightening her—her visible trembling was another thing spooling him up to go nuclear. If they dared to do anything more…

  No. He couldn’t even think it.

  Staring up at the ceiling with a strenuously manufactured expression of indifference, Kyle used his periphery to mark where the men in the room were. Four soldiers were on him, two on Max, haji driver was still on the laptop, henpecking the keys like a stoned zoo chimpanzee, warlord Ahab was directly in front, two yards off Kyle’s twelve o’clock, and dude with the Dixie cup on his head was just to Kyle’s right. That dicksmack was still holding his rifle, but relaxed, down near his waist. Him. That’s who Kyle was going for.

  The driver finally stopped typing and spoke to the warlord.

  Ahab responded in his gibbering language, then pronounced in English, “You check out, Mr. Sagget.”

  Kyle heard Max stir and stand up.

  The millisecond pressure was released on Kyle’s arms, he threw himself to his feet and glared at Ahab, his lungs pumping heavily. Well, goody. He checked out. Everything was just okay-fine. So, yeah…then why was he standing here with his fists knotted at his sides, murder on the brain? You’re not in the military today. You’re just a cameraman, chasing a hot story. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. And another.

  Ahab gestured at the duffel bag. “You’ll have to go fetch another camera, Mr. Sagget, seeing as the one you brought was broken during our…misunderstanding. We shall hold Ms. Dougin with us until your return.”

  Kyle swore he heard Max swallow. The sound pushed him over the edge of what little restraint he’d managed to muster—which, admittedly, wasn’t much. He was now classifying this mission as officially done, burnt to a fucking crisp done, because no way was Kyle letting these assholes keep Max.

  Speeding his right fist forward, Kyle thwacked Dixie Cup on the jaw, while at the same time he snatched the Kalashnikov rifle—a favorite of hair-bag terrorists—away from the terrorist with his left hand.

  Kyle kept moving, shouldering the rifle, several large steps bringing him to stand in a sure-footed stance directly in front of the warlord, the snout aimed between Ahab’s eyes. The whole switcheroo had taken less than two seconds, and not a single bad guy got a shot off. Bonus deal: he’d caught his captors completely off guard—arrogant douchers had obviously expected him to be all cowed, willing to kiss their dicks in gratitude for just being alive.

  Nope. And to quote another military man, as in Gomer Pyle: Surprise, surprise, surprise!

  “Max,” Kyle barked. “Be my eyes.” All the asshole jihadists were behind him now, out of his sight lines. As unpleasant feelings went, it didn’t get much worse. He didn’t dare move, though, in case someone had a finger on a trigger and was overly anxious to send Kyle to Infidel Hell. His heart sped.

  “They all have their rifles pointed at you,” she said.

  Kyle brought up his thumb and cocked back the rifle’s hammer, slowly, so the sound of the Kalashnikov being primed for firing resounded loudly throughout the room. Kyle spoke to Ahab in a chilling tone and gave the man his sniper stare, “Tell them to drop their weapons.”

  The warlord played stare-down back for an elongated moment, never flinching away from Kyle’s cold glare. Not bad. In scary guy rankings, this one sat damned high up.

  As time stretched, Kyle slipped his right index finger inside the trigger guard. Stupid, dude. This isn’t my first rodeo. “Okay…”

  A staccato burst of foreign language shot out of the warlord’s mouth.

  Behind Kyle, weapons clattered to the ground.

  Max said, “They’ve all dropped their weapons.”

  Kyle took two large steps sideways, bringing himself up on Ahab’s left, the rifle now pointed at the warlord’s temple. There was only one man still behind him. “Leave the laptop,” he ordered haji driver, without looking, “and join your friends.” From the tail end of his vision, Kyle saw the man obey.

  “All right, I’ve had enough of this shit,” Kyle clipped out. “Because of your discourtesy to Ms. Dougin and me, you’ve forfeited your media coverage, pal. Here’s how the situation is going to play out now: you will bring the hostages to the front of the aid station tomorrow at thirteen-hundred, at the same spot where you met us today. I don’t want to see any more than four of you at the meet. You will remain back several yards while Ms. Dougin and I move close enough to the hostages to inspect them thoroughly. Once we have proof of their well-being, we will contact the US Government, and you’ll be given instructions for the exchange of the hostages for your men in Guantanamo. Is that clear?”

  Ahab paused a long moment. If looks could kill, Kyle would be cashing in his chips right now. “Yes,” the man answered.

  “If you choose not to comply, well, then…I guess you’re stuck with four Americans, who you can barbecue at this point for all I care. We’ve nearly been killed twice in dealing with you people.” Kyle grabbed the warlord by the back of the tunic and jabbed the metal nose of the rifle under his chin. “All right, let’s go.”

  The other men started monkey-jabbering at once.

  Kyle couldn’t understand a word, but it was a pretty sure bet they weren’t happy with the plan to take their top banana. They could all go fuck their camels. No way was he walking out of this place without some insurance. “Back off!” he ordered. “Max, I want my Beretta.”

  Nodding, she hurried over to haji driver and reached for the gun stuffed in the belt clasping his tunic to his waist.

  He glared at her.

  Kyle readied himself to drop the rifle into a horizontal position, barrel aimed at haji driver. Touch her, mudderfocker, and it will be your last act.

  Max stuck the Beretta in her small backpack without incident, then she bent to scoop up the camera bag. She tried to pick up the discarded rifles also, but there were too many of them and they kept dropping out of her arms. It was a good idea, though. No doubt these terrorists had a cache of more weapons elsewhere, but when they went off to get them, he and Max would get a head start. And Kyle had no illusions about how this would continue to go down. He wasn’t leaving this place without a tail. Not with the precious warlord in his possession.

  “It’s okay,” Kyle told Max. “Leave them.” He hauled Ahab along, Max keeping pace, and went outside. He checked across the compound when he exited, but the trainees weren’t killing fake Christians anymore, probably having retired to classroom work—How to Construct a Backpack Nuke 101—or whatever. Thank crap, is all, that he didn’t have to deal with the complication of more baddies.

  “You drive,” he told Max when they came to the blue Hilux truck, the piece-of-shit vehicle that had transported them here. Best to keep his hands free for the purposes of killing people if the need arose, and knowing his luck on deployments, it would.

  Max opened the driver’s side door, tossed in the camera bag and her backpack, then jumped behind the wheel and started the engine.

  Kyle jerked o
pen the passenger side door and shoved Ahab into the middle position on the bench seat. Kyle looked at the gathering of men—all re-armed now, of course—who’d come out of the white building. “When I shoot”—he held up the Kalashnikov, so the non-English-speaking peckerheads would get the drift, too—“I don’t miss.” He hopped into the truck and banged the door shut. “Do you know where you’re going?” he asked Max.

  “Yes, basically. From here in Punjab, we head north on the road just outside of the shrine. But—” Max peered at him across the front of Ahab, her eyes still dim. “There isn’t enough gas to get us all the way back to the aid station.”

  Of course there isn’t. Exhaling harshly, Kyle yanked out the rifle’s magazine and checked it. This Kalashnikov was an AKM—a lighter version of the AK-47—with a thirty-load capacity, but as Kyle inspected the magazine, he saw it was barely loaded, only three bullets total. Beautiful.

  Ahab smiled, his teeth flashing white against that fucking Hermit of the Mountain beard he wore.

  Kyle slammed the magazine back in. With his focus aimed at Ahab, he said to Max, “My Beretta?”

  She pulled it out of her backpack and handed it to him. As he took the pistol, he gave the warlord a rebuttal, suck my dick smile. Full mag in this one, Ahab. Still…he had a mere eighteen rounds total against a shitload more terrorist firepower that would be driving up his booty, and the range of a pistol didn’t thrill him. Maybe it would’ve been better if they’d grabbed a few of those extra rifles.

  Max put the truck in gear and drove through the open gate.

  Too late now…

  Kyle tucked the Beretta in the waistband of his pants, keeping it within easy reach. He sat back, but rigidly. Tension had his muscles locked up.