Forbidden Captor

by Julie Miller

  Bryce moved on to the next mine and dropped to his knees, his big hands surprisingly agile as he opened the trigger housing and slipped in another safety pin. He couldn’t leave these innocent people behind at the mercy of a greedy dictator and his drug-funded army.

  Not when he’d been so close to finding something meaningful in his life. Not when he’d been so close to caring.

  He jimmied the housing apart and snipped the wire before risking a glance up at Maria. Some of the men in his Special Forces unit saw her as the village madam—older, plumper, past her prime. But he saw her as something special. A kind soul who looked beyond his scarred-up face and truck-size body to offer him comfort and friendship in a decidedly unfriendly country.

  Her world-weary eyes had tears in them now as she shook her head.

  Two minutes.

  “Dammit, Martin—get your ass out of there. You’ve got incoming.”

  Bryce averted his ears to the telltale thump of mortar fire. Their fiery trails lit up the sky.

  He couldn’t tell the civilians to run.

  He gripped his assault rifle and rose to his feet.

  He couldn’t save them. He couldn’t save Maria.

  “I’m sorry.” He barely mouthed the words. He was already backing up.

  “Sarge!”

  He shouldn’t have cared. Dammit. Why the hell did he have to care?

  “Gracias.” She blew him a kiss. “Be happy.”

  Bryce turned, ran. The mortars hit. The mines exploded. Smoke billowed in the air behind him and rushed upon his heels.

  White-hot pain ripped through his legs and back, cutting through scars and skin and muscle and bone.

  He flew through the air, knowing he’d been toasted long before he hit the ground.

  Campbell and Blackhaw charged from their cover. He felt their hands on him, dragging him out of the fire and smoke and death.

  Bryce twisted in his scratchy, lumpy bed, reliving the torturous pain, inside and out. Replaying the months of recovery that had tested even his considerable patience, unable to find a comfortable position that didn’t make something itch or burn or ache.

  A gunshot cracked through the night air. The sound jerked through him before Bryce went still. His eyes snapped open to hazy darkness. Not a remembered firefight. The real thing.

  Dread made his body rigid, suffused him in sweat. God, no. He swung his legs off the cot and ran barefoot across the slimy cold stones of his cell. Over the rattle of his chains, he heard the hoots of laughter and triumph from outside in the courtyard.

  Grasping the vertical bars of his cage, he hoisted himself up to look out. “Son of a bitch.”

  He dropped to his feet, turned his back to the wall and sank down on his haunches. He knew the wall was as cold and damp from the night air as the floor beneath his feet. But he barely felt it. He couldn’t feel much of anything beyond rage at his captors.

  This was worse than his nightmares.

  The bastards had just executed an innocent man.

  Devil’s Fork Island, U.S.A., November 8

  2:13 a.m.

  Bryce stared at the soldier’s bloody chest. “Kid?” God, had he ever been that young?

  Cruel hands dragged him away from the dead man he’d scrambled into the slick underbrush with. Despite a flying tackle, he’d been too late to save him. Hell. He and his comrades from Big Sky Bounty Hunters had unknowingly brought the enemy with them in the first place.

  Tailed. Like a bunch of amateurs. When they’d been trying to help. To warn their old unit of a terrorist attack.

  Only, these were no terrorists. Not the foreign kind, at any rate.

  The fight was on.

  “Grab the big guy! Take him down!”

  How many times had he heard that kind of threat?

  Three men piled on, forcing him to the ground. He got his hands around the throat of a black-haired man, butted him in the head, kneed him where it counted and shoved him out of the way. Down to two. More wrestling than punching. Idiots. With all the mud and water they couldn’t get a grip. His meaty fists were far more effective.

  “Martin!” He heard Jacob Powell’s voice, shouting his name. “Money’s on you, big guy! Take ’em—”

  A deep grunt silenced his cheering section. They were outnumbered. Taken by surprise. Going down or neutralized one by one.

  Bryce felt the bonds going around his wrists as they finally wised up and started beating on him. He pitched, kicked, pounded—and with a mighty effort, he lurched to his feet, hauling the two men up with him.

  The tattoo of an upside-down burning flag swam across his vision before a new fist connected with his jaw, driving him back to his knees in the muddy marsh of North Carolina’s Swamp Lejeune. But it was the telltale click of a military-issue Colt sliding a bullet into the firing chamber that finally stilled the fight in him. “Let me just shoot him like I did the other one.”

  The man with the curly black hair and the gun, the only man here who could match Bryce in stature, waited for the okay.

  “No, Marcus! The ones out of uniform are not to be killed. You’ve enjoyed enough target practice for one day.” Even with the steel barrel of the Colt pressing into the back of his skull, Bryce turned to get a good look at the scraggly beard and brown ponytail of the tall, well-armed man approaching him.

  “Boone Fowler.”

  “I see my reputation precedes me.”

  Like a rat spreading the plague.

  The weasly son of a bitch headed up the Montana Militia for a Free America. Fowler was the fanatic who’d broken out of prison four months ago with his loyal minions, regrouped his own private army and waged a personal vendetta against the men of Big Sky who had imprisoned him in the first place. He didn’t care who he hurt or how he hurt them—only that he got his way.

  Bryce breathed hard, tasting the blood in his mouth and ignoring pain in his side, keeping his enemy in sight.

  Fowler doffed a distinctly unmilitary salute. “I want them alive. But I don’t necessarily need them in one piece.”

  The man named Marcus needed no urging. He rammed the butt of his gun into Bryce’s head, swirling pain around inside his skull.

  Bryce struggled against the beating hands that bound his wrists and ankles and inflicted what damage they could.

  He was still swinging until the moment his world went black.

  Bryce swung at his attackers in his sleep, rattling iron chains, pinching his wrists and startling himself awake.

  He sat bolt upright in the bed, orienting himself to surroundings illuminated only by the cold threads of moonlight shining in through the open grating at the small, high window.

  Sweat trickled along his cheek and dripped onto the deep rise and fall of his naked chest. It pooled at the small of his back and soaked into the waistband of his jeans. With each breath, he inhaled the stale smells of mold and damp, the pungent odor of the straw ticking in the mattress beneath him, and the cool, salty tang of an ocean breeze. They were familiar smells by now, though not necessarily welcome ones.

  Two dead now. Boone Fowler had promised to kill one man every day until he got what he wanted. Whatever the hell that was. They had to get out of this hell-hole.

  As Bryce’s eyes and mind adjusted to the here and now, he took note of the stone block walls. The surfaces had been worn smooth, the edges eroded unevenly by centuries of use. He noted the new steel bars and massive lock that kept him from leaving his six-by-eight cell.

  His ankles chafed and the chain between them rattled as he swung his legs off the side of the iron cot and flattened his bare feet against the cold stone floor. This fortress was solid as a tomb and sported all the archaic comforts of a medieval dungeon.

  Ignoring the scars of his life and the bruises from his capture, he jerked his wrists out to the side, stretching his arms as wide as the eighteen or so inches of chain connecting them allowed. He squeezed his hands into fists, swelling his mighty forearms and biceps until every muscle shook with th
e effort to rip the restraints apart. Though rust from age and the damp sea air colored the chain and cuffs, each link held fast.

  Releasing his breath after the feverish exertion, he dropped his hands to his knees and watched a mouse scurry from its cubbyhole in the corner up to the window and disappear outside.

  Lucky bastard.

  Bryce was hungry and sore, isolated and trapped like a caged bear on some uninhabited island he didn’t recognize. His injuries were minimal—a puffy right eye, a cut lip, bruised ribs and a gash on his right cheek that would need stitches to heal pretty. Not that one pretty scar would make much difference amongst the marks left by the fiery car wreck that had killed his parents, and the shrapnel wounds from that San Ysidran minefield that had ended his official military career. But his injuries would never heal if the beating and pointless questions he’d endured that afternoon were going to become a daily ritual.

  His three comrades from Big Sky Bounty Hunters, as well as the thirteen Special Forces soldiers who’d survived the ambush at the Marine Corps training base nicknamed Swamp Lejeune, could be dead now or imprisoned in another barred room inside this ancient prison. And from where he sat, he couldn’t do a damn thing to help them.

  Like he hadn’t been able to help that kid last night.

  “Hell,” was all he said. The word echoed in the darkness.

  Waking up hadn’t made the nightmares go away.

  “A GIFT FOR A JOB well-done, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man named Boone Fowler read the letter from the sealed envelope Tasiya had delivered from Dimitri Mostek. Though the two men had little in common in the looks department beyond their forty-something age, she sensed they’d been cut from the same arrogant, power-hungry cloth. Mr. Fowler was a good four or five inches taller than Dimitri’s stocky build. His hair was a faded brown, long and pulled back into a ponytail. While Dimitri’s short, black hair framed a pampered face, Fowler’s face was marred by acne scars, outdoor living and a thin beard.

  It was the calculating black eyes that made her think of the man who held her father prisoner. Like Mostek, Fowler’s eyes were cold and hard. Full of suspicion. Quick to show blame and temper. Unused to reflecting patience or compassion.

  Tasiya stood in the middle of Fowler’s stucco-walled office, still clutching the carry-on bag she’d brought with her on the flight to New York and a place called Wilmington, North Carolina. The same bag she’d held on the long truck ride to a white, sandy coastline and the remote ferry that had brought her to this place.

  Devil’s Fork Island, the man had called it. He mentioned something about a conquistador stronghold, a sailor’s prison and pirate hideaway.

  But Tasiya hadn’t been interested in the history of the place. She’d been thinking of that last glimpse of her injured father being dragged away from her and driven off to who knew where. She’d been thinking about how quickly Dimitri Mostek had put together a passport and traveling papers for her. Where he’d gotten the secure, high-tech phone that had been designed to dial only one number. His.

  She’d been thinking that her father had taken money from some very dangerous people, and that it was her responsibility to make sure he didn’t pay too high a price for that mistake.

  Now she realized the men she’d been sent to spy on were equally dangerous.

  And wouldn’t take kindly to being spied upon, judging by the numerous security measures she’d seen thus far.

  They’d been the only vehicle on the boat, and once it had docked, several armed men had materialized out of the tall, reedy grass on the banks to secure the ferry and tie camouflage tarps across the deck and wheelhouse. Clearly, there wasn’t going to be a return trip to the mainland anytime soon.

  The wind off the ocean had whipped her long skirt and coat about her legs. And though the sun was shining and the temperature was several degrees warmer than the frozen home she’d left behind, she’d shivered.

  She’d been shaking by the time her short, skinny escort had wrapped his hard fingers around her upper arm to lead her into some trodden grass along what she now realized was an unmarked path. He paused at a tall, wire mesh fence, hidden in a line of scrubby trees at the top of the sandy incline.

  The man pulled a walkie-talkie from his pocket and pressed a button. Another man’s voice answered, demanding identification. Even with her limited English, she could tell they were speaking some type of code. Once approved, Tasiya heard a staticky hum from the fence that seemed to charge the air around it and stand the hairs on her arms on end. She started when the hum ended in an abrupt silence. With an “All clear,” the man pulled her beside him through a gate. Then there was another call, and the hum resumed behind her. Tasiya realized they’d passed through some sort of electric security barrier.

  Such extreme measures to keep people out. Not that she’d expected a friendly welcome. Not that she’d trust anyone who did make a friendly overture.

  No one had welcomed her to America or Devil’s Fork Island or Boone Fowler’s office. No one had asked about her trip or whether she was tired or hungry. No one had said anything beyond, “Show me your passport,” or “Get in,” or “This way.”

  She had a feeling Boone Fowler was more used to barking orders than striking up conversations. Tasiya longed for a kind word, a bit of reassurance, a smile, to make her think she could pull this off. Because she had an equally strong feeling that—like Dimitri Mostek—Boone Fowler would have no qualms about taking retribution on anyone who crossed him.

  “So we’re not supposed to touch you?”

  He tossed the letter onto the gray metal desk and looked up, raking his dismissive eyes up and down her figure. Tasiya kept her own gaze trained to the floor. “No, sir.”

  “That’s not a problem for me. I don’t do foreign trash.” He stood and circled around the desk, stopping just in front of her. “But I do like having a woman at my beck and call.”

  Tasiya stared at the buttons on his black-and-red flannel shirt. “Minister Mostek said I should help you in any way I can.”

  “You a decent cook?”

  She nodded, not out of ego, but of honesty. “That is how I make my living.”

  “Good. Anything would be better than that slop Bristoe’s been serving us.” Tasiya held her breath as his hand moved toward her chin, but he caught himself before making contact. He snapped his fingers instead. Her breath rushed out in a startled gasp and he snickered in his throat. Understanding the command to submit to his will, she steadied her nerves and tilted her eyes up to look into his. “I don’t want any of that spicy foreign crud where you can’t tell what it is you’re eating. Plain cooking. Nothing fancy. Use the supplies we have on hand. Can you manage that?”

  Just like Mostek. “Yes, sir.”

  “Marcus!”

  She turned away as he shouted the order over the top of her head. An even bigger man opened the thick wooden door from the outside hallway. He had to stand six and a half feet tall, nearly a foot taller than she. He was built like an ox and seemed to share the same personal habits of a beast of burden. His slick, curly black hair and stained hands needed to meet a bar of soap. And the pool of yellowish-brown tobacco juice that swirled in front of his leering smile before he turned and spat his cud into a corner of the hallway nearly made her gag.

  Quickly Tasiya closed her eyes and pictured an image of her father’s kind, smiling face. The face of the gentle man who’d read her bedtime stories as a child, and talked about her mother so she wouldn’t be afraid of the imaginary creature she’d thought lived beneath her bed.

  She was calmer when she opened her eyes, but the big ox with the suggestive grin and large pistol strapped to his belt was still staring at her.

  “I heard we had company,” he drawled, strolling into the room. “I’m Marcus Smith, Mr. Fowler’s newly promoted chief of security. ’Cause I’m so good at what I do. And your name, little lady?”

  Little lady? She was five feet, seven inches tall. Of
course, everyone must seem little compared to this brute. She fixed her gaze squarely in the center of his chest. “Anastasiya Belov.”

  “She’s a gift from our benefactor for a job well-done,” Fowler explained. “He’s impressed that we were able to neutralize the strike force.”

  “I’m the one who’s impressed.” The man called Marcus Smith reached out and twined his thick, grubby fingers into the long curls of hair that fell across her left breast. “Nice. Prettiest damn thing I’ve seen in weeks.”

  Tasiya curled her toes inside her boots to keep from bolting.

  But, surprisingly, Boone Fowler saved her the trouble.

  “Hands off, Marcus.” He shoved the big man back a step. “She’s not that kind of gift.”

  Tasiya winced at the pinpricks of pain that danced across her scalp before Marcus let go of her hair, but she refused to cry out. This was nothing. Her father might be suffering much worse than this. She could endure a few unwanted gropes for his sake.

  But apparently Boone Fowler intended to follow his instructions to the letter. “The note says we’re not to touch her. Our contact wants her in pristine condition for himself. And since his people are funding our operation, I don’t want to jeopardize that relationship. Yet. We have business to attend to, anyway. Or have you forgotten our purpose?”

  Marcus bowed his gaze like a chastized child. “I haven’t forgotten. I just thought maybe, since you seemed so pleased with my performance lately, that—”

  “Keep it in your pants for a few days, okay? We’ll use her to free up some manpower to increase security patrols and interrogations.”

  Keep it in your pants? Another strange Americanism. She might not understand the words, but she had no problem recognizing the lechery in Marcus Smith’s eyes, or the blame she read there for being reprimanded by the boss.