by Bruhns, Nina
A sob caught in her throat. “No!” He saw her sink in on herself in defeat. “All right! You win.”
“I need you to be safe, Rainie, so I can do my job without worrying about you. And if the worst happens, I need you to find your way back to the Bedouin we traded with. I made a deal with them to take you over the border to Egypt, to deliver you to an American embassy official there.”
“And you really think they’ll keep a deal to smuggle some Westerner across a closed border?”
“Absolutely. A Bedouin will keep his word to his dying breath. You can trust them with your life, Rainie. I trust them with your life. They’re expecting you.”
Her skepticism turned to consternation. “Wait. What?”
“I’ve been saying this all along, Rainie. There’s a damn good chance I’ll be caught or killed tomorrow. I needed you to have a safe way out of here when I’m not around to help.”
Tears filled her eyes. “You won’t be killed! You can’t be.”
He reached out to put his arms around her but his camel chose that exact moment to sidestep over to nibble on a green bush. He cursed as the tears tracked down her cheek.
Giving the harsh throat-hiss command for the camel to lower himself to the ground, Kick dismounted and got her camel down, as well. Then he pulled her off and finally was able to put his arms around her.
“I deserve to rot in hell for getting you into this. I’m so sorry, Rainie.”
She sniffled against his chest. “Stop saying that. Because I’m not. I’m not sorry.” She looked up into his eyes. “I was living in a nightmare of my own making when you found me, Kick. You showed me it doesn’t have to be that way. And you’ve also shown me there are far worse nightmares in the world, real nightmares, that are much more deserving of fear. And you know what? For the first time in my life I find I truly am afraid of dying. Not because I fear death itself. But because, finally, I have something to live for!”
Sweet, holy God.
He did not want to hear this. He was plain terrified of what she might say next. Because it was impossible. Whatever she was thinking, if it had anything to do with him, it was impossible. She had to know that.
“Baby—” But no words would come out. They got stopped by the giant lump of choked-up emotion that was firmly lodged in his throat.
She reached up and sweetly kissed his lips. “You are not going to die, Kick,” she whispered.
Which caused the worst possible thing ever to happen.
It gave him hope. Hope that he might have something to live for, too. That a normal life was possible, after all. With Rainie.
She made him dare to hope.
When there was none.
TWENTY
HE made love to her so sweetly.
In a wedge of shade from the waning afternoon sun, lying on parachute silk over hot sand, Kick kissed and touched Rainie with a gentle passion that took her breath away. He filled her with his body and his seed as though she were more precious and cherished than a remembered childhood dream.
If she hadn’t already fallen completely in love with the man long ago, this would have done it for sure.
Now, afterward, as he ran his desert-roughened hands worshipfully over her nakedness, there were actually tears in his eyes. And he didn’t even try to hide them.
Moved beyond words, Rainie gave in and wept in his strong, sheltering arms. For what they had shared. For all they might not.
“Shhh. Baby, it’s okay.”
Tomorrow, those strong, sheltering arms could be cold and still, forever, in a bloody grave.
The thought made her weep all the more. “No, it’s not okay. Oh, Kick, let’s just get out of here. Call STORM and tell them abu Bakr is dead and to send in the air strike. No one will know the difference. He’ll be just as dead. Then we can escape and run somewhere far, far away and forget all about—”
“Sweetheart, you know I can’t do that.”
“But why?” she demanded tearfully, pulling back to look up into his face. His dusty, sunburned, beard-stubbled, exhausted, adored face. The face she loved more than life itself. She would do anything in her power to keep its owner from being harmed.
His hand continued to stroke over her bare skin. His blue eyes gazed back at her, clear and brimming bright like a mountain stream. Filled with pain. And guilt.
“It’s not your fault,” she said. “Whatever you think you did, it’s not your fault.”
His fingers combed gently through her hair. “But it is.” His gaze moved away and he inhaled a shuddering breath. “It is my fault.”
He was so wrong. He had to be. “Even if that were true, you mustn’t throw away your life because of it. Whatever is haunting you, you have to forgive yourself.”
“That’s not why I’m doing this.”
“No? Then why?”
The warm mood evaporated. “Drop it, Rainie. I don’t want to talk about it.”
She peered up at him. “Why? Are you afraid if you tell me the truth, I might accidentally talk some sense into that thick head of yours?”
The muscles of his body went still and his hand stopped stroking her. “Rainie . . .” he warned.
She lay her head back down on his chest. “Okay, fine. Play the wounded hero. But is this really what the friends who died in Afghanistan would want you to do? To throw your life away on some suicide mission for revenge?”
“Says the woman who just threw away everything she believes in and killed a man because of what happened fifteen years ago,” he murmured.
Okay, yeah, nice try. She pressed her lips together. “Fourteen years ago. And if you recall, that scumbag tried to kill me first. And you. But if you want to pretend it’s the same thing, great. Whatever.”
She felt him exhale. “Anyone ever tell you you’re the most irritating woman alive?”
That’s right, deflection might really work. Not. “Not usually after making love,” she said with honey in her voice.
He swore softly. Under her cheek, his heartbeat kicked up. “I’ve never talked about this to anyone before. I don’t know if I can.”
She blinked in surprise. “Not even when you were debriefed by your commanders back home?”
“When I first woke up in the hospital, I couldn’t remember a thing. I kept letting them think that.”
Ah. “But you did eventually? Remember?”
He nodded. “Unfortunately.”
Hidden, guilty secrets. That explained a lot. No wonder it was eating at him. Damn it, he needed the catharsis of talking about it, getting it all out in the open. Especially now. So he could concentrate on staying alive and coming back to her.
Anger twisted through her heart when she thought about a childhood that he’d hinted was beyond awful, and all the bad stuff he’d been forced to endure since. He so didn’t deserve it. He was such a good man. Kind and sympathetic and intelligent. Given half a chance, he could have been anything he chose, a doctor or a judge or a teacher, anything at all. Instead he’d felt compelled to kill people for a living just to survive on the right side of the law. And then to witness . . . whatever it was that drove him on this mission now . . .
It was so damned unfair he was still paying for the sins of his parents, even today. Goddamn, if he died . . .
“I want to understand, Kick. If you’re really going to do this, maybe sacrifice your life and leave me all alone here, I deserve to know why.”
He sighed. At length, he said, “All right,” sounding even more guilt-ridden than before. “I suppose you do.”
He was silent again for a very long time. She held him close, soaking up the feel of his muscular body against hers, skin to skin. So vibrant and alive. For now. And waited.
When he began, his voice was low and tentative. “Abu Bakr had been on everyone’s Most Wanted list since 9/11. CIA, FBI, MI-6, Interpol, and every country in the West were hunting him.”
“And you found him?” she prompted when he seemed to falter. “In Afghanistan?”
He cleared his throat. “Yup. Through an informant.” She could feel his body tense as he slipped into the memories. “It was a village like any other. High up in the mountains, poor as dirt, villagers with dead eyes that wouldn’t meet yours. Except this one young girl who kept crying and looking at us like we’d been sent by the devil. It sent up a red flag, but I wasn’t about to call off the mission because of it. I mean, we’d been tracking this fucker for six years. She was a girl. Girls were always crying over there. And everyone hates us in these places, so being the devil wasn’t anything new.”
“That must be hard,” she couldn’t help saying. “Doing something you believe in, and being so hated for it.” But he was too deep in the moment, and didn’t hear her.
“We’d had information that abu Bakr was spending the night there, on his way to some bigwig meeting with the other al Sayika leaders. We almost didn’t believe it. But sure enough, we overheard them call him by name, this arrogant man walking to the mosque for evening prayers surrounded by an entourage, like he was some kind of holy saint.” Kick exhaled slowly. “That night, we took up positions for an ambush a few miles up the road. Two of the team stayed behind to watch the village, so he wouldn’t slip away from us. One of them was a woman, Sheila. We thought she’d be safer—” Kick halted for a moment. Gathered himself. When he continued, his hands trembled as they held her. “Anyway, abu Bakr still hadn’t shown up by noon the next day, so this other guy, Drew, and I went back to investigate.” He swallowed heavily.
Rainie braced herself for what would come next.
“Sheila and Tyrone had been tied to two wooden posts. She was covered in blood, had obviously been—” He cleared his throat, wetted his lips. “Both their stomachs were slit open, spilling guts onto the ground. The bastards had lit a fire and—” His fingers dug into her. “Christ, Rainie, they were still alive. Sheila and Tyrone were still alive.” His voice broke on the last word.
Baby Jesus and Mother Mary.
Rainie could barely speak, but managed, “My God. I hope you . . .” No. She couldn’t finish it. But she didn’t have to. He understood.
“Hardest thing I’ve ever done,” he whispered in a rough rasp. He took a shaky breath. “That’s when we heard gunfire coming from the team’s position up the road, and I knew I’d led my men into a trap.”
“Oh, Kick.”
Her tears pooled on his chest. At last she understood the depth of his guilt and his fury. If only tears could wash away the anguish that permeated every pore of his body, every syllable of his words as he continued.
“I knew there was a regular army unit stationed about twenty minutes out. So I used my radio to call for support.” He shook his head. “Cardinal sin. We were spec ops. Officially, my team wasn’t there, didn’t even exist. But I wasn’t thinking too clearly at the time. Obviously. Or I would have tackled Drew before he could take off like a jackrabbit up the road to get to the others. The tangos must have laid out land mines overnight. He stepped on one. Blew him to bits right in front of me. A wall of shrapnel caught me in the back and leg pretty bad. I couldn’t walk, so I figured, yeah, this is it. I was done for.”
Couldn’t walk. She traced her fingers gently along the angry raised scars on his thigh. Understatement of the year.
By now his voice had lost all emotion. “But you know, they didn’t even bother to kill me. Abu Bakr himself came over and stared down at me, sprawled there in the dirt like a broken, bleeding dog. ‘You’ll never win,’ he said in this fucking perfect American English. And then he left me lying there to bleed out. A few minutes later an old truck came barreling down the road from the mountain.” He squeezed his eyes shut, as though trying to shut out one last horrible vision.
Oh, God. Could this get any worse?
“They’d tied a rope around my best friend Alex’s ankles, and were dragging his body behind it. I couldn’t even see his skin for all the blood. I just prayed he’d died before that truck started moving.”
Oh, dear God.
Dear merciful God.
She’d barely managed to keep it together so far. That last part tipped the scales. She scrambled up off Kick, dove for a nearby thorny bush, and lost the meager contents of her stomach.
“Jesus, Rainie.” In an instant his sturdy arms came around her from behind, his demeanor changed. He was back from the dark place. On his knees, he held her steady as the world spun around her. “Christ, I should never have told you all that. I—”
“Yes. You should. It’s okay. I’m okay. I understand now. I totally understand, and—”
God, who was she kidding? She groped for the edge of the parachute and wiped her tears and mouth on it, turned to him. There was such misery in his beautiful face that it broke her heart clean in half. Misery because he was the only one who had survived that day, was therefore the only Westerner who could identify abu Bakr by sight. It was pure guilt that had driven him finally to embrace this mission that Zero Unit had heartlessly sent him on.
She threw her arms around him. “Oh, Kick, I know you feel guilty about not dying that day, too, but I’m so glad you didn’t. I love you so much. God, how I love you.”
In her embrace, he froze. Didn’t move as much as an eyelash.
Oh, hell. Had she really said that out loud?
She swallowed, dropped her arms, and pulled back. Squirmed under the total disbelief in his eyes as he stared at her.
“I mean . . .”
He shook his head.
Oh, crap.
“Rainie, even if I thought you really meant that, you have to know I can never . . . We can never . . .”
“Yeah.” Plastering a brittle smile on her face, she shook her head and climbed to her feet. “I know. It’s all right. Thank you for telling me what happened. I know it couldn’t have been easy, and—”
“Rain, stop. We need to talk about—”
“No. Seriously. We don’t. I know we’re not a match made in heaven. I just, like, wanted you to know, you know, just in case . . .” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Bit hard so she wouldn’t burst out in tears.
He was on his feet now, too. He pulled her back into his arms. “Baby, if there were any way—”
“But there isn’t. I get that. Like I said, no biggie.” She tasted blood.
“It is to me,” he said softly, and began to lower his mouth to hers.
She jerked away with a forced laugh. Rather than howling with anguish. “Ew. I’ve got barf breath.” She grabbed up her Bedouin robe and escaped over to where they had stashed the waterskins in a shady crevice. After slipping the robe over her head, she rinsed her mouth with a stream of lovely goat-flavored water.
He watched her, looking, if possible, even bleaker. She could totally relate. Why was it, when he showed his vulnerability so starkly, she loved him even more?
Not that it mattered how she felt.
No future, remember?
“I wish things could be different,” he said.
“Yeah,” she agreed shakily. “Me, too.”
IT was moving day.
Callooh callay.
Every ten years or so . . . or was it a hundred . . . or maybe every month, who could tell? . . . they moved him. To a new pigsty, they said. Haha. The fuckers should be on Comedy Central.
He still hurt like hell. Could barely walk as they impatiently herded him barefooted over sharp rocks and pokey shrubs to his new luxury accommodations. Last week’s torture and the beating yesterday—the day before?—hadn’t helped his physical condition. Nor did his putrid mattress, which they forced him to drag behind himself to his new quarters. If he dropped it, he’d sleep on bare dirt until next time he was moved. A barrel of laughs, he knew from plenty of previous experience. And if he fell down they’d just drag him by what was left of his tattered clothes. He had nightmares of being dragged. His skin was raw and scabbed, evidence of when they’d dragged him across the ground before. His back . . . Well, someday maybe the skin would stay put. If he lived t
hat long. The mattress helped. Couldn’t lose his grip.
He stumbled along following the asshole guard du jour, careful to give the other bastards the fun show they expected from the blind infidel. They deliberately let him run into walls and crap, and step on disgusting shit on the ground, and then guffawed uproariously. Motherfuckers. One of these days . . .
Okay, focus.
For the first time, he could actually see things besides four walls. Granted, not much. But the dim outlines of decrepit shacks, piles of refuse, dark shadows—human or animal he wasn’t sure—moving about on the fringes of his hazy vision were actually somewhat recognizable by now.
Let’s see. Mud shack, mud shack, trash heap, big cement block hut, what was that, an outhouse? Whoa! A Jeep! No reaction. Don’t give yourself away. More ghetto shacks. He strained to clear out the cobwebs of his brain and remember it all. So by the time he got his body back in shape he could have this whole fucking prison memorized.
Providing they didn’t kill him first.
Not that he’d ever get so lucky. He was like a freaking bug on a string for them. There for apparently no other reason than their daily amusement. If he died on his own, tough shit. But the scumbags weren’t going to help him along. Too many fun beatings and good entertaining torment left in him to brighten their days. Which, going by the little he could see of this rancid hellhole, must be the highlight of camp life.
He smacked into the rough wall of a dried mud shack to the sound of Arabic laughter. He ground his teeth mercilessly so he wouldn’t mouth off and get himself another beating. A hand shoved him in through a yawning black hole and he landed on his face. The mattress was kicked in after him and the door slammed, almost clipping his feet.
For a long time he lay in excruciating pain on the dirt floor and struggled to keep it together.
When he was sure he wouldn’t cry out, or worse, just cry, he forced himself up to his treacherously wobbly hands and knees. Straightened out the mattress. Crawled to the center of the room. Took a deep breath.
Shaking like a baby, he slowly pushed himself down on his feet and hands, and then up.
