Shoot to Thrill

by Bruhns, Nina

  “They won’t.” He smiled so confidently, her desperate heart chose to believe him, even though her head told her this plan of his could only end in disaster. As Kick’s had.

  Out of options, she exhaled. “All right.”

  “But you absolutely must promise me to stay here. Exactly here. Do not move, not for anything. Do you promise me?”

  She nodded. Another order she was used to. “I will. How do you—”

  But before she could ask him what, exactly, he planned to do, he kissed her on both cheeks and slipped out from behind the boulder.

  And once again she was left behind. Which was really, really starting to annoy her. She could have helped him. Done something. At least told him about the—

  Oh, my God! She definitely should have told him about the explosives rigged to blow. In case he needed to use them, or—

  She jumped up and went after him.

  She scrambled up the shallow wadi slope and started to climb over the rocky rim.

  To her surprise, Virreau was hurrying toward a Jeep that was parked in plain sight, in a shallow ravine several yards away. It was dirty white, with a large red cross painted on the hood. How could the terrorists possibly have missed it?

  To her even bigger surprise, suddenly the tail of Virreau’s shirt flapped up in a gust of wind. Under it, the unmistakable shape of a large black gun stuck out of the waistband of his khaki shorts. It looked just like the one Marc had had hidden under his pillow. Okay, well, at least Virreau was armed.

  But then it hit her. With just as much impact as it had the first time she’d seen Kick pull out a gun in New York.

  Doctors for Peace didn’t allow their volunteers to carry guns.

  Ever.

  She stopped dead in her tracks. So what did its presence mean about Virreau? Surely, not . . .

  Pulse pounding, she ducked back down under the protective rim of the wadi to think.

  Okay. This couldn’t be what it seemed. It just couldn’t.

  Could it?

  The thought that Virreau was somehow in league with the terrorists . . .

  Kick and Marc had been totally convinced that Nathan Daneby was also working with them. Some kind of photographic evidence had been mentioned. When confronted right before she and Kick had left the DFP hospital, Daneby hadn’t denied the allegation, either. Which was why they’d left him tied up.

  Maybe he and Virreau were working together. And with the terrorists.

  That would explain the lie about Marc. . . .

  Marc! Oh, God. What if Virreau had freed Nate and they’d hurt Marc!

  The Jeep’s engine coughed and sputtered to life and she heard it take off with a spin of tires in the sand.

  Virreau was on his way to the insurgent camp, and God knew what he was planning to do once he got there.

  She didn’t even want to imagine what would happen to Kick.

  She had to do something. And quickly.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “CAN you walk?” Kick asked Alex after they’d both recovered their composure. Well, Kick had. Mostly anyway. Alex was still shaking like a Chihuahua, clinging to the edges of that disgusting pile of filth pallet of his, peering at Kick in unfocused anguish, as though he expected him to disappear any second.

  He also didn’t answer the question.

  Kick hesitated to touch the man for fear of losing him completely. “Alex!” he repeated. The sound of his name snapped his friend’s attention up.

  “Are you real?” Alex asked for at least the tenth time.

  Kick gave him what he hoped was another reassuring smile. Not that he’d be able to see it in this dark hovel. “Yes. I’m real. Do you think you can walk, buddy?”

  Alex slowly nodded. “Home.”

  “Yup. We’ll get there, but—”

  All at once the door banged open, blinding Kick with sunlight that poured in like a klieg light.

  “Pigs!” someone yelled.

  Alex covered his head and ducked. Holy fuck. What the hell had they been doing to him to make him constantly react like that?

  A handful of gravel pelted through the air, catching Kick painfully in the neck and shoulder, answering his question.

  “Goddamn it, you sons of bitches!” he yelled, batting the stinging rocks off his cheek. One of his captors lunged in and clipped him in the temple with a rifle butt. Stars burst through his head as he toppled over. He sensed more than saw Alex roll next to him, shielding Kick’s head with his body.

  The next blow landed on Alex’s back. He screamed.

  Fuck.

  Kick untangled his limbs and shook the stars from his eyes, then threw himself at the asshole with the rifle. Two more assholes were on him in a flash.

  Damn. This was going to hurt.

  He was right. His head felt like it exploded.

  Then blissfully, everything went black.

  RAINIE couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

  She’d run to fetch the hidden camel and ridden as fast as she could back to this morning’s observation post on the ridge overlooking the terrorists’ training camp.

  She was so appalled she could barely see straight. Girard Virreau had driven right into the middle of the camp and was now being greeted like an old friend.

  She told herself to calm down. This might not be what it seemed. It could be just as Virreau said—they trusted him because he belonged to Doctors for Peace.

  The ugly terrorist leader guy came striding out of the mysterious cement hut, went straight to him, and shook his hand.

  Or because he was a goddamn traitor.

  Her heart literally stopped when two guards came around the corner of the shack, hauling Kick between them. His seemingly lifeless body hung limp, his boots plowing uneven furrows in the dirt as they dragged him along. Another man limped after them, prodded by a third guard with a bayoneted rifle. At least she thought he was a man. He looked more like a feral creature, dirty, tattered, crazy-haired and wild-eyed. The prisoner.

  The two men turned to watch. Ugly Guy jerked his thumb at the hostages, said something, and Virreau laughed.

  Fury burned through Rainie’s insides like a firestorm.

  Oh. My. God.

  The motherfucker had lied through his teeth.

  Okay. Now she was really mad.

  Not only would she save Kick and the other hostage. That pompous frog was going to pay.

  ALEX winced as Kick—his friend, Kick—was thrown onto the floor and his head bounced off the bare cement.

  Damn. Even a blind man could tell that had to be painful.

  Although, much to Alex’s surprise, this time he could actually see inside this hut. More than fuzzy shadows. Jesus, there were electric lights! Electric lights. How was that even possible? He was so shocked he almost gave himself away by staring. So he deliberately walked into a table.

  His guards leapt at him, yanking him backward.

  A vicious slap bit across his cheek. “Pig! Do not move!”

  He put his chin down and didn’t move . . . as much as possible, since his legs were shaking like a newborn’s and could barely hold him up.

  Appropriate, he thought wryly. He felt like a newborn.

  Finding out his name was like being given new life. Christopher Alexander Zane. The name didn’t sound the least bit familiar to him, nor had any of the stories Kick had told of their friendship and the many dangerous jobs they’d done together for something called Zero Unit. But Kick was sure he was this Alex person. That was good enough for him. Kick wouldn’t have made up all those stories. And why would he have come to take Alex home if he didn’t know him?

  Of course, at the moment, it didn’t look like anyone was going home anytime soon. He’d been in this hut before. He recognized the foul smell. The memories of it were filled with pain and torture. But tonight it smelled like death.

  God fucking damn it. He did not want to die. Not now. Not when he finally knew his name. When he’d at last learned he really did have a friend in
the world. When freedom was so close he could taste it.

  Two men came in behind him. One set of heavy footsteps he recognized immediately. The Sultan of Pain.

  God, no! Not again, so soon!

  Alex kept his head down and forced back a wave of despair clawing at his throat. He couldn’t do this. Not again. He glanced furtively at Kick, still on the floor unconscious. There’d be no escape now, no help from that quarter.

  The Sultan and his sidekick were speaking in intense undertones. In Arabic. Except . . . the sidekick couldn’t speak it very well. Definitely not a native—And they were talking about . . . diamonds? Diamonds and blood? Had they invented some kind of new torture device? If so, the Sultan didn’t seem pleased with it. He snapped out an impatient retort, and the other man wheedled unhappily.

  Suddenly Alex remembered. That whiny, out-of-place voice. He’d heard it before, a few days ago when he’d been totally delirious with fever—aftereffects of his injuries or some disgusting malady. Or the constant abuse. Take your pick.

  But there was something else about the scumbag. Other than being a spineless traitor. Alex studied the cracks in the floor, straining to think. A pair of brown leather boots walked across his field of vision.

  That was it.

  Boots, not sandals.

  It was the same man. A Westerner. A doctor, or someone acting like a doctor.

  And now Alex was close enough to see his face.

  Excitement made him light-headed. He staggered against one of his guards, earning him another backhand. But just before he crumpled, he saw the traitor’s face. Hitting the floor, he made a ball and rolled up against the closest wall.

  Brown Boots and the Sultan continued past him, and Alex pressed himself tighter into the wall. His pulse took off. This was where the fun and games would start.

  But they paid him no mind. Instead, they stopped in front of Kick. And were joined by a third man who had apparently been sitting quietly behind the desk at the back of the hut. All three stared down at Alex’s would-be savior.

  Oh, shit.

  No. No, no, no.

  What were they planning? He couldn’t let them hurt Kick. Kick was his only way out of this hell.

  “Hey!” he called, to distract them. It came out little more than a croak. “Leave him alone!” he yelled. Whispered.

  The evil triumvirate turned to stare down at him cowering there on the floor like a wounded bird. Then they all smiled. Evil smiles.

  The third man, who was older, with white hair and a dark, wrinkled face, opened one of two small metal briefcases sitting on the table Alex had collided with earlier. From it the man carefully lifted a vial, and then a hypodermic needle. He stuck the needle in the top of the vial and expertly filled the tube part with a brownish liquid. Then he turned back to Alex with eyes that twinkled.

  “Do not worry, infidel,” he said quietly in English, in a strange accent Alex didn’t recognize. “You won’t die alone. You will just be the first. The first of millions.”

  THE sun was going down.

  Finally.

  God help her.

  Rainie attempted to tame her nerves by rolling onto her back on the rocky ridge and gazing up at the stars that were just beginning to emerge in the darkening sky. The same stars she and Kick had watched together just a few short nights ago, when he’d shown her a handful of constellations and taught her how to find the North Star. The same stars they’d made love under, exchanging silent vows that neither dared voice aloud. Could he see the stars now? Was he watching them, too, thinking of her?

  Oh, Kick. Kyle.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. What did she think was she doing?

  Just last week she’d been a simple ER nurse, unwilling to stray from her safe, circumscribed, ten-block world. Shun ning love because she didn’t want to be hurt so badly again. Afraid to really live because she was afraid of dying like her parents. And now here she was, running around a dangerous foreign country, riding camels without a second thought, desperately in love with a man she knew very well she could never have, about to gamble her very life to save him from merciless terrorists.

  This was insane.

  She had no flipping idea how to do this stuff. She could die tonight if she messed up, even a little. They could all die.

  But what choice did she have?

  Visions of that other prisoner haunted her. He’d been so gaunt, so filthy, so feeble. And yet for all that, it was obvious he’d once been a tall, robust warrior like Kick. The agonizing thought of her lover ending up in that same awful condition gave her the motivation she needed to break her paralysis.

  She’d spent the whole morning watching the camp, helpless, terrified the entire time that she’d be forced to witness Kick’s summary execution. Thank God it hadn’t happened. And when the sun was at its zenith, that’s when she’d made up her mind. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she didn’t at least try to free him. Them.

  The first thing she did was don Kick’s extra DCUs and khaki T-shirt from the pack, wrapped her head in the parachute silk kaffiyeh he’d made for her, and strapped his KA-BAR knife to her side. Completing the transition from nurse to commando. Physically . . . but also mentally. All afternoon she’d prepared, most of that time spent crawling on her belly through the sand just outside the training camp, heart in her throat, retracing Kick’s movements to see what he’d done with the rest of the explosives, making a few prayer-filled modifications. Then she’d loaded Kick’s weapons onto the remaining camel, filled her DCU pockets with the NVGs, the rest of the water bottles, and food, and hiked up the ridge to watch and wait for sunset.

  Which had arrived at last. Everything was set. The diversion ready to launch.

  Lord give her strength.

  She took a deep, steadying breath. Checked the camp below. In a few minutes the tangos would start their evening prayers.

  Just one more thing to do. She reached for the field pack and took out the SATCOM. Pressing the same buttons and repeating the same words she’d heard Kick use, she made the call.

  “STORMdog six come in. This is STORMsix kilo, over.”

  After a short burst of static, there was an answering, “STORMdog six actual, here. Identify yourself, over.”

  “This is STORMsix kilo,” she said again. She had no idea what any of that meant, but it’s what Kick had said both times she’d heard him use the SATCOM. Oh, hell. “Please, this is Lorraine Martin,” she said, jettisoning the military-speak and trying not to sound panicked and desperate. “Am I talking to STORM Corps?”

  Another burst of static. Then, “STORM lima mike, we read you. Do you need assistance, over?”

  “Yes! No. I mean, oh, God, they’ve got Kick. I just want you to know, I’m going in after him. Tonight.”

  “Negative, STORM lima mike,” whoever it was said emphatically. “Do not attempt a rescue on your own. Do you read me, over?”

  “Did you hear what I said? They’ve captured him. There’s another hostage, too. Kick said he’s one of ours. And there’s a traitor. A doctor named Girard Virreau. He’s in the camp with the terrorists now. I don’t have time to wait for help.”

  “Please stand by, STORM lima mike. Do you read? Keep the COM open, over.”

  “There’s no time!” she repeated impatiently. “Evening prayers are about to start. Just send in the air strike if you don’t hear from me within fifteen minutes.” That should be enough time for the plan to work. Or not, as the case might be. Either way, it should all be over by then. “Can you do that? Please? Over.”

  “Miss Martin, this is STORM commander Kurt Bridger,” the guy came back, also abandoning the double-talk. “You need to listen to me very carefully. You must extract yourself immediately from—”

  Why did no one ever listen to her? She glanced down the ridge. The tangos below were starting to come outside and spread their mats for prayers.

  Time was up.

  She used the old trick from the movies, pressing the COM call b
utton to produce several seconds of static. “Breaking up,” she said, then pressed it a few more times for good measure. “Fifteen minutes. Send in the air strike.” Then she switched off the radio. And prayed STORM would actually do it. Their lives depended on the chaos to cover their get-away. Not to mention the need to eliminate abu Bakr and the rest of the tangos.

  Swallowing heavily, she fished in her pocket for the lighter Kick had given her this morning, before he’d been captured. Make that before he’d surrendered himself to the enemy rather than endangering her.

  This was it. Now or never.

  Before she could change her mind, she strapped on the backpack, flicked the lighter, and touched the flame to the end of the fuse. It took with a spark and a hiss and the acrid smell of sulfur.

  Allahu akhbar, the terrorists prayed below.

  Sending up a silent prayer herself, she turned to launch herself down the ridge.

  And ran straight into Nathan Daneby.

  GINA tried to ignore the nervousness that spilled through her as she put on the extra helmet he handed her, and slung her leg over the back of Gregg van Halen’s motorcycle.

  She wasn’t nervous about the bike. God knew, she’d ridden her share of Harleys growing up in the rough neighborhoods across the river in Jersey. No, it was the meeting they were on their way to that had her wondering if she’d lost her mind.

  Last night, after taking her to places she hadn’t known existed in the dark recesses of her sexual fantasies, Gregg had informed her as he’d released her from bondage that his commander wanted to see her in the morning. About Rainie.

  She’d been instantly terrified. “Have they found her?” she asked. “Is she . . . ?”

  He’d hesitated. Then, “I’m not sure.”

  This morning, she’d tried everything to pry out of him what was going on, but he kept insisting he didn’t know.

  She didn’t believe him.

  He was lying about something. She could feel it in the way he avoided her gaze and her questions.

  Rainie had disappeared. Was she about to, as well?

  He kicked the bike to life and pulled out into the bumper-to-bumper noonday New York traffic. She wrapped her arms around his rock-hard abs, wondering what had prompted him to take his bike today. Up until now, they’d always travelled by taxi when she was with him. In fact, she’d never actually seen his bike before now. Was it so a cab driver wouldn’t be able to identify him later? A motorcycle helmet totally obscured one’s features. . . .