Shoot to Thrill

by Bruhns, Nina

  Abu Bakr looked perfectly calm, standing there with a small metal case hanging from one hand, his gun in the other, threatening the woman Kick loved more than life. For one horrible moment he was transported back to that time in A-stan. The fucker had been just as calm then, after tearing Kick’s world to tiny shreds, brutally slaughtering the closest thing he had to family. He glanced down at Alex, who had rolled himself up in a ball, cowering on the ground next to Nathan. Was he remembering, too, the hideous fate he’d suffered at this man’s hands?

  It would not happen again. To any of them.

  It. Would. Not.

  He dragged up the SIG, aiming it between the snake’s flat eyes. But to his dismay, even holding it with two hands, it wavered like a mirage. He couldn’t keep his hands steady.

  Abu Bakr didn’t even seem to notice. “So close,” he said almost approvingly, in that perfect American English that had haunted Kick’s nightmares for sixteen months. “You nearly got me. I couldn’t have done better myself.” The motherfucker smiled with false modesty. “Except, well, yes, I did do better. Didn’t I, Mr. Jackson.” It wasn’t a question. More like a gloating observation.

  And the fucker knew his name. How? Surely, he didn’t remember that long-ago night . . . ? No, it must have been Virreau who’d told him.

  Abu Bakr caressed Rainie’s temple with the barrel of the gun so she whimpered. “And I always will,” he said. “Because you’re a fool. Unlike you pathetic Westerners, I don’t let my emotions rule my actions.”

  He was right. Kick was so angry black spots shot across his field of vision like falling stars. He swallowed down the urge to charge the bastard and rip his fucking head off with his bare hands. “Easy for you. Sociopaths don’t have emotions,” he gritted out.

  The fucker actually smiled. The man was a sick, perverted agent, through and through, and that was for damned sure.

  On the ground, Nate moaned. His eyes fluttered open and he grimaced in pain.

  I’m so sorry, buddy. Sorry I doubted you for a single moment.

  “You may be right about that,” abu Bakr said as he casually watched Nate rise on his elbow, blink, touch the back of his head, and try to figure out why he was sprawled on the sand, then struggle to sit up.

  Alex clutched Nate’s arm and yanked frantically at it, trying to pull him back down on the ground.

  Abu Bakr gestured at Kick with his gun. “You, I’ve already killed.” Then he waved it in annoyance at Alex. “And the pathetic Mr. Pig, as well.” He looked down and studied Nate like a kid might study a dung beetle. “But that one, no.” His finger moved, and his gun jerked to the sound of a shot blasting through the wadi.

  Nate’s body gave a sickening shudder, and blossomed in a spray of scarlet.

  “Nate!” Rainie screamed. Alex let out a yowl and scuttled over to Kick’s feet, babbling something he couldn’t understand.

  Nate’s eyes met Kick’s in surprise, then grim understanding. Then they rolled back in his head and he fell back to the ground. And didn’t move again.

  “Nate!”

  Christ Almighty. Kick desperately reined in the red-hot rage seething within him, and struggled to hold the SIG steady enough to take a shot at abu Bakr. But it was no use. He was too shaky. He couldn’t risk hitting Rainie.

  Somehow he had to get her out of this. Please, God. Please.

  Alex continued to clutch at his leg, muttering.

  “Let the woman go,” Kick demanded, battling to hold it together. “She’s done nothing. She’s innocent in this.”

  The bastard chuckled. “Not exactly true. But in any case, the innocent are precisely who I’m after. It is the innocent who must die, in order to punish the guilty. She must die to punish you.”

  The man was insane. He had to—

  Suddenly, Kick heard a low buzzing sound in the distance. A plane?

  STORM!

  But Jesus, no. This wadi was too close to the insurgent camp. If they didn’t move, they’d all be injured or killed in the air strike. The one consolation being that abu Bakr would be, as well.

  The terrorist’s cocky smile widened. “Right on time. So predictable.” He started to drag Rainie toward the camel—their camel, loaded with their belongings, including his sniper rifle—waiting at the ready nearby. “We’ll be going now.”

  Alex tugged at Kick’s leg. “You’ve got to get,” he said in a gritty croak, “the metal case.”

  What? “Forget the briefcase,” Kick snapped.

  Rainie fought against abu Bakr’s hold, bending and squirming. Kick was terrified he’d use the gun pointed at her head if she didn’t stop.

  “Wait!” Kick shouted, trying to shake off Alex, who was tenaciously hanging onto his ankle. “Leave her. Take me instead,” he pleaded, knowing in his heart it was useless.

  In his peripheral vision, a green aircraft flying low over the northern horizon was getting closer by the second.

  His nemesis glanced up at it as he tried to control Rainie, then shook her angrily by the hair. “You try my patience, whore!” They’d reached the camel now. He pulled back her head savagely, exposing her white throat. “Throw down your weapon, Mr. Jackson. You’ll never make it out of here alive, but you can assure she lives.” His grin was evil. “For a while, anyway. Put down your gun or I kill her now. Your choice.”

  Rainie’s wildly frightened eyes pleaded with him. But he didn’t know which choice she was pleading for. He thought of Sheila, and her horrible fate. And knew he would never let that happen to Rainie. He lowered the gun, but held on to it with all the strength he had left. Kick’s insides, his entire being, churned with the need to kill the bastard. But if anything, his body was even less steady now. He felt sick. Helpless.

  “Like I said, a fool,” abu Bakr said with a sadistic smile. He moved the gun under her chin and started to pull the trigger.

  “No!”

  “No!” she yelled at the same time, and came to life. She twisted wildly in the bastard’s arms. The shot exploded. But missed her. She bent, and twisted the other way. This time his KA-BAR was in her hand. It slashed out, scoring the bastard’s face. Abu Bakr grabbed for his bloody cheek, and she wrenched away from him.

  The furious terrorist shot at her, but she rolled to the side, taking cover behind a boulder. Kick squeezed off three shots, but the world was tilting like a seesaw and they all went off target. Abu Bakr ran around the camel, throwing himself onto its back as he urged it to its feet.

  With a feral growl, Kick started to lunge after the bastard, but Alex still clung to his leg like a leech, preventing him from going more than a couple of steps. “Let me go!” Kick yelled.

  “Metal case,” Alex cried, then fell to his knees with a gasp of pain.

  Abu Bakr shot again. But at the loud bang so close to his head, the panicked camel lurched up and took off like a frightened jackrabbit, with abu Bakr on its back.

  Kick roared in fury. Desperate. With every ounce of will-power and every lesson he’d ever learned as a sniper, Kick focused his concentration on the swiftly receding back of his enemy. He steadied his arm. Became the gun. And took the shot.

  In a spray of red, abu Bakr crumpled and tumbled to the ground, his body landing at a crazy angle. Dead.

  A whoosh of nauseous relief swept through Kick. Thank God. But there was no time to savor the moment of triumph.

  “Rainie!” he shouted, stumbling over to her, grabbing her up into his arms. “Are you hurt?”

  She flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, Kick. I thought we were all dead for sure.”

  “My love.” He kissed her, looked back at Nate’s lifeless body, then buried his face in her hair, his eyes filling. “We need to move fast,” he said, already urging her down the wadi. Fighting the weird dizziness that spun the world around him. “The air strike.”

  Her eyes widened as she darted a glance at the sky. “Oh, God! I’d forgotten!”

  “Help me with Alex.”

  “What about Nate?” she protested.
“What if he’s not dead? We can’t just leave him!”

  He nodded. “Of course not. I’ll get him.”

  While he clumsily hoisted Nate’s inert body over his shoulder, she got Alex to his feet, exclaiming, “You’ve been shot!”

  Alex waved it off. “I’m okay.”

  They took off as fast as they could up the wadi—hardly more than a crawl. The plane was getting closer and closer. The insurgents at the camp started firing on it with everything they had left in their arsenal, which thankfully wasn’t much more than sidearms. Rainie had done a thorough job of blowing the ammo dump.

  They stumble-ran, Kick clenching his jaw, desperately battling the weakness and black void threatening to overtake him. The growling plane whooshed overhead, so close they could practically touch the bottom of it. The sound of gears ground above them. It was about to drop its payload.

  At the last second, he hustled them under the shelter of a large rock outcropping.

  Far too close by, the pounding boom of munitions suddenly thundered from the camp. Seconds later, the air around them whistled with debris whizzing past; it crashed into the walls of the wadi and splintered over the rock above their heads. An avalanche of sand and stone began to bury them. They huddled together, hugging each other tight.

  Thoughts bombarded Kick along with the pelting rubble.

  Abu Bakr was dead.

  His reign of terror was finally over. At long last Kick had gotten his revenge. And the sweetest revenge was that Alex was alive. They were all alive.

  Except . . .

  Kick started to shake uncontrollably. He just couldn’t fight his body any longer. He was burning up from the inside out. Sweat streamed into his eyes and his vision started to pinwheel.

  “Rainie,” he managed, suddenly terrified of what was happening to him physically, on the inside. Something definitely wasn’t . . .

  “Kick! What’s wrong?” Alarm colored her voice.

  What did that goddamn abu Bakr do to me? Even after death, he was still controlling Kick’s fate.

  He should have known. The man had said it himself. You, I’ve already killed.

  “Talk to me, please! Kick!”

  All around, bombs went off, obliterating the terrorist camp and raining destruction, even as his own body closed down on him.

  Sweet Jesus. He was dying.

  The bastard had won, after all.

  “Kyle!”

  He strained to squeeze out one last thought. “Rainie, I lo . . .” The words slurred on his thickening tongue, and in despair he felt his eyes roll back in his head.

  Rainie’s beautiful face clouded with anguish.

  And that was the last thing he saw.

  SOMEHOW, Rainie managed not to be knocked out by flying debris or buried alive by falling rock. The men were not so lucky. Kick had collapsed with his large body covering hers as a human shield, and the rescued prisoner, cradling one arm which appeared badly injured, was curled in a skinny ball under them both. Poor Nate, possibly beyond caring, now lay sprawled over their legs.

  Desperately, she wriggled to extract herself from the suffocating pile of bodies and the dust-cloud of sand and grit surrounding them.

  “Kick!” she called into the sudden, odd silence, attempting to rouse him while gingerly rolling him over. She ran her hands over his body, searching for anything broken. He appeared to be in one piece, thank God. But his skin was hot as a fry griddle. “Baby, wake up. Please, Kick. Kyle. Talk to me, sweetheart.”

  He moaned, and swallowed thickly. “You . . . okay?” he asked hoarsely, surfacing to consciousness, but just barely. His lashes fluttered with the effort.

  “I’m fine,” she said, relief swamping through her that he was lucid. But the relief was fleeting. “You feel like you’re on fire. What’s wrong?”

  He grunted. “Don’t know. Alex? Nate?”

  “They’re here,” she said, and turned her attention to the other men. The sun was sinking below the horizon and the sky going black, making it hard to see. She put her fingers to the side of Nate’s throat. The pulse was barely there. She swallowed down a renewed spurt of despair. Okay. Shot was better than dead. She could deal with shot.

  Forcing herself to focus, she examined his gaping wound. Dabbed out the worst debris. Then quickly unwound her silk kaffiyeh and tied it tight around his torso, wadding up the cloth of his T-shirt to stop the bleeding as best she could, until she could fetch the antiseptic and bandages from—

  Next to her, the hostage—had Kick called him Alex?—let out a soft moan. She turned to bend over him. “Alex, can you hear me?”

  She carefully put her hands on his emaciated, badly bruised body, testing for breaks. He flinched at her touch. He moaned again.

  “You’re safe now,” she told him reassuringly. “With friends. Kick got you out of that awful place.”

  Slowly the poor man opened his eyes. The expression in them nearly broke her heart. So much pain and suffering in those blue depths, and yet so much hope.

  Tears blurred her vision. “I’m Rainie,” she whispered with a vain attempt at a smile. “I’m a nurse. Are you hurt anywhere?”

  He looked up at her, gazing at her tangled hair for a long moment. “Just my arm,” he finally said in a rasping whisper.

  Lord. Another gunshot. The arm was in bad shape. But then, so was the rest of him.

  “Okay. I’m going to fix you up,” she promised. But she really had to get back to the camel first to fetch the first aid kit from their pack. Only—

  Her heart stalled. Damn. She jumped to her feet and looked around for the animal. As she feared, the camel was long gone, together with all their belongings.

  Now what?

  She still had a water bottle in her DCU pocket, and maybe she could tear a strip from Nate’s kaffiyeh tourniquet to use as a bandage for Alex. That would have to do until she got them back to—

  Where?

  Yeah, she’d worry about that bridge when she got to it.

  With the aid of Kick’s KA-BAR, she gingerly cut the strip of silk. “This might hurt a little,” she warned Alex as she helped him uncurl his body to get to the arm. She didn’t allow herself to look at the angry cuts and bruises and half-healed pus-filled wounds that covered his exposed skin— which was a lot of area, because of the ragged state of his clothes. There was nothing she could do for those. He needed a surgeon. So did Nate. They needed a hospital. Hell, they both needed a lot of things she couldn’t help them with right now.

  She firmly quelled the panic that threatened. One thing at a time.

  When she’d done what she could to staunch the flow of blood and stabilize Alex’s arm, he looked up at her with heartfelt gratitude. “Thank you.”

  She smiled back. “You’re more than welcome.”

  Next to her, Kick tried to sit, but let out a groan, and flopped right back down.

  “Oh, honey,” she whispered, turning to feed him a few sips of their precious water. “What on earth is going on with you?”

  “Metal briefcase,” Alex said, his ragged whisper barely audible above Kick’s labored breathing.

  “What?” She frowned with a glance, trying to understand.

  “Needle. In . . . metal case. Gave him . . . something . . . bad.”

  Needle . . . Fear rushed through Rainie like a cold wind. “You mean a hypodermic needle?”

  Alex closed his eyes with a slight nod. “Very bad shit.”

  She pressed her fingers to her mouth. Oh, God. Did they inject poison into Kick? Or some kind of horrible biological agent? What kind of monsters were they?

  But she’d seen firsthand the kind of psychopath Jallil abu Bakr was. She wouldn’t put anything past him.

  She also knew because of the tight security surrounding genetic research, even Gina’s harmless pediatric flu project, that Homeland Security and the CDC feared a medically based terrorist attack almost more than bombs and hijackings. A lot of really nasty stuff occurred naturally in Africa. Anthrax. Ebola. Avian
flu. Strains of deadly diseases that could be modified to spread like wildfire. Could this remote training camp also be some kind of experimental laboratory to create a biological weapon of mass destruction?

  Abu Bakr had been holding on to that small metal case like his life had depended on it. A bio agent made sense. And suddenly, so did Alex’s concern over that briefcase. Where had it gone?

  She looked back at Kick. Despair clawed at her throat. And if it were true that Kick was infected . . . what could she possibly do to save him out here? What could she do to save any of them?

  Nothing, that’s what.

  She muffled the sob that threatened to escape at the helplessness of it all.

  No! There had to be something. Some way.

  She could not watch Kick die of some terrible disease out here in the desert, helpless, unable to do a damn thing to help him. Or watch Nathan Daneby slowly bleed to death. Or look into the eyes of poor, tortured Alex and tell him he’d come this far only to die out here in this desolate wilderness. No. That she couldn’t deal with.

  She pressed a firm palm to Nate’s bloody wound. Somehow, she’d—

  “Shhh.” Alex’s weak admonishment sifted through the night air, seeping into her tormented determination. “Shhh.”

  “What?”

  “Listen!”

  She held her breath.

  Far in the distance she heard a sound. Like a tiny mosquito.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Incoming,” he said. “It’s . . . a helo.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  FOR about thirty-five years now, whenever Kick awoke, he’d lie completely motionless and take a few seconds’ cautious sit-rep. Just in case. In the past, he’d woken up in some pretty bad places.

  But today he felt purely surrounded by good. A soft bed under him, the temperature perfect, the pungent smell of coffee in the air; all that was missing was a warm woman nestled in his arms. A very specific woman.

  He heard someone take a sip from a paper cup.

  “Rainie?” he croaked through a throat dry as the Sahara. Since when did they have beds this nice in the desert?

  “Welcome back to the living, Jackson. Weren’t sure you’d make it.”