by Kaylea Cross
“Who are you?” she rasped.
He chewed his meat and spat gristle on the floor. “My name is Dmitri Volkov.”
“You’re Russian?”
He nodded.
“Why did you shoot the snow leopards?” Her grief over the leopards had gained another dimension. They’d died because of her.
“I already tell you.”
“Tell me again,” she yelled. “Because I’d have been back in the summer anyway. You didn’t have to kill them.”
“I couldn’t wait that long.”
“Why not—”
“Quiet.”
She’d never been a big fan of being told what to do and figured she was dead anyway. “Fuck you.” The incentive to cooperate evaporated. She pushed back against the wall and climbed unsteadily to her feet. Pins and needles attacked her and she ignored the pain.
The Russian glared at her. “Sit down.”
“Why? Are you afraid I’m going to run off into the storm?” she said in disgust. “I’m not an idiot.”
“All Americans are crazy.”
“And you’re not?”
He grunted and turned his back on her, fiddling with the packs.
“You’re going to sell the pelts, aren’t you?” This wasn’t just about her. It was about money and this man’s greed. The realization lessened some of the guilt. But the cats were still dead.
She picked at her bonds, loosening the knots as she strove for warmth and constant motion. She lost her balance and landed on her chin. The Russian smirked.
Bastard. She curled onto her side, started rubbing her arms up and down her legs, surreptitiously working on the rope that tied her ankles, loosening the knot with each small movement.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re after?” she asked.
His eyes flashed from benign to remorseless. Then the light died. He sagged. “I am trying to get my grandson out of Russia because he is seriously ill.”
Yeah, right. “Most people try charity before they resort to kidnapping.”
“Not the people I know.” His laugh was like a cold lash of air. His gaze like an icicle through her heart. She didn’t think she’d ever defrost.
“What’s wrong with him?” It was important to form a relationship with your captors. She’d learned that in Lessons for Children-of-Diplomats 101.
“His liver doesn’t work.” His fingers stopped their work. “No one would help my kin, not after what I’ve done.” He sounded disgusted with himself. “My family is innocent but I am not.”
“Didn’t you think of them when you started all this?” She didn’t even know what his crimes were. She’d assumed he was a terrorist because the soldiers were after him, but he could be a serial killer for all she knew. That thought brought fresh chills crawling over her skin.
“You are too young to know how one simple decision can shape your life.”
“You mistake age for experience.” She tilted her chin and forced back the tears that suddenly threatened. She knew exactly how small decisions could change your life. Her husband was dead. Her mother was dead. Her father estranged. Her life’s work rolled up on the back of his fucking yak. She knew exactly how one decision could impact every aspect of your life.
He studied her expression. “Perhaps you do know.” He turned away, fiddling with something on the floor. “I was naive enough to think I was helping people liberate themselves from their oppressors. It turns out I was only teaching people better ways to kill.”
“Why did you do it?” She craned her neck to see what he was doing.
His eyes crinkled in a cross between pain and amusement. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“I was angry. Angry men make mistakes.”
“I think you’ve made another one by kidnapping me.”
“Some things cannot be changed, others…” He shrugged. With the movement of his shoulder she finally got a look at what he was doing and terror raced up her body and grabbed her by the esophagus. Packs of plastic explosives were laid out neatly and he was carefully sliding them into the pockets of some sort of vest. She started to shake so hard her teeth clacked. No.
Her knees grazed the dirt as she crawled. Rock took skin from flesh but she didn’t stop wriggling across the barren cavern floor.
He put the barrel of her own Glock next to her forehead.
“Believe it or not, I do not want to kill you.” His breath moved her hair. “But if anyone is going to die, it is only fitting that it is you.”
Why? Axelle wanted to slap the gun away. But she knew he would kill her. One more evil act wouldn’t burden his conscience too greatly.
Primal fear washed down her back and she fought hard to keep the tears at bay. “You’re a monster.”
The light in his eyes was flat as a sheet of ice, his regret as ancient as a glacier. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
* * *
Soviet Union, September 1979
Dmitri rolled over and stared at the ceiling of their farmhouse bedroom. His wife ran her hand up the warm muscles of his stomach, over the smooth planes of his chest.
“Don’t go back, Dmitri.”
He laughed and kissed the back of her hand. “And be shot for deserting? You wouldn’t want that, would you, moya golubushka?” His eyes danced as she lifted her head from the bedcovers.
“I would if it meant you staying here, with me,” she mumbled. She burrowed closer, pressed her cheek to his heart, her long legs twining with his in silent plea. “We might have made another baby.” She nipped his earlobe and he felt himself wanting her again. Needing her again.
He tipped her onto her back and entered her in one smooth thrust. He rested on his elbows as he swept the hair back from her face. Saw burning passion edged with worry in the depths of her eyes. He thrust deeper and watched her eyes change. He didn’t want her to worry. He wanted her to feel cherished and safe. He rolled them so she was on top, her dark hair falling like strands of silk across her shoulders, curling over the pink tips of her breasts.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, cupping her cheek in his calloused palm.
“Stay with me,” she pleaded.
Tears blurred his vision. His voice trembled. “I can’t.” He splayed his hands across her tummy. “I pray you are pregnant and that this time—”
“Shush.” She pressed her finger to his lips. “This time it will be okay. This time we will have a fine son to raise, who will be handsome and brave like his papa.” She slipped her finger between his teeth and rubbed it over his tongue. He groaned.
Fire and passion burned through his veins. Dark eyes, almost black, held his as she took him up and over the edge. His wife. His lover. His heart. Still he waited for her to cry out before he let himself join her. Magdalena. His personal star. His reason for breathing.
How had he ever got to be so lucky?
“You are my heart, my blood, the reason I breathe.”
“Don’t forget to come home to me.” Her eyes grew sad again.
“I’m always with you, Magdalena.” He pressed his hand to the beat of her heart. “Always.”
Chapter Ten
The satellite phone crackled.
“Alpha Alpha One Nine, come in.”
He snatched up the handset “Alpha Alpha One Nine, over.”
“You need to make your way to a safe zone, over.”
Dempsey frowned. “There is a civilian hostage in the area—”
“Your orders are for immediate evac of the area, Alpha Alpha One Nine. Over.”
He grabbed his pack, saddled the horse and led the animal to the entrance of the cave. The snow was lighter but still coming down in a hoary veil. He had to get the hell out because those orders meant certain death was winging its way north. He looked in the direction of the cave.
Axelle was going to die.
She might already be dead.
He swallowed the image. Get on the horse and ride away. He wasn’t paid to make the big de
cisions. Men with his genetic heritage couldn’t afford to disobey orders without the risk of serious consequences. Men like him did as they were told or they got RTU’d. He put his foot in the stirrup. Looked into the gray overcast sky as the first hint of an engine throbbed in the distance.
Fuck that.
Letting the horse go, he jogged through the waist-high drifts. Heat surged through his muscles as he struggled through the incapacitating powder. He scrambled and slid over the uneven surfaces, throwing himself over boulders and praying he didn’t set off an avalanche in his rush. No time to check snow conditions, the drone of the engines had grown louder.
He turned the corner and saw the narrow slit of the cave entrance. So much for stealth and guile. He approached from the side but had to slog through the snow with the subtlety of a four-year-old discovering snow angels. His breath puffed out in white clouds and his lungs hurt. He pulled out two flash-bangs, pulled the lever and tossed them in. He gripped his Diemaco and went through the entrance of the cave in a low crouch, eyes watering from the acrid smoke. Horses danced around the cave and one bolted, almost flattening him. The yak circled in confusion. There was no crowd of militant fighters. Just one lone enemy fighter. The Russian brought his rifle around but Dempsey shot his hand and put two more into the man’s torso.
One of the world’s most wanted terrorists fell unmoving to the floor.
No time to check if he was dead but he grabbed the Russian’s rifle as he ran over to where Axelle was propped against the cave wall, gagged, and covered in a blanket. Her eyes were so wide with fear he could see white all around her irises. Her usually pretty hair was slick with sweat. He pulled away the blanket.
His jaw dropped.
This he didn’t need.
He undid her wrist and ankle bindings as he visually checked the explosive vest. Normally he’d call in the bomb squad to deal with this shit but this wasn’t normal. He dragged her to her feet where she wobbled unsteadily. He checked the duct tape on her lips for booby-trap wires before ripping it away.
“You okay?” Stupid question but she nodded anyway. He turned her around to check out the vest.
She trembled like an earthquake beneath his fingers.
“Did he booby-trap this?” Dempsey asked.
“He told me it would explode if I tried to take it off.”
That was what he’d have told her to control her without having to watch her every single instant. There was no way of knowing if it was true without examining the wiring in detail and he did not have fecking time.
“We’ve got to go.” He grabbed her arm to pull her with him but she dug in her heels.
“Get this thing off me!”
“There’s no time.”
But she wouldn’t budge even though she hated caves. Dempsey ran his eyes quickly around the simple setup. Okay. He took a settling breath. Shit, he’d grown up knowing this stuff—it wasn’t that complicated. Were there anti-tampering measures? He didn’t see any and it didn’t make sense for the old guy to bother when he, presumably, still had to move her through the mountains to whatever destination he’d planned out.
Dempsey pulled his multi-tool and was about to snip the wire when she grabbed his hand with shaking fingers.
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
She still thought he was an idiot. Now would be a fantastic time to prove her wrong.
“I guess we’re about to find out.” He leaned forward, watched her eyes flash with something other than terror as he kissed her on the lips—just in case this was his last moment on earth. Her lips were rough and dry from cold, and oh so sweet. After a moment of surprise they softened under his. He held her gaze and a connection passed between them that had nothing to do with the situation they faced. It was a connection filled with possibility and wonder and the blinding knowledge that if they were about to die—it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.
He snipped the wire. Nothing happened and they both blew out a sigh of relief as he quickly helped her out of the vest. Then the ground shook and rest of the animals bolted out the front of the entrance.
Axelle shrieked as the first bomb missed the target but brought down a rain of stone on their heads. Her fingers grabbed a handful of his shirt. “What the hell is that?”
“My guess is a Spectre gunship.”
“Oh, my God.” Her skin bleached chalk-white as more bombs started to strike closer. There was no way they were getting out the front of this cave. It had never really been an option.
“Come on.” He dragged her toward the back of the cave and they started running through the dust-choked air. The Russian was gone, along with his pack.
Not as dead as he’d hoped then. Old bastard must be wearing a bulletproof vest.
“No, no, no!” She pulled against his grip every step of the way, but he didn’t let go. This was her greatest fear—being buried alive—and it was about to come true. And he was propelling her toward her destiny as fast as he could whether she liked it or not.
They had one chance and a slim one at that. As he ran, he pulled a flashlight from one of his many pockets and made out two passages ahead. He shone his beam across the floor; a blood trail led one way. He followed it—because the Russian was still his mission and he hadn’t failed a mission yet. This crafty old bastard wasn’t about to outfox him.
He forced Axelle to move, knowing the chance of them making it out of this hellhole alive was about as likely as Al Qaeda becoming pacifists. The roof above them groaned. Stones shifted and showered down in a rush. Giant slabs of rock torqued and heaved as the mountain buckled under the bombs.
This wasn’t how he’d expected to die. His fingers tightened over Axelle’s slim hand, half apology, half encouragement, all desperation. A God almighty explosion brought the roof of the cavern down behind them, and they were thrown forward by the percussion. His head hit a rock and blackness washed over him.
* * *
Axelle opened her eyes but she was blind. Omigod. Omigod. Her chest heaved like broken bellows. Dust filled the air and she couldn’t breathe. Blood pounded her ears, the pressure so intense it rammed her brain and made every nerve in her body fry as she lay there in the darkness with only the sound of her own mortality for company. Thousands of tons of rock blocked the cave entrance, and they would never get out. The bombs had stopped, but the absolute silence was solid and terrifying. They were buried. In a crypt. In a tomb.
Rock was like a malevolent living creature, squeezing her airway, licking her skin. Sweat ran freely down her brow and beneath her armpits and heat radiated from her body even though the air was frigid. She wasn’t hurt beyond the bruises and scratches she’d been carrying for days and yet she lay on the ground, paralyzed by sheer terror and piteous weakness, unable to move. She wished she was dead.
She drew in ever shallower gulps of air, the rational part of her brain understanding she was hyperventilating and would pass out if she couldn’t control the panic.
Unconscious sounded pretty damned tempting right about now.
Roll over and die while you’re at it.
Her fingers groped around her and she touched something soft and warm—a sleeve, a hand.
Dempsey?
God, please don’t be dead.
She cupped her hands over her mouth and nose, and willed herself to take slower, deeper breaths. He’d risked his life to save her. She had to help him or he might die. Assuming he’s not already dead.
She reached out again and found his wrist. His skin was warm and there was a faint but crucial flutter beneath her fingers. She rolled onto her knees, moving slowly and using her hands to check for jagged rock overhead. Her stomach roiled. Fear threatened. But none of that would save her from this nightmare. Nor would tears. Nor would screaming for her mommy for thirty hours straight. She snapped out of the memory. She was here with Dempsey, whether she liked it or not, and she had to deal. She pushed the fear into some other part of her brain and refused to think about it.
&nb
sp; Through touch, she worked her way up Dempsey’s body until she found his face. She placed her palm near his lips and felt a puff of air against her skin. He was still breathing. She closed her eyes and let out a breath. She shook him gently but he didn’t stir.
What if he was seriously injured? How could she help him? “Dempsey?” Her words echoed in the thick darkness and she almost lost it. The idea of being alone down here was enough to drive her insane if she let herself think about it.
Don’t think about it.
She ran shaky hands over him, searching for sticky blood, bending each limb, looking for obvious sign of injury. She was sweeping her hands up his torso again when he grabbed her wrists. She lost her balance and fell against him and he huffed out a groan.
“I’d let you keep doing that but this is too dark to be heaven.” His voice was hoarse. Such a bolt of relief shot through her system she couldn’t speak.
“I take it we’re still alive and kicking?” he said.
She gripped his shirt with both hands, forced emotion into bite-sized chunks that she could talk around. “Not sure we’re at the kicking stage yet, but we’re alive—thanks to you.” This man, this soldier, had run into a cave that he’d known was about to be bombed, to save her. How did you thank someone for doing that? What could you say to a man like that?
He eased out a breath and tried to sit up.
“Are you hurt?” She went to grab his arm to help but connected with a body part a damn sight more personal.
“Jesus,” he hissed and groaned. “Woman, I’m in no condition for that kind of thing.”
She heard laughter in his voice. Laughter?
They were buried inside a mountain with no way of knowing if they’d ever get out, and he was amused? Was he crazy? She felt herself retreating, the walls closing in on her again, the reality of their predicament drilling holes through her reason.
He swore in obvious pain and reached out a hand that brushed her thigh before finding her fingers curled into tense knots against her body. “Are you okay? Did that old fecker hurt you?”
Shaking her head, she raised blind eyes to the ceiling. “He didn’t rape me, if that’s what you’re asking. Didn’t beat me either.” Her throat felt raw with the effort to talk when she was enveloped in terror. “Physically, I’m fine”—her voice cracked—“but I’m so scared I can barely breathe…” She swallowed repeatedly, feeling her throat shrink with every inhalation. Admitting weakness went against everything in her nature, but she owed this man complete honesty. “If you weren’t here with me, my heart would already have exploded.”
