by Leslie Jones
The second man, Rami, shouted a warning. Jace let loose with a stream of carbon dioxide from the nozzle of the fire extinguisher, straight into the man’s face. The man howled and clawed at his eyes. Jace slammed his fist into the man’s gut. He doubled over.
“Stop!”
The command came from beyond the storage room, into the pool area itself. A figure appeared in the doorway.
Zaahir al-Farouk.
And he was not alone. Held by her hair, gun pressed to her temple.
Heather.
Chapter Forty-Two
JACE FROZE. PROBABLY for the first time in his career, his brain froze, too. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t focus. All he could do was stare at Heather, and think, “Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die.”
“Relinquish your weapons,” Zaahir said, in surprisingly good English. “Or I will blow her brains all over this very clean floor.”
Trevor groaned, clutching his ribs and head, and slowly slumped to the floor. He seemed to lapse into unconsciousness. Both terrorists struggled to their feet and eyed Jace warily. At a sharp command from Zaahir, one pressed his fingers to Trevor’s throat and shrugged.
“He’s not dead. Shall I kill him?”
“No. We must hurry.” Zaahir snapped out a stream of commands that Jace could not follow. Shukri snagged the Sig, half-buried under Trevor’s bulk. Jace tightened his grip on the fire extinguisher. Zaahir sneered at him and yanked Heather’s hair, jamming the handgun up under her chin. Pain flitted across Heather’s face, but not a sound passed her lips.
If he surrendered, he was dead. He knew it. They all were. Every fiber of his being rebelled against the notion.
Jace loosened his grip. Forced his body to relax.
He let the extinguisher swing toward the floor. He wasn’t going to risk Heather.
Behind him, Rami reached across and grabbed it, growling something in Arabic. He shoved against Jace’s back, pushing him toward Zaahir.
Maybe he could use it to his advantage. He let his momentum carry him forward.
But Zaahir backed away, dragging Heather with him, using her to shield his body. She had fastened her gaze on Jace’s face, trying to communicate something to him, but his attention was on Zaahir, waiting for the slightest hesitation, the slightest opening. Zaahir didn’t give it to him.
He backed all the way into the main indoor pool area and jerked the handgun, indicating Jace should follow him. “Over there. By the stairs.”
Jace glanced over to the ladder leading down into the water. It was foul, green, and reeked. Something had caused the filters to stop working. A perfect excuse to close the pool and allow these men to execute their plan.
The pool was a standard-sized lap pool, four feet deep, six lanes. Two lines of triangular flags, even with the lifeguard’s elevated seat, trisected the pool. Old Glory hung on the wall opposite him, along with a poster with the words “al-Zadr Field Recreation Division” on it. The leaf skimmer mounted on the opposite wall caught his attention. It would be a bit light and the net would make it unwieldy, but it would make a decent weapon in a pinch.
Not that he would have the opportunity to grab it.
Rami and Shukri came into the main area, dragging Trevor’s limp body between them. Zaahir al-Farouk snapped an order. They heaved him close to the nearest starting block and let him drop. His head smacked against the concrete. Was he conscious? Playing ’possum?
Dying?
“Lie facedown on the floor,” said Zaahir. “Rami will tie your hands. If you resist in any way, I will kill this whore.”
Rami sidled toward Jace, his eyes red and watery from the fire-suppressant chemicals, clearly reluctant to come within range of his fists. Glaring daggers at him, Jace slowly knelt, then lowered himself to the floor. He stretched his arms out in front of him; Zaahir laughed.
“Do you think me a fool, infidel? Put your hands behind your back.”
Reluctantly, Jace obeyed. He couldn’t keep his gaze from returning to Heather. She was thinking, plotting, waiting. If Zaahir gave her half an inch, she’d take the mile. Jace felt a chill. If she calculated wrong, Zaahir would pull the trigger, and her vibrant light would be snuffed out.
That was unacceptable.
“Come here,” barked Rami. Jace allowed the man to wrap his wrists with some sort of thin twine and move him to the starting block where Trevor lay. Heather looked close to tears. He sent her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. They hadn’t searched him. Their mistake. He no longer had his Sig Sauer, but he was far from helpless.
Zaahir marched Heather over to the block of concrete, and Rami tied her hands as well. Jace frowned. She had a bruise forming on her cheekbone; Zaahir had hit her. He would pay for that.
“Are you all right?” she asked him.
“Just fine. You?”
She gave him a shaky smile. “Never better. How’s Trevor? He has broken ribs and a broken wrist. Did they knock him out?”
Rami tried to tie Trevor’s hands, as well. The SAS major hadn’t moved. The terrorist had a tough time wrangling the dead weight up behind Trevor’s back, particularly with the broken edges of hard plastic acting as a splint; his arms kept flopping to the cement. Something inside Jace relaxed minutely. The Brit was conscious, after all.
Rami finally gave up and tied Trevor’s arms over his head, wrapping the twine through the plastic. He hurried back to Zaahir.
As Jace watched, Trevor’s eyes cracked open, just a sliver.
“Three tangos,” Jace reported quietly. Three terrorists. Trevor did not so much as twitch to indicate he’d heard, but Jace knew he listened. He described their surroundings, the entrances and exits, the tangos’ activities. Two of them now dragged the huge buckets close to the edge of the water, while Zaahir supervised. “They’re bringing the chlorine to the pool.”
Zaahir roared at them to hurry up and issued a spate of directions Jace couldn’t follow.
“He’s telling them to hurry up and finish,” said Heather. “And then to go out and attach the hose to the tanker for dispersal.” She listened for a moment, becoming even more grim. “The explosives are attached to the tanker. Underneath the chassis. He told them to take them out and bring them in here.” She looked from one to the other. “What are we going to do?”
Chapter Forty-Three
JACE GRINNED AT HER. He actually grinned. What was wrong with him?
“We’re going to get loose, and we’re going to stop them,” he told her, utter confidence in his tone. He shifted his knees so his hip was almost in her lap. “Yes, I’m happy to see you, but that really is a knife in my pocket. Would you mind getting it, sweetheart?”
A few feet away, Trevor turned a laugh into a soft cough. Heather risked a peek at Zaahir. He stood in the doorway of the storage area, hands on his hips, Jace’s Sig Sauer stuck into his belt, his own weapon in his hand. He stared at them a moment and turned away.
Jace shielded her actions with his body. Heather twisted her torso as far as she could, working her fingers into his front jeans pocket.
Um. That was not his knife.
Despite herself, heat rose in her cheeks.
“Ooh, baby,” he murmured. Teasing her. Helping to steady her.
She had freaked when Zaahir thrust his pistol against her forehead and cocked it. She forgot to breathe, knowing she would die. Her knees shook and turned to water. She had not fallen, though. Somehow, she’d stiffened her spine and faced him squarely. And he had backhanded her, knocking her to the cement.
“You are responsible for the destruction of my camp,” he snarled. “The death of my men.” He kicked her. “Shooting you is too easy. You represent the corruption of your kind, spreading your pollution and filth in my country. Therefore, you will witness my assault against you who offend Allah.” He’d hauled her to her feet by her
hair and slammed her against the wall.
By increments, she was able to work the penknife out of Jace’s pocket. Just as she pulled it free, though, hard footsteps behind her alerted her. She dropped the knife, praying no one heard the faint clatter as it hit the concrete. Shifting her hip to hide it, she threw her head back to glare at Zaahir. He glowered down at her, fingering the still-healing nose Heather had broken during the convoy ambush.
“It is your fault we lost our missile, whore. But it does not matter. You and your friends will die here, victims of your own government’s lies and deceit.”
Heather spat at him. “Go fuck yourself, you son of shit.” It felt good to curse at him, tied up or not. For some reason, he had fixated on her as the architect of his troubles. His face darkened even more. He pulled back his foot to kick her, and Jace exploded into action. Despite his tied hands, he delivered a side kick that smashed into Zaahir’s shin, missing his knee by a millimeter. The man lurched back, swearing.
Zaahir reached into his back pocket and withdrew a black spring baton. With a snap of his wrist, the steel cylinder extended to more than a foot. The terrorist leader whipped it through the air once and circled around to Jace. He didn’t bother with finesse. He simply lunged at Jace, striking him with the spring baton. The whipping effect built momentum as the steel slewed through the air, giving it maximum striking power. Maximum ability to hurt. Jace twisted, taking the blow on his shoulder and upper back. He coiled, shooting a leg toward Zaahir’s midsection. The terrorist cell leader swung the baton down, catching Jace’s calf. Jace hopped straight up, swishing his hands under his legs and landing lightly, hands now in front of him. Zaahir struck again, even as Heather shrieked at him and Trevor struggled to his feet.
Zaahir swiveled his head toward Trevor. Two steps and a solid kick, and Trevor was flung backwards. He hit the surface of the water and sank beneath it. Zaahir drew his VM-17 pistol and fired.
A red stain blossomed on the green surface of the water.
Heather screamed her fear and rage. Zaahir merely laughed at her, turning the pistol to Jace. Heather scrambled forward, trying as best she could to shield him with her own body, while at the same time Jace gripped her arm, trying to push her clear.
“Zaahir, where should I put the bomb?”
To Heather’s intense relief, Zaahir hesitated, and finally turned to Rami with a snort of annoyance. He examined the interior, pointing across the bloody water to the far eastern wall. Two sets of twelve-foot windows, with two more sets higher up on the wall, overlooked the outside pool area. Heather could hear, faintly, splashing and screams of laughter.
“There. The blast will push the gas outward, for maximum effect.”
Without warning, he spun, whipping the baton around and smashing it against Jace’s temple. Who dropped without a sound.
Heather uttered a guttural shriek of despair. “Jace!” She fought her bonds like a wild woman, but only succeeded in digging the thin twine deep into her skin.
Zaahir shoved his handgun into the back of his pants and twisted the baton, collapsing it. Pushing it into his back pocket, he withdrew an Afghan folding knife. Heather shrank back as he loomed over her. Zaahir’s thin lips twisted up, enjoying her fear. With one strong stroke, he cut the twine attaching her wrists. Grabbing her, he dragged her to her feet.
“Now you will witness our great strike, deep in the heart of the infidel cowards.” He strode toward the storage area, ruthlessly yanking Heather along behind him. She twisted around, trying to see Jace or Trevor, and stumbled. The concrete cracked against her bones as she lost her balance and fell to her knees. She repressed the yelp of pain. She would not give the bastard the satisfaction.
“You’re the coward,” she spat instead. “Killing innocent women and children? That doesn’t make you some brave freedom fighter. It just makes you a murderer.”
Zaahir gripped her by the throat and forcibly lifted her to her feet, squeezing cruelly. Black spots danced in front of her eyes as she strained for air. “Al-jihad fi sabil Allah. I strive in the way of Allah. Jihad is my sacred duty. I have sworn my life to the struggle, to protect Islam against invaders, unbelievers, and dissenters who renounce the authority of Islam.”
Heather tried to force words past the constriction of his fingers. “Butcher.”
He let her drop, digging his fingers into her arms instead as he turned her and pushed her into the storage area and beyond. “You are a woman and unworthy,” he said. “You will bear witness to my success, then you will die.” He shoved her down the dark hallway to the bright spill of light at the door to the loading bay. Heather blinked several times to clear her vision. Someone had maneuvered the oil truck sideways, so it was parked parallel to the loading platform. Shukri now struggled to connect a long hose to the back valve of the tanker.
She shivered. They had failed. Trevor was dead, and Jace probably was, too. She was helpless to stop these men from mixing together the lethal combination of poisonous gases and slaughtering dozens, if not hundreds. Bile burned at the back of her throat.
She, too, would be dead, soon.
Maybe Jace had just been knocked unconscious. It had been a fearsome blow, but Heather clung to hope anyway. How cruel an irony it was, to have found him, only to lose him a few short weeks later. Jace, the formidable warrior, the tender confidant . . . the man she loved, with all her heart.
She choked back tears.
Shukri still wrestled with the hose connectors. Zaahir barked, “What’s taking so long?”
Zaahir yanked Heather with him as he went to investigate. The valve was corroded with age, and he couldn’t get a solid seal. The cell leader shoved Heather to the ground. Putting some muscle into it, Zaahir finally locked the valve and the hose together.
Rami appeared on the loading dock. “I placed the bomb, Zaahir.”
“Help Shukri.”
Rami took the front end, while Shukri hefted the more central portion onto his shoulder. Together, they began to carry the hose toward the pool. And the chlorine.
Chapter Forty-Four
“RISE AND SHINE, Sleeping Beauty.”
Something slapped his cheek. Pain exploded in his skull. He struck out, blindly, instinctively. Someone caught hold of his wrist and held it immobile.
“Easy there, mate.”
Jace forced his eyes open. He lay half on his side, with Trevor kneeling next to him, sawing on the ropes with Jace’s penknife.
“You kiss me, and I’m gonna kick your ass,” he muttered.
Trevor’s eyes twinkled. The twine parted, and Jace sat up. Too fast. Light exploded behind his eyes, and he sagged. Trevor slipped an arm around his shoulders.
“All right?” he asked.
Jace nodded. Flexing various muscles, he tried to determine how much damage the bastard’s steel baton had inflicted. Nothing seemed to be broken, which was a miracle. Mostly, he felt like he’d gotten the shit stomped out of him.
He sat up again, albeit more slowly, and tried his legs. With Trevor’s help, he stood. “You were shot.”
“Bugger just creased my shoulder.” Blood dripped steadily down his arm, though. Jace gestured for his penknife, and used it to hack a strip off his T-shirt. The wound was high on Trevor’s arm; tying the strip of material tightly around Trevor’s bicep would at least slow the bleeding. Trevor nodded his thanks.
“We’ve got work to do. All right with that, are you?”
Jace turned toward the door. “I’ll kill the bastard if he’s hurt her.”
Trevor stepped in front of him, a hand on his chest. Jace narrowed his eyes, but the Brit didn’t budge. “We have to stop the explosion. That has to be our first priority. Agreed?”
Jace didn’t like it. Not one bit. Everything in him screamed to get to her side. Still, he knew Trevor was right. He nodded, exhaling hard. “Yeah.”
He hea
rd footsteps in the other room at the same time Trevor did. As one, they shifted to the door, one on either side of it. Rami stepped through the doorway, dragging a hose that had to be three feet in diameter.
Jace didn’t hesitate.
Two steps, a hand snaked across the terrorist’s throat and another at the back of his neck. An efficient twist. The terrorist dropped without a sound. Jace snatched the man’s Uzi from his dead fingers.
Trevor squatted to examine the hose assembly. “I need to cap this,” he told Jace. “Or block it off somehow. And disarm the bomb. You go.”
Jace popped the magazine, checked the ammunition, and slammed it home again. A quick peek—there was a round in the chamber—and he dashed through the door. The hallway beyond the storage room was still dark and empty. Uzi raised to his shoulder, Jace advanced, body taut, knees bent, muzzle following the line of his body as he hunted for a target.
He stopped just inside the hallway leading to the loading bay, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the bright sunlight. Shukri hefted the wide hose on his shoulder, obviously trying to help pull it all the way down to the pool. His eyes bulged out of their sockets at the sight of the fearsome warrior facing him. He dropped the hose to reach for his rifle.
Jace shot him. Two to the body, one to the head.
The noise rang in the small space, and with his head still throbbing from Zaahir’s beating, he doubled over, grunting in pain. Blood spurted from the terrorist’s wounds as he jerked backwards, fell over, and lay still. Jace spared a fraction of a thought for Aa’idah. There had been no way to save her brother.
He stepped into the loading bay, weapon up and searching for another target. Zaahir al-Farouk stood near the stairs, looming over Heather, who was on the ground at his feet. Black eyes glittered with hatred as he aimed his deadly handgun at Jace. The two locked gazes for a long moment; one of those seconds ticking away into eternity. Jace knew he could not swing the Uzi to its new target fast enough. Not before Zaahir squeezed the trigger. He had a moment of regret for his missed opportunity with Heather, even as his body dove for cover because he didn’t know how to admit defeat.
