by Ronie Kendig
Inhaling deeply, she slid off the raft and swam through the lukewarm ocean. Believing herself a safe distance away, she drifted toward the surface. With great control and tilting her head back, she eased her ears and nose above the surface.
A VFA soldier leaned over the edge of the boat and lifted the raft. “No es nada. Ella no está aquí,” he shouted toward the front and dropped the board. Plunk!
That’s right. Keep thinking it’s nothing, that I’m not here.
The spotlight swung in a lazy circle over the water. As it fractured her space, Dani stopped treading water and sank.
Even with her eyes closed against the saltiness, she could detect the brightness probing the waters, disappear, then probe again. Flutter kicking as gently as possible, she remained in place. Her head throbbed. She couldn’t hold her breath much longer. A burn emanated through her chest and threatened to drown her. She tensed, knowing she’d have to break for air. Maybe it was okay …
The light seemed magnetically drawn to her. It pierced the dark waters again. It glanced over her, pausing. Dani let herself sink again, but her pulse ramped up until it pounded in sync with the drumming motor.
Is this how she would die? Would she never get to see her sister, niece, and nephews again? While she didn’t have the greatest family, she did love her father and sister. Abigail, the wicked stepmother, could take a flying leap. It wasn’t every day your ex-boyfriend’s sister married your father.
But still, Dani wanted to see them again. Please.
Finally, water churned under the frantic thrashing of the engine. The boat tore off.
She shoved herself upward—and burst out of the water. Sucking in air, she also caught a mouthful of water. Coughing and gagging, she swatted the hair from her eyes. She spit as she searched for the raft, then swam to it. She dragged herself aboard. Water sloshed her face as the waves tossed her over one crest after another. Although exhaustion tugged at her limbs, she paddled. Had to … get … to—
Dani yawned.
International waters.
Over the next hour, she heard the grumble of more boats and the thunder of a chopper, but she’d exceeded their search radius. As one chopper loomed close, she mentally drew out an RPG and launched it. Then plotted the plastique she could rig to the rotors so the craft and crew wouldn’t have a prayer. Her eyes drifted closed, thinking of the thing raining down fire on the ocean, the craft in a million pieces. Sick how the mind of a demolitions expert worked after six months’ captivity. To think, she’d once been the sweet, compliant daughter of a senator.
Well, maybe not compliant.
A loud bang cracked the night. Brilliance shattered the darkness.
Dani jerked, terrified they’d found her. Only to spot a storm surging and racing toward her. The negative image of the lightning lingered in her eyes. Another bolt flashed through the sky. Within seconds rain unleashed and blanketed the area. The waters grew angry and threatening. Had she angered Poseidon? The thought would’ve seemed comical were she not facing an endless body of night-darkened liquid. A giant wave rose like the god himself.
It’d toss her into the deep and thrash her like whipped cream. Pulse crashing, Dani wiggled her fingers into the bindings that held the boards together.
The mountainous wall of black rose over her. Waaay over her.
Stricken, she inhaled deeply as the water towered over her, seemingly holding its own breath—then lunged at her. It slammed her into its depths. Swirling, spinning, she clung to the raft, praying it would hold. That it would keep her afloat. Finding the surface after being plunged downward often proved impossible—and deadly.
Miraculously, the raft plopped upward and crested another wave.
Dani sucked in a huge breath before clamping her mouth shut and squeezing her eyes shut as the water plunged her deep again. Then … up … up … It hurled her farther—
Crack! Thud!
Everything went black.
Hands pawed at her.
“Careful!”
“Pull her up,” a man’s voice skated down her neck.
They’d found her! Disoriented, Dani writhed and screamed. Bruzon would beat her, rip out her soul this time. No, she couldn’t go back. She kicked. Raked fingers over flesh.
“Argh! Dad, get her,” the nearby voice growled.
“I radioed the Coast Guard, Grant.” A woman’s worried tone spiraled through Dani, easing her fears.
This wasn’t Bruzon. These people were speaking English. American English. Not the butchered form she’d heard for months. She pushed her eyes open as she was lowered onto something hard … and dry. Blurry images danced over her.
“What’s your name?” The dark image in front of her swayed and faded.
Pentagon, Arlington County, Virginia
A light rap on the glass door jerked Olin Lambert’s attention to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs lingering outside. He punched to his feet, spine stiff, and pointed to the leather seats on the opposite side of his massive mahogany desk. “Admiral, come in, sir. Have a seat.”
“Actually,” Admiral Langston said, “I’d like you to take a ride with me.”
Halfway between returning to his seat and standing, Olin paused, looking over his silver-rimmed glasses. A ride? He knew better than to question the admiral. He straightened and lifted his hat from the desk. He strode out the door, pulling it shut behind him.
“I have something I think you’ll want to see,” Langston said.
“Very good, sir.” Olin nodded to his assistant sitting at her desk and relayed a silent signal to hold his calls until he returned. He eyed the salt-and-pepper hair of the decade-younger chief as he followed him down the hall and into the elevator.
Since assuming his role as chairman of the Joint Chiefs three months earlier, Langston had kept to himself. There was much to learn and even more to unlearn about his new boss. Would Olin be able to woo him into his court with Nightshade the way he had the man’s predecessor?
Once the door shut, Langston pressed the elevator button. “Coast Guard picked up a woman in the Gulf.”
Olin shook his head. “Illegals just won’t learn.” But Langston wouldn’t call him out for an illegal—that happened nearly every day. So something bigger was happening here.
The doors slid back with a soft whoosh, and Langston stepped into the large atrium of the building. He donned his white hat as the early morning sun embraced them. Inside the Suburban and on their way, Langston leaned on the console that saddled the space between them. “She wasn’t an illegal.”
Olin arched his eyebrows. He studied the brown eyes that held his, as if a hidden meaning should exist. He shouldn’t have waited so long to figure out the madness to Admiral Langston’s methods. Should’ve taken the admiral to lunch to familiarize himself with the man who now advised the president and the secretary of defense.
Regardless if the woman in the Gulf wasn’t an illegal, if it hadn’t made CougarNews yet, then things were about to get interesting. “Who is she?”
“For security concerns, her identity is being withheld until we can debrief her fully.” He huffed. “Not that it’s done any good. She’s not talking.” Langston peeked up at an orange light as they slid through the intersection without slowing. “We think she’s Senator Roark’s daughter.”
“Roark?” Heat prickled the back of Olin’s neck. Jacqueline.
He’d never forget the night the report came in that a Corps of Engineers team had been taken captive in the Venezuelan jungle. Then his heart sank when he saw the name of Jacqueline’s daughter on the list of missing. Although he tried to discreetly search back channels to find out what happened and locate her, he’d been stifled at every attempt. And doing that made it risky to send out his black-ops team to find her; besides, the team had been shelved when Connelly, the former Joint Chiefs chairman, tried to salvage his career. And failed. Thus the new chairman sitting next to him.
“We’ve had her twenty-three hours. Not an iota of informat
ion.” Langston dragged his gaze from the road. “She said she’ll only talk to one person.”
Olin waited.
“You.”
Surprise sparked through him. “Me?” Why would Danielle ask for him? The last time he’d seen her, she was thirteen years old and standing beside an oak coffin, begging her mother not to leave her.
Olin held the dash as they rounded the corner to Walter Reed, then parked outside the emergency entrance.
Keeping pace as the admiral worked his way to the third floor, Olin ached for the young woman. If she’d been captured by Venezuelan rebels, held for six months, and managed an escape, no telling what condition she’d be in—mentally or physically.
“Take care of her, Olin.” The decade-old admonishment raked over his conscience.
Langston marched to the end of the hall where two Marines jerked to attention, eyes forward. Another man sat across from them in a metal chair, looking haggard in his unzipped navy jacket. He rose as they approached and offered a salute.
“At ease,” Admiral Langston said as he scowled at the loner. “You family?” The growl in Langston’s voice could not be missed. No doubt he was ready to throttle whoever had violated the security order and contacted family.
The man’s pale eyes widened. “No, sir. Chief Petty Officer Range Metcalfe, U.S. Coast Guard, sir.” He nodded toward the secured room. “I lifted her from the sloop that found her. I was ordered to remain here until debriefed.”
Ah, that explained the messy hair and exhaustion ringing his eyes. Olin eyed the name over the man’s chest pocket. Metcalfe. Was it possible …? His gaze flipped to the eyes. Same blue eyes. But black hair, and a bit less suave looking. Could this young officer be the brother to Nightshade’s team member, secretly designated “Wolfsbane” in Olin’s reports?
“Let’s talk.” Langston pointed toward a corner as he motioned to Olin to join them. “Tell us what you know.”
Back against the wall, CPO Metcalfe stifled a yawn. “The distress call came in at 0217. Vacationers found a woman drifting on a makeshift raft eight klicks from St. Thomas.” He shifted his gaze between the two of them. “When I arrived on deck, she was clothed only in an army jacket.” His nervous gaze bobbed on that info. “Nothing else.”
“Army?” Langston again scowled.
“Venezuelan—VFA, sir.”
Olin narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain?”
Determination glinted in the rugged face. “The name on the jacket was Bruzon.”
Mind awhirl with that beauty of a piece of information, Olin schooled his response. He met his superior’s gaze. Langston went silent, his face like a stone.
Metcalfe leaned forward. “You know who that is, right?”
Olin ignored the question. “Did she say how she came by the jacket?”
“No, sir. Wouldn’t talk. And I can’t blame her. In the condition she was in, I’m floored she’s alive.”
It felt like grease chugged through Olin’s veins. “What condition is that?”
“Sir, she’d been beaten. Visible signs of rape, torture, too. She wouldn’t let anyone touch her. Well, except me when I lifted her out.” His throat processed a swallow. “I’d kill whoever did this, given the chance.”
Admiral Langston patted Metcalfe’s shoulder and thanked him. He shifted to Olin. “Get what you can from her. We’re running out of time.”
With a large exhale, Olin started for the room. Palm on the door, he looked back to the chief petty officer. “Metcalfe.” He toyed with what he was about to do. He already knew the answer, but he wanted the man to trust him. Trust bought loyalty better than any greenback. “Happen to know Captain Canyon Metcalfe?”
Shoulders up, the Coastie looked between Olin and Langston, then slowly nodded. “Yes, sir. My brother—older by a year, and I never let him forget it.”
Sibling rivalry. He wasn’t surprised. “I don’t doubt that.” With a knowing grin, he pushed through the room. And froze.
A frail slip of a woman sat curled on her side, legs drawn close under the pale blue blanket she’d pulled over her shoulders. Her gaze rested on the bank of windows overlooking the city, but the vacant expression told him her mind wrestled somewhere else. Dark brown hair hung down her back, stringy and tangled as if she’d showered but never combed it.
She hadn’t flinched at his entrance. Or turned to see who entered. Did she even hear him?
He took a few tentative steps to bring himself into her direct view.
No response.
“Danielle?”
She blinked. Her eyes darted to the floor, where they skidded and leapt from one object to another.
Noting her nervous reaction, Olin lowered himself into the vinyl chair nestled under the window. His heart sagged at her gaunt face, her right eye swollen shut. Her lower lip ballooned and cut. Butterfly stitches winged over her eyebrow and another on her chin.
If Jacqueline saw her once-vibrant daughter haunted and distant like this, she would roll over in her grave. I’ve failed you, Jacqueline.
Tucking aside his shock, he scooted to the edge of the seat. “Danielle, it’s me, Olin Lambert.” He set his hat on the table next to her bed.
She followed his movement, her gaze staying on the hat.
He rested his forearms on his knees. “You’re home, Danielle. Back in America.”
His chest thumped, remembering CPO Metcalfe’s description: “clothed only in an army jacket.” Everything paternal and primal rose up. He fought the urge to go to her, wrap this young woman in his arms, and promise to avenge whatever had happened. But the Coastie’s comment about her not allowing anyone to touch her kept him seated.
The clock over the door ticked down the minutes in the haunting quiet. Olin thanked God there wasn’t a window in the door because Langston would no doubt have his face glued to it.
“I’ll wait, Danielle,” he said, keeping his tone soft, fatherly. “You asked for me; I’m here.” Sitting back, he crossed his legs. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Silently, he prayed. Prayed hard. That God would reach into this woman, stop her from disappearing from reality and delving into madness and delirium that sometimes happened to those who endured captivity.
After nearly thirty minutes of silence and one interruption when Langston peeked in and Olin gave a grave, glowering shake of his head, Danielle let the blanket fall from her shoulder. She pushed out of the bed and plodded to the small bathroom in flannel pajamas and bare feet. Bent over the sink, she cupped her hand under the stream and sipped.
Olin stood. Did she need a drink? He looked at the pitcher by her bed. Should he offer water from it? When he glanced back to her, she stood over the toilet, hunched. A minute later, a gagging noise clenched his stomach.
“Danielle!” He rushed to her side. “Are you ill?” Only then did he notice she had a hand in her mouth. “What’re you doing?”
A demonic-like sound erupted. Splat! Vomit launched from her mouth and hit the commode, wall, and floor. A long string of orangeish spittle dangled from her mouth—wait, no! Not spittle. A string, tethered to something.
His own stomach roiled as he watched her unhook it from her teeth. Spitting in the sink, she held the thing in her hand. An acidic stench devoured the air. The smell proved sickening, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the object.
Stunned, he waited as she peeled back what looked like film from … some gray thing. His pulse ratcheted. A thumb drive! His gaze shot to hers.
Danielle cupped water, slurped, swished, then spit. Delicately patting the edges of her injured mouth with the back of her hand, she turned to him. And stretched out her hand, palm open with the device.
Cold, dark, unfeeling eyes came to his. “Everything you need to kill him.”
CHAPTER 2
Undisclosed Location, Virginia
Stacked on either side of the point of entry Nightshade waited. The seven members of the team were split into two groups—Alpha Team, led by Max, and Bravo Team, led
by Colton “Cowboy” Neeley. They’d been a team for less than two years and when Reyes died, that left them one man down. Instead of merely replacing body count, the Old Man added two former spec ops men to Nightshade. Duty demanded the team work efficiently and with stealth. They’d trained for weeks.
Today would decide if they were ready to face an enemy with cohesion.
After a firm nod, Max trained his gaze on the point of entry. Griffin “Legend” Riddell, who had helped put the team together, stood behind him and patted his shoulder, signaling readiness. Max took a step back, raised his foot, and rammed the heel of his boot into the door. Vibrations rattled through his leg as the door flung open, hinges groaning. Dust filled the air. He snapped up his weapon and supplied cover as Legend moved forward and tossed in a flash-bang.
“Flash out!” Legend returned to the stacked position.
As the tink-tink-tink of the canister seemed to count down the seconds to its detonation, Max focused on the dimly lit corridor beckoning them. Itching to take them down.
He glanced aside for a second, waiting for the white-hot flash of the detonation.
Boom!
A gust of warm wind and dust rushed from the building, as if fleeing the chaos descending upon it.
Familiar with the precision and maneuvering required to clear a building and not shoot or kill one of his own, Max hustled across the threshold. He went right, crisscrossing the point of entry with Legend, and buttonhooked.
A tango leapt from the corner. Tat-tat-tat!
The target fell.
“Tango down,” Max called as he swept his gaze until it intersected with Legend’s line of fire.
“Copy.” Legend didn’t hesitate. “Clear.”
The rustle of tactical pants and the soft squeak of boots on the dirty vinyl floor helped Max keep tabs on the team as they filed into the boxed corridor.
He rushed past a kneeling Legend who held a corner, his weapon aimed across the L-shaped juncture that fed them into the rest of the building. The hostages were believed to be in Red Three on the upper level. First order of business: clear Blue Two, Three, Four and find the stairs.
