Code Name_War 0f Stones

by Natasza Waters

  “Hang up!” the captain yelled again.

  The rancher didn’t know it, but he’d already lost a son. If she didn’t do what they ordered, would he lose his wife?

  One second stroked by so slowly it seemed broken into tiny bits. About to risk the few words her father would need to find her, hands gripped Sloane from behind and threw her to the floor. Her attacker seized her arm. Quickly, she flicked her wrist and the phone skidded across the planks and bounced off the leg of a side table.

  “Palomar. Delta it’s for Romeo, Dad!” she screamed.

  Another soldier vaulted for the phone and plucked it from the floor, disconnecting the call.

  “Clear the evidence,” the Captain ordered.

  The guy who had her pinned face down on the boards, rammed his knee into her spine.

  “Get off me, you fucker.” She winced as he dug his knee in deeper. She wasn’t getting out of this, but neither would this nice retired couple who probably thought they’d found peace living at the top of this mountain. She stretched her neck to look into the eyes of the rancher. “I’m sorry.”

  There was no pause. No chance. Not even a hope of staving off the mindless soldier with his finger on the trigger.

  She glared at the Captain. “Don’t.”

  His expression didn’t twitch when he nodded. Two shots cracked through the room. One went through the elderly woman’s temple, the other through the rancher’s heart.

  The soldier restraining Sloane, yarded her to her feet. She glared at the captain who’d given the order. “Murdering civilians. Have you lost your fucking mind?”

  “Put her in the Jeep,” the Captain ordered, his cold, blue eyes mostly hidden beneath his ballcap.

  Sloane ripped her arm from the tight grip of the soldier pushing her toward the door. “You’re gonna burn for this.”

  A slow, menacing smile covered the captain’s mouth. “Better than dealing with you whores in the theatre.” He notched his head. “Sacrifices have to be made, Seaman Austen. And you had better pray like fuck your daddy didn’t hear your location.” His jaw ticked. “If he shows up here, he’ll be in a shallow grave next to this guy.”

  Sloane shook like a leaf, but she wouldn’t let this pile of shit hear it in her voice. “Fuck you, Dog Face. You’re the one that should start praying. You’re a dead man walking. Your exercise is over. The only thing you should worry about is how many breaths you have left to take.”

  The Captain crossed the floor, his boots heavy on the planks. When he reached her, he knotted his fist in her hair and yanked hard enough to pull it out. Unable to control herself, a sharp cry of pain shot from her mouth. She gripped his fist, but it was as useless as trying to rip a trailer hitch from the frame of a truck. His creased, sweat-covered face got right into hers. “You think because you’re some fucking admiral’s daughter, you’re going to live? Guess again, bitch.”

  With a powerful shove, he sent her stumbling backward. She fell. Sprawled on her ass, staring up at the sadist glaring down at her. This man’s soul was gone. He believed in the General and his exercise. Nothing she could say would change his mind. Her gaze rolled to the dead rancher, the dark stain of blood widening across his plaid shirt.

  Pressing her palms to the floor, she pushed to her feet and backed against the front door. “Hell is going to welcome you with open arms.”

  The captain jerked his head, a silent order to take her to the truck.

  Stepping from the shade of the porch, she surveyed the property. A rough terrain with a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of Palomar Mountain. Four soldiers, two on either side of her, escorted her toward the Jeep. She might have to endure the General’s wrath, but counted on the fact that her dad knew where she was.

  Without warning, the soldier gripping her right arm dropped to the ground at the same time the echo from a weapon’s discharge thrust her from her thoughts. They were out in the open. At least twenty feet to the Jeep. Before she could run for cover, another soldier fell.

  Damon!

  The two remaining soldiers wrestled her back toward the protection of the house. One more soldier fell.

  A thick forearm coiled around her neck, and the Captain’s thunderous voice roared across her ear. “Lieutenant Stone.” He jammed the muzzle of his pistol into her cheek to cement his intentions.

  “Dad knows!” she shouted. Captain Dirtbag choked her, squeezing his forearm across her throat. She gripped his arm with both hands and used the evasive tactic her father had taught her. On her way to connecting with the hard ground with her ass, she yelled. “He killed the ranchers. Don’t show yourself.”

  Sloane screeched when the Captain’s thick heavy boot connected with her side. She rolled, but the soldier had the benefit of at least ninety pounds of overbearing muscle and he yanked her from the ground. Using her body as cover, he backed up the porch stairs. She dragged her feet, her sneakers tumbling down the wooden planks to land with a soft thud on the last step.

  Damon knew better than to show himself. He’d wait for his moment. But the Captain had more going on than the regular grunt. He had a mission of his own and crosshairs he wouldn’t hesitate to place on her SEAL’s forehead.

  The Captain backed them into the ranch house and the one remaining soldier slammed the door shut.

  “I’ll flush him out, sir!” the Corporal, somewhere in his late twenties, stood sideways near the front window. He carefully peered around the frame for a look at the property.

  “Tie her up and find a corkscrew in the kitchen, Corporal,” the Captain ordered.

  The Corporal tugged the plug of a side table lamp from the wall socket and used the cord to tie her hands to the armrests of a dining room chair they’d plopped her ass into. When her hands were secure, the guy cut the cord of the other table lamp in two, and secured her legs.

  “Corkscrew?” She swallowed thickly.

  “Your screams will bring your partner running.”

  “He’s not a girl like you, shithead. You don’t think he knows what you’re going to do five minutes before you do?”

  The Captain crossed his arms and leaned against the hewn log wall near the front door. “Guess we’ll have to see who’s better in a hostage situation. A man like me who doesn’t give a shit how much you scream, or him.”

  Sloane didn’t want to be the reason Damon put himself in the open. “He won’t do that. Not for me.”

  The Corporal returned and handed his officer a silver bottle opener with a sky blue handle. Pretty if it was in a cork, not so much if he used it on her.

  The Captain kneeled in front of her chair. “He’ll come.” He raised the instrument with the spiraled point for her to see clearly. “We’re at war, Austen. In case you haven’t figured that out yet. The General wants you alive, but he doesn’t need the SEAL.”

  “Why me?”

  “Don’t know and don’t care, but I owe Stone for killing my men.”

  Sloane wanted to spit in the guy’s face. “Your man raped me!”

  The sound of a body hitting the ground caused them both to turn their heads.

  “Corporal?” He’d returned to the kitchen. Probably to forage for food in the fridge. The Captain stood and raised his pistol, aiming it at the hallway leading to the kitchen. “Show yourself, Stone.”

  The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the room. Damon didn’t respond, but the sun heating the metal roof, caused it to expand and crack. A couple steps and the Captain stood behind her. He placed the weapon against the back of her head.

  “Damon. Don’t!”

  “If you don’t show yourself, I’ll fuck her with this corkscrew in my hand.”

  She waited. Holding her breath. Had he left? She’d never heard him enter the home, he could have departed the same way.

  The seconds ticked on, and she surmised that the Captain figured he’d left too. “Not what I expected from a SEAL. Thought he’d come crashing through the wall with superhuman strength.” The Captain slid down the hallway wit
h careful steps.

  She spit out a caustic laugh. “Jealous much?”

  He returned after inspecting the kitchen. Cold eyes turned on her. “He killed another one of my men. This time you get to pay for it.”

  The Captain rammed the corkscrew between her thumb and first finger. Red-hot pain tore through her arm and she howled in anguish. He twisted the handle and a black shadow crept across her mind. Don’t pass out! She screamed again, unable to move her hand, pinned to the wooden arm of the chair.

  The Captain placed his mouth by her ear. “Hurt much?” Then yanked the metal spine from her hand.

  Anger flared red in her mind, but the temptation of darkness called for her to close her eyes. Blood streamed from the hole he’d left in her skin, drizzling across her thumb and dripping onto the beige throw rug beneath her. She gritted her teeth. Better than them chattering with pain. She swiped the tears on her shoulder that had leaked out.

  “You didn’t answer my question, Seaman Austen,” the Captain said. And punctured her hand again with the corkscrew.

  She didn’t need to answer because when Captain Asshole had gone down the hallway, Damon had quietly entered right through the front door and hid behind the couch. With the Captain’s attention on her, he didn’t see nor hear the man who was going to end his life.

  * * * *

  Damon breathed through her screams. Ignore them! Knife drawn, he side-stepped from behind the couch and drove the blade through the butcher’s throat, cutting across the carotid artery. The tip of the steel punctured the other side of his throat. Two hundred plus pounds of man thrashed. Clutching his prey in a Half Nelson, the soldier bled out.

  Eventually, the Captain’s head drooped and his body went slack. Dropping him to the ground, Damon approached a shaking Sloane.

  “Take it out,” she hissed.

  He removed the corkscrew with one swift pull and untied her arms then her legs. She stood, but teetered, and he gripped her in his arms. Damon helped her to a large leather chair next to the couch. “Sit. I’ll find something to bind the injury.”

  He hurried to the bathroom and scoured the vanity and lower cabinet. Inside, three rolls of toilet paper sat atop a grey fishing tackle box. He brushed away the rolls and opened the box to find a homemade medical kit with everything he needed, and hurried back to the Great room.

  Sloane remained in the chair staring at the Captain’s limp form.

  “He won’t be getting up.” Damon sat on the coffee table in front of her and opened the kit, tearing off the packaging on an absorbent pad. So unlike Sloane, she sat quietly while he worked on her hand, winding the gauze around her palm and then securing it with a tensor bandage.

  When he finished, he finally looked into her eyes. “You said you called your father.”

  She nodded. “They took the phone away, but I think he heard me.”

  He looked for signs of shock, but what he saw wasn’t pale skin or dizziness. What he saw was much worse. Sloane had entombed her emotions, refusing to cry. Distancing herself from what she’d endured and what she’d seen. A vacant expression took roost in her eyes.

  “Sloane.”

  “Let’s go.” Her voice didn’t waver with fear, it was brittle with anger. She stood, then headed for the door. With her hand on the knob, she turned. “What are you waiting for?”

  He stared into her beautiful eyes. Evening shade dwelled in the corners of the room. Two men and one woman lay in pools of their own blood. The light was gone and so was her innocence.

  “Where’s the phone, Sloane?”

  She pointed.

  He found it tucked against the leg of a side table and bent to retrieve it from the floor. “What’s your father’s number?”

  “Look out,” she screamed.

  Whatever the threat, it was behind him and he dove over the couch.

  “Don’t move,” a soldier shouted, appearing from the back hallway.

  “Fuck.” Damon threw the phone and it splintered on the river rock fireplace.

  Six soldiers poured into the room, their weapons raised, fingers curled around the triggers. “Stand up,” one of them ordered.

  He did as they asked. Making an evasive move now meant they’d kill him and he needed to stay alive. Protect her. Take whatever punishment the General had in store for them. Three of the soldiers descended on him, the other three on Sloane. The fire in her eyes scared him. Instead of wilting, he could see her preparing to fight, even if she didn’t have a hope of winning.

  “Stand down, Sloane,” he said sharply. Her heated gaze turned on him. “Live to fight another day.”

  Damon watched as they manhandled her out the front door as tie-wraps cut into his wrists, cinched tight by one of the grunts. A hand in the middle of his back thrust him toward the door behind her. Two Jeeps approached, slowing to a stop near the porch. Herded like cattle, he clambered into the back seat, separated from Sloane who they’d loaded into the other vehicle.

  He was outgunned. Outmanned. Their captor as dangerous as any tyrant with an irrational motivation. No limits. No way to extract. One of the SEAL codes recited for years, ticked across his thoughts: Train for War, Fight to Win, Defeat our Nation’s Enemies. Northcott was his enemy. Sloane’s enemy. And Damon would fight to the bitter end to protect her.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Katy shook with fear and her face paled.

  “Don’t do it, Katy.” The muzzle of the pistol dug into the back of Winston’s head, a warning to shut his mouth or he’d be eating a bullet for his final meal.

  “And let him kill you? Not happening, SEAL.” His fiery redhead grilled the General with a look of pure hatred. “You get your thrills out of seeing someone tortured, don’t you?”

  The General plucked the fat, smoldering cigar from his mouth. “Not really. If you want to give me your safe word, then your boyfriend here will see another sunrise.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my partner. If those are my choices, I’ll take a set of fangs in my arm rather than give you a fucking thing.”

  Winston breathed through his nose, his pulse pounding. If he made a move, the soldier behind him would pull the trigger, splattering his brains over the dry ground. The General would chalk it up to a failure versus sacrifice. And he’d lose his partner, but she was more than that to him now.

  The day he strolled across the Grinder with the other men looking for a woman to be his partner, he’d sworn he wouldn’t pick Katy. He wasn’t any better than the rest of his teammates hooking up with Frog Hogs and ditching them in the morning. Although he’d seen Katy on the base many times, her flaming red hair and brilliant green eyes a complete turn on to him, he’d never approached her. Instead, he admired the view watching her walk away. The woman’s ass was something to behold. Winston had strode past three rows of women. There she was, in the middle of the fourth line. Most of the enlisted gals didn’t make eye contact with him, but Katy did, and she clamped on so hard, he had stopped in front of her.

  “You look like a linebacker,” she’d said, her head tipped in a sassy way. Standing only a foot apart, he realized he’d underestimated her beauty. He had also noticed how damned young she looked, but instead of picking another woman like he should have, he asked her to join him for the exercise. She didn’t blink or balk. She stepped out of the line, accepting the challenge.

  She’d shown him nothing but sparks and courage during the past three days. Last night, laying under the stars, listening to the crickets, her small hand had slid into his. She’d wanted his reassurance, and he’d clutched her fingers between his palms. His only motivation had meant to comfort, but with a quick move, she’d rolled and hovered above him, her eyes glittering. Katy never minced words. She’d gripped his hands and stretched his arms above his head. He’d chuckled at her boldness and the fact that she thought she could hold them there. Or maybe she counted on the fact that he’d let her.

  He couldn’t think straight with the oversized camo jacket unzipped and her
cock-straightening bare breasts dangling like ripe fruit in front of his face while saying, “I thought you SEALs were all man whores.”

  He’d grinned and raised a brow. “Want me to lie and tell you I’m not?”

  And then like a she-tiger, her pheromones had one helluva chemical reaction on his. She unleased something inside him. Wild. Incredible. Unforgettable.

  Katy didn’t know it yet, but he was getting a new tat when they survived this shit show and it would be a little tiger the color of her hair, inked on his arm.

  The soldier nudged him with the pistol as if Winston wasn’t paying attention, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Katy as she stepped closer to the tub of snakes. Winston shook his head. She’d be bitten for sure. Then what? Would the General just watch her die? This wasn’t his first pony ride where the choices came down to bad or worse.

  The July sun beat down on their heads. Tonight, they’d be back in the cages. Wet. Cold. The General could order his men to rape the women again.

  Before Winston could come up with a single idea to extract her from this place, Katy’s hand shot into the tub. She screamed as she drew out a thick, wriggling rattler. She’d managed to grab it behind the head but he didn’t know whether her scream had been because she’d been bitten or because her fear had found a war cry. She held her arm outstretched, her face pinched tight. Her knuckles white.

  The General’s brows arched and he nodded to one of his soldiers, who stepped forward with a knife and cut the head from the body. Katy jumped back as the body fell on the ground with a thump and wiggled with residual reflexes. She opened her fingers and dropped the head. Tears rolled down her cheeks and her chest rose and fell, exaggerated by her terror.

  They watched as the head landed near the writhing body. Snakes were still deadly at this point and when the involuntary movement of the body got close to the head, the snake dug its fangs in and held on to its own scaly, severed corpse.

  Katy gasped and stepped back, caught in the macabre moment.

  “Disgusting and incredible, isn’t it?” The General stepped to her side. “It refuses to die. Deadly to its last twitch. That is the determination of a warrior.”