Rescued Heart (Titan World)

by Tarina Deaton

  “Send him in when he gets here.” Colonel Bates waved him in and hung up the phone. “Close the door and have a seat, Major Grant.”

  Jordan sat in one of the well-padded leather chairs opposite the commander’s desk.

  Colonel Bates folded his hands on top of the desk and leaned forward. “There’s no easy way to tell you what I’m about to say, so I won’t bullshit you.”

  His scalp prickled. Well that’s never good. It wasn’t his family — that call would have been direct. Could one of his soldiers have been injured between PT that morning and now?

  “You’re being pulled off the deployment.”

  “What?” He fisted his hands on thighs, digging his nails into his palms. The sharp sting helped reign in his anger. “Sir, we’re three days away from movement. What the hell? Why?”

  The Colonel sighed. “You’ve been by-name requested.”

  “For what? By who?”

  “By me,” a voice said from the door.

  Jordan’s spun in his chair. He’d been so focused on the Commander, he hadn’t heard the door open. The guy who stepped in was tall, built, and carried himself like an operator.

  “Who are you?”

  “This is Jared Westin,” Colonel Bates said. “He’s the owner of an organization called The Titan Group.”

  “Never heard of it,” he said. How the hell did a private org have the pull to by-name request him?

  “Good.” Westin slipped his hands into his pants pockets. “Then we’re doing our job.”

  If he had hair on the back of his neck, it would be standing on end. What the fuck was going on? “And what is your job?”

  Westin shrugged. “It depends on the customer. This job is a retrieval mission.”

  “Retrieval of what?”

  “Who. We’re retrieving a who.”

  Jordan growled low in the back of his throat. “Fine,” he ground out. “Who the hell is so important that you by-name request me and pulled me off a six-month deployment? One we’ve trained the last three months for.”

  “It’s Emme,” a fourth voice said from the doorway.

  Why did he look so familiar? He looked a little like… “Doug?” Jordan stood and approached his childhood best friend, disbelief warring with the anger be’d been fighting. Dark circles under his brown eyes accentuated the sallowness of his skin. Man he’d aged in the last ten years, but that didn’t explain the stress etched into his face.

  He pulled Doug into a strong hug, slapping him on the back. “How’re you?”

  Doug’s hug was half-hearted at best. “Not good.” He pressed his lips together in a thin, tight line.

  “What’s going on? How does this involved Emme?”

  “Let’s sit down,” Colonel Bates said.

  Jordan turned. The Colonel stood in front of his desk, indicating the small, round conference table. Jordan pulled out a chair and waited for Doug to sit before taking his seat. The other two joined them.

  Doug rested his elbows on the table and ran his fingers roughly through his thick, dark hair before dropping his hands to the table and gripping them together so tight his knuckled turned white.

  The deep breath he took shuddered out before he spoke. “Emme’s been kidnapped.”

  “What?” How was that possible? Emme was only…well crap, she had to be in her late twenties, early thirties by now. He leaned forward. “How? By who?”

  “She was working in a clinic in eastern Mali. She and three other workers were taken by an armed group,” Doug said.

  Jordan shook his head. What the hell was she doing in Mali? “I don’t—”

  “Why don’t I explain?” Westin asked.

  Doug nodded and looked at Jordan, anguish radiating from his gaze.

  “Emme France is a nurse practitioner employed by an NGO, non-government organization, at a clinic in Mali in West Africa.” Westin’s voice was even, almost detached. “Two weeks ago, she and three women who worked at the clinic were kidnapped by a small group claiming affiliation with al-Murabitun. The al-Murabitun spokesman has denounced the claim, saying it’s the work of a small faction not associated with their efforts.”

  “Why is that important?” He couldn’t get the image of a teen with wild hair being kidnapped by terrorists. He had to think about this rationally.

  “They don’t have the experience to handle the negotiations,” Westin said.

  Jordan opened his mouth, but caught the subtle shake of Westin’s head. He was pulling his punches. Doug didn’t have the full story. Why?

  Tapping his finger on the table, he studied the man across from him. Leaning back in his chair, Westin had the look of a someone without a care in the world. Jordan recognized the coiled alertness of someone who had the training and skill to dole out death without a qualm. What questions could he ask while keeping Doug in the dark? Westin would damn well give him the full story later.

  “They’re demanding a ransom?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Doug said.

  He shifted his gaze to Doug. “Why not just pay it?”

  Doug blanched. “It’s ten million dollars.”

  “Is that what they started at?

  “Yes.” He rubbed his eyes. “They’re refusing to negotiate for a lower amount.”

  “Doesn’t the NGO usually pay in these situations?

  “There’s some confusion as to which organization Emme actually works for,” Westin said, derision dripping from his voice.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Technically, she works for a smaller NGO which was subcontracted by a larger, more well-known organization. Her company doesn’t have the capital to pay the ransom and the larger NGO is saying she isn’t their employee.”

  What a cluster fuck. No wonder Doug looked like he hadn’t slept in, well, two weeks. “Why me? Don’t you have the manpower for this type of operation?”

  “The family is insisting.” Westin spoke as if Doug wasn’t sitting next to him.

  Jordan looked at his old friend. “Doug?”

  “Mom wants someone to go that Emme will know. Dad hired Titan when the NGO said they wouldn’t pay the ransom. Dad’s been out of the service for so long he may as well be a civilian. The only thing I know about special operations is what I’ve seen in the movies.” He snorted. “Hell, I have a hard time finding my way out of the parking garage at work some days.”

  He paused, as if to collect his thoughts. “Our moms still talk. Mom knew you were in the Army and asked your mom where you were. Titan pulled some strings.”

  “And you’re okay with this?” Jordan asked Westin. He couldn’t imagine a man who ran a private security company that did retrieval work in West Africa would be copacetic with bringing in an outsider.

  His mouth twisted. “My wife was on board.”

  Jordan looked at Colonel Bates, sitting back letting the conversation unfold.

  “The order came from SOCOM directly,” the Colonel said. “There are added incentives.” He started at Jordan, waiting for him to ask.

  He didn’t care what they had to offer. Still, he struggled with his conscience. There was no easy answer. Abandon his soldiers or abandon the people who were like a second family to him growing up. This Titan Group would go without him. Would more than likely succeed, if Jared Westin was any indication of the type of people they were. His presence, or lack of, wouldn’t determine the outcome of the operation, only provide peace of mind to the Frances.

  “Please, Jordan. It’s Emme.” Doug’s voice wavered at the end.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  Doug’s breath escaped him in a rush and he cradled his head in his hands. “Thank you.”

  Jordan patted him on the shoulder and leveled his gaze at Westin. “Now what?”

  Reaching into the inside breast pocket of his coat, Westin pulled out a business card and slid it across the table. “Twenty-two hundred showtime. Address is on the back. My contact info is on the front. Bring your three-day bag — civilia
n gear. We’ll kit you out.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Unless you have one you prefer, we’ll provide those too.” He stood and buttoned his coat. “If the operation goes as planned, we’ll have you back with your soldiers in under a week.”

  He glared at Westin’s retreating back. Like any operation had ever gone as planned.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Pain exploded in her cheek, layered on top of the other cuts and bruises. Her teeth closed down on the side of her tongue and a metallic taste filled her mouth. She blinked back the tears. Don’t give them the satisfaction. She’d learned that lesson early on. Her tears only fueled their anger.

  Her vision cleared enough to bring the brown adobe walls back into focus. Her captor’s sandal-clad feet shuffled on the hard-packed dirt floor.

  “Look at the camera! Say the words!” The man’s fetid breath washed over her face and she swallowed back the bile that tried to work its way up her throat. His accent was harsh and angry.

  She shook her head. She wouldn’t say lies that would put other people in jeopardy. Even if it meant the beatings stopped.

  Her interrogator hit her open-handed, but with enough force to topple her out of her chair. A whimper escaped. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d landed on her dislocated shoulder. The left side of her face throbbed in time to her heartbeat. Was it too much to ask for a southpaw to give her face a break? Good to know the beatings hadn’t affected the sarcastic part of her brain.

  Someone behind her yanked up the rickety chair she was tied to and her head lolled forward.

  “Hold the chair,” the man in front of her said. A hand grabbed the crown of her head and tipped it back. He stared down at her, his obsidian black eyes lit with fury. “You will make the video, whore. One way or the other.”

  This time he used his fist and her world went black.

  Her body jerked. God, she hurt. A single, bright sliver of light unerringly found her one good eye.

  Groaning, she tried to turn her head away from the sting of the rough cloth on her battered face. Gentle hands stopped her, accompanied by a soft shushing sound

  “Rester, dogomuso.”

  Be still, little sister? Only Anuli called her little sister.

  Emme peered at the speaker. “Anuli.” Her voice cracked on the last syllable. It was the first time she’d seen anyone other than her captors. “They took you?” Stupid question. Of course they took her, if she was here. She tried to push up from the dirt floor and another groan escaped.

  “No, no, Miss Emme. Lie down. Try not to move.”

  Her arms gave out, giving her no choice in the matter. “Is there water?”

  Anuli shuffled a few steps to the side of the room and returned with a small cup. She slid her hand under Emme’s head and raised it enough to allow her to take a sip.

  Gagging at the first taste, she choked down the warm, dusty water. Anuli lowered her head and replaced the cup.

  “How long have I been unconscious?”

  Anuli kneeled next to her. “I’m not sure. They brought you in last night. I was very worried when you didn’t wake up.”

  Christ she hurt. She tried to separate out the worst injuries from the general pain. No doubt her right shoulder was dislocated. She drew in a deep breath and — judging by the pain — a cracked rib or two. Her cheek throbbed — whether from the repeated hits or a fractured cheekbone, she wasn’t sure.

  Anuli touched the cloth to her face again. She flinched, sending spears of pain down her side.

  “Why they beat you so bad, Miss Emme?”

  “They want me to make a video. Say the clinic is performing abortions and is a cover for the American government.”

  “These are bad men, Miss Emme.” She shuffled out of sight. When she returned, she carried the cup and a small piece of bread. She dipped the bread into the water to soften it and held it to Emme’s mouth. “Eat.”

  “Help me sit up, please.”

  “You should rest.”

  “I can’t eat laying down.”

  Anuli tsk’d, but helped her sit and prop herself against the rough mud brick wall. She bit back a groan, concentrating on taking shallow breaths.

  She scanned the small room — no more than eight feet square. A metal bucket sat on a rickety looking table. Another bucket sat in the far corner. Thankfully, nature wasn’t calling at the moment. A narrow window near the ceiling revealed only blue sky. She’d take a better look when she didn’t feel like passing out just from sitting against the wall.

  Tearing off a piece of the crusty flat bread, she dipped it into the cup and mashed the soggy bread to the roof of her mouth. Her tongue had that thick, raw feel to it from when she’d bitten the side. “I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”

  “Not your fault. They took Amara and Sarah too.”

  She stopped chewing and closed her eyes. Shit. “Did they take any others?”

  “I don’t think so. They kept me with the other two until last night. They brought me in here and told me to fix you.” Her eyes became sad. “You are the only one they’ve beaten.”

  “I’m the only white woman.” She accepted another piece of bread Anuli offered her.

  “Maybe they won’t hit you if you make the video.”

  Not likely. “They’ll find something to beat me for even if I make the video.”

  “You have to do something, Miss Emme. They’ll kill you if they beat you again.”

  “They won’t. They want the ransom.” She hoped her voice sounded more sure than she felt. Her eyes stung as she blinked back the tears.

  It was too much money. The NGO wasn’t going to pay it and her family sure as hell couldn’t afford ten million dollars. Even as a retired one-star, her dad didn’t have that kind of collateral.

  Tears spilled over. She brushed them away. That’s not going to help. “How long have we been here?”

  Anuli looked at the sliver of daylight filtering in through the small window. “Jum’ah was three or four days ago.”

  “Was that the only one since we’ve been taken?”

  “The second.”

  Two Fridays. They’d been taken on a Wednesday, so they’d been in captivity for two weeks. Think, Emme. “Did you hear the call to prayer?”

  Anuli shook her head. “No. We could hear the men praying in the other room.” She pointed at the high window.

  If Anuli didn’t hear the call to prayer, they weren’t near a village. Even the smallest village played the call to prayer. “Do you know where they took us?”

  Another head shake. “They put bags over our heads. We drove for a long time. The sun was setting when we arrived here.”

  She needed a plan. Something to keep her mind on. Wait or try to escape? What to do?

  “W2D2?” Doug’s voice whispered in her mind. What Would Dad Do? She smiled and winced when her lip split. Their inside joke as kids. They’d ask each other “W2D2” whenever they found themselves in tight spot or needed to figure something out. What would her special-operations, combat-veteran father do?

  Anything it takes.

  He’d move heaven and earth to get her. Pull in every marker and call every contact he had. Hell, she wouldn’t put it past him to go through the back of Soldier of Fortune magazine and call every two-bit, mercenary wanna-be if it meant getting her out alive.

  All she had to do was stay alive.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A guard stepped out of the shack outside the small private airstrip on the south side of Fayetteville, North Carolina. Dressed in black tactical gear with an M-4 slung tight across his chest, he was no rent-a-cop.

  Jordan pulled to a stop and rolled down his window. “Jordan Grant.”

  “ID, please.”

  He pulled out his wallet and handed over his ID. The guard looked at it, peered at him, then glanced in the back of the pickup’s cab.

  “Follow the perimeter road around to the right. Park in front of the third hangar and leave the keys on the
dash. Your flight is waiting for you.”

  Where the hell am I? He took his ID card “Roger. Thanks.” He waited for the chain-link gate to slide clear before pulling forward. Parking in front of the hangar, he drummed his thumb on the steering wheel, and stared at the civilian helicopter through the rearview mirror. What kind of pull did these guys have? Private, guarded airfield outside Fayetteville he didn’t even know existed. Multi-million dollar helicopter ready to go.

  General France had nothing but good things to say about Jared Westin and Titan Group. The General had known Westin when he was fresh out of Ranger training and had kept tabs on him since. He was the only person the General had called when he decided to stop relying on the officials to handle the situation. Every other contact Jordan had called, who knew who Titan were, told him the same thing. They were legit.

  He turned off the ignition and threw the keys on the dash. Getting out, he grabbed his ruck sack and weapons case from the back of his truck and made his way to the helicopter twenty yards in front of the hangar.

  The pilot exited as he approached. “Jordan Grant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rocco Savage.” He shook Jordan’s hand. “That all the gear you have?”

  “Yeah.” He adjusted his ruck on shoulder. “What’s going to happen to my truck?”

  Rocco opened the rear sliding door of the helicopter. “It’ll be safe here for now. Once we know when and where you’ll return, we’ll arrange for it to be there for you.”

  Chauffeur service for his truck. Another thing to add to the list of strings these guys could pull. He threw his bag and weapons case on the floor of crew area, climbed into the co-pilot seat, and buckled his harness. Rocco handed him a set of earphones and started the engines.

  “You fly?” Rocco asked.

  He shook his head and watched Rocco go through the start up. “Only as a passenger. And I’m usually in the back, not in the front.”

  “Totally different view up front. The flight to DC is about two hours. You can catch some zzz’s if you need to.”

  The rotors whined to life and the helo shimmied as the engines revved. The lift off was smooth and slow as Rocco asked for clearance from air traffic control. The sleek machine rose, its nose slightly down as they moved forward before gaining altitude. Jordan watched the lights of the airfield fall away as they sped away.