Degree of Risk

by Lindsay McKenna

  Jawaad, who looked to be in his mid-twenties, nodded. He was tall and heavyset, unlike most of the other soldiers. He snapped orders to his men.

  Sarah sat there, saying nothing. What were they going to do to her? When a horse was brought up, two soldiers slipped their hands beneath her arms and hauled her to her feet. Sarah was so stiff and sore, she swallowed a groan. As she tried to walk, her left leg buckled beneath her. It didn’t matter, they dragged her around to the horse being held by another soldier.

  Just as they boosted her up into the wooden saddle, one of Khogani’s soldiers was suddenly jerked backward, his AK-47 flying out of his hands. Seconds later, the boom of a SEAL sniper rifle followed up.

  “Mount up!” Khogani snarled. The SEALs were somewhere, but where?

  Sarah watched as two more Taliban were killed just seconds later. She clung to the horse’s mane, looking around, frightened. She knew snipers were shooting at them. They had to be SEALs! It had to be Ethan’s team!

  Panic broke out among the riders. Shouts, orders and screams followed. The horses were frantic. The reins to her horse were held by Jawaad, who had mounted his horse. He jerked the reins, her horse leaping forward. Sarah heard more reports from the .300 Win Mag sniper rifles. They were swiftly killing off the Taliban.

  Khogani cursed, leaping on his black stallion, whipping the animal, diving for the cover of a goat path.

  Sarah thought about leaping off her galloping horse, but it was too late! Soldiers mounted behind her had guns aimed at her back. They’d shoot to kill if she tried to leap off the fleeing horse. The wind was cold, whistling past her as she clung to the saddle. Soon, the firing of the rifles stopped.

  Fever heightened her anxiety. She had to hold on to the running horse, her legs flapping along its barrel. She’d never ridden a horse and all she could do to stop from being thrown off was grab the animal’s thick, long mane tangled between both her hands.

  Above her, Sarah saw FOB Thunder not more than a mile away, a silhouette. Gasping, pain shooting raggedly up her wounded leg, she fought the fever. She needed antibiotics or the fever would rise higher. Someone had picked up her ruck. They galloped around the hill. Khogani was in the lead, whipping his horse with a crop that had ten or fifteen pieces of long, thin leather on it. On the ends were pieces of metal. Sarah could see blood collecting on the stallion’s black rump. She gulped, knowing she was in trouble.

  Looking up, she saw the sky was finally clear. Was there a drone up? Were they watching her? Part of her still clung to hope. Those had been SEAL snipers! They knew she was alive! Tears burned in her eyes as she clung to the horse. Ethan knew she was alive. Somehow, they had discovered she hadn’t died in that crash.

  Tears trailed down Sarah’s cheeks. Hope mixed with dread. Would they find her? Would they be able to rescue her in time? Terror worked through her as never before. She knew from her survival, evasion, resistance and escape course, that any American woman caught by an enemy could expect rape as a form of torture and control.

  *

  Ethan cursed richly, watching Khogani ride off into the brush and trees of the goat path. Dagger and Dusty had killed six of the Taliban. The moment Ethan had seen Sarah on the ground, below the slope of the hill through his spotter scope, he’d ordered the snipers to higher ground. Trying to think through his anguish, he’d called Master Chief Hunter. They’d gotten a drone up hours earlier. From the video feed, Ethan had watched Mustafa Khogani appear out of the night, near the base of the first hill. They were only a quarter mile from that area, having pushed hard all night, exhausted.

  Ethan tried to keep his voice steady as he talked to Hunter at the other end.

  “We’ve got live feed,” Hunter assured him, his voice grim. “We’ll keep the drone on them and find out where they’re taking Sarah. Over.”

  His heart felt like a knife had been plunged through it. “Then get us out of here. Get us to wherever they’re going.” They had to get to the hill area. A Black Hawk could land there, but not where they were presently.

  “Roger that. I’m authorizing a Black Hawk up now. It will be there in thirty minutes. By that time, we should have a clear idea of where Khogani is headed. Over.”

  Ethan’s nostrils flared, his chest hurt with unuttered screams and his eyes burned with tears he blinked back. “Roger that. Out.”

  He turned to his men. Dagger and Dusty had slid down the muddy hill, their sniper rifle barrels up. “Mount up,” he snapped. “We’re making for that hill where Sarah was captured. Helo will arrive in thirty minutes. The drone has eyes on her captors.”

  Chapter 10

  Sarah was yanked off the panting horse. They’d ridden for nearly an hour, whipping in and out and around hills. Her inner legs were rubbed raw by the wooden saddle. Her fever was high and she thought she was hallucinating. How she stayed on that horse for an hour, she did not know. She’d tried to memorize where she was. They were west of FOB Thunder. Sarah estimated roughly ten miles. They’d dipped into a series of cave systems located at the base of a mountain that towered twelve-thousand feet or so above them. She saw snow on the peak. The sun had come up, its long rays slanting across the landscape. They’d left the narrow valley and were now in hills near the beginning of a mountain chain.

  The horse was soaked with sweat, its brown coat gleaming in the dim light of the cave they’d just ridden into. Sarah saw it was huge, long and high. The white-and-cream colored stones on the ceiling reflected the sunlight, lending more light than usual.

  “Get off!” Jawaad growled, marching up to her, a pistol pointed up at her.

  Sarah was fluent enough in Pashto, and she saw the hatred in the man’s small, close-set brown eyes. She pushed off shakily. The moment she slid to the ground, red-hot pain shot up her leg. With a gasp, she collapsed. The horse’s feet danced around her. Black dots swam across her closed eyes.

  “Whore!” Jawaad yelled, grabbing her by her hair, hauling her upward.

  With a cry, Sarah felt her entire scalp erupt with pain. She wasn’t expecting it, her arms flying out from her body, trying to regain her feet.

  “Jawaad!” Mustafa yelled, “stop! Do not mistreat her! She’s wounded. Get two men to help her to walk to the inner cave.”

  Breathing hard, Jawaad released her hair with a snarl.

  Sarah collapsed against the horse, dizzy, unable to orient. The men grabbed her arms, steadying her. Opening her eyes, she gasped, dying for some water, her mouth cracked and dry.

  Jawaad lifted his lip and glared at her. He ordered the men to drag her along if necessary.

  Sarah tried to walk. She’d felt warm blood trickling down her leg and ankle, absorbed by her sock and boot as she rode. Now, as she was dragged into another cave, the pain was excruciating.

  Mustafa’s staff of servants came racing up to him. “Get that ruck she was wearing. Get Anas! I need him to look at her leg wound.”

  Instantly, the servants left. One ran down another tunnel. The other quickly gestured for his lord to sit on the colorful Persian rug that had been quickly unrolled for him to sit upon. Another brought him a jug of fresh water. A plate of fruit appeared, as well.

  Mustafa eyed Sarah, who struggled to keep her head up.

  “Put her here.” He jabbed his finger at the other end of the huge rug. The soldiers dragged her over. “Gently,” Khogani growled at them.

  Sarah felt herself being placed on something soft, not dirt, not hard rock. She was breathing hard, feeling faint from thirst, from the fever now raging through her. As soon as her cheek lay against the carpet, she closed her eyes, her breath ragged. She felt like a sawdust doll, unable to stand, fight or even move.

  Mustafa tipped his head, watching her. Her entire body trembled. Sweat formed on her face and trickled down across her temple and cheek. He snapped his fingers.

  “Bring water!”

  Sarah tried to think, but her head was caught up in the fever. She heard the black-bearded man who was no more than four feet away f
rom her, snarl an order.

  Anas came running over to his lord, his physician’s bag in hand. At forty-five the Saudi physician had seen his family murdered by American A-10s in Baghdad years earlier when they were there visiting friends. He’d sworn to join the Taliban and fight for freedom from their oppression.

  “Here,” Mustafa directed, “we just captured an American woman. She’s wounded in the left leg. I need you to look at her.”

  “Yes, my lord,” he murmured, turning and looking at her, noticing her blood-soaked pant leg.

  “Be gentle with her, Anas. I don’t wish my merchandise to be bruised or harmed,” he murmured, popping another grape into his mouth.

  Nodding, Anas knelt by her side. He gently touched her shoulder. She instantly jerked away.

  “I am not going to hurt you,” he said in perfect, stilted English. “I am Dr. Anas. Lord Khogani has asked me to help you. Please, cooperate? I mean you no harm. Your wound must be tended to. Can you roll over onto your back and stretch out?”

  Fear jagged through Sarah. Could she believe him? He was kneeling near her head. He wore Afghan trousers, slippers on his feet. He didn’t sound like an Afghan, though. More pain zigzagged up her leg, increasing in intensity. Sarah rolled over, her arms across her stomach, tense. She saw Anas’s face for the first time. He had a broad face, gentle brown eyes, a black and gray beard neatly trimmed. He wore a black turban on his head, making his darkly sunburned face even more dramatic.

  “What is your name, please?” Anas whispered as he got up and moved to her left side.

  “Chief Sarah Benson,” she rasped.

  “Ahh, very good,” he said, kneeling. He opened his black leather bag. “I am a physician from Saudi Arabia. I was a surgeon, a very good surgeon there.” He picked up a pair of scissors. “Do not be alarmed, Sarah Benson. I am going to have to cut your trousers open to see your wound. Relax, please?”

  The scissors looked long and sharp. She swallowed hard. “Yeah, okay,” she managed. Sarah could feel Khogani behind her head. Watching her. It sent a wave of nausea through her. It felt like the same watchfulness Bill Caldwell had had, calculating when he was going to get up, follow her and then grab her wrist, dragging her into the bedroom.

  Anas was quick. He slit the trouser leg up to her knee and laid open the fabric. “Ahh, yes,” he said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “Now I am going to gently examine your wound. I do not mean to hurt you, but there will be pain. Yes?”

  Sarah tried to steel herself as he moved his fingers delicately across her calf, testing, pressing and examining the area. Gritting her teeth, she shut her eyes as he lifted her calf to examine it closely. The light was not good in the cave. Didn’t the bastard have a flashlight? Anything?

  “Very good,” Anas soothed, placing her leg on the carpet. He turned and pulled out a thermometer. “Open your mouth. I can feel your flesh is hot. You have a temperature. I must know how much.”

  Reluctantly, Sarah took the thermometer into her mouth. She was breathing hard, sweat rolling down her temples. The pain was red-hot and it wasn’t abating. She knew it was infected. It had to be bad.

  Anas took the thermometer out of her mouth. “Ah. Yes, you are at 103.5. That is not good. Have you been taking antibiotics?”

  “Y-yes,” Sarah whispered raggedly. “In my ruck. I have everything in my ruck. My antibiotics…”

  Anas nodded and spoke in Pashto to a solider. He nodded and ran out of the cave. “I am going to give you a shot of antibiotics. Your fever is too high. It will act more quickly than the tablets.”

  Anas looked over at Mustafa. “My lord, you captured her in broad daylight. Are you not worried about the drones?”

  Shrugging, he bit into a thick piece of goat cheese. “I’m sure they saw us. Once you get her leg taken care of, we’re moving deep into the other area.”

  “They will send black ops after us,” Anas murmured. He held up a syringe.

  “Now, Sarah, I am going to give you a shot of lidocaine. It will numb the pain. Your gunshot wound is infected. I must scrub it out. I’m going to put the needle in your calf, near the wound. Are you ready?”

  Hell, no, she wasn’t ready! “Yeah, just get it over with,” Sarah growled between her clenched teeth. She felt his hand move to the wound. Closing her eyes again, she wrapped her hands into fists, trying to prepare herself.

  The needle went in four times around the wound. Sarah gritted back any cries and pressed her hand hard against her mouth. Son of a bitch!

  “There, there,” Anas soothed, placing the syringe nearby. “Rest. It will take a few moments before the area becomes numb and I can clean the wound out. Would you like some water now? You must be thirsty?”

  Water sounded so damned good. Sarah knew it wouldn’t be purified water. She saw her ruck being brought in and the soldier set it by the physician. “Y-yes, water,” she grunted, the pain still raw and roaring through her. Trying to take slow, deep breaths, Sarah tried to relax, her fists still clenched.

  Water was brought.

  Sarah tried to lever herself up on her elbow. Anas smiled a little, took the jug and then eased her into a sitting position.

  “Can you hold this?” he asked, handing it to her.

  She would or else. Anas gave the jug to her. Pressing the mouth of the jug to her lips, Sarah drank deeply. The cool water tasted so good! She hadn’t realized how thirsty she really was. She drank at least a quarter of the water while Anas tended to her leg.

  “Please roll up your sleeve?” Anas asked, the syringe with antibiotics ready.

  Sarah knew the Taliban would kill for antibiotics. Without it, more people in these poverty-ridden countries died of infection than anything else. The fact he was willing to give her antibiotics told her she was a valuable prisoner. For what, she didn’t know yet. She could feel Khogani staring intently at her. Trying to shake it off, she rolled up her sleeve. Anas gave her the shot.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, meeting his brown eyes. What the hell was a Saudi physician doing here? With this scum?

  “And your leg? How does it feel now?”

  Sarah looked down at the clean new dressing on it. “Better. Not as much pain.” Anas had been true to his word, the wound area was numb and she had felt nothing, thank God.

  Anas opened her ruck and looked through it with careful precision. He pulled out the antibiotics bottle and studied it. Nodding, he murmured, “This will do.” He handed the bottle to her. “No matter where you are, you must take one every eight hours.”

  Wherever she was? Sarah was fighting fever, the pain of her leg and being captured. Her mind wasn’t completely functioning as she tried to understand what the Saudi was making reference to.

  “What do you mean wherever I am?” she demanded.

  Khogani snickered.

  Sarah twisted around, catching the man’s eyes. They were flat. No life in them. Her stomach clenched inwardly. Bill Caldwell had had the same lifeless, predatory look in his eyes. It made her want to vomit.

  “Chief Benson,” Mustafa said softly, giving her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “we are being cooperative here. Would you not say so?”

  Sarah scowled. “The Geneva convention demand all prisoners be treated well. That’s what you’re doing so far.”

  Nodding, Mustafa said, “Turn around. Turn toward me.”

  She hated his whispering voice. It sounded so much like Caldwell’s voice.

  Anas stood up. “There’s nothing in her ruck that is dangerous, my lord. She has food and water in there. Let her keep it?”

  “Thank you, doctor. You are dismissed.”

  Feeling more threatened once the quiet, gentle physician left them alone, Sarah noticed the two Taliban guards at both entrances. She slowly turned around, wincing as she had to lift her wounded leg.

  “Better,” Mustafa said, smiling. He gestured to the plates in front of her. “Food, Chief. Please eat. We would not want the Geneva convention to say we did not treat you well
, eh?”

  Sarah felt woozy and exhausted. The adrenaline in her bloodstream was crashing. Knowing she had to eat, she took the meat in her fingers because it was protein. And protein would give her strength.

  “Now,” Mustafa said pleasantly, “you must tell me about yourself.”

  Sarah looked over as she ripped the meat apart with her teeth. She hated that half smile. His hard eyes glittered.

  Chewing the meat helped her avoid speaking. She didn’t want to say anything. As she finished her food, she watched the small changes in his narrow, bearded face. His smile was pasted on, his eyes never left hers and he was patient.

  Rubbing her fingers on the thighs of her flight suit, she said, “I will give you my name, rank and serial number. Nothing else.”

  “You have the most interesting eyes I have ever seen,” Mustafa whispered. “I can see why a man would want you.”

  The rasp in his whisper was like a snake rattling its tail. Her heart sped up. Sarah wished again that she could think clearly but the damned fever had her in its grips. She sat there, picking up the goat cheese. This was a game, one she recognized too well. Bill Caldwell would try to manipulate her, bring her treats, promise her toys or sweets if she would go into the bedroom with him. This man was the same bastard, only from a different country was all.

  “Are women who have eyes such as yours always difficult?” he wondered, sitting up, resting his long hands over his crossed knees.

  There was dirt under his broken nails, no doubt from a life under harsh conditions—and war. Khogani smelled of garlic and goat, which nauseated her. She had to eat. The fruit looked so appealing and she reached for some sweet, dried figs. They melted in her mouth. The sugar would give her body instant energy. Maybe it would clear her head in a hurry.

  “You will fetch a very high price on the market. Nice black hair, a young body and those eyes of yours.”

  Freezing, Sarah stared at him. Sold? As in a slave? She studied him, watching him give her a broad smile.