by Dana Marton
They rode for about half an hour before the truck came to a stop. The men got out, all but the one who’d been ordered by Jamal to guard her.
She had to get away. She eyed the man who sat too far away from her to even attempt to grab his rifle. And yet this was her best chance. He was only one man, once the others returned, it would be too late. If she could somehow get away from him and get behind the wheel of the truck… It was her only chance.
She moaned and whispered a couple of unintelligible words and hoped he would come closer. He didn’t move. She could hear the men shouting outside. She didn’thave much time. She curled on her side, then tried to grab for the wooden bench and pull herself to her knees. Pain shot through her leg.
The men were there then, up in the truck. They grabbed her roughly and carried her out of the vehicle. For the first time, she had a chance to see where they were-in the middle of the desert somewhere. Two buildings stood in front of her, completely buried in sand, only their doors visible. Secret bunkers. From above they would look like sand dunes.
Both of them had their doors open; Jamal’s men were pushing a small airplane from the bigger one. Her heart beat faster. She was hauled to the plane and dumped in the back. Pain and more pain. She fought dizziness and nausea, watching from the window as the men prepared the aircraft for takeoff. Where was Jamal? She looked at the smaller building, pretty sure she knew what they were going to bring out. Some kind of weapon of mass destruction.
A strange sound began, then grew. She watched the building’s open door. No, the sound wasn’t coming from there. It came from above. A chopper, she recognized at last, and then she saw it, too—a Black Hawk.
Men shot at the helicopter, rifles blazing, everyone running around. A couple were going for the back of the truck. They got the grenade launcher, fired and missed. Someone in the chopper returned fire, taking out both of the men.
What if they hit the airplane to make sure nobody took off in it? She tried to get out, but couldn’t. She was in the back, the doors in the front. She would have had to climb over the front seats. Unfortunately, she couldn’t move.
SPIKE SCANNED THE drop zone for any sign of Abigail. “Shoot only if you’re sure of your target. Dr. DiMatteo is down there somewhere.” At least, he hoped she was.
They had found the pilot of the downed chopper; he hadn’t survived the crash. Spike had just about gone mad when they couldn’t find Abigail. The tire tracks in the sand told the story. And led them here.
He gave the signal. Ropes went over the side. He dropped, took up position back to back with the rest of his team once they were on the ground, waited for the last man to touch down. Then they spread out to find cover.
She was alive. He refused to consider the alternative. If she hadn’t survived the crash, they would have had no reason to take her.
He checked out the back of the truck. Nothing but the bodies of the two men who’d operated the grenade launcher. Somebody was shooting at him from behind the door of the larger building. He returned fire, aiming carefully, and took the man down.
Why weren’t they bringing Abigail out to negotiate? They had a hostage. Why not use her? Unless, of course, she’d survived the crash, was picked up by the terrorists, but then hadn’t made it through her injuries. They wouldn’t have killed her at this stage of the game, he was pretty sure of that. They had little leverage. She was a valuable bargaining chip. But not their only one.
He swore, trying to figure out where they kept the bomb. It hadn’t been at the camp. The fight there had been over fast, and their search turned up nothing. The rest of the team was still going through the place, leaving no grain of sand uninspected, questioning the men they had capaued.
But now that he had seen these bunkers, he was pretty sure the bomb was somewhere here.
He kept low to the ground and, ducking bullets, ran to the cover of the plane, then inside the larger building. No gunshots had come from there. A quick scan confirmed that it was empty, nothing but an airplane hangar.
The terrorists had lost three men, as far as he could tell. They’d now withdrawn into the smaller building, defending the entrance. He figured there couldn’t be more than a dozen of them. The small truck couldn’t have carried more.
It was a bad situation. The terrorists were trapped with nothing to lose. He expected them to bargain with Abigail’s life first and then, if that didn’t work, bargain with the bomb. They would want to save the bomb if possible, although if that was the only option left to them, they would probably detonate it rather than surrender.
And that could not happen. Everyone in the immediate vicinity would die. And Tihrin was too close, the wind blowing in the wrong direction. A dirty bomb would cause untold damage in a densely populated area. Worse, a crisis would set political factions against each other once again. And if it came out that U.S. military was somehow in the middle of this, World War Three would begin.
He bad to get into that bunker and take control of the situation, and he had to do it now.
He stepped from his cover, gun blazing, and rushed the entrance. There were four men down there, two still standing. Then one, and then the way was clear. He entered, giving his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the semidarkness. Werner, Thompson and J.D. came in behind him.
The single room was small, seven by eight or so, a staircase in the middle, leading down. He could see nothing below. He snapped on his night-vision goggles. Better. Silently, he moved ahead, watching for anything suspicious.
He reached the landing. It connected to a long corridor ahead. Empty. There were two doors on each side, all of them closed. He stopped by the first. When the guys moved into a protective position around him, he kicked the door in.
It was a laboratory, complete with workbenches, containers of chemicals, burners, books and a jumble of lab equipment. He moved forward with caution to make sure no one hid behind the desks. All clear. He signaled to the others and they moved on.
The second room was some kind of a communication center, also empty. He kicked in the door of the third. Someone was firing at them. He jumped back into the cover of the wall and signaled to the others to hold their fire. They had to be close to the bomb.
The light came on in the room. He took off his night vision equipment.
“Come on in, gentlemen.”
He recognized Jamal’s voice and, after a moment of hesitation, stepped forward.
Jamal stood by a large crate, his gun aimed at the door. “Mr. Thornton. I should have known.”
Spike’s gaze settled on the crate. A small plastic bomb was attached to the side; he could see the numbers on the timer from the door. Nineteen forty-two, nineteen forty-one, nineteen forty…
“Where is Abigail?”
Jamal blinked. “You shouldn’t have brought her into this. Only an American coward would try to hide behind a woman.”
Spike had trouble sucking air into his lungs. She was dead. And it was his fault.
Jamal squeezed off a shot at him. Spike ducked on reflex. By the time he came up, the man had disappeared through the back door.
He wanted to rush after him, to kill the son of a bitch. But if they didn’t disarm the bomb, none of it would matter. “I need an explosives expert.”
J.D. shook his head. “Bomb squad is still at the camp.”
“Get them on the radio.” He swore. “Go get him.” He nodded toward the back door and walked up to the crate as the others rushed after Jamal.
Fifteen minutes and thirty seconds left. He set down his gun and swore again. It had to be a bomb. He sucked at disarming bombs. That was how he’d gotten his head split open in the first place and been saddled with his nickname.
He took in the crate, wedged the blade of his knife carefully under one nail head, then another, until he worked a board loose. If by some miracle the crate did not contain what he thought it did, he could walk away and let the plastic blow. He reached in, pushed aside the packaging material.
> Damn.
He drew back and squatted by the crate, blocked the rage and grief from his mind, focusing on the wires in front of him. All three were red. He didn’t have a clue which one to pull. It was a funky homemade job. The bomb was small, but enough to set off the larger one in the crate. If he had more time, he could have gotten the big bomb out of the packaging and made it up to the surface with it before the TNT exploded down below. But he didn’t have twenty minutes. He had nine and a half.
He took out his knife, separated the wires. Everything he had ever learned about bombs rushed through his brain, flashes of memory from his FBI training, then the more intensive SDDU course. He had barely passed them. Truth was, he was scared of explosions. His hands shook. He swallowed. He had thought he was past this.
He checked everything methodically, what connected to what, and weighed his options. If he could pry the thing off the crate and take it into another roomhe pressed his face against the wood to see behind the small explosive device, used the tip of his knife to gently lift the edge. It didn’t seem to move. What if there was a sensor of some sort? No, the piece didn’t look professional enough for that. Did he dare to bet his life on it? He took a deep breath and pulled harder. And then he could see.
A blue wire came out back, through a hole into the wood, back via another hole and into the black box that housed the timer. An instant trigger, no doubt; He had less than a minute left. Where the hell was the bomb squad?
He had to cut one of the red wires on the front. The right one. Now. He checked the connections again. The middle wire. He rested the tip of his knife against it. God help them all if he was wrong.
Chapter Twelve
It’d been a while since the last gunshot. Abigail ignored the pulsating pain in her legs and pushed herself up enough to see out the window. At first, she didn’t see anyone, but then spotted a U.S. soldier coming out of the hangar. They’d won. She was safe. Her limbs began to shake as the tension left her body. More soldiers exited the hangar and hurried through the door of the smaller building. Spike wasn’t among them.
Something moved in the sand. She blinked. There. Again. A trapdoor opened slowly, then Jamal emerged, running straight for the plane. He was spotted, but too late. He returned fire; then the door of the plane flew open and he dived in, shooting back with one hand while starting the engine with the other.
He hadn’t seen her. She had kept down. If he managed to get airborne, she was as good as dead. The men below were going to shoot that plane straight out of the sky.
With all the strength she had left, she lunged forward and threw her weight on him, smashing his head against the dashboard. She heard the sickening snap of a bone, wasn’t sure if it was his or hers. Her momentum carried her forward and she slid out the open door, fell onto the sand in a searing explosion of pain.
SPIKE LEANED AGAINST the wall, breathing hard, and pulled off his helmet, tossing it aside. The counter showed thirty-two seconds left, and it stayed there. He’d done it. He felt a flash of relief. Then the next thought assailed him—Abigail was gone. There had been no explosion, and yet his heart had been ripped from his chest. Every thought, every emotion he had blocked out so he would be able to focus on the bomb rushed him now. He staggered under the weight.
His face was drenched, a strange thing in the desert where sweat usually evaporated as fast as it formed. He wiped the moisture from his cheeks with the back of his hand. It wasn’t sweat after all. He was crying. Damn. He didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried since his mother died.
“Yo, Spike.” Thompson rushed through the door and stopped in his tracks when he saw the numbers on the timepiece, relaxing as he realized they weren’t moving. “Everything okay down here?”
Spike wiped his face again then nodded.
“We’ve got them. Both El Jafar and your “wife.” He jumped to his feet, blood rushing to his head, not from the movement but from the sudden jolt of hope.
“Is she alive?”
“I don’t know. Just got the word.”
He pushed by Thompson and ran down the hallway, up the stairs, out into the blinding light of the sun. He could hardly see anything, but moved toward the group of men by the plane. Then he could finally make out the motionless figure on the sand. Abigail.
He ran the last couple of yards, fell on his knees by her side. Her eyes were open but unfocused.
“She’s not responding. Both legs are broken from what I can tell. Might have some internal injuries, too,” J.D. said.
Werner and Erickson were already coming with a stretcher.
He held her hand. “Abigail?”
She didn’t seem to hear him.
He helped the others carry her to the chopper, reluctant to let her go. “Take her now. Call in for another transport for us.”
The pilot nodded. The rotor blades started up. Spike squeezed her hand one last time, then bent his head and ran back to the buildings with the rest of his team. They had a dirty bomb they had to get out of the country before the Beharrainian military came to check out the gunfire. If they got their hands on the bomb, the U.S. might as well kiss the most important piece of evidence goodbye.
They needed the bomb so they could trace it to those who had helped make it EL Jafar had been the buyer, the delivery boy. They had to find the source and take it out. Their work was far from over. He looked up at the disappearing chopper, then stepped through the smaller bunker’s door.
ABIGAIL AWOKE IN a white room, alone. A hospital room. She followed the line from the IV bag to her arm. Both of her legs were in casts. She hurt like hell all over. She turned her head, saw the Call button and pushed it.
A couple of minutes went by before the nurse came. Jenny.
“Hello, Dr. DiMatteo. I’m so glad you’re awake.” She gave her a warm smile and glanced at her vital signs on the display screen. “Let me get Dr. Taylor. He can give you an update on your condition.”
She was gone before Abigail had a chance to say thank you.
Dr. Taylor came in after a few minutes. “Glad to see you’re feeling better. Sorry I couldn’t come by sooner. We have a couple of serious injuries. How are you?”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing that won’t heal, but you’ll be probably uncomfortable for a while. Fractured fibulas in both legs, the right one I had to set, the other is not too bad. You also have a severe concussion, but that should be starting to feel better soon. It’ll be a couple of months before you can walk. You’ll be receiving full treatment here in the meanwhile. Courtesy of the U.S. government, I’m told.”
“I see.” She tried to think, but the pain and the pounding in her head were too distracting.
“There’s a gentleman here to see you. He’s been waiting for you to come to. Is it okay if I send him in?”
Spike. A mix of emotions swept through her. “Yes. Please.”
“I’ll check in later. If you’re in pain just push that button. It’s all set up with the proper dosage.”
That sounded pretty good right about now. But first she wanted to speak to Spike and wanted a clear head for that. “Thank you.”
The doctor nodded and left, but the man walking in a few minutes later dressed in an impeccable black suit wasn’t the one she’d expected.
“How are you, Dr. DiMatteo?” The agent who had questioned her during her first visit to the base now seemed to be in a softer mood. He pulled up a chair to sit by her side, and she remembered his name at last Jenkins.
“Fine, thank you,” she said, her spirits sinking.
“We’re going to make sure that you get the best of care.”
“Dr. Taylor told me.”
“Will you be going back to the U.S. when you’re released?”
It seemed the sanest thing to do, but she had no wish for it. Nothing had changed. The children still needed her. “I’ll be returning to Tukatar”
The man hesitated. “I see.’
He
must have thought she was crazy. He was probably right. “Is there anyway I could talk to Spike? Gerald Thornton?”
He looked her straight in the eye. “I’m sorry. There’s no person by that name on this base.”
“He was at the takedown, blond—” Then she understood. Spike was already gone. She swallowed the fresh wave of pain. “Were there any U.S. casualties?”
“You were kidnapped by bandits and taken into the desert, then luckily rescued. You have seen no terrorists, no U.S. military personnel—you’re just happy you’re still alive, and are too traumatized by the experience to want to talk about it.” He watched her face for a few seconds and added, “No U.S. casualty.”
She drew a deep, ragged breath and felt her lungs fill properly for the first time in a long while. “What about my husband? He was with me when we left the village. I’ll be asked.”
Jenkins’s expression softened. “As far as the villagers are concerned, he’s been unlucky. As of now, consider yourself a widow.”
She blinked, not wanting to cry in front of him. “Do you have any questions?”
She shook her head.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. DiMatteo. It’s very much appreciated.”
She nodded and squeezed her eyes shut, not opening them again until he was gone. Spike had left, on to his next adventure. God, she. had terrible judgment when it came to men. First Anthony,’who’d broken her trust, and now Spike. He’d broken her heart.
She had no one but herself to blame. He’d made no promises, just the opposite. He had let her know from the beginning that everything between them was strictly temporary.
And it was exactly that—temporary insanity.
She had a feeling that recovering from him might be harder and take longer than recovering from her physical injuries. But she would do it. She had to. Others were depending on her. She would not let them down.
ABIGAIL LOOKED AFTER the boys as they ran out of the schoolhouse into the sunshine, each going to their chores. They worked in the mornings, took schooling during the hottest part of the day and then were back again helping the locals in the evening. Their blankets were rolled up neatly by the wall, waiting for them to return to the schoolhouse at night to sleep.
