by Kaylea Cross
Hard footfalls on the linoleum made him glance up. The approaching Navy captain’s face was grim.
“You’d better come see this,” he said.
Dec rose, already on alert because of that serious expression. “What’s up, sir?”
“CNN’s broadcasting a bombing at the embassy in Beirut,” the captain replied as he led the way down the hall.
Dec’s muscles tightened. Beirut was only miles from where the carrier was patrolling. If a SEAL team was needed, they’d probably get the call.
Entering the media room, his eyes locked on the flat-screen TV anchored to the far wall. The embassy was in flames. The explosion had been big, killing at least three and wounding dozens more. Several terrorist groups were suspected, but none had been positively identified.
Dec ran through the immediate possibilities. Hezbollah came to mind. So did Hamas, Fatah and Al Qaeda. One report said a Lebanese official had been kidnapped, along with an American civilian.
A hostage extraction like that had SEALs written all over it, and since they were the closest team, he prepared himself for the call. His training had him scanning the footage of the burning wreckage for entry and exit points, places where a sniper might take refuge. He searched the crowd for faces he might recognize, but didn’t see anyone familiar.
The captain looked at him over his shoulder. “Guess you boys won’t be going stateside yet.”
“No sir, guess not.” Another mission was about to be dropped into their laps. Dec studied the footage a minute longer, then left to find his team and give them the heads up.
****
Day 1, Syria
Late evening
In his Damascus hotel room, Luke Hutchinson picked up the remote to turn up the volume on the TV and then placed it back on the nightstand next to his loaded Glock. An Al Jazeera anchor outlined the bombing and possible kidnapping at the U.S. Embassy in Beirut.
Dammit, he’d known his target had been about to do something big. No one else had considered the threat credible, however.
He bet they were sorry now.
As for the city the attack had happened in… God, he fucking hated Beirut. He’d served two long tours in that shit-hole back in the eighties and still considered it the worst deployment he’d been on. He’d seen and done a lot of ugly things in his fifty years, but Beirut had surpassed them all.
He listened dispassionately to the report, taking in the images of people being rescued from the building, their clothes and faces covered in smoke and soot. A high-ranking Lebanese cabinet minister had been at the embassy for a state dinner when the bomb had gone off. Information was sketchy, but so far at least two deaths had been confirmed. One source said the cabinet minister was unaccounted for. Another placed his daughter at the scene, and now missing as well.
Tension spread through his gut. Jamul. He could have been at the embassy for the dinner. And he had a daughter. A half-American daughter who visited him each summer. A perfect target if you were a terrorist who wanted some international attention and a whole lot of ransom money to fund your activities.
Like Farouk Tehrazzi.
His cell phone buzzed against his hip. He stared at the caller ID screen and his stomach squeezed tighter when he recognized his son’s number. Even though they’d half-assed patched up their rocky relationship a few months back, Rayne wouldn’t be calling at this hour just to say hi. No doubt he’d seen the coverage on CNN and feared his friend was in trouble.
Shit, sometimes he hated being right.
He hit the talk button. “Hey, Rayne.”
“Sorry to call so late—”
“I wasn’t asleep.” No surprise there. He didn’t sleep much at the best of times.
“I’m watching CNN right now and there’s been a bombing—”
“I know. I’m watching it too.”
His son sighed. “Think it might be Bryn? Mom told me she was flying out early this week to visit her dad, and now they’re talking about this politician’s daughter possibly being kidnapped.”
“Yeah. I’ll find out what I can, okay? I’ll call you when I know something.” He didn’t have to tell his son he couldn’t say where he was, or what he was doing. As a former Marine and son of a Navy SEAL, Rayne had known from an early age there were certain things he could never know about his dad.
“I’d appreciate it. Think there’ll be a rescue attempt?”
“SEALs, probably.” His own SEAL team had done many a hostage extraction, and he knew American officials would already be scrambling to put a plan together. If they went in, Luke bet he knew who would get the job. One name kept coming up from the SEAL community, a rising star within its ranks: Lieutenant Declan McCabe. “Bet it’s in the works right now. I mean, she’s an American citizen, daughter of a Lebanese official who happens to be a big U.S. ally. Plus her story’s all over CNN.”
“Any chance you’ll be involved? We’re all really worried about her.”
A picture of Bryn came up on the screen, and Luke was surprised at how much she resembled her mother. “Just tell your mom and pretty fiancée I’m on it. That’s the best I can promise for now.” At least his ex-wife hadn’t called him to find out what was going on herself. A conversation with Emily always made him feel like he was breathing in broken glass.
He ended the call and stared thoughtfully at the screen, into Bryn’s dark eyes. His mind put the pieces of the puzzle together. The group claiming responsibility had strong ties to the man he’d been hunting for the past three years. Radical religious zealots, willing to sacrifice their lives for their faith and take as many Americans as possible with them. Not a good sign for the lovely Miss McAllister or her father.
He picked up the hotel phone and dialed a room number. “Davis, you watching this?”
“Yes, sir. What do you want to do?”
“Meet me in the lobby in ten minutes.” He crossed the room to pack, then decided to take a quick, hot shower first. God only knew when he’d be able to have another one. When finished, he toweled off and grabbed his duffel from the closet, tossed in some clothes, fake passports and an extra pistol and loaded magazines. They could pick up the rest of the necessary equipment on the way to the Lebanese border.
Al Jazeera showed a picture of Jamul in Beirut back in the eighties, during the civil war that had torn the country apart. His old friend’s and the girl’s best hope of rescue lay in a covert black-ops mission. If they were still alive, the current generation of his SEAL brothers would get them out. And that meant he and Lieutenant McCabe would be crossing paths soon.
Luke had information that might be useful to them, and he’d make sure they got it. But for now, Farouk Tehrazzi and his group were somewhere near Beirut, probably on their way to the Syrian border. Luke hoped he and the other CIA operatives would get to them before the SEALs did, or it was likely none of the terrorists would be alive to lead them to Tehrazzi and his handlers.
In Luke’s experience, terrorists tended not to go quietly into the night when a Spec Ops team went in after them. With any luck, Tehrazzi would be captured and he’d lead them right up the food chain to the big fish himself. And then they’d put an end to Muqtada al-Sadr’s reign of power and help stabilize Iraq’s security.
Stepping to the door, Luke tucked his pistol into his waistband, pulled the hem of his t-shirt over it, then picked his duffel up off the floor. He checked through the peephole to ensure the hallway was empty, then disarmed all his custom security devices from the door and slipped them into his pants pocket as he walked out.
Davis was waiting for him in the lobby. He was a former Green Beret, now a seasoned CIA officer and physically perfect for Luke’s needs on this job. Average height, medium brown hair, medium brown eyes, medium build. He could have been Middle Eastern, Spanish, Russian, Romanian. People tended not to notice him because of his plain appearance, and that made him a highly effective operative.
Those who dismissed him as harmless missed the razor-sharp intelligence and l
ethality in his eyes. Luke knew firsthand how wrong they were.
As he approached, Davis raised his brows. “What’s up?”
“Hunting season’s starting early this year. Let’s go.”
****
Day 2, Somewhere near the Syrian border
Dawn
“Put the woman in here,” Farouk Tehrazzi ordered. Heart full of glee, he watched as two of his men brought their unconscious prisoner out of the battered pickup and carried her down the crumbling steps to the cellar beneath the dilapidated house. He’d dreamed of this day for so long he could hardly believe it was happening.
The plan had gone off exactly as he’d hoped. His superiors would be very pleased with him.
“What about the old man?”
With loathing, Tehrazzi glanced at the unconscious body in the bed of the pickup. The only thing he hated more than Americans were those who claimed to be Muslims and licked the feet of the western infidels like starving dogs. His upper lip curled in a sneer of disdain.
“Throw him down there with the woman, but make sure you chain him on the other side of the room.”
The men hauled the second prisoner out and dumped him in the opposite corner, chained his ankle and wrist to a pipe and came back out. Yet as he stared down at the dark-haired daughter, Tehrazzi felt an unwelcome twinge of guilt. Islam discouraged harming innocents. For a moment, standing above her inert form, he saw a vision of the depths of hell and his body writhing in its fiery maw. Suppressing a shiver of unease, he reminded himself she was an American, and the illegitimate daughter of his enemy. Still, he almost felt sorry for her. Her death would not be a kind one.
All those years ago he had watched her from afar, gauging her conduct, disappointed that she behaved with a good amount of decorum. It would have been far easier to hate her for having the moral corruption so common among her peers. Jamul’s daughter was not like anyone else, though. She’d even stopped once and held the door for him, despite the load of books she’d carried.
Of course she hadn’t known who he was, or that he knew all about her and her father. Still, he remembered the dazzle of her friendly smile when he’d made eye contact with her and thanked her. It irritated him that she’d made him aware of her as a man. That bothered him even more than the guilt squirming in his heart for involving her this way.
But now was not the time for reminiscing. His people were suffering all over the world because of men like Jamul Daoud. Muslim women were being raped, children were being killed or starved in the Palestinian territories, in Iraq, Chechnya and Afghanistan. He had a duty to Allah to rid his land of the Zionist and Christian invaders, and Jamul and his daughter would serve as a symbol of his authority.
Steeling himself against another wave of pity for the woman, Tehrazzi started to close the trap door.
“They’ll need water,” one of his men observed. “Some food, or they’ll be dead before we can get the money.”
Tehrazzi paused. Looking him straight in the eye, he deliberately let the door slam shut, sealing the two prisoners in their earthen tomb. “Let them rot.” He ignored the men’s shocked expressions and climbed back into the truck. What did he care about money? His benefactors kept a steady flow coming to him, ensuring he could buy as many supplies and weapons as he needed. The prisoners’ deaths would send a far more powerful message to the authorities than any ransom demand he could make.
For a moment two of his men stood there in indecision, casting hesitant glances at each other and the cellar door. If they thought to disobey him and take the traitors food and water, he would shoot them dead on the spot. He would not tolerate disobedience or insubordination. They must have seen the threat in his eyes, because they scrambled up into the back of their pickup quickly enough.
Tamping down the guilt nipping at his conscience, he climbed into the cab. The driver gunned the engine and pulled away in the growing light, bringing a breeze scented with smoke from cooking fires. As they swept past, villagers peeked nervously out of their curtained windows. A sense of peace washed through him as they cleared the village and started across the open desert. Tehrazzi smiled as the air blew pleasantly over his face, the guilt disappearing.
“Allah-u-akbar,” he murmured. God is great.
****
Day 2, Syrian village near Lebanese border
Early morning
The buzzing of flies woke her. Bryn fought to open her heavy eyelids, blinked groggily in the trickle of light coming through a crack in the ceiling. Where was she? How had she gotten here?
The gag they’d shoved into her mouth almost choked her. She tried to push it out with her tongue, but it was useless. She was so thirsty, and her lips were so dry they felt like they might split open. When she tried to sit up, her hands and feet wouldn’t move. Then she realized why.
They’d bound her hands and feet, her arms behind her, and now they were asleep. She hurt all over. Her muscles felt bruised, and the cuts in her arms stung. Her head pounded dully. When her fingers encountered the thick padding of duct tape around her wrists and the pipe she was secured to, her heart leapt in alarm. Breathing fast through her nose, Bryn cast an urgent look around the dirt-floored room and saw her father tied up in the far corner.
She tried to say his name, but only unintelligible sounds came out. He didn’t stir. Was he dead? Hurt so badly he was unable to respond?
Don’t panic. You cannot afford to panic, and it won’t do you any good. You have to think. Calm down and think.
She fought to regain control of her breathing. Bits of the abduction came back to her. The waiter running out the dining room doors, the terrible roar and force of the explosion, the heat of the fireball it generated. People screaming. Someone dragging her away and then the blow to her neck. The sting of the needle. Her head still throbbed in a dull, sickening pain. Little cuts along her right leg and arm stung where the shards of glass and debris had nicked her in the explosion and when she’d been dragged across the floor.
Who had done this to them? Why? Would they come back and torture them for information? She swallowed, her heart skipping a beat.
The best hope would be for a ransom, because that meant they would be kept alive. For the time being at least. But what if their captors had kidnapped them to prove a point, and they had already served their purpose?
No. Stop it. If they wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.
Wouldn’t she? Her father was an important Lebanese politician. Surely his life was of value to his government, even if hers wasn’t. Did anyone even know she was missing?
The breath sawed in and out of her lungs. Cold, clammy sweat filmed her skin in the already stifling room. She was totally helpless this way, tied up without even being able to squirm into a sitting position. The best she could do was pull herself up and struggle to her knees, keeping her head bent to prevent it from hitting the low ceiling. When she glanced above her, she made out a faint line of light coming from what she surmised to be the only point of entry into the cellar-like room. No windows, no doors. No food, no water.
Oh God, no water…
The temperature seemed to increase with every minute, so she guessed the sun must still be climbing. Morning. That meant she’d been unconscious for most of the night. Whatever they’d drugged her with had left her feeling like she had the worst hangover. Her head was fuzzy, tongue dry as sand, the gag making it worse. Just thinking of how thirsty she was launched her into another wave of anxiety.
Again she tried to yell against the gag to wake her father, but he still didn’t move. Tears burned her eyes. She was so tired, hot and thirsty. Not to mention terrified.
As the minutes ticked by the air grew thicker, the temperature rising steadily. Bryn sucked in precious oxygen through her nose, gasping and sweating as she knelt on the hard-packed dirt floor.
If it kept getting hotter, in another hour or two she figured this place would be too hot to survive in. She’d know pretty damn quick what her captors had in store
for them, because if someone didn’t come soon to at least give them water, they’d be dead before sunset.
Chapter Three
Day 2, Beirut
Noon
Lieutenant Declan McCabe and his squad of SEALs jumped out of the idling Black Hawk and hustled across the expanse of asphalt separating them from the building serving as the command center. The heat radiating from the ground was intense, especially in combat boots, battle dress utilities and sixty-odd pounds of gear. A group of U.S. Marines guarding the command center saluted his team smartly as they passed through the entrance and made their way to the second floor.
While the rest of the team waited outside the mahogany double doors, Dec went into the briefing room. His executive officer, Harris, was already seated at the long central table along with other military officials. They all looked up when he entered.
“Lieutenant,” the XO acknowledged, and made a quick round of introductions. “And this is Luke Hutchinson, a former SEAL,” he finished.
Whoa. So the legendary operative really did exist. Dec nodded at the middle-aged man seated across from him, noting his quiet air of power and the direct stare of those dark eyes. “Sir.”
“Luke’s fine,” he corrected in a Southern accent. “I’ve been out of the Teams a long time now.”
That may be, Dec thought, but the guy didn’t look like someone you wanted to mess with, even though he had to be in his fifties.
“Luke’s a contractor for the CIA and has firsthand knowledge of our targets,” the officer continued. “He did a couple of tours in Beirut—”
Poor bastard, Dec thought. He’d known guys that had served in Beirut in the eighties and they always said what a shit-hole it was. Not much had changed, unfortunately.
