Cover of Darkness

by Kaylea Cross

“—and knows Jamul Daoud personally. He’s also working on breaking up certain Mahdi army and Hezbollah cells you’ve already been briefed about, and one of them’s the group claiming responsibility for this latest bombing and abduction.” Harris pushed a file across the desk to him. “You already know about Daoud, but here’s the file on his daughter.”

  Dec opened the manila folder and got his first good look at Bryn—pronounced Brin—McAllister. CNN hadn’t done her justice. Exotic, black eyes and long, straight dark hair falling from a sharp widow’s peak. Five feet, nine inches, a hundred and forty pounds, no health problems. Social worker; hailed from Baltimore but now lived in Lincoln City, Oregon.

  No significant other, no siblings, mother and stepfather lived back east. No criminal record or tattoos, but she had an appendectomy scar on her lower right abdomen and a small mole below her left ear. Masters degree in sociology and a black belt in Karate. Well, well. Wasn’t that interesting? She wasn’t nearly as helpless as she looked. Too bad it hadn’t saved her from the bastards when they’d shanghaied her at the embassy dinner. He’d pay money any day to see a babe in an evening gown kick some terrorist ass.

  Dec looked up from the folder. “Any confirmation she’s still alive?”

  Harris shook his head. “None.”

  He’d seen a lot since becoming a SEAL, but his insides still shriveled at the prospect of what could happen to Bryn McAllister. Nothing he hated more than someone capable of harming innocents, especially women and children, to further their own agendas. But if Bryn was still alive—and by the contents of her file he knew she was both intelligent and a fighter, so that put points in her favor—they would find her and get her out.

  “We don’t see any reason for the hostage-takers to kidnap them and then kill them,” a Lebanese intelligence officer with a thick accent added. “If they wanted to kill Daoud, they would have made sure he died in the explosion or assassinated him in the aftermath. Kidnapping him and his daughter points to them wanting something more. We expect they’ll contact us soon and demand payment of some sort.”

  Dec listened as the man outlined the political agenda of the group responsible, found nothing new there. Anger management problems, hated the West, blah, blah. The script was getting old. The extremists recruited young men when they were vulnerable and impressionable, poisoning them with footage of women and children being blown up by coalition forces in Iraq and Afghanistan. They targeted the dispossessed, the ones with bottled-up rage they had no outlet for.

  Radicalism was like a cancer, metastasizing around the globe until every country was infected by it. The way Dec saw it, it was his job to help cut out the host tumors before they could spread.

  “Any idea where they might be?”

  “These past few months, Tehrazzi’s been active along the Lebanese-Syrian border,” Hutchinson said.

  Those dark eyes seemed to bore straight into him, magnetic and forceful. Though Luke looked relaxed enough, Dec was almost humming from the coiled energy in the man’s body. He wasn’t a hair trigger. A patient, cunning predator. Smart, and lethal to the core. Maybe the things Dec had heard about him just might be true.

  That intense gaze held Dec’s as Luke continued. “We have contacts reporting the hostages are somewhere in this area.” With his forefinger he indicated a mountainous area on a Syrian map near its western border with Lebanon. “There’s talk of a possible sighting in a house about ten miles from here. We’re waiting for confirmation.”

  Meaning they were still in the process of buying off an informant willing to spill the beans. When threats of force weren’t an option, money usually worked like a dream. Wave enough American greenbacks at the right person, and one tended to get the information they wanted. Money still made the world go ’round, even for terrorists.

  “And Tehrazzi,” Dec mused, “he’s part of the Mahdi army in Iraq? Follower of Muqtada al-Sadr?”

  Luke sat back in his chair as he gazed at Dec. “Based in al-Najaf, specifically. We know they’re an organization of interest to the Iranians, though their government denies supplying them any weapons or cash, of course. As a Shi’a, he’s a natural fit for al-Sadr’s group. Because he was born in Lebanon, he’s active there, and has his fingers in all sorts of other pies. The 2006 war between Israel and Hezbollah gave him a platform to attract a following of his own.”

  “So he’s funded by Hezbollah as well as the Shi’a militias in Iraq, who could in turn be funded by Tehran.”

  “Exactly. But Tehrazzi is a maverick. He’s motivated as much by power as his religious beliefs, so we can’t rule out the possibility he’s involved with Sunni groups on some level as well. His family connections in Afghanistan also put him in contact with high-ranking Taliban leaders.”

  “Any other questions?” Harris rested his elbows on top of a manila folder and regarded Dec calmly.

  “No, sir.”

  “Once we get the intel we’re waiting for, you’ll be wheels up within the hour.”

  Dec nodded, adrenaline already circulating through his body. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  They planned the preliminary operation, determined insertion and extraction points. The SEALs would go in and extract the hostages while Hutchinson and his operatives would go after the tangos.

  “Good enough for now,” Dec said.

  It all looked great on paper, but out there in the field in real time, it meant fuck-all. Any operation, whether hostage rescue or target elimination, never went off as planned. That was why an essential part of his training had been to teach him how to think outside the box, to change on the fly and adapt to the fluidity of battle. Either that, or you and your men died horrible deaths and then your family was told you’d been killed in an unfortunate training accident.

  He finished the briefing and went out to tell the rest of the team what the score was. Spencer, the medic, raised a sandy brow at him.

  “Let’s saddle up, gentlemen. Once we get the word, we’re wheels up within the hour.”

  ****

  Day 2, Syrian village

  Nightfall

  The dimming light seeping through the crack around the trap door told her nightfall was approaching. Bryn sagged on her knees against the dirt wall, forcing hot, stale air in and out of her dry lungs. In, out. In, out. She drew on all her mental strength, focused on the words like a mantra. If she thought of anything but her next breath, she would lose what little control she had over her terror.

  Her body was almost depleted of moisture. Her skin and clothing, soaked with sweat just a few hours ago, were now dry and stiff with salt from her perspiration. Her tongue was swollen, pressing against the gag and almost choking her as she gasped those wheezing breaths in and out. No one had come for them.

  For hours she’d tried to get loose, contorting her body into unimaginable positions to reach the tape holding her limbs prisoner, though she’d only managed to exhaust herself and sweat out more precious water. But she was still alive. Her father had stirred a few times, but was either too hurt or too weak to make any attempt at communication.

  Bryn started to shiver, ironic considering she’d almost died of heatstroke that afternoon. And even if she didn’t spike a sudden fever that signaled her brain and internal organs were about to shut down from dehydration, she knew she couldn’t live much longer in these conditions. If the lack of water didn’t kill her overnight, the plummeting temperatures would. Depending on where they were, it could dip below freezing. With no water to help regulate their body temperatures, she and her father could very well end up succumbing to hypothermia.

  A hysterical laugh bubbled up her throat. Hypothermia, after all this.

  She’d never imagined being subjected to this kind of torture, let alone withstanding it. And that’s what it was—torture. The mere thought of a glass of water almost maddened her. She was already weak, so weak. Even if someone did get to them in time and free them, would she be able to run for it? Unlikely at this point.

  When she spared the e
nergy to look around, the room blurred. She looked at her father, and sometimes saw two of him lying there in the dirt. Not a good sign. This was an awful death. Far worse than anything she’d imagined. And no one even knew where she was. Her mother would probably never know what happened to her.

  Which might be for the best, Bryn reflected tiredly, having long since accepted the possibility that she might not come out of this alive. She hoped someone would lie to her mother, tell her yes, your daughter was in fact killed outright in the explosion. Not only would that put the question of her suffering to rest, it would also explain why there was no body to bury.

  She might have cried some more, but there wasn’t enough moisture left. Instead she grieved with hot, gritty eyes, trembling in the growing darkness with her father’s inert form lying a few short feet away. Her energy sapped, she bowed her head and drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

  At first, she thought she’d dreamed the sound of footsteps above. She sat up, shivering in the chilly blackness, straining to hear. The soft footfalls came again, in bursts, as though the person was sneaking up to the trap door, then would stop.

  Bryn’s heart pounded. Was someone coming to finish them off? In her condition, she couldn’t even get to her feet to defend herself. The best she could do was lie on her side and lash out with her bare, bound feet. She drew her trembling legs up, prepared to give one good kick.

  The trap door above her creaked open and bright moonlight spilled in, blinding her. The person holding it struggled under its weight, and then it dropped to the ground with a thud. Hissed whispers filled the silent air, but she couldn’t make out what was said. A moment later the door opened again, and a hooded silhouette appeared in the opening against the moonlit sky. Frozen with fear, Bryn lay coiled, waiting.

  The figure slipped inside the opening and landed lightly. Hidden by shadows, Bryn watched as the figure crept closer, moving in an awkward shuffle.

  “Don’t be afraid,” a woman’s voice whispered in Arabic.

  Bryn hesitated, a seed of hope blooming inside her. Was she here to help them?

  The woman broke into an impassioned speech, and this time Bryn could only pick out bits and pieces. “Allah forgive me, I cannot do more…” She crept closer still, holding something in her hand. Not a knife—it didn’t glint in the light. What was it? Bryn peered intently at the object in the woman’s outstretched hand. Some sort of jar maybe?

  “Water,” the woman whispered.

  Water! Bryn scrambled to sit, every muscle and joint screaming in protest, ravenous for the liquid. The woman came forward slowly, plucked the filthy gag from between Bryn’s lips, and tipped the blessed contents into her parched, swollen mouth. She gulped it greedily, spilling some, and the woman murmured something, passed a sandpapery hand over Bryn’s hot cheek as though trying to soothe her. She drained it all, crying out in despair when it was empty.

  “I’m sorry, my lamb.” The woman’s voice was rough with age and regret. “I have only enough left for the man.”

  “Help us,” Bryn croaked through cracked lips, shaking with desperation. Her freedom was right there, through that trap door not ten feet away. It was the middle of the night, and even with a full moon surely she’d be able to find something to cover herself with and escape. “Help us,” she pleaded again, stronger this time, tugging on her bound wrists so the woman was sure to see. “Free us.” She was too weak to scream it.

  “Qamar!” a man’s voice snapped from outside. “Enough! They will see us!”

  The woman knelt before Bryn and touched her face again, the wrinkled countenance exposed by the silvery light, giving her an ethereal glow, like an angel. She looked kind. The wise, deep-set black eyes delved into Bryn, and her sorrow was evident.

  “I cannot, little lamb. My grandson—he will find out, and we will suffer.” She turned and shuffled her way across to Bryn’s father, finding him sprawled on his stomach.

  Bryn watched her remove his gag and carefully spill some water into his mouth. He stirred and coughed, and the woman murmured to him gently, coaxing the life-giving fluid down him.

  “Dad, wake up! Help me get her to understand! Untie us,” Bryn begged, and the woman came back to her, tipped the remainder of the water into her mouth. She swallowed it all eagerly and tried again to pull on her bonds. “Please.”

  “May Allah forgive me, I cannot,” Qamar repeated, regret heavy in her voice. She spoke more, but Bryn couldn’t grasp the words. The roughened fingers began to pull the gag back into place and Bryn fought her, twisting her head back and forth, crying out in denial.

  “Be still!” Qamar hissed, giving her a hard shake. “You will get us all killed.”

  A desperate glance at her father showed him prone, unmoving. He wasn’t going to be able to help. Defeated and too weak to do anything more, Bryn drooped against the wall and the gag was shoved back into place. Silent sobs wracked her.

  “I will come to you again when I can,” Qamar promised, and peeked out of the trap door before reaching a hand up to the man waiting for her. “May Allah protect you.”

  The heavy door fell shut again, leaving Bryn and her father alone in the blackness.

  Chapter Four

  Day 3, Beirut

  Late Afternoon

  “We’ve got ‘em.”

  Dec and the rest of the team looked across the briefing room at Harris. “Where are they?”

  “In a village about fourteen miles from the coast. Our contacts were able to smuggle in some water for them, but they haven’t eaten in almost two days, so they’ll be dehydrated and weak.”

  The big man grabbed the map from his desk and set it out on the table while everyone crowded around. Dec went over the logistics of the operation one last time. Once they freed the hostages, they’d have to hump it three miles to the extraction point, where a chopper would meet them. The contingency plan was to head out into the desert mountains to a series of caves and establish a secondary point. Just to be sure, he made them all go over it a third time.

  He checked his watch. “Okay, boys. Let’s lock and load.”

  The eight-man team hurried out to gather their gear.

  “Spence.”

  The medic looked back at him questioningly.

  “Make sure we bring extra IV bags. No telling what shape they’ll be in when we find them.”

  ****

  Day 3, Syrian village

  Evening

  All day Bryn had prayed that Qamar would come back. Through the same exhausting, suffocating cycle of heat and sweat and dehydration, she clung to the hope the woman would return and give them water, maybe untie them this time. But night had fallen, and still no sign of her. The only sound was the whistling of the wind overhead, its high-pitched wail echoing the despair in her heart.

  Sometime during the previous night her father had roused for a while. He’d been able to utter a few words, so she knew he wasn’t hampered by his gag, but then his speech had become slurred and he’d fallen into unconsciousness. She suspected he must have suffered a head injury, possibly a skull fracture, at least a concussion. Whatever it was, he’d need medical attention.

  That is, if the dehydration didn’t finish him off first.

  She imagined sucking on a lemon drop, but even the thought of the sour taste wasn’t enough to squeeze any moisture from her mouth. Still weak and thirsty, she had revived a bit since drinking the water last night.

  The room didn’t spin when she cared to open her eyes and look around her earthen prison. Her vision wasn’t doubled anymore. And at least she was rid of the gag now, the wad of cotton long since drying to the point that she had been able to push it out with her thickened tongue. She was pretty sure she’d sweated out all the water she’d consumed, and she felt feverish. Could have been lack of fluids, or it could have been the dozens of cuts on her right side becoming infected.

  She quivered in the chilly darkness, the trap door rattling on its hinges occasionally as the wind howled above it. So
metimes fine streams of sand spilled through the cracks around the edges, showering her in a dusty coating.

  In the corner, her father shifted. Hope surged at the even breaths he took. She was comforted from that, closing her eyes to better focus on the reassuring sound.

  “Someone will come for us,” he rasped.

  “The woman said she would come again.”

  “They will come for us,” he repeated, and she wondered who he was talking about, if he had begun to hallucinate.

  “Yes,” she whispered, not wanting to make things worse by telling him they were going to die if they didn’t get more water soon. She was going insane, not being able to do anything. If she got the chance to kill her captors for what they’d done to them, she would act on it. The sheer violence of the hatred rising up in her startled and frightened her.

  “You are a very brave woman, Bryn. I am so proud to call you my daughter…and I love you.” He groaned a little. “Wish I…had been a better father.”

  Bryn stared at his shadowy outline, her eyes hot. Praise was so rare from this harsh, remote man, and that last admission must have been very difficult for him. But for him to have said it at all was testament to just how grave their situation was. He must think they were going to die in here too, or he would never have spoken to her that way. A lump formed in her parched throat.

  “I love you, too.” It hurt to talk. Not that there was anything else she could add.

  A heavy silence filled the dusty room, as though they had exchanged their final goodbyes, leaving nothing more to be said. Cold and thirsty and exhausted, Bryn hunkered down, wincing at the pain in her strained shoulders. She lay there and shivered, suffering in silence as the night dragged on, the wind moaning.

  Dozing in a fitful sleep, she woke suddenly. Her head jerked up. A sound from outside, above them, maybe footsteps. Was it Qamar? She shifted into a kneeling position, heard only the wind as it gusted.