by Kaylea Cross
“Hear that?” her father whispered, his voice distorted through lips that had to be cracked like hers.
“Yes.”
She tensed, every ounce of concentration focused on the area of the trap door. Nothing. More silence met the grating of their shallow breaths. More agonizing minutes ticked by.
Please let it be Qamar with some water.
Over the wind came more footsteps. Running footsteps. And then more of them, as if a group of people were rushing toward them. Her pulse tripped. She was so weak now. Far too weak to defend herself, even if they unchained her.
Fear curled low in her belly, its icy tentacles wrapping around her spine, paralyzing her. Had the terrorists come back for them after all?
****
Dec stood poised above the trap door as the wind blew around him, weapon at the ready. One of his men signaled the door was safe, grabbed the handle and waited.
“Go,” Dec ordered.
One man lifted it and Dec and Spencer went in, weapons trained.
Dec hit the floor first and swung around, the green glow of his night vision goggles showing him two bodies, tied up on opposite walls, but no terrorists. The stale, hot air hit him like a fist, smelling of sweat and body odor and fear.
“Clear,” he called, and shoved the goggles back, approaching the woman while Spencer went to look after the more seriously wounded father.
“Bryn McAllister?” He crouched down in front of her.
Her dark eyes were huge in her pale face as she stared up at him like he was an apparition out of a nightmare. Covered in camouflage paint, in his fatigues and the goggles, toting an automatic weapon, he must have looked the part to her. Frozen in place, blinking against the swirling wind, she nodded slowly, throat moving as she swallowed.
“Lieutenant McCabe, U.S. Navy, ma’am. We’re here to get you and your father out.” All business, he ran his hands over her, checking for injuries. “Are you hurt anywhere?”
She shook her head, so he took his KA-BAR knife from his belt and slit the tape on her ankles, then reached around to do the same to her wrists, noticing her evening gown was encrusted with grime and salt. Anger surged up. The bastards had tied her up like an animal and left her to suffocate in this hellhole without any water or food.
She brought her arms awkwardly in front of her and gasped, moving her stiff wrists and fingers awkwardly.
He gave her some water from his CamelBak. She moaned in relief and started guzzling it. He stopped her.
“Slowly,” he cautioned, “or it’ll come right back up.”
His heart squeezed in sympathy as she sipped desperately at the plastic tube, as though she were afraid he would take it away. He let her drain it, eased her up onto her knees. They had to move.
“What’s his status, Spence?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Head injury, sir. I’ve given him a little water, but we need to get him back to the helo so I can work on him. They both need IV fluids, stat.”
“Roger that.” He took the clothes Spencer handed him and held them out for Bryn. “Put these on, and then we’ll get you out of here.” They had a little time, since no tangos had been spotted yet, but that didn’t mean some weren’t waiting in ambush somewhere close by.
Bryn hesitated for only a second, then took the shirt and pants he offered. He would have turned his back to give her some privacy but she was clearly too weak to dress herself. With quick, efficient movements, he stripped the stiff gown over her head and tugged the shirt down to cover her strapless bra. He then helped her pull the pants over her barely-there panties and rolled the cuffs up so she wouldn’t trip over them. After tugging on her socks and a pair of boots, he hauled her to her feet. She swayed and grabbed at his shoulders, trembling with the effort of staying upright.
Another hot ball of rage swept through him at her slim frame shaking against him, weak and critically dehydrated after living in an earthen oven for three days. Part of him hoped the group responsible would try and fight their way out when his team found them, so they could dispatch them all to hell where they belonged.
“Here we go,” he told her, and hoisted her up through the trap door, where one of his team members waited to pull her out. He boosted himself up after her and reached down for her father, then moved back while Spencer levered himself from the filthy prison. His lungs expanded in relief at being in the cool, clean air, the wind gusts strong enough to spray dirt and sand into his eyes.
He turned to Bryn, who was swaying on her feet. “She needs some more water.”
Three CamelBak tubes instantly appeared in front of her nose. He allowed her to have a few more sips from one of them, and then took her arm. “We’ll give you some more when we get you to safety,” he promised.
At a nod from him, one of his men slid Jamul onto his shoulders and started off behind the point man. The daughter was shivering, her lips cracked, black eyes bruised-looking and dulled with fatigue.
“Can you walk? We have to move fast, so if you can’t keep up on your own, we’ll have to carry you.”
She blinked, nodded. “I’ll try.”
“Okay. Let’s move out.”
Two other men started across the narrow street, gave the all clear for them to follow. He took hold of her upper arm to steady her, began walking through the wind, mindful of her exhaustion. After she stumbled for the second time, he slung his rifle across his chest and hoisted her over his shoulder. Her body stiffened but she didn’t struggle, and she was light enough that her weight didn’t slow him down much.
From building to building they slunk like ghosts, the cloud-covered moon aiding in their camouflage while the wind whipped sand and dust into the air. Bryn held onto the back of his BDUs, remaining still and quiet as they reached the outskirts of the village. The wind grew to a howling pitch, sand and debris obscuring their vision.
Dec and the team put on goggles to protect their eyes and kept moving toward the open desert, where the helo would extract them two and a half miles to the southeast. He shifted Bryn’s weight and leaned forward to keep his balance against the full-fledged sandstorm blowing up around them. The inclement weather was sudden and unexpected, since sandstorm season was usually in the spring. Not that Mother Nature seemed to give a damn, because within a few minutes, visibility dropped by a third.
Another quarter mile out, Dec knew there was no way a helo could get to them in these conditions. He stopped the team behind the relative protection of a sand dune and set Bryn down, handing her over to one of his men for more water, and used the radio to contact the command center. Yelling over the wind, he arranged for the helo to pick them up at the secondary extraction point near the caves in another six hours, by which time the ops center expected the weather to improve enough.
They started out again, this time Spencer carrying Bryn, with Dec on point. It took them nearly two hours to cover four more miles, and by then visibility was almost zero, sand blasting their faces and bodies. Since it was impossible to navigate, let alone breathe, Dec finally called a halt.
Digging their way into the sand, the team made a makeshift shelter and hunkered down to weather the worst of the storm. He caught a glimpse of Bryn trying to help secure the nylon tent and was about to bark an order for someone to protect her from the stinging sand when one of the men took hold of her arm and ushered her inside. Spencer set about starting an IV line in the father’s arm, but the old man protested.
“My…daughter first,” he said clearly, and so Spence went to work on Bryn.
They’d laid her down in the middle of their makeshift tent, an exhausted, fragile-looking thing surrounded by a wall of special ops soldiers. Despite her lank hair, bruised-looking eyes and cracked lips, she remained striking.
Spencer pushed the IV needle into her vein and she winced, but didn’t make a sound. Little nicks covered her arm, probably from flying debris in the explosion at the embassy. Spence checked her over and cleaned her up, dabbing on antibiotic ointment and covering some of the deepest cu
ts with bandages.
She flinched and gasped when he used a pair of tweezers to dig a sliver of glass out of her, and Dec had to stop himself from stroking a hand over her hair. When the third piece of glass came out she jerked and bit her lip, and he finally reached out to hold her hand, offering what little comfort he could.
As his fingers closed around hers, she looked up into his face with those dark, mysterious eyes and smiled her gratitude, then closed them. Something twisted deep in his chest. He had the sudden urge to pick her up and hold her, promise to never let anyone hurt her again. It was totally bizarre and unprofessional of him to even think it, but he’d never been in this situation before, not in all the time he’d been in the Teams.
He glanced away from her delicate, ashen face to find every member of the team staring at her. The air in their shelter practically hummed with protective male energy. It was good in a way, Dec reflected, so long as it didn’t distract anyone from doing their job. It meant they were still capable of sympathy and the desire to protect the innocent, even underneath all their discipline and testosterone.
But Jesus, look at them. Eight badass Navy SEALs sitting around fussing over an injured woman, one sliding a folded blanket under her head and another tucking one around her like they were a bunch of goddamn nursemaids. This op was already one for the books, and it wasn’t near over.
They gave her more water, then Spencer took a wet wipe and washed her face and neck. Her long, thick lashes fluttered and she sighed in relief before dropping off into an exhausted sleep.
“You got that lip stuff?” Dec asked Spence.
The medic gave him a funny look but retrieved it from one of his pockets and Dec silently smoothed some on her cracked lips. Jesus, it must have been bad for them in that cellar. She gave a small murmur, barely audible above the wind, but it made something ache deep inside him.
Without a word Spencer went to work on the father, checking his eyes with a penlight for even dilation. “Pupils are slow to respond,” he reported, dabbing a piece of gauze over a long cut on his patient’s temple. “And he’s still disoriented. We’ll have to wake him every half-hour to check him, make sure he doesn’t slip into a coma.”
“Well, it’s not like we’re going anywhere in this.” The good news was, neither were the terrorists. But once the storm eased enough for them to move, they better haul ass to the extraction point before the enemy got moving.
Silent except for the wind keening outside the tent, they waited.
Chapter Five
Day 4, In the Syrian Desert
Dawn
Bryn’s eyes snapped open. Something had brushed against her hip. In the dimness she stared up at the lieutenant looming over her to hook up another bag of saline to her IV.
With effort, she slowed her racing heart. “Hi,” she whispered.
She didn’t remember a thing after he’d put the stuff on her dry lips. She’d fallen into a sleep as dreamless as if someone had knocked her unconscious.
He smiled down at her, revealing dimples beneath the camouflage paint. A good looking man, and one she would be eternally grateful to.
“Morning,” he answered, studying her. His eyes were an amazing shade of caramel. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better.” She felt like she might make it after all.
“The wind’s starting to die down a little, so we’ll have to move out soon. One last bag of fluids for you—” Her stomach growled ferociously, and he grinned, those fascinating golden-brown eyes lighting up. “—and something to eat first.”
The medic—Spencer, she’d heard someone call him—crouched down beside her and checked her pulse, then wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her upper arm and inflated it, a stethoscope in his ears. “Bet you’ve never eaten an MRE before.”
He had eyes the color of a summer sky. “I have no idea what that is,” she admitted, watching him study the dial on the cuff. “Is it awful?” Her pulse throbbed under the pressure of the Velcro strap.
“Depends,” the lieutenant answered. “Do you want to start out with a cracker to see how it settles, or do you want to try the MRE version of beef stew? Or maybe spaghetti with meatballs?” He held out two tan pouches, labeled accordingly.
“Take the stew, ma’am,” one of the other men advised. “The spaghetti tastes like hell.”
Spencer removed the cuff before she could answer. “One-ten over seventy,” he announced in satisfaction. “Your blood volume’s way up from last night, blood pressure’s normal. You’re doing great.”
Compared to a few hours ago, she felt fricking fantastic. “Please, call me Bryn.” Thirty-one was still too young to be ma’amed. “How’s my father? Is he awake?”
“No. His symptoms are getting worse,” Spencer told her without mincing words. “He’ll need surgery once we evacuate him on the chopper. He’ll go straight to a hospital in Beirut.”
So he did have a serious head injury. Her stomach clenched. She twisted around towards him. Her father was lying on the other side of the tent, eyes closed, and he looked gray. Her chest constricted. “What about his vitals? Did the fluids help him?”
“They’ve kept him alive so far, yes.”
“Lieutenant—”
“Call me Dec. Short for Declan,” he explained when she frowned. “Here, start with this.” He fished out a packet from one of the equipment bags, then handed her the backpack-like thing with water in it and something resembling a cracker, which she accepted hungrily.
She wolfed it and two others down, keeping an anxious eye on her father. “Has he woken up at all?” Even with her limited knowledge of first aid she knew enough to be afraid that he would lapse into a coma. By the look of him right now, he might already be there.
“He woke a couple of times during the night,” Dec said. “His speech was a little slurred, but that’s to be expected. We’ll get you both on that chopper ASAP.”
He said it with absolute confidence before heading out into the dying storm. He had a steady, competent air about him, a certain calmness that came from being very sure of himself. Even if she hadn’t known his rank she would have figured him to be the leader of the group. Bryn felt perfectly safe, despite being in a tent in the middle of a sandstorm with a bunch of deadly men. She only wished there was something they could do for her father.
After she had eaten, Spencer removed the IV needle from her arm while she looked pointedly elsewhere, lest she bring up her breakfast, and bandaged her before helping her into a sitting position. While everyone else packed their gear and got ready to move she hunkered down next to her father, passed a hand over his hair and down the side of his pallid face. His skin was clammy and cool.
Bryn’s heart turned over. What would she do if he didn’t make it? They might not have been as close as she would have liked, but he was her father and she loved him. The sight of such a powerful, intelligent man lying there so still and quiet broke her heart.
Someone put a hand on her forehead, and she looked up into Spencer’s blue eyes.
“You’re still a little warm,” he told her, pulling a camouflage jacket over her and doing it up as though she were a child. “I gave you a shot of antibiotics last night, but you’ll need more once you get back to Beirut. Some of the cuts on your arm were pretty deep, might be infected.”
She studied the scratches and little holes already scabbing over. It was all surreal. A bomb blast, a kidnapping, nearly dying of dehydration, then rescued by Navy SEALs in the middle of the night. Certainly more exciting than her average day as a social worker, even with the often sad cases she had to deal with.
Dec stepped back inside, pulling off his goggles. “Can’t see much out there, but it’s better than it was last night. Think you can walk, Miss Mc—”
“Bryn, please, and yes I can walk. Thanks again, all of you, for coming to get us.” To her horror, a lump formed in her throat and tears burned her eyes. It was nice to know she was hydrated enough to make tears, but damn it, she would n
ot cry like a helpless female in front of these brave men and look weak.
“Believe me, it was our pleasure,” Dec answered.
She forced a small smile and lowered her eyes to the ground, biting her lip to keep from crying as she rolled up her bedding. Spencer took pity on her and patted her shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it,” he whispered so no one else would hear. “You’ve been through a lot. Nobody thinks less of you for it.”
She nodded. “I’m fine, just tired. Don’t worry about me falling to pieces or anything. I’m tougher than I look.” She cast an anxious glance over her shoulder at her father.
When she turned back, Spencer grinned as he picked up his rifle. “You single?”
She gave him a startled glance and laughed. “Yeah, why? You want to take me out on a date once this is all over?”
He merely widened his grin and made his way out of the shelter.
Outside, Dec organized the team and gave the signal for two of the members to lift her father on a stretcher. “Okay, lady and gentlemen. Let’s move.”
****
Day 4, Syrian village
Morning
In disbelief, Tehrazzi stared down into the empty cellar. How had they escaped? Not by themselves, he knew that much.
A molten rage swept through him. His plan was ruined. Not only had they lost the leverage to secure the money, but whoever had freed them—probably American special ops—would be on the hunt for him now.
His throat was so tight he could barely choke the words out. “Who is responsible for this?”
One of his men shifted from one foot to the other. They all avoided his lethal gaze as he raked his eyes over them. With effort he reined in his temper. The anger morphed into an icy rage, far more dangerous. “Find out who did this,” he commanded. “Then bring them to me.”
Someone in the village had betrayed him, and he had a sickening feeling he knew who. They would pay dearly. It was not something he wanted to do, but he must make an example of them to prevent such actions in the future. Even if the prospect sickened him.
