Cover of Darkness

by Kaylea Cross

  The horse stumbled, dropped its head. Tehrazzi let her go and grabbed at its mane to hold his seat.

  Now!

  She smashed him in the ribs as hard as she could with her elbow and twisted to one side, shoving with her feet. She tipped over the side, head bouncing off the horse’s shoulder, and hit the ground so hard she almost blacked out. She rolled with the momentum, tried to dig her feet into the ground to slow herself, but she flipped over and skidded down a bank. Below her, the hill dropped away in a sheer cliff.

  Crying out, she grabbed desperately at the rocks, but her bound wrists made it impossible to get a good grip. Her shoulder slammed into a boulder, and she screamed at the pain rocketing up her arm. Her numb fingers scrabbled over the bank as she dropped, and then caught a ledge of rock.

  Shaking and gasping as her feet hit something hard, she pushed with all her might to stop her descent. The muscles in her arms screamed from holding her up. Her gaze strayed to the empty void beneath her.

  Drawing a terrified breath, she screamed Luke’s name.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Luke swore as Bryn tumbled off the horse and rolled out of sight. Tehrazzi kept running that damn horse, firing random shots at him.

  “Luke!”

  He heard the raw terror in her voice as she screamed his name from somewhere down the hill. Shit. He was within range of Tehrazzi now. He could pick him off with his rifle if the ground stayed level and the horse didn’t drop out of view.

  Not good enough. He had to get closer.

  “Help me!”

  He gritted his teeth at the panic in her voice. She must be in trouble.

  Can’t stop. He had to get Tehrazzi first. He reached back and drew his rifle around. His fingers tightened on the stock. His heart thundered in his ringing ears.

  “Oh God, I’m slipping!” A hair-raising scream followed.

  Christ. He had to help her. He’d pull her up, then get Tehrazzi.

  He raced up to where her skid marks ran over the side and dumped the bike. Then his gaze locked on the spot between Tehrazzi’s shoulder blades before he disappeared into a gulley.

  Dammit, I should have taken the shot.

  “Luke!”

  “Hold on,” he shouted, sliding in the dirt to her position. She was hanging by her fingernails on the side of the cliff.

  Shit. It was going to take him minutes he didn’t have to climb down and pull her out. But if she lost her grip, she’d fall to her death on the rocks below. For an instant, he hesitated.

  Tehrazzi was more important. Getting him would save countless lives. It would absolve so many of Luke’s sins.

  Redemption. Just over the next rise.

  But Bryn is Rayne’s best friend. Emily loves her. If you let her die…

  Bryn stared back at him with terrified obsidian eyes. “Luke, help me! I can’t hold on—”

  If he didn’t save her, he’d never be able to look his son in the eye again.

  You know what you have to do.

  Yeah, he did.

  “I’m coming,” he said, and started hiking down. Her taped hands were white from clinging to the ledge, her mouth trembling. “Just a little more, Bryn. Hold on. Almost there.”

  His head swam as he slipped, and fell back against the bank. Tehrazzi was gaining distance on him with every second. The Iranian border was close. Luke had to get him before he reached it. If he got Bryn out quick enough, he still might be able to catch up with him. He’d order a helo to pick them up, find Tehrazzi from the air. He could pick him off that way.

  Hurry.

  Holding onto a boulder with one hand, he reached down with the other and seized her bound wrists, hauled up with all his might. Black spots swam in front of his eyes. His knees wobbled. “Push,” he snarled, straining up.

  She shoved with her feet and scrambled up, gaining purchase on a more secure spot. He pulled steadily upward, keeping his weight leaning uphill to counterbalance them, and dug his heels into the ground for more power.

  Through the muffled rattle of gunfire from the battle at the camp, the faint throb of rotors reached him. The sound was coming from the other direction. He froze for an instant. Fuck, if Tehrazzi had gotten a ride—

  Get Bryn on solid ground first. Then you can go after him.

  He almost howled with frustration. Lips compressed with irritation, Luke inched them back up the side of the hill, dragged her over the edge. She collapsed on her belly with a sob.

  The sounds of the distant battle had stopped. The camp and Tehrazzi’s followers had been destroyed.

  On his knees staring up at the pre-dawn sky, his disbelieving gaze fell on the helo, moving away, dropping into a canyon. Russian. Probably left over from the Afghan war. The war in which he’d made Tehrazzi into the monster he was.

  His hands squeezed into fists so tight his knuckles ached.

  The helo disappeared from view, no doubt on its way to pick up Tehrazzi.

  He eyed the motorbike, lying on its side in the sand. No way would he get within rifle range in time on that thing. He wanted to bellow with rage.

  “Fuck,” he growled instead and ripped out his knife, slicing through the tape on Bryn’s hands and feet. She flinched and fell as she tried to stand. He shot out a hand to steady her.

  As the whir of rotors suddenly became clearer, he glanced up. Backlit by the first golden rays of dawn as the sun peaked over the hills, the Russian-made Hind-D rose into the clear sky and banked away, carrying Tehrazzi out of reach, into Iranian airspace where he could never follow.

  ****

  Bryn threw herself into Luke’s arms, uncaring that he was so focused on the helicopter. Tehrazzi had escaped, but she was alive, thanks to Luke. A sob shot free. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched fistfuls of his jacket.

  He pressed her face against his chest. “You’re okay now. You’re okay.”

  Her muscles trembled. She took a breath and let go. He started to get up, but winced and went back down on his knees. “Y-you’re hurt,” she said.

  “Banged my head is all.” He shook it as though trying to clear it and blinked a few times.

  She was still shaking all over, but managed to stand and help him up. The way he wove on his feet alarmed her. What if Tehrazzi came back to strafe them from the helicopter? “W-we should move.”

  “Yeah.” He fiddled in his pocket, pulled out his earpiece, called someone to arrange for pickup and let out a tired sigh. He lowered his head a moment, rubbed his eyes. He swayed a bit, didn’t protest when she put an arm around his waist.

  He paused a moment, listening, his eyes on the sand bathed in the orange glow of the rising sun. “Copy that.” His eyes swung to hers. “Chopper’s on its way.”

  She couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. They started walking, both of them unsteady on their feet. “Where’s Dec?” she finally asked.

  Luke hesitated.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs like a sledgehammer. Oh God, not Dec. Not Dec. Her legs were stiff and awkward. “What’s happened?” she demanded, her knees wobbling. “What’s—”

  “He’s been wounded. They extracted him, but the chopper went down.”

  Her world caved in. “What?” The beat of another inbound helicopter broke the silence.

  “He’s being transferred to the hospital right now.”

  The words penetrated. Wounded, he’d said. Still alive, then. Her legs gave out.

  The rotors whirred, louder and louder, kicking the sand into a whirling cloud that beat against her. She bit down on her lip. How bad was he? The aircraft settled on the ground, and she and Luke climbed in.

  She clutched the seat with sweaty hands as it lifted off and soared them through the air. Across from her, Luke dropped his head back against the bulkhead and closed his eyes. He’d just lost Tehrazzi. She might have cared more if she wasn’t so terrified for Dec.

  They flew toward a city, passed over a river and over the houses and buildings. When the helo descended she saw
the H on the helipad. The hospital. Was Dec here? She jumped out and followed Luke inside, through the corridors and down the stairs.

  He stopped a nurse and conversed with her in Arabic. He took Bryn’s arm. “In here.”

  He ushered her to the emergency ward just as the door burst open. The paramedics rushed the first patient in. Another stretcher followed, the man strapped to a backboard, his head bound with crimson-stained bandages.

  Oh God.

  Rhys appeared, pushing a stretcher, a bag of IV fluid held in his teeth. A medic straddled the patient’s torso, holding an oxygen mask over his face. Blood soaked the right side of the stretcher and dripped onto the floor. The patient had dark hair, and a crescent-shaped scar on the back of his left hand.

  “Dec!”

  Nobody stopped her as she raced over to him.

  “Dec—” Her voice cracked. The smell of his blood hung in the air as she put a hand against his pale cheek. He was conscious, but not alert, his eyelashes fluttering when she spoke. She could hardly see, the tears were falling so fast. “Dec, can you hear me?” She stroked the sweat-matted hair off his forehead.

  His lashes fluttered again and his eyes opened, focusing on her. He moaned, his limbs thrashing weakly.

  “Take this,” Rhys ordered, shoving the IV bag into her hand, “but get the hell back when I tell you to.”

  “We need to sedate him to get the chest tube in,” the medic said, still holding the mask in place.

  Dec struggled beneath the man holding him down, hoarse cries of agony tearing from him.

  “I’m here, Dec,” she whispered, barely intelligible. He was in this state because of her. “I’m right here and I love you. I love you, you hear me? Don’t let go. You’re no quitter, Dec, you don’t know how to quit, remember?” She prayed he could hear her.

  They pushed through a set of double doors and someone grabbed the bag from her. Strong hands pulled her back.

  “No!”

  “Bryn,” Rhys warned, “let go of him. Now.”

  She struggled uselessly. “Get your hands off—”

  He shook her hard, whipped her around to face him. “He needs surgery. Right now, and you can’t be in here.”

  “Move back please, miss, and let us do our job,” the medic ordered.

  Helpless, she obeyed, her eyes never leaving Dec. His whole body shook, the muscles in his legs and arms straining as the medic exposed the blood-soaked dressings covering the right side of his chest. His head wrenched to the side and his face contorted beneath the oxygen mask. He jerked like he’d been electrocuted.

  His howl of inhuman agony seared her soul.

  “Dec,” she sobbed, screaming inside.

  “Let’s go.” Rhys picked her up by the waist and hauled her out of there. He set her in a chair and she went into his arms without a word. “Hang in there,” he murmured against the top of her head, and kept talking, explaining what had happened.

  She fell apart, too lost in her grief to make out more than Dec had a collapsed lung and had lost a lot of blood. They had to insert a tube to drain the lung and re-inflate it to help him breathe better. Whatever hit him shattered some of his ribs—that’s what punctured his lung, and why he was bleeding so much.

  She shut her eyes, praying harder than she’d prayed for anything in her life. Please God, let him make it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Day 13, Somewhere in Iran

  Rays of sunlight slanted through the curtains behind Tehrazzi as he finished his morning prayers. The room was already stifling, the ceiling fan doing little but moving the hot air around. Perspiration beaded his face and throat, trickled down his back and sides as he knelt in place. His muscles cramped from staying in the same position for so long.

  He was ready.

  Rising on stiff legs, he padded over to the table and took up the white robes he had selected for his sacred purpose. He donned them slowly, frowning at the way his fingers trembled. How could he be afraid?

  After all this time, surely he was not afraid of death. He’d escaped his teacher again. First at the club in Damascus, then the night of the air strike near Najaf, and today. Once again, Allah had chosen to spare his life. Such a gift deserved repaying that debt. To do His work, he must be calm, utterly uninhibited by the bonds of mortal fear. He was a soldier for his people, and for Allah.

  Smoothing the flowing garment over his strangely chilled body, he strode to the video camera resting on its tripod and checked it was working properly. After pressing record he seated himself in front of the green martyr’s flag he’d hung.

  Staring at the blinking red light, his eyes felt uncomfortably dry, his skin too tight. Clenching his hands in his lap, he released a slow exhalation and looked directly into the dark, round lens.

  “My name is Farouk Ahmed Tehrazzi,” he began in Arabic, his voice soft and clear. As he spoke, the weight in his chest lifted, as if someone had reached inside and filled his lungs with sweet, clean air. His heart beat in a steady rhythm.

  “I am a soldier of Islam, a crusader against the invading American infidels and all who sully the name of Islam. The time has come for me to announce my intention to continue the jihad against our enemies. But now I commit myself to the higher purpose Allah has called me to. I am ready to sacrifice this life in the name of holy war, and will embrace the glories of the afterlife without hesitation. Allah willing, we will rid the earth of the American people and their allies. I pray that my sacrifice will please Him, and that He will reward our struggle here on earth.” Keeping calm, he added, “I speak to those who have taught me.” He got up and switched off the camera.

  Hands steady, he removed the recording from the machine, wrapped it in a piece of red cloth and placed it in the envelope he had prepared. Then he sealed it, his tongue lingering on the unpleasant adhesive.

  When he emerged, the three men seated in the next room gaped at him, the gravity of the white robes registering. One by one, they bowed reverently, then cheered.

  Ignoring their praise, he passed one of them the envelope. “See that this is delivered today.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Turning away, Tehrazzi wished he could witness his teacher’s reaction to the message. He would know exactly what it meant.

  The game was not over yet. The only way to finish it was for one, or both of them, to die.

  ****

  Day 13, Basra hospital

  Morning

  Battling the wave of dizziness that had him all but planting his ass on the floor, Luke forced his legs to take him to the chair next to the window. The staff had insisted he stay here for tests because his symptoms had worsened over the past few hours.

  By the time he got to the window he wanted to puke up the lime Jell-O they’d forced down him and only kept it in his gut through sheer willpower. When his knees grew too wobbly to support his weight, he allowed himself to sink into the chair. Breathing through his nose to dispel the nausea, he groped on the table for his cell phone.

  The staff hadn’t taken kindly to him making phone calls between his MRI and CT scan. Still, he’d managed to make sure the CIA got Bryn out of Iraq while McCabe was in recovery. Not a mean feat while dealing with a severe concussion. Now all he had to do was find out where in the hell Tehrazzi was so he could finish this thing and be done with it. He’d been so goddamn close today.

  He still couldn’t remember everything that had happened out there. He had blank spots about events before the friendly fire incident. The idea that he might have suffered permanent brain damage and memory loss scared him worse than dying.

  Dialing Ben, he saw he’d missed a call during the night. Squinting to counteract his blurred vision, he brought up the call display. The number seemed vaguely familiar to him. He struggled to figure it out, hating how slow his brain was working. After a few minutes he still had no idea who had called him, so he punched the call back button and brought the phone to his ear.

  Three rings went by. Four. Then some
one answered. “Hello?”

  He went rigid in his chair as the gentle voice hit him like a body blow. No matter how messed up his squash was, he would never forget that voice. “Em,” he croaked.

  “Luke?” Her voice turned sharp. “You sound awful—are you hurt?”

  “I…” Hearing her on the other end of the phone hurt him more than the knives stabbing in his skull.

  “What’s happened? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he lied. “Little banged up is all.”

  “God, Luke you must be more than banged up if you called me.”

  Yeah. He’d lost his mind. Literally.

  “What can I do? Do you need me to fly over there?”

  Oh, sweet Jesus, he wanted that. Wanted it so bad he broke out in a sweat at the thought of seeing her. His stomach spasmed. The muscles under his jaw tightened, the salivary glands going into overdrive. He gagged. Oh, shit, he hated throwing up. He fought it back, took a deep breath. Then another. “No, Em, I’m…I’m—” Going to puke.

  He dropped the phone in his lap and yanked a plastic pitcher from the table just as his stomach heaved up his pathetic breakfast in wrenching spasms. His head almost split open from the pain and for a moment his vision went dark. When he could see again his cheek was resting on the windowsill. His body trembled as he tried to sit up.

  “Luke! Luke? Are you there?”

  Ah, shit, had she heard him? Fumbling in the folds of his hospital gown, he found the phone again. “I’m okay.” His voice sounded like grinding gears.

  Her voice fragmented into tears. “Oh, God—”

  “Don’t cry.” His stomach twisted in misery. Saliva pooled in his mouth. God, he was going to hurl again. “Gotta go, Em. I love you.”

  He pitched the phone on the floor and doubled over as a wave of sickness overcame him. This time he blacked out. When he came to, a nurse was leaning over him, her face a mask of concern as she and someone else lifted him into bed as if he was a child.

  Lying there against the hard pillow, he tried to remember what had just happened. He’d been talking on the phone, hadn’t he? Oh God, yeah, he’d been talking to Emily. He’d thrown up, and then—