Searching for any other possible tools among the stolen artifacts, she continued her rambling litany in hopes good guys were on the other side of that nano spy bug. “If somebody doesn’t send some antibiotics back here we won’t last long enough for you to ransom us off to our country in exchange for whatever the going rate is for students.”
Rambling on for whoever might be listening, she pocketed the preserved jaw of some small animal to use like spiked brass knuckles. The tip of a tusk went in her sock.
Too bad they hadn’t stashed her in the ancient war tools room. Just as she’d expected from the beginning, they were gathering artifacts to sell on the black market to fund their separatist group, headed by a radical warlord. The same group that had recently blown up the American ambassador’s private residence, hell-bent on stirring unrest.
But they were planning something more here, something big. Maybe for when the vice president’s wife came to visit to bring national attention to the plight of women in the region? Stella had made progress with one of the guards by pretending to be a student sympathetic to their cause. But somehow, they’d grown suspicious or been tipped off.
Years ago her mother had tried to help the same people who now held her hostage. Talk about irony. And she was still no closer to figuring out missing details from the day her mother died.
The door opened again. Her stomach plunged. She tucked her ankle behind her other leg, just in case they caught sight of the bulge in her sock. The scariest of her captors—not the sneering bastard, but the man who showed no expression at all, a short lean man who should have appeared harmless but reminded her of a cheetah rather than a lion. Just as fast, strong, and lethal.
Wordlessly, he grabbed her arm in a vise grip and hauled her from the room. Would the surveillance bug follow her? Was she on her own now? How close was help? She had to operate on the assumption she was being watched and that help was on the way.
If she could just stay alive long enough.
“Where are we going?” Down a dank hallway, past the two dead Americans tossed in the corner like sacks of garbage, not even a hint of dignity given to the lifeless hulls that once housed a human soul. She vowed to do everything in her power to make sure their families got their bodies back. “You really don’t have to do this. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
She looked up at the camera in the hall. The enemy’s camera. She’d been left alone so far. The captors had gone for the older ones first, assuming she was a junior agent, low-level status, which meant less intel. They’d gone for the big fish first.
Or maybe they hoped the sounds of torture would soften her up, make her break faster.
She couldn’t weaken. Too many people in the field depended on her silence. Names. Lives.
Guilt weighed her down. She’d been selfish to come to this region of the world with her own agenda. She’d accepted the assignment in hopes of uncovering more about her mother’s death in the region fourteen years ago—distracting enough. Then she’d met Jose and her focus drifted even further.
Her eyes shot back to the dead bodies—an innocent student and a CIA operative. Had a lapse on her part cost them their lives? She’d been so damn sure their cover was rock solid. Even when the separatists had taken the group of students hostage, she’d prayed that was their only agenda. That they didn’t know they’d also landed four undercover operatives as well.
And there was still hope they didn’t know about her. How ironic that she’d come here to retrace her mother’s last days and now she was walking in her footsteps in a more literal way. Her mother’s battered body sent home in a box, the cause of death labeled a car accident. And Stella never had the chance to say good-bye, to apologize for sending her mother off that last time by screaming how much she hated her for leaving them again.
So many regrets.
And her most current regret? One of her biggest? The way she’d broken things off with Jose, the man she’d been so certain was her soul mate.
If she thought about him, she would cry, but then maybe that would seem more natural. She’d tried it at first—no luck. But if it bought her time now, then hell, she would try anything.
She envisioned Jose’s shoulders sagging when he realized she was serious about ending their relationship.
Tears filled her eyes in a flash. Using the emotion to her advantage, she looked up at the cold, detached guard. She let the tears roll down her cheeks, allowed all her anguish to show for once.
“Please, call my mom and dad. They’ll pay you anything you want to get me back.”
Her cover story would hold under scrutiny. Her passport traced back to a concocted profile of her life as a pampered rich kid from Florida who lived off of a hefty trust fund, continuing to enroll in college to avoid getting a job. She’d slid right into the group of students. For them, she’d risked bringing Jose into harm’s way, something she never would have done had she been the only one taken. But for the students and for whatever plan these ruthless bastards were cooking up, she had to think like an agent.
Not like a woman whose heart still ached for a man she couldn’t have.
Her captor jerked her to a stop at the end of the hall. The doorway loomed in front of her. And landing on the corner of the frame, a buzzing little fly.
She stared up into what she prayed was help and one last time she blinked…
Warning: Land mines at the camp gates.
***
Stella’s voice echoed in the earpiece of Jose’s comm set as he stood in the open hatch of a C-130 cargo plane. Wind roared through the open portal. Parched earth and thirsty frankincense trees sprawled far, far below. The rebel camp waited.
With Stella inside.
All he needed was the signal to go and he would jump with Bubbles and the SEALs, parachuting into the compound in the twilight, HALO style—high altitude, low opening. The best way to slip in unnoticed. No tipping anyone off by bringing a helicopter too close. The cargo plane would drop them off at thirty thousand feet with an oxygen mask into a free fall. He would wait until the very last possible second to pop the parachute.
Then they would charge the camp on foot.
“Go, go, go!” the loadmaster shouted the command into the mic.
His boots pounded along the metal ramp as he ran to the edge and…
Jumped.
Arms and legs extended, his body split the air, speeding downward. He hurtled through the dusky sky, into utter silence other than the sounds from his headset… more feed from Stella’s surveillance and a low hum of radio chatter from the aircrew. But he only heard the echoes of Stella from the satellite feed.
The command center still ran the feed in the background in a way he could hear her faintly. Listening to her sob tore him apart, even knowing she was acting her role as a terrified student. But the slaps by her interrogator weren’t fake. The punch was followed by a stifled groan.
Then more questions. They didn’t believe her or her friends. Someone was here spying.
And God help her, they were right.
How long could she hold out? He wanted to send her a sign to hang on, to let her know he was on his way at top speed. Wind whipped over him.
Hearing her tortured was a hellish abyss that could suck him in faster than any free fall. Damn it all to hell. He had to think of something, anything else, or he would lose his shit. His mind latched onto an image of her at a squadron party. People hadn’t known they were dating. They’d both been hepped up on accidental brushes and hot glances.
But those times he’d watched her when she thought no one was looking… those times hit him hardest. Such as at that picnic when her eagle eye picked up his teammate Bubbles’s one vulnerability. Hulking big, badass Gavin Novak didn’t like fuzzy things… like the inside of a jacket or texture of certain foods. She’d grabbed a peach and chased Bubbles around the bonfire, threatening to rub it on his arm. Her laughter, her playfulness, all bundled up with her insightfulness made for a compelling, irresistible woman.
Stella was also a complex woman he couldn’t begin to understand. He’d just watched her, her every move turning him on and inside out as he’d fallen for her. Falling as hard as he was going to land if he didn’t pay attention. He needed to count down the seconds to deploy his parachute.
Another slap echoed through the sound waves along with her cry. “I don’t know anything except you’re going to kill us for nothing. Why not ransom us for money? Anything other than this…”
“Shut. Up,” her inquisitor shouted. “I am going to ask you again, what were you and your friends doing on our property? Which government agency are you spying for?”
“You can’t torture information out of people if they don’t know it,” she answered with just the right amount of quiver in her voice.
“You play the innocent act well, but I do not believe you.”
Jose eyed the perimeter of the compound, growing closer and closer. He clutched the ripcord to his parachute. Counting down. Waiting as long as possible to deploy the chute, to minimize the chance of being seen in the sky. Three. Two. One.
Yank.
The silky nylon filled with air. Lines went taut. Straps jerked, jacking his nuts up somewhere around his ears. He pulled the guide ropes toward the ground. Very little reaction time for a HALO. The landing would come hard and fast. He kept his eyes up. Staring straight down at the ground for landing was actually counterproductive and would send him on his ass. Instead, he monitored the compound, noting positions of guards. Lights began to flicker on in the isolated compound.
He scanned the horizon, picking out the specks of the others slipping through the night sky. Through the trees. To the gritty earth. Wham. He felt the shock clean through. He tucked into a controlled landing…
Heels. Knees. Roll to his side. Shake off the stunned-stupid feel and get to work.
He cut free his chute lines and launched into a crouch, ready. His headset crackled to life again with Mr. Smith’s gravelly voice, not Stella’s smooth tones.
“One of our techies is working through Agent Carson’s messages. Tap code indicates at least twenty rebels in the compound. Two guards in the front, three in back. Even the cook carries a gun.”
Each piece of information that filtered through brought images of Stella, keeping her cool as she blinked or tapped out the information. Darting, he zigzagged toward the compound, staying low, submachine gun aimed, 9 mm holstered for backup. He made eye contact with Bubbles about ten feet away. The SEALs faded from sight as they surrounded all sides of the secured building.
A spotlight popped on, sweeping toward him. Jose dropped to his belly, flat into prickly dhirindhir brush. Beads of sweat tracked through the camo paint on his face.
“Shit,” Mr. Jones’s voice hissed through the earpiece, obviously deciphering bad news. “She said there are land mines at the gates. True entrances are hidden within the fence. Avoid the gates. I repeat, do not use the gates. Locate the camouflaged entrances, or as a last resort, climb over.”
“Roger,” he whispered, blinking his eyes clear of sweat.
The SEALs around back would deactivate the electric fence. Then they would have to move faster than fast. Flat to the ground, he waited, waited… And go.
He shot to his feet and tossed pebbles at the fence. No sparks. He risked a touch, found it cool, but didn’t see any secret entrances on this side. Launching up, he scaled the fence, chain-link rattling in his hands. Bubbles kept pace beside him until they both vaulted over. He landed with a puff of dirt spurting from under his boots. His headset echoed with sounds of engagement on the other side.
As Stella had warned, he found the first of the east side guards. Bubbles raised his MP5. Aimed. Two barely perceptible pop, pops hissed, muffled by a silencer.
Bubbles lowered his submachine gun and tapped his headset. “Guards in front cleared.”
Affirmatives echoed over the headsets. Finally, Smith’s. Thank God. “Roger. Update on captives. Of the twelve taken captive, two dead, four wounded. Images show at least one is critical.”
