Collateral Damage (10 page)

“You’re dead, bitch!” the man said again, much closer than before. Mari’s spine chilled with dread. She cried out, her gaze desperately searching too late for a weapon. Anything she could use to defend herself. Only a barrel of hard-shelled nuts was within reach. She grabbed, pulling the barrel into the attacker’s path and nuts spilled everywhere. She thought for a moment she just might make it to the room just ahead when he caught hold of her hair and jerked hard.

Her life flashed before her eyes, going all the way back to the moment she was dying three years ago. Back to the moment she first set eyes on Neil Dalton, the soldier who’d kicked in her prison door and set her free…

She’d lost track of time. Somewhere between the hunger pains and the scraping dryness of her swollen tongue against her sunken cheeks and cracked lips, she’d forgotten the number of days since her ewer of water and chunk of bread had stopped appearing in the boxed opening on her prison door. Growing up within the home overhead, she’d never questioned the purpose of the different rooms below. Only the servants or the guards bothered with those rooms. She should have known though. Should have paid more attention to the rumors. Should have taken the fear in the eyes of those under her father more seriously. Maybe then she would have been more prepared for his ruthless cruelty.

She would have rather been executed, a quick flash of pain and then be done with this life, than to agonize in solitary silence day after day, able to hear the occasional voices of those she loved. Those who’d once loved her.

But that was before. Before she’d been violated and lost all honor. The day had been hot beyond reason. She and her twin sister, Maisa had returned from the village and Mari realized her necklace was missing. Panicked, she’d rushed back to find it. Four men had found her alone on the street. They’d beaten her, raped her repeatedly and left her for dead. When she’d been found by her father’s men, she’d been blamed for enticing her attackers. Condemned to the tiny room in the bowels of what once had been her home, she’d lived in solitary confinement, never seeing or speaking to anyone in her family again, except her father. He had come to see her once—to pronounce his judgment of her guilt. She had lived that way six months, then the food and water had stopped. And as her strength waned, she realized her family had gone, had abandoned their home and left her behind, locked in a windowless room with no way out. Then she heard the bombs, the screams of pain, the rapid fire of machine guns, and knew war had come to her village. With every hour that passed, violence marched closer and so did her death.

When the door had splintered open, she had first thought it was all in her mind. She’d dreamed of escaping so often, had fought to get out until her nails were broken and her fingers were bloody, that she actually didn’t believe it when it happened. Not that she’d had the strength to run or even walk out of her cell when the armed soldier had directed his gun at her. He’d shouted for her to lie face down on the floor with her arms behind her back.

She’d just looked at him, tried to raise her hand to defend herself, but couldn’t.

“Jesus!” he said, moving toward her, gun aimed at her head. She’d tried to speak, but only a rasping whisper came. “Help me.”

After a stunned moment of staring, he’d picked her up and carried her from her prison. The house exploded on the heels of their escape, hit by mortar fire, she later learned. Bombs hit the village, wreaking destruction in every direction, yet the man carrying her seemed unperturbed. He ran quickly into the night, strong and confident—a warrior, an enemy who gave her more care than her own family had. He’d stopped at one point and given her water, pressing a wet cloth to her lips and made sucking motions until she realized he meant for her to draw the water into her own mouth. It seemed that he’d carried her for hours and she lost count of the times his deep voice spoke to her over and over again. “Hang in there. You’re going to be fine. Fight for me. Fight to live.”

Mari swore she could hear Neil now with the monster dragging her backward by her hair.
Fight for me. Fight to live
. She could have lunged away from the murderous man, hoping to break his hold. Instead, she whipped around and pushed the man, screaming loudly for help.

He stepped backward, surprised by her attack, and slipped in the nuts, going down as if someone had jerked his legs out from beneath him. Blood covered him from the waist down. She’d obviously done him some damage, but either it wasn’t enough, or he was too far gone in his rage to know it. His hold on her hair loosened and she pulled free.

“Dugar!”

The man called Bean appeared at the storage room entrance.

Mari turned and ran into the room up ahead. She locked the heavy metal door behind her and twisted the dead bolt, breathing hard. It was a bathroom, industrial-type, with two stalls, double sink and no window.

Shit,
she thought, then prayed she’d be forgiven for the curse before petitioning for help. Her legs shook as she scoured for a weapon. The plastic toilet seats were worthless. A plunger to the face would only enrage her attacker more rather than incapacitate him. There wasn’t much else in the room besides the trash can and the…

She picked up the trashcan and slammed it into the mirror, reaping a large, curved, slice of glass similar to a scimitar. A thick wad of paper towels enabled her to hold onto one end. After giving the bathroom another search and turning up a spray bottle of Clorox-like smelling cleaner, she huddled into the farthest corner with her eye on the door.

It wasn’t until her bunched abaya slid to the side and clunked on the tile floor that she realized her cell phone wasn’t in the purse the men had stolen but in her pocket. Her fingers stung as she dug into her pocket then blinked back tears of relief as she stared at the full line of reception bars. 911 came first, those fateful numbers that had changed her world. She’d known nothing about jihad, nothing much about the world outside her village, hadn’t even known there had been an attack on America. Her knowledge of the world and the political/religious agendas fueling global conflict had only come after her rescue. From Neil, those in his circle of friends and the television. Now that Neil was gone, had fate landed her back into the death that she had escaped? For once again, she was imprisoned in a windowless room, and death was banging on her door.

She told the emergency operator where she was located streetwise, but couldn’t remember the name of the food mart. After hanging up, she began to wonder what would happen when the police did come. She hadn’t thought about anything but her grief and the baby since Neil was killed. Was she even allowed to remain in the United States now? Her application for citizenship hadn’t been approved yet. Would the police lock her behind bars and accuse her of wrongdoing? She had hit the man with the door first.

Heart pounding impossibly faster, she searched through her incoming calls, found the one number she swore she would never use and hit the send button.

Chapter Eleven

Atlanta, Georgia

Lauren paced the length of the bathroom. Sam and Sasha, having splattered the entire area from ceiling to floor crevice with wet dog water, sat watching her, their heads moving to the left and then to the right like a cartoon. She’d armed herself with about the only movable object of substance in the bathroom, the ceramic lid to the toilet tank. At first she’d kept it clutched in her arms so she’d have it if someone kicked in the door. But it had become too heavy, so she now had it sitting within easy reach on the vanity. She wished she could laugh at her drowned-rat mug staring back at her in the mirror, but she wasn’t capable of anything more than a cry of fear. Of frustration…or was it desperation?

How about all three to the max. Normal reaction to being attacked. Thank God she had left the boys with Angie. To have had them in the middle of this unbelievable nightmare playing out was—dear God—unfathomable. A man with a gun had come to her house, was shooting at her and throwing tear gas!

What would she have done if the Jack hadn’t shown up?

She’d yet to figure out what to make of him. If Jack’s questions about Bill were connected to Jack’s military position, then why wasn’t Jack in uniform? And was it customary to show up on her doorstep armed with a gun?

And whether she wanted to admit it or not, having Jack thrust his face beneath the shower’s spray had sent a shock of sexual need straight to her core. There was just something about having his electric gaze intent on her that heated her inside and out. Not to mention his chiseled jaw and full mouth. The strength of her hot flash had scared the living daylights out of her. How could she even feel that in the middle of the situation she was in?

Through everything he had been cool, calm and capable with capital Cs. She was very grateful to him, but anything else she had better pull the plug on. She didn’t know who he was or what he wanted from her.

Still, what would have happened to her without him? The shudder that wracked her spine at that thought had everything to do with shock from the intruding violence and nothing to do with her wet state beneath the blowing AC vent.

Her gaze shot upward. Tear gas would get into the central air system and spread everywhere. She quickly climbed onto the sink and stretched to reach the vent’s lever, but couldn’t. What little exposure she’d experienced had been horrible until she’d reached the water and washed away the burn. The thought of suffering more of the same was terrifying. Determined to reach the shut off valve, she moved the wicker clothes hamper over to the sink, planning on hefting it onto the vanity top and lay it on its side for as stepping stool to reach the vent.

But then she spied the towel bar and had a better idea. After wrangling the wooden dowel free, she climbed back on top of the counter, and shoved the vent off with the stick.

Before she could get down, an explosion outside shook the house. Startled, she teetered on disaster and lost the battle. She landed on the wicker hamper in a painful mini-explosion of dried straw and plastic. The ceramic toilet lid she’d placed on the edge of the counter fell to the floor and broke into a dozen pieces. It came within inches of conking her on the head. Stunned, she couldn’t do anything more than blink as Sam and Sasha came over and licked her face, whining their concern.

What in God’s name had happened outside? She didn’t bother to brush off the straw as she rolled out of the pile of wicker rubble and ran to the door. It was all she could do to keep from opening it and just force her ear to the crack. Was Jack all right?

Jack jumped to his feet within seconds of the explosion, his ears ringing. In a glance he saw the black-clad figure escaping toward the golf course, but couldn’t chase him down. What if Lauren had left the bathroom? She’d be a pin-cushion of glass if she been anywhere near the French doors. He had to check on her and the SOB had known it too.

The damage to the patio’s brick and stone was minimal, but the glass-paneled French doors were toast, and anyone unlucky to be within five meters of the blast would be shredded with glass shards.

Jack ran like hell to get inside the house to Lauren, thankful he didn’t find her or the dogs lying in a pool of blood. He banged on the bathroom door and shouted her name. Where in the hell were the cops?

The door swung open immediately and her gaze ran over him from head to toe. It might as well have been her hands for the effect it had on him. His relief to find her unharmed was just as strong.

“What happened?” she asked.

The dogs tried to barrel out of the bathroom, and he blocked their escape with his body, stepping into the doorway. This put him even closer to Lauren and the scent of lavender soap eased over him. She must have washed from head to toe, clothes and all. The see-through effects of her wet T-shirt were covered with a towel hung about her neck. He breathed deep before speaking. “Better to keep the dogs in here while we talk. There’s shattered glass everywhere out there.” He pulled a piece of wicker from her hair and furrowed his brow.

“Don’t ask.” She blew the straw from his fingers. “Just tell me what happened.”

“A flashbang.”

“A flash what? Where’s the gunman?”

“He took off for the greener pastures of the fairway at the moment. A flashbang is non-lethal grenade meant to stun combatants for a few minutes. A bright flash blinds opponents and then a loud explosion messes with the fluid in the ear, disorienting them. I think this guy added an extra umph to the package, because the glass all across the back, basement level of the house is shattered. Let’s get out of here.”

“The police—”

“Aren’t here yet. We’re not waiting on them either. The shooter could come back and your safety is top priority.” He took hold of the dogs’ collars and let the bathroom door fall open. Only then did he see the busted hamper and toilet lid. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Lauren.

“I told you not to ask,” she said, pointing the towel bar at him. She didn’t hold the stick like someone trained in warfare. Still, she managed to make the dowel look threatening. Then again, every smart man knew any weapon in a woman’s hand made it twice as dangerous.

“Follow me.” He avoided the shattered glass by going to the side windows he’d crawled through earlier. Pausing while in the relative safety of the house, he studied Lauren a moment, his mind clearing enough from his initial adrenaline rush to realize he needed a handle on the situation before he went any farther.

Not that he wasn’t already past the point of walking away, he thought, gazing into her troubled blues. He was thinking things he had no business imagining, which was a step away from doing. And he’d killed her husband. He winced beneath the rip of guilt, wondering if he should tell her. A fact like that was a game changer and he’d yet to find out what game they were in. “You want to tell me what your secret admirer is after? He obviously didn’t find it when he trashed your house.”

Lauren stared back at Jack. She didn’t know what to think of the savage emotion that had gripped his features for a moment. Though it had been but an instant, she’d seen beneath his cool mask and the emotions there were turbulent. She took a mental step back, glad she still carried the towel bar. “I don’t know.”