Flashpoint (27 page)

She heard footsteps coming down the stairs—boots on stone—and tucked her phone back into her pocket. She sat down on the bench, knees and ankles together, wiping her eyes one more time.

The window screeched opened and a man addressed her in the local K-stani dialect. She couldn’t see his face.

“I’m sorry. I’m American,” she said. “I don’t speak—”

“Of course not,” he interrupted. “You expect everyone to speak English, wherever you go.”

That wasn’t what she would call the best of starts. She politely shook her head. Everything she did had to be polite. “No, sir. I’m in your country with my husband and my friends—all Americans—who speak your language. What I expected was never to be separated from them.”

“Do you consider your apparel to be appropriate for the streets of Kazabek?”

She was wearing a running bra with her bloodstained pants. It was the type of top that women in America frequently wore when they worked out, or even just worked in the yard.

“I respect your culture and customs, and was dressed quite appropriately,” she told him, “before I used my overshirt as a tourniquet on my friend Vinh Murphy’s leg. I thought keeping him from bleeding to death was more important than keeping my arms covered.”

There had been so much blood, and Murphy’s leg probably wasn’t the worst of his injuries. He’d been burned on his arm and chest, his skin raw.

Get Decker!
she’d shouted at Khalid over the sound of sirens as she’d yanked off her shirt. Deck was back at Rivka’s, with Dave and Sophia. The boy had turned and run as she’d . . .

You’re okay,
she’d told Murphy. Oh, God, he was in such pain.
You’re going to be okay, Vinh. Stay with me.

Didn’t see it,
he’d gasped.
Should’ve seen it coming. . . .

“Surely there was something else you could have used, besides your shirt,” the man now admonished her. “Surely someone else could have helped him.”

Tess’s hands—Murphy’s blood still caked around her fingernails—were trembling. She tucked them now beneath her arms. Don’t cry, don’t cry . . .

“There wasn’t,” she said. “His own shirt was burned onto his body. There was no one else around. Your police were far more interested in harassing me than helping the injured. . . .”

I am warning you for the final time to get inside!

Tess didn’t even look at the police guard.
I’m not leaving him. How’re you doing, Murph?
They were next in line for the ambulance. A paramedic had come by, dispensing morphine, and she could tell from Murphy’s slackening grip on her hand that he was starting to float.

Angelina, don’t leave me,
he mumbled.

She didn’t see it coming, either, when the police guard backhanded her across the jaw. . . .

“What kind of country is this?” Tess demanded now. She was standing up, she realized, her hands tightened in fists at her sides as she glared at that little window.

It closed with a thunk, and Tess breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

But it was short-lived because the key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Shit. This wasn’t good.

She sat back down. Relaxed her hands.

“We have some questions for you,” the man said. He gestured to the open door. “Please.”

She didn’t move. Shit. She could hear Jimmy’s voice chastising her.
For God’s sake, don’t look directly at him. Eyes down, Tess. Come on, you know you’re not going to win a debate with these people.
Eyes down—
shit
, that was hard to do. She closed her eyes instead. “Questions?” she asked.

“About the incident,” he said.

Tess shook her head. “I don’t know anything about . . . anything. I just happened to be there.”

“And yet you
were
there, causing trouble.”

“No,” she said, quickly adding, “sir.”

“The police report says otherwise,” he said. He paused. She didn’t dare look at him. “Shall I have the guards escort you upstairs?”

Out in the hall, she heard weaponry being locked and loaded.
Ca-chunk.

Tess stood up. “No, sir,” she said.

“Please,” he said again with another sweeping gesture. He had such a pleasant voice, a pleasant accent, a pleasant face.

Don’t look at his face.

Head down, eyes lowered—damn it, this was hard to do—Tess went out into the hall and up the stairs, toward the Kazbekistani police interrogation room.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

When the door closed behind Dave, Sophia was completely alone with Lawrence Decker.

She closed her eyes briefly, knowing he was as uncomfortable as she was. Maybe even more so.

Okay. Come on. She could do this. She’d had sex with men she’d despised. Surely she could have a conversation with this one.

She forced a smile, forced herself to look at him. “You probably have things to do—”

He spoke over her. “I got hold of the money we’ll need to buy you safe passage out of here.”

Good thing she was sitting down. As it was, she had to steady herself with both hands on that bale of hay. James Nash had said it would cost
fifty thousand
dollars.

Decker wasn’t done with his mind-blowing news flash. “I had it put into a Swiss bank account—it’ll be easier to transfer from there. We’ll figure out some way to put it into escrow—maybe held by one of the local clerics. That way we don’t pay it until you’re free, and the . . . businessmen we hire to smuggle you into Afghanistan don’t have an opportunity to collect from both us and Bashir.”

She had to ask. “Did you talk the Agency into ponying up the funds to—”

“No, they, uh . . . No.”

Now he was the one who wouldn’t look at her.

“So to whom am I going to owe fifty thousand dollars?” she asked, even though part of her already knew. “And what’s the interest rate?”

“Zero percent,” he said, finally meeting her eyes.

She was gaping at him, she knew it.

“I wasn’t getting much more than that anyway.” He shrugged. “The bank rates suck these days, you know.”

“You had fifty thousand dollars just . . . sitting in the bank?” She couldn’t believe it.

Of course now she’d gone and insulted him. “Yeah, and
you
had over half a million before Bashir stole it.”

“But I ran an import business. That was working capital. You’re . . .” A mercenary? That’s what Sophia had thought. That they were hired by the Agency, but . . . “What
are
you?”

Decker actually laughed at that. “You mean, besides crazy?” His smile erased some of the lines of fatigue on his face.

But Sophia couldn’t smile back at him. She couldn’t even look at him again. She wanted to cover her face with her hands. Who would risk fifty thousand dollars on a stranger who had tried to kill him, a stranger who was obviously little more than a whore?

“Hey,” he said gently. “Just so there’s no question in your mind—I don’t expect anything from you, Sophia. I’m not looking for . . .” He cleared his throat. “If you someday get to the place where you can pay me back—”

She looked up at that. “I will,” she said.

“Well, good.” He nodded, taking her words at face value. Which was amazing, too. “Good.”

Sophia couldn’t help it. She started to cry. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to . . .” Now that she’d started, she might never stop.

“Ah, God,” he said. “Honey, you know, it’s okay to cry. You don’t have to apologize.” His words were gentle, but he didn’t move any closer.

She knew without a doubt that this man was never going to touch her again—never. It was another thing she could add to that long list of all she’d lost.

“Awful people did terrible things to you,” Decker continued softly. “You don’t have to pretend it’s okay anymore. In fact, it’s been my experience that you heal a little faster if you—” But then he stood up and took hold of her arm. “Get down.” His voice was suddenly sharp, his words an order.

Even through her tears, Sophia realized that there was some kind of ruckus out in the yard. Just as he pushed her down behind that bale of hay, the door burst open.

“Sir! Sir! Are you here, sir?”

It was only Khalid, thank goodness.

But it was a quite distraught Khalid. His cheek was badly scraped—it had bled down his neck and stained the collar of his shirt. His clothes were torn and streaked with soot, too. He looked as if he’d been used, rather violently, to clean out a chimney.

He was crying. Poor Decker. Everyone around him today was in tears.

“I’m right here,” he told Khalid, who let out a stream of rapid-fire K-stani.

“Slow down,” Deck said right back at the boy in the same dialect. “Breathe, son. Start back at the beginning. There was a car bomb. Where?”

“City Center.”

“Who’s been hurt?”

“Murphy,” the boy sobbed. “He’s bad. He went in an ambulance to the hospital.”

“Tess?”

“They arrested her,” he told Decker.

The muscle was jumping in his jaw. “Who did? Was she injured?”

“No,” Khalid said. “But she was shouting at them because she wanted to go to the hospital with Murphy, and they wouldn’t let her, and they told her she had to get inside, that she was indecent, and she still wouldn’t let go of Murphy, he was bleeding so badly, so they hit her and they threw her into this truck and I don’t know where they took her but Mr. Schroeder said he’d make sure Murphy got to see the American doctor, and then he’d go find out where they took Tess, and he gave me this”—he handed Murphy’s phone to Deck—“and told me to call you, but I couldn’t get it to work, so I unhooked Marge from the cart and rode over here as fast as I could.”

“Who took Tess?” Decker asked the boy again.

The look on Deck’s face was terrible, and Sophia knew that whoever had taken Tess had better not hurt her or they would not live to see another day.

“Was it Bashir’s men or the police?” he asked.

“I think it was the police, but I don’t know. I’m sorry, sir.” Khalid’s face crumpled.

“That’s all right,” Decker said. “It’s okay. We’ll find out where she is. You did a good job, son. A
good
job. Get something to drink—for yourself and Marge.” He turned to Sophia. “Where would they have taken her? From City Center?”

She wiped her face, her own tears a thing of the past. Why had she been crying? She couldn’t even remember now. “The biggest police station in Kazabek isn’t far from there. Chances are, even if it was one of Bashir’s patrols, they’d bring her there.”

With one quick motion, Decker flipped open the street map. “Show me.”

It took her a moment to find City Center. “Even if she
is
there, you won’t be able to help her. Only her husband will be able to pay the fines and sign the forms for her release. Here.” She pointed to the police station on the map.

She could see that Decker knew what she was saying was true, but he didn’t like it one bit.

“Give me Murphy’s phone,” Sophia told him. “I’ll reach Nash—his number’s programmed in, isn’t it?”

Decker nodded, hesitating only slightly before handing it to her, an apology in his eyes. He’d tried to wipe it clean, but blood had a way of creeping into little crevasses and cracks. She knew that far too well.

She pretended it didn’t bother her as she opened it, and it came to life. “Searching for service . . . ,” it said.

“You’ll be all right here by yourself?” he asked. As if he were going to stay behind if she said no.

“Yes,” she lied, scrolling through Murphy’s electronic phonebook until she found Nash, James. She glanced up at him. “Just—before you go—ask Khalid which hospital Murphy’s been taken to. So I can tell Nash. I’m sure he’ll want to know.”

Deck nodded. He pointed to the phone. “Go up onto the third floor of the house with that. You should be able to get through up there. Don’t use your real name when you speak to him. This is important—there’s no telling who might be listening in.”

She never would have thought of that. “Yes, sir.”

He met her gaze. “It’s
chief
,” he said. “Not
sir
. I wasn’t an officer—I don’t know why they all call me that.”

He was serious. He honestly didn’t know.

But he went out of the barn without another word.

Sophia followed and watched from the shadows just inside the door as he spoke to Khalid, who held a bucket of water so his horse could drink.

Decker looked over at her. “Hospital Abdul-Rasheed.”

She nodded, gave him a brief wave. She’d once thought of him as little—it seemed ridiculous now. He was compact, yes, but he was pure, radiant energy. And there was no such thing as a “little” lightning bolt.

As she watched, he helped Khalid onto the horse, then, using the stone wall that lined Rivka’s yard as something of a gymnastic stepping stone, he leapt up behind the boy, like the hero in a cowboy movie. He reached around Khalid for the reins and, as he dug his heels into the horse’s sides, they went out the gate with a clatter of hooves.

The only thing Decker was missing was a white ten-gallon hat.

Sophia pulled her scarf up, and ducking her head so her face was covered, she scurried across the open yard and into the house, so she could try to call Nash.

Jimmy was on the verge of putting his fist through a wall.

No one he’d spoken to—nurses, doctors, cleanup crew—had seen Tess. And his phone was useless this far south.

Murphy was in intensive care. He was stabilized, but just barely. He’d need extensive and delicate state-of-the-art surgery to save his leg. But he wasn’t going to get it in K-stan.

The American doctor, one of the Doctors without Borders team that had come in following the quake, was harried and impossibly young. There had been no American woman asking about Murphy, not that he’d seen, no. Although he did tell Jimmy that he, like Murphy, was a former Marine.

When? Back when he was freaking twelve?

The doctor took several of his precious minutes to step closer and tell Jimmy that there was a relief aid helicopter coming in very shortly. It had been given special permission to deliver a shipment of desperately needed antibiotics to this hospital. The doctors were not permitted to ship any patients out, but if, in the chaos of this delivery—chaos caused by their additional need for extra haste in light of an approaching sandstorm—if Murphy were to make his way up to the roof . . .

What the doctor was saying was more than clear. Murphy’s best chance of survival lay in getting to a real hospital, outside of this armpit of a country.

Getting him to the roof, however, was going to be a challenge.

And Jimmy still hadn’t found Tess.

He was getting Murphy ready to travel when Decker appeared.

“What are
you
doing here?”

Hell of a greeting. “Nice to see you, too,” Jimmy told him. “Tess called me. Told me Murph was hurt.”

“Tess?” Decker asked. “Not . . .” He stopped himself. “Miles?”

Huh?

Oh, yeah, Miles was what Dave had called Sophia back when she’d been an informant for the CIA. “Why would
she
call me?
How
could she call me?”

“Khalid brought us Murph’s phone. I left it with her.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to Snafu-land, where equipment malfunctions and nothing goes as planned.” Jimmy quickly filled him in about the impending chopper delivery.

“We need to get word to Miles,” Decker said, opening his phone and glancing at it—it was lifeless—before putting it back in his pocket. “She needs to get over here so we can put her on that helo. She can pretend to be Murph’s wife, and . . . Look, James, Khalid’s got his horse out front. I need you to get back to Rivka’s and—”

“Shit, Deck,” Jimmy interrupted him. “I’ve still got to find Tess.”

Decker looked up, frowning slightly. “
Find
her? Tess isn’t out?”

Out? “What?”

“Didn’t you tell me she called you?” Decker said.

“Yeah. She asked me to come here to the hospital, pronto. She was freaking out about Murphy,” Jimmy told him. “But I don’t know where she is. And nobody’s seen her.”

Now the look on Deck’s face was not a good one.

Jimmy felt himself get very still. “You said Tess isn’t out,” he repeated. “Out of what?”

“Of police custody.”

“Police custody?” He managed to speak but his voice cracked like a fourteen-year-old’s. “Are you telling me that Tess is sitting somewhere in some Kazbekistani
prison
?” He didn’t wait for Decker to answer that. Christ, he could not believe this. “What the hell happened?”

“Khalid told me she used her shirt to keep Murphy from bleeding to death, and got taken in for being underdressed.”

“Fuck!
Fuck!
” It was entirely possibly that he was now foaming at the mouth. “If they so much as lay one fucking finger on her—”

“Are you going to be able to get her out?” Decker interrupted sharply. “Because if you’re going to go over there and get yourself arrested, too, that doesn’t do me—or Tess—any good.”

“I’ll get her out. Where is she?” Jimmy asked from between gritted teeth. Yeah, he’d get her out of there, and
then
he’d fucking kill them all.

“Best guess is the main police station,” Decker told him.

“Best
guess
?” God
damn
it . . .

“If you find when you get out there that your phone works,” Decker told him evenly, “call Murphy’s number. Tell her—Miles—to get over here as quickly as possible. I want her on that helo.”

“Where the fuck is the main fucking station?”

Deck gave him the address. It wasn’t far. If he ran, he’d be there in five minutes.

“That’s not where Tess is.”

They both looked up to see Will Schroeder standing in the doorway. The reporter was holding one arm against his chest as if it were broken.

It was only because Schroeder looked as if he were in enough pain that Jimmy didn’t grab him and slam him against the wall. “Where is she?”

“There’s a smaller police station over on Rue de Palms,” Schroeder told them. “Number 68. She’s there.”

“She’s there?” Jimmy asked. “Or you guess she’s there?”

“She’s there,” he repeated. “I’ve been working on a story about . . . well, according to whispers from the locals, sometimes people who go in to number 68 don’t come out. Easy there, Jim, I doubt they’d do that to an American. My guess is they just wanted to make her very hard for us to find. Extend the incarceration period. Because really, all she needs to get free is for her husband to come and pay a fine, sign a paper saying he’ll punish her properly.”