Night Hush (12 page)

The threat, challenge, whatever it was, again zinged in Jace's direction. Heather sighed. Jeremy wasn't the youngest of the Special Forces soldiers of 10
th
Group, but he'd barely hit twenty, if that. And no matter how she'd tried to discourage him, he imagined himself in love with her. He had a baby face and California surfer-­dude bonhomie, but like all Special Forces, he was a highly trained, highly skilled warrior.

And Jace would mop the floor with him.

Jace, bless him, did not laugh at the youngster or patronize him. He simply nodded. “I'd feel the same if I were in your shoes, Wahl. I'm glad I could bring her back safely.” He stepped back, allowing Jeremy access to Heather's bed. She glanced at him with amusement, but he was scrutinizing Jeremy. He'd been about to leave, but had apparently decided Jeremy needed monitoring. Not an entirely bad idea. Maybe Jace's hanging around would discourage Jeremy's crush.

Jeremy pulled the visitor's chair close to the bed and handed Heather the paper bag in his hand. “So your replacement is due to arrive in country in, like, two weeks. Top says you'll probably still be on quarters. We're all supposed to keep you away from the TOC.” Still on bed rest, God help her, restricted to her quarters.

The Tactical Operations Center was the central hub of activity for the Special Forces assigned to al-­Zadr Air Base. At least, she'd thought so. Evidently, Jace's unit operated autonomously. And anonymously. She no longer had the slightest doubt that he belonged to Delta Force. “Tell Top I'll be back as soon as I can.” Master Sergeant Tom Hines, the senior—­or top—­sergeant in Jeremy's company, tended to hover protectively over her. Sometimes she found it amusing; other times, annoying. And always unacceptable.

She opened the paper bag and pulled out the books. The latest Dan Brown, two political thrillers, a book featuring vampires, and the history of the Bataan Death March. The last one made her wince.

“This should be light reading. Was this yours, or Stevie's?”

Jeremy grinned, unabashed. “Mine. It's only that my great-­uncle survived it, and he's coming to visit in a ­couple of months, after I rotate back Stateside. My father sent it to me.”

She set the books aside. “Thank you. I'm stuck here for another day, so this is good.” She looked at Jace, standing by the window, one hand clasping the opposite wrist at his waist in classic bodyguard pose, looking calm and steady and like he never intended to move.

Heather groaned inwardly. While she couldn't deny her attraction to him, she had worked long and hard to be accepted as an equal in this man's army. Even sitting in a hospital bed, she wasn't about to risk losing that, and Jace's sudden territorial attitude brought home the realities his kisses had banished. She didn't need a bodyguard, and having one would undermine the foundation she'd laid. Her men respected her. The women looked up to her. She wasn't about to trade that in for a man, no matter how much his kisses made her want it.

Jeremy chatted on about the various happenings within the company, and Heather smiled and nodded in the right places, while her mind worked on the problem of what to do about Jace. She snuck a glance at him. Feeling her eyes on him, he straightened and came to stand by her bed, suddenly radiating authority . . . and danger.

“Okay, Junior. Visiting hours are over.”

Predictably, Jeremy rose, bristling . . . and once again, they stood toe to toe.

“I don't answer to you. I'll go if the lieutenant wants me to.”

“She wants you to.”

Jeremy got bigger, getting right in Jace's face. Jace was more experienced, harder, more dangerous. Couldn't the younger man see that Jace would tear him in two? Or didn't he care?

Of course he didn't. Why did men have to be so stupid?

“I have every right . . .”

“Shove off, Junior.”

Heather clapped her hands together sharply, as though to disobedient children. “Both of you. Stop it. Stop it now.”

The crack of authority in her voice broke the tension long enough for both of them to look at her. Good.

She pointed toward the door. “I think it's time for you both to go,” she said. Wishing it could be another way didn't change the fact that it couldn't.

Poor Jeremy looked like a kicked puppy. She forced a smile. “Jeremy, thank you for the books. It was a lovely thought, and I will enjoy them. I need to rest, now, though, okay? Please?”

Jeremy nodded, his reluctance clear. “All right. Whatever you say, LT. I gotta get to training, anyway. I'll see you later.” With one more hostile look at Jace, he left.

Jace moved to the chair Jeremy had vacated. “Finally.”

Heather tossed the bag of books onto it before he could sit. She was suddenly angry with him, and equally angry with herself for letting it get this far. “And you can get out, too.”

Jace had the grace to look contrite . . . or maybe the look was contrived, designed to get on her good side. Well, right now, she didn't have one.

“What the hell was all that about? Posturing and puffing like a ­couple of morons. Like I'm going to fall into the winner's bed, just like that?”

His eyes lit. “I'm good with that. As long as it's mine.”

Heather was good with that, too. A sudden vision of them tangled together in his sheets . . . No, wait. She wasn't good with it. The answer was no. The answer had to be no. She fought his magnetic pull, fought her own attraction.

“You and Jeremy, the whole whip-­it-­out-­and-­measure-­it thing. I can't allow that.” She tried for brisk, professional, but her voice came out croaky and glum. “Seeing you two reminded me why I don't do relationships with military men. It never ends well. No matter the temptation, I can't act on it. I won't.”

“That's not even on the table until you've healed,” Jace said.

Heather grabbed a double handful of blanket and tried to strangle it. “Jace. I am and always will be grateful for the rescue. I will always owe you my life. But.” She let her head slump back onto the pillow, feeling a headache coming on.

Jace crossed his arms over his chest, the smile wiped from his face. “I don't want your gratitude. Not like you're implying.”

“I'm not implying anything. I'm telling you flat out. You wouldn't be beating your chest like a caveman if you'd rescued a man. You'd accept his thanks and move on. That's what I need you to do for me.”

Jace took in a lot of air and exhaled slowly. “You're not a man.”

She chose her words with care. “As a woman in a male-­dominated field, I have to work twice as hard to be considered half as good. And a significant percentage of the young, cocky men I work with take one look at me and don't take me seriously as a professional. As a potential girlfriend, sure. But that's not what I want. I'm not a part of this man's army to date. I'm good at what I do, and I intend to be the next female three-­star general.”

“So?”

“So-­oo . . .” She drew out the word. “I don't date soldiers.”

Jace looked displeased.

“Never?”

She shook her head.

“You must not have much of a social life. How long have you been stationed here?”

“Twenty-­two months.”

Jace looked puzzled. “So, what? You're a hermit? That's no good. ­People need ­people.”

Heather lifted her chin. “I have my work. And it's not like I never go out. I just don't date military.”

Jace leaned against the wall, crossing his ankles together. He studied the toe of his boot with apparent fascination. “No exceptions?” A dull red crept over his cheeks.

Heather made an exasperated sound. “This was a classic example of why I don't. You were ready to tear Jeremy apart just for being here. But guess what? I'm not property that needs to be guarded. I don't need your protection, or your jealousy, or your posturing.”

Jace didn't move. He didn't blink. Finally, he nodded.

“You're right. I acted like a jerk. I just . . .”

He stared at the door, and she heard the words he didn't say. He'd been jealous. Of Jeremy. It would have been laughable if any of this was funny.

“Yes.” She pointed at his chest. “I'm just a soldier you brought home. Same as any other. No more, no less.”

Jace lapsed into that peculiar stillness again. Heather could practically see the gears working in his head.

“What?”

One side of his mouth tipped up. He straightened, and came back to her bedside. Leaning down, he used his thumb and forefinger to tilt her chin up. He dropped a hard kiss onto her mouth. “You can bet your ass I didn't kiss Mace when I saved his bacon.”

And he was gone.

 

Chapter Eighteen

September 3. 6:10
P.M.

Ma'ar ye zhad, Azakistan

A
A'IDAH HEARD THE
voices as soon as Shukri opened the front door and preceded her inside. Shukri went immediately into the parlor. Aa'idah sighed, anxious to unwind her hijab, but that would have to wait until their guests departed. She had no desire even to see who pontificated so animatedly to her father, much less join them. All she wanted was a hot cup of tea and maybe to read a book for a while in front of the fireplace.

The day had been long and stressful. Her father had directed her to transfer sums from multiple sources into a company account she believed must belong to the sheik. She did not like it one bit. Her heart ached for the young, impressionable men—­boys, really—­recruited from tiny villages all over Azakistan, particularly from the southwest mountains of Badikh Rawasi Province, butting up against Afghanistan and so poor a few
tenge
a week seemed a fortune. Terror mongers filled their heads with nonsense, winding them up with their bastardization of the peaceful precepts of the Qur'an until they strapped bombs to their bodies and sent their souls to Allah before their time.

Her mother came into the hallway, motioning her to hurry into the kitchen. Aa'idah complied, nose wrinkling. Her mother tended toward the dramatic, with crises around every corner. True to form, she wrung her hands.

“We are running so low on tea,” she said. “I hardly have enough.”

Aa'idah made a soothing gesture. “But you do?” She looked over at the central island, at a tray laden with porcelain teacups and bread. “How many are here?” She noted the pastries on the counter with a sinking feeling. “They are staying for supper?”

“Yes. There are two, plus your father and Shukri, now he's home. Take this in to them.” Her mother poured the tea into the fancy teapot and set it onto the tray. “Go. Do not make your father wait.”

As Aa'idah entered the formal parlor, conversation ceased. Her heart sank. The odious man, Zaahir al-­Farouk, reclined near her father, while the other man, slender and rather pale, sat opposite. Astonishingly, al-­Farouk rose to take the tray from her. His fingers brushed along hers as he smiled warmly into her eyes. It would be rude to react otherwise, so Aa'idah returned the smile, moving to clear magazines from the side table so al-­Farouk could set the tray down.

“My thanks, honored sir,” she said, lowering her eyes modestly. It was expected of her. She hated it, and all the other little so-­called proper behaviors which marked her as lesser.

He nodded and returned to his seat, but Aa'idah sensed him watching her as she poured the tea. A fine trembling seized her. He noticed, for he cupped her hand in his much larger ones as he accepted the teacup. He sipped and gave an approving nod. “It is excellent.”

“My mother will be pleased.”

Zaahir al-­Farouk settled back in his chair and focused back on her father. “You are truly blessed to have such a beautiful daughter, Mahmoud.”

As Aa'idah left the room, she heard him ask, “She is unmarried, correct?” Her palms moistened, and her heart pounded. Please, no. Please, let her father reject him. Surely Allah would not be so cruel to her.

Dared she listen to their conversation?

Telling her mother she wanted to change out of her work clothes, she stepped into the hallway and tiptoed closer to the parlor door. Their voices rang clear. As she listened, her face lost all color.

 

Chapter Nineteen

September 5. 6:03
A.M.

Bachelor Officer Quarters, al-­Zadr Air Force Base, Azakistan

T
HE HAIRS ON
the back of her neck prickled a half second before her doorbell rang. She closed her book and carried it to the door, already knowing who would be waiting on the other side.

“I'm here to liberate you.”

A smile tugged at her lips even before she twisted her head to watch Jace enter her tiny apartment. “Say again?”

“I wasn't sure you'd be awake this early.” Jace crossed to the single window and nudged open her plain white window blinds. “Parking lot. Excellent.”

“I specifically requested it when I first arrived.”

Trying to control her silly grin proved impossible, so Heather tossed the book onto the couch and plopped down next to it. His gaze followed the movement.

“Dan Brown. Good choice.”

“It seemed a little less intense than the Bataan Death March.”

Jace fidgeted with the blinds, pressing the plastic until it bowed, then letting it snap back into place. “Yeah. So. How are you feeling?”

“Almost back to normal. They discharged me five days ago. Sixteen days in the hospital was fifteen days too long, but they were being extra cautious because of all the media attention. I'm restricted to quarters, though. No work, no running. Just sleeping and watching soap operas”

“I'm not surprised. You feel up for a ride?”

Heather sat forward, resting her hands on her thighs near her knees. “Really? Hell, yeah. You're really here to spring me?”

Jace scratched his chin. His gaze moved over her face and body, apparently trying to assess her condition through her nightgown and robe. “Only if you're up to it.”

She pushed herself upright again, trying to hide her winces. “I'm up for it. Let's go. Where are we going?”

Jace chuckled. “Whoa, there. Let's get you dressed first, okay?”

She shot him an amused glance. “I'm even going to shower.” She went into the bedroom and selected a change of clothes, then stepped into the bathroom.

She washed, ignoring the parts of her body that still protested, mostly around her ribs. Once dressed in jeans and a loose top, she grabbed the garment bag that held her newly-­laundered dress green uniform. She'd lost her wallet along with her uniform—­she would
not
dwell on that now—­but the Public Affairs Office had provided her with a new military ID, which she slid into her front pocket.

Jace took the uniform bag from her. “Not sure you'll need this, but it's safer to have it than not.”

“Okay, I'm ready. Let's go,” she said, heading for the door.

He chuckled as he followed her out. “I have a car waiting.”

Sure enough, a silver BMW Z4 was illegally parked just outside the staircase exit. She slid onto butter-­soft leather seats. “Nice wheels. Typically male.”

Jace laughed, a deep-­chested burst of amusement that kicked shivers down her spine. “My other car's a minivan.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Okay, maybe not.” He threw the car into reverse and executed a smooth backward-­facing U-­turn. Impressive.

“So where are we going?” Heather asked, not really caring about the answer. She was out of her quarters and spending time with Jace. A double win.

Jace left the bachelors' parking lot and turned onto Black Saber Road, wending his way north to avoid the senior enlisted housing area. Al-­Zadr sat on more than twenty square miles of land, boasted two runways over seventy-­five hundred feet, and hosted more than sixty-­two hundred soldiers and airmen, plus a small Marine detachment. The Department of Defense provided primary and secondary education for dependent children. An indoor strip mall attached to the Base Exchange boasted a Starbucks, McDonald's, and Quiznos, as well as the flower shop and car-­rental counter. Al-­Zadr was a self-­contained town.

Jace slowed at a light, then turned left onto Constitution Boulevard, which would take them out to the airfields. “We're taking a hop to Ma'ar ye zhad, the capital city. You been?”

­“Couple of times,” she said. “Mostly for training. Um . . . why?”

“Why are we going? Your language skills are needed. There was an accident. One of the embassy's classified-­document couriers is in the hospital there. So you're kind of going to another hospital.” Jace's smile had disappeared, replaced by a look of serious concentration. “It's a twenty-­minute hop. They're holding transport for us.”

“Surely the embassy has interpreters?”

“For Arabic and Kurdish, even Pashtu. You speak Turkish. And you have the Top Secret security clearance they need. Someone up there remembered you from the news and suggested you be brought in.”

“Don't the foreign national couriers have to speak English?”

Jace frowned. “I don't have any more details. Here we are.” He pulled into the airport's parking lot and killed the engine. Twisting in his seat, he faced her, face solemn. “If you're not up for this, you tell me, and I scrub this mission. No questions asked.”

“No, I'm good.” No way was she being shut out of the action. She stiffened her spine and squared her shoulders.

He continued to scrutinize her. “You sure?”

Heather put an end to the conversation by opening the car door and carefully climbing out. “I'm sure.”

Jace hesitated for a long moment, as though he were having second thoughts. Finally, though, he emerged onto the pavement and clicked the car locks. “We're this way.” Instead of entering the airport proper, he led her across the street, to a small fleet of cargo planes. He bypassed the two FedEx planes and the C-­130 cargo transport, and stopped beside a Blackhawk helicopter. The pilot was under the rotor, making a notation on a clipboard. He raised a hand in greeting. “Go on in,” he called. “Wheels up in two.”

Her brow furrowed. “They're going to a lot of trouble. What's the rush?”

He lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “This was all arranged by Shelby Gibson at the State Department, which is inside the US Embassy in Ma'ar ye zhad. It's one of her couriers.”

The side doors were locked back, leaving the interior open. Jace hopped on board, then turned to offer a hand. She considered ignoring it and climbing in herself, but it seemed petty, so she placed her palm in his and took the large step up into the helicopter. They sat in two jump seats at the rear and fastened the over-­the-­shoulder safety belts. In short order, the pilot climbed on board, started the rotors, and lifted into the air. Heather felt a familiar thrill. She'd ridden in helicopters many times, particularly during Air Assault School. She leaned over so that she could see the ground dropping away beneath her feet, absently rubbing her bruised ribs.

The chopping roar of rotor wash and air rushing past made talking nearly impossible, so Heather settled back and watched the world fly past. In about fifteen minutes, they dropped down onto a landing pad at the Kenneth L. Peek Army Air Field. An embassy car and driver waited for them.

A lump of dread settled in Heather's gut. What the hell merited this kind of VIP treatment?

Traffic snarled the streets as workers tried to beat the day's heat. As comparatively small as the capital city was at a mere half a million ­people, it packed too many into too small an area, causing overcrowding. Similar problems existed in the larger cities of Momardhi and Tiqt. Even Eshma, as remote as it was, filled daily as the poor flocked to the cities in search of a better life.

Pedestrians and vehicles alike ignored the embassy logo on the car. Their driver stood on his brakes several times to avoid an accident. The third time he swerved, laying on the horn, the force threw Heather against Jace. Her head landed in the middle of his chest, an arm wedged between them the only thing preventing her from being plastered against him chest to chest.

“Sorry,” she mumbled into his chest. Bracing a hand high on his thigh, she pushed herself upright. The muscles under her hand corded, causing her to peek up at him.

“Don't move on my account,” he murmured. A hard male gleam in his eyes told her where he really wanted her hand. She rolled her eyes. Men. She snatched it back, pushing deeper into her own seat.

“Aww.” He gave her a lopsided grin that made her melt. “Put it back.”

An answering smile tugged on Heather's lips. To quash it, she cleared her throat and rubbed her hands briskly over her knees. To distract him—­and herself—­she focused on their mission.

“Do you work with the State Department often?” she asked. “The helicopter, the car. Is this normal for you?” Or was this a personal favor from the State Department employee, Shelby Gibson? Surely that burning in her chest was from her breakfast of eggs and toast, not from any kind of jealousy.

“We work together from time to time. We're technically not part of any branch of ser­vice, so we get loaned out to do specialized jobs.” Jace's eyes lit. “This time around, we're supporting the Secret Ser­vice for the president's visit.”

“Nice,” she said. “It's good morale for the troops that he's coming for Patriot Day.” It always struck her as strange that the commemoration of the 9/11 horror seemed to center around the military, when none had been involved in the Twin Towers collapse.

“Yeah.” His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Hey, I was thinking . . .”

Uh-­oh. Something about his expression, the tension in his body, his voice . . . Heather did not want to know what he'd been thinking. It was probably close to what she was thinking, and she could not go there with him. “So what brought you into the Army?” she cut in.

He hesitated for a long moment, during which Heather held her breath. The trouble was, she wasn't entirely certain if she was hoping he would take her hint or if he would ignore it. Finally, though, he dipped his chin and settled back onto the seat. “Never wanted to do anything else,” he said. “My grandfather was an Airborne Ranger during the Korean War. I grew up on his stories. I wanted to honor him and have stories of my own to tell. He would have disowned me if I'd joined the Navy, so the SEALs were out.”

Heather made a sound of agreement. The rivalry between Army and Navy stretched back two hundred years.

“Anyway, SEALs are good, but Delta's the best. I made Selection, and I've never looked back.”

“Your family must be proud.”

He looked away, shoulders suddenly tight. “Granddad, you bet. My old man had his hands full with . . . other stuff. My little brother. He, uh, didn't make it. He had substance abuse problems.”

Heather felt herself soften with compassion. He would not welcome her sympathy, though. She didn't know how she knew that; she just did. She kept her tone brisk. “What about your mom?”

“She's the only reason the rest of us survived into adulthood.” Genuine affection laced his tone. “I have two other brothers.”

“Oh, my God,” she said. “Five men and one woman in your house?”

Jace grinned. “My mother kept us in line.”

The car slid to a stop in front of the Prince Nasser Hospital, which turned out to be a modern building of glass and concrete. Heather pushed open her door, more than ready to put an end to the mystery and find out why she was here. Jace leaned forward to speak with the driver, then followed her through automatic doors and to the information desk.

“Morning,” Jace said. “A man was brought in last night. Car accident. What floor's he on? Na'il Fakhoury.”

The man tapped a few keys on his computer. “He is on the critical care ward, sir. Floor seven. The lift is on your right.”

The elevator whispered open as though it, like the helicopter and car, had been waiting for them. It whisked them up.

As soon as she stepped out onto the ward, she saw the Marine guard, positioned with his hands clasped behind his back, stiff as a board. He stood alert, his gaze landing on them as they trekked down the corridor.

He nodded a greeting. “Ma'am. Sir.”

Heather pulled her military ID from her pocket and handed it to the Marine.

“I'm Lieutenant Langstrom. Someone called me up here to talk to an embassy courier?”

He examined her ID and consulted what was clearly a faxed form, probably a list of allowed personnel. Finally, he looked back at her and returned her ID. “Yes, ma'am. Follow me to the prisoner.” He moved far enough to look into the room and give a nod.

Heather's brows pulled down in confusion. “Prisoner?”

The man's grim expression didn't change. “The classified documents pouch was open when the kid was brought in, Lieutenant. With that and his refusal to answer any of our questions, we have reason to believe Na'il Fakhoury is a terrorist.”