Night Hush (2 page)

 

Chapter Two

Date: Unknown

Location: Unknown

S
HE GULPED DOWN
the water, the lukewarm, metallic liquid like manna from heaven. Arms still bound behind her, she shifted on the hard concrete, trying to balance on her knees. Too soon, the tin cup was pulled from her cracked lips. She twisted her head, trying to catch movement from behind her blindfold.

A sliver of dim light. Nothing else.

Did anyone know where she was?

Less than a week ago, she had been merely one of thousands of American soldiers deployed to the dusty, sweaty Azakistani desert. She had two more months before she was due to rotate back Stateside. Heather looked forward to leaving the Air Force base. The high temperatures and long days ground away her energy reserves. As an intelligence officer supporting the 10th Special Forces Group, her every waking hour was dedicated to piecing together bits and pieces of seemingly disparate data, building as clear a picture as possible of what was happening in Azakistan and the surrounding areas. She took her job very seriously. What she did or did not do could cost lives.

But it didn't leave room for anything else.

Someone wrenched her off the ground and onto a hard metal chair.

“Now,” the harsh voice said. His English was surprisingly good. “Why do you ask questions about Omaid al-­Hassid?”

“Who?”

He grabbed her jaw, squeezing.

Heather suspected her interrogator ranked highly among the group of insurgents setting off bombs at cafés and market stalls inside the capital city of Ma'ar ye zhad. Azakistani police didn't seem able to find or stop them. Fear was starting to sap the city's energy. Showing even the slightest knowledge about them could get her killed.

“Why did you visit Sa'id al-­Jabr?”

The current Azakistani prime minister, Uzuri al-­Muhaymin, had lost the support of fundamentalist Muslims. His pro-­Western stance was good for the free-­market economy, good for women's rights, and good for democracy, but there was a growing, festering hatred for all things Western that had many in both the intelligence and the political arenas concerned.

“Who?”

He backhanded her across the face. She crashed onto the concrete floor, landing heavily on her injured shoulder.

Was anyone searching for her?

Heather drifted into her daydream, where pain faded away. A team of SEALs, swooping in to save her. Their commander, handsome and brave, carrying her to safety in his strong arms. Not straining under her five foot ten frame. Blond, she decided, with a Midwesterner's broad face. He would cradle her with care, press his lips to hers. Soothe away her pain, then take her back to al-­Zadr Air Base, far away from this nightmare. They might even enjoy a brief fling, then she would go home. Back to Los Angeles and her family, such as it was.

The fantasy shivered into nothingness.

She was no fainting damsel. Everything she'd earned had been through sheer sweat and grim determination. Heather hadn't needed a man's intercession since she was sixteen, and the boy she'd been crushing on had tried to feel her up in the bathroom hallway of the famous Spago Beverly Hills restaurant. Her daddy had chased him off, then promptly enrolled her in martial arts classes.

No one was coming to save her. She was a soldier in the United States Army, and if she was going to survive this, she must find a way to save herself.

What would be so wrong with a little help, though? Just this once?

“What do you know of Demas Pagonis?” he demanded again.

Nothing, she could have told him. “Who?” No answer at all would just get her hit again, so she forced the word through cracked lips.

His growl sent fear chasing down her spine. She clenched her eyes and waited for the blow. It didn't come; instead, he left her on the floor as he stomped from one end of the cell to the other. Even through her blindfold, she felt his frustration and fury. Heather rested her forehead against the concrete, focusing on breathing. Just breathing.

Three weeks ago, she had been in Eshma, on the southwestern boot of Azakistan, acting as an interpreter for the local civil affairs group. A series of car bombs, strategically placed around the Ubadah Government Center, had taken down the building and left four hundred-­plus victims in its wake; the tragedy overwhelmed the meager medical facilities. Government cars, taxis, even rickshaws transported victims to other area hospitals for treatment. Emergency medical supplies had to be trucked in from around the country. Interpreters calmed family members, located relatives, and either reunited them or consoled them in their grief. Heather, fluent in three languages and conversant in two more, volunteered.

After twelve days of relentless effort, the chaos resolved itself into patches of misery, pain, and despair. Heather helped where she could, but began to turn more and more to her job—­gathering information. She passed among the women, who spoke to her openly, telling her things she never would have heard from male Muslims. Rumors, gossip, complaints, and praise were all noted, cataloged, and filed away for future reference.

“Dirty slut. My shoe is on your head.” Her interrogator kicked her. Heather didn't bother to move or react to the deadly Arabic insult. And she would not—­would
not
—­scream for him.

August 15. 11:42
P.M.

Kongra-­Gel Terrorist Training Site

H
EADQUARTERS I
MMEDIATELY NIXED
the idea of an airstrike to take out the SCUD, a Russian-­made short-­range tactical ballistic missile. The R-­17 SCUD-­b's range made it capable of launching an attack virtually anywhere in the Middle East, which made its possession by the Kongra-­Gel beyond dangerous. But the Special Operations Command refused to authorize it, even for a threat as extreme as the SCUD.

Jace almost threw his satellite phone out into the darkness. He'd pulled his men a hundred yards or so from the insurgents' camp, to the outcropping of rocks and scrub trees he'd designated as their temporary command post. With the perimeter guarded by the Sandman and Mace, it left the rest of them free to communicate without risk of exposure.

“Damn it!” He knew why, though.

So did Archangel, next to him, who parodied his version of the Azakistani government's inflexible stance on permitting the United States to bomb terrorist targets within its borders. “Jayyyce. While the Azakistani government is well aware that US Special Operations forces operate within our borders, and while we completely rely on you doing our dirty work for us with the clandestine and very dangerous missions you carry out that save our asses over and over again, we will not permit a foreign airstrike on our sovereign soil because that might make us look like the weak-­assed dipshits we are.”

Yeah, that about summed it up.

Jace stretched until his joints popped, trying to dispel a growing sense of dread. They hadn't been ordered out, which was good, but they hadn't been given the go-­ahead, either. They remained on hold, which became increasingly dangerous as the sandstorm advanced. It was due to hit just west of their area early the next morning. They'd been warned that if they missed their scheduled extraction, there would be no air support until the storm passed.

The churn in Jace's stomach grew worse. That wasn't even considering the worst-­case scenario—­discovery this far into insurgent-­held territory.

The weapons cache had abruptly become a secondary objective with the arrival of the SCUD. Now headquarters was bogged down with communications from outsiders, and information trickled slowly back to his A-­Team. God damn it! The longer they lingered, the greater the risk of detection. The greater the risk the terrorists might truck in the SCUD's warhead and launch it. And what if they decided to move it, or to use the stack of munitions to attack US soldiers? His Delta Force team had parachuted in to avoid insurgent security checkpoints. If the trucks rolled out, Jace's team would lose them.

How long could it take to get an expert on the line who could tell them how to destroy the SCUD?

Tag came in and nodded.

“What's happening at the camp?” Jace asked. He rotated his head and worked the kinks out of his shoulders.

“Ol' Omaid is getting the royal treatment. Major brownnosing. There's a platoon's worth of men out there now. Thirty-­five, maybe forty. There are five on the SCUD. Mostly it's one big party, with lots of opium pipes being passed around. The guys on the SCUD aren't high. They're alert.”

Alex held a radio headset out to Gabe Morgan. “Okay, Archangel. HQ got someone on the horn that it says can give us a crash course in SCUD disassembly.”

Jace slipped on one headset. Gabe grabbed the other and keyed the mike. “This is Archangel. Who is this? Over.”

“I'm Master Chief Kort Van Roekel from the Naval War College, Monterey. How can I assist? Over.”

The voice in Jace's ear sounded remarkably clear. Delta Force always got the best. This radio was a state-­of-­the-­art satellite transceiver, originally designed as part of a combat search-­and-­rescue system. It gave them crystal-­clear worldwide secure communications.

Archangel glanced at Jace, who read his mind and gave a small nod. Yes, the Naval War College would have been read in on their mission. He could speak freely.

“Greetings from sunny Azakistan, Master Chief. Figuratively speaking, anyway. It's dark now.” Archangel paused. “We have a small problem. We found ourselves a second-­generation SCUD-­b. No warhead, just the missile. We'd rather not leave it in the gentle hands of the locals. How do we destroy it, or at the very least disable it?”

There was a pause.

“Roger that, Archangel. I'm going to presume you have a search on for the payload, so I'll cut to the chase. So I know how much detail to go into, what's your general knowledge level on short-­range ballistic missiles? Over.”

Archangel laughed. “Enough to recognize one.”

That wasn't strictly true. Delta operators trained in all sorts of weapons systems, especially ones that had been around as long as the SCUD family had been. Still, if Jace had taught his team anything in his time in SpecOps, it was that it paid to listen.

Van Roekel's voice was grave. “All right, then, listen up.” Archangel grabbed his notebook and started writing. “What you need to know up front is it's NBC capable. Nuclear, biological, and chemical, gentlemen. It has a range of three hundred kilometers, although the Iranians have reportedly modified some for a greater range.” Van Roekel's voice had the rolling cadence of a longtime military trainer. “It can be launched from any transporter-­erector launcher, but usually by a Russian-­made artillery truck designated Uragan.” He gave Archangel its length, width, and cab height. The size of it was breathtaking. Jace knew; he'd climbed all over one early in his Army career. “Will you recognize one if you see it?”

“Affirmative, Master Chief. Big-­ass truck.”

There was a snort from the other end. “The probability it has a nuke is pretty small, but you have to consider the possibility. The system isn't all that accurate. Whoever has it is probably looking for a large target. A troop staging area, military installation, airport. Maybe an industrial complex. Any idea where it's headed?”

Archangel shook his head. “Negative.”

“Okay. The missile will take an hour, maybe as much as ninety minutes, to finish its launch sequence. With me so far?”

“All the way. Give me the bad news.”

The chief took in a breath. “Now it gets complicated. So many countries have modified and improved the SCUD family that there are going to be variables you'll have to see firsthand to know. The missile uses an unsophisticated inertial guidance system, three gyroscopes controlling four fins. The fins only fire for the first minute of climb, hence the lousy accuracy. With me?”

“Yeah, I got you. How do I destroy it? Bottom-­line it for me, Master Chief.”

The line was silent for a few seconds. “An F-­15 or A-­10 with a thousand-­pound bomb will take care of it, Archangel. But you're talking to me, so I'm guessing that's not happening.”

Archangel rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You'd be guessing right. What are our options?”

Jace found himself holding his breath, praying that the next words he heard were not, “You don't have a snowball's chance in hell.”

“All right,” said Van Roekel. “Let's talk specifics on flight control.”

Archangel continued to take notes while the man talked.

 

Chapter Three

Date: Unknown

Location: Unknown

H
E
ATHER HEARD HIS
boots stamping back up the hallway. He snarled at his subordinates as he moved away, but she couldn't make out the words. Wasn't trying to. She simply sagged against the wall, her blindfold blocking out all but a shadow of light. Her continued silence infuriated him, and her body bore the proof of his temper. Her bloody wrists pulled against the rope still binding them, but she was, for the moment, beyond caring.

She didn't know how long she drifted in a haze of pain. Minutes, hours? She tried to stand, but her legs refused to cooperate. Her cramping calves and buttocks burned like fire from the caning. When the beatings started, she'd twisted away from the blows. He simply aimed instead at her vulnerable breasts and belly. Her cries, even muffled by the gag, pleased him.

He was growing more desperate; she could feel it. The longer she held out against his interrogation, the more urgent his questions became and the more punishing his abuse. Why had she been in Eshma? What did she know of Demas Pagonis? Who had she told about the lab? About the Kongra-­Gel? About the planned attack?

Heather knew too little to be a threat to their plans. She did not know Demas Pagonis. Her tormentor had been one of three men she'd overheard at an open-­air market in Eshma, alluding to some sort of attack. Her visit to the Eshma chief of police to report the conversation had convinced her that someone in his office—­possibly the chief himself—­was in collusion with those three men. The very next day, her military convoy had been attacked, and her tormentor had killed her friends, choked her into unconsciousness, and brought her here.

He wouldn't believe her, though, even if she offered up information. Her silence kept her alive. So she would remain silent.

Her stomach rebelled. It didn't matter. She hadn't eaten in so long there was nothing left to puke up, but even the dry heaves further exhausted her.

She tried again to get her feet under her, and this time succeeded. Stretching up on her toes, she lifted her arms off the crude hook and slid sideways down the rough stone to half sit, half lie against the wall.

Did anyone know she had survived the ambush? Were they looking for her? Where was her handsome rescuer?

She snorted inwardly. Since when had life given her anything she hadn't worked her ass off to get? She had no one to rely on but herself.

For days, the large man had interrogated her. Tortured her. Taunted her. Degraded her. Beat her. He hadn't raped her. At least not yet. Every time, he told her that when the sheik arrived, she would be punished like the infidel she was, then killed.

Heather believed him.

She had no idea who this sheik was, had made no progress discovering his identity. In fact, she had been struck so hard for asking, her head had bounced off the wall.

The sound of footsteps outside her prison startled her. Why had he returned? The door to her cell rattled an instant before heavy bootheels scraped against the floor, and he entered. His scent hit her nostrils and her head came up, straining to see through the cloth tied over her eyes. She rose to her feet, keeping the wall at her back. Dizziness swamped her, and her head pounded. She had to fight to keep from dry-­heaving again.

The man's hated voice spoke. “The sheik has arrived. He will be ready for you shortly. But first, you must be as clean as a filthy infidel can be. You are dog shit under his boots, and your stench would offend him.” Hands reached out to grab her, one on each arm. She tried to pull free, but she was weak. So weak. He'd made sure of it.

Her captors dragged her down a corridor and out into the fresh night air. She inhaled it greedily as a guard shoved her across soft ground and into another building. No, not a building. She had been inside enough tents during her time in the Army to recognize the dusty smell of canvas. The sheik's tent? After a few moments, they jerked her to a halt.

The torn and filthy remnants of her uniform were shredded and yanked from her body. The men laughed and jeered, their hands rough. She couldn't help herself; she cringed away from them like a trapped animal.

She heard the man's voice. “Do it,” he ordered someone. Heather steeled herself, braced for a blow. Not knowing, not being able to see, made it so much worse. But, to her utter surprise, the cloth was cut away from her head. Sudden light, after so many hours of darkness, blinded her painfully, and she shut her eyes as hard as she could.

Wetness touched her body, along with softer hands. Gentle hands. A woman's hands. She was being washed. Terror flooded her soul.

She opened her eyes a slit and tried to check out the room. Her vision blurred, her eyes tearing from the sudden change. She blinked several times, trying to bring the room into focus. There were two guards. Two, right? Or four. She could hear them across the room discussing what they would do to her, later, after the sheik was through with her. When it was their turn. God help her.

She would survive it. She
would.

Pushing down the terror, or at least trying to, Heather blinked again. Her blurry gaze found, unerringly, the huge man, the brutal one, who leaned against the doorjamb. He watched her without moving, without blinking. The white strip of tape across the bridge of his nose contrasted with his dark skin. Hatred and fear warred within her.

Her tormentor's eyes burned hot with lust and hatred. They raked her body. His stare slammed into her like a physical blow, and again she had to fight not to vomit. It just made her tremble with weakness. Memories of his hands on her body warred with the fresh terror of knowing, finally, the waiting was over. For better or worse. He would brutalize her. He wanted to; it was there in his eyes. The sheik, the only reason he had not already raped her, waited for her elsewhere in the compound.

The two women bathing her were embarrassingly thorough. They scrubbed her abrasions and scrapes. Many of them started seeping blood again. One
tsked
in sympathy over her wrists, wiping them as gently as she could around the ropes. Heather barely restrained a scream. They pushed her thighs apart and cleaned her there, too. Her eyes darted to the man, face heating. He had straightened from his slouch against the door, watching intently. Heather had no trouble reading his expression. He wanted her to protest, to struggle against the women. That would be his excuse to intervene, to force her legs apart. She made herself be still, not fight. Her breath shuddered in and out. All right. All right. Focus. Think!

They scrubbed her hair clean, rinsing it by dumping a bucket of water over her head. She choked as water rushed into her nose, coughing and blinking to clear her vision.

At last, the bath was over. The women dabbed perfume on her raw wrists. It stung. They patted more behind her ears and knees, which started the guards arguing again.

“Why prepare her like a woman?” one demanded.

The other sneered. “She is an infidel and not worthy of such respect.”

The older woman answered calmly. “I follow the instructions of the sheik, who does not wish to foul himself with the woman's filth. She is, therefore, to be as clean as a pig can be.”

The arguing stopped.

Wouldn't foul himself. Would only rape her. The sickness of it started her shivering again. Heather sagged against the thick canvas panel. Make them think she was too weak to resist.

Maybe she was.

“I cannot dress her while she is tied.”

The big man snarled and threatened, but, in the end, angrily gave his permission for a guard to slice through the rope binding her wrists.

The knife burned against her raw skin. When the rope parted, the guard yanked it off, and a scream ripped from Heather's throat as the skin embedded in the rope fibers tore free. She collapsed to the floor, her legs unable to hold her.

A long moment later, the agony eased somewhat. The younger woman knelt beside her, sympathy clear on her face. She held a cup to Heather's mouth. The fresh, clean water tasted like heaven. It took all Heather's willpower not to gulp greedily. As it was, she had to stop after a few careful swallows. It churned in her empty stomach, threatening to come back up. The woman—­hardly more than a girl, really—­waited patiently, allowing her to sip again. The man barked impatiently. The sheik didn't care if she was healthy or not. She could spread her legs for him just as well either way.

When she was clean, dry, and dressed in a burkha, the man jerked his head in the direction of the door. The women hurried out. Each guard took an arm, forcing her back out the canvas doorway. Instead of turning left toward her cell, they turned her right. Heather struggled to stay on her feet. Thankfully, it was dark. Her eyes still burned. The younger guard pulled her into a small room, and she knew immediately these must be the sheik's quarters. Tapestries and hangings covered the walls and floors. Not sumptuous by any means, it was nevertheless a far cry from the austerity of the rest of the compound. The guard pushed her through a sitting room and into the bedroom beyond. Unlike her own rusty cot, this room had a real bed. The full size seemed huge to her after the past few days.

“Sit there,” the older guard snapped, pointing to a spot near the sheik's bed. He moved his finger up to the younger guard and glared. “Beat her and tie her to the bed if she gives you any trouble.”