Night Hush (26 page)

 

Chapter Forty-­Three

J
ACE GRINN
ED AT HER.
He actually
grinned.
What was wrong with him?

“We're going to get loose, and we're going to stop them,” he told her, utter confidence in his tone. He shifted his knees so his hip was almost in her lap. “Yes, I'm happy to see you, but that really is a knife in my pocket. Would you mind getting it, sweetheart?”

A few feet away, Trevor turned a laugh into a soft cough. Heather risked a peek at Zaahir. He stood in the doorway of the storage area, hands on his hips, Jace's Sig Sauer stuck into his belt, his own weapon in his hand. He stared at them a moment and turned away.

Jace shielded her actions with his body. Heather twisted her torso as far as she could, working her fingers into his front jeans pocket.

Um. That was
not
his knife.

Despite herself, heat rose in her cheeks.

“Ooh, baby,” he murmured. Teasing her. Helping to steady her.

She had freaked when Zaahir thrust his pistol against her forehead and cocked it. She forgot to breathe, knowing she would die. Her knees shook and turned to water. She had not fallen, though. Somehow, she'd stiffened her spine and faced him squarely. And he had backhanded her, knocking her to the cement.

“You are responsible for the destruction of my camp,” he snarled. “The death of my men.” He kicked her. “Shooting you is too easy. You represent the corruption of your kind, spreading your pollution and filth in my country. Therefore, you will witness my assault against you who offend Allah.” He'd hauled her to her feet by her hair and slammed her against the wall.

By increments, she was able to work the penknife out of Jace's pocket. Just as she pulled it free, though, hard footsteps behind her alerted her. She dropped the knife, praying no one heard the faint clatter as it hit the concrete. Shifting her hip to hide it, she threw her head back to glare at Zaahir. He glowered down at her, fingering the still-­healing nose Heather had broken during the convoy ambush.

“It is your fault we lost our missile, whore. But it does not matter. You and your friends will die here, victims of your own government's lies and deceit.”

Heather spat at him. “Go fuck yourself, you son of shit.” It felt good to curse at him, tied up or not. For some reason, he had fixated on her as the architect of his troubles. His face darkened even more. He pulled back his foot to kick her, and Jace exploded into action. Despite his tied hands, he delivered a side kick that smashed into Zaahir's shin, missing his knee by a millimeter. The man lurched back, swearing.

Zaahir reached into his back pocket and withdrew a black spring baton. With a snap of his wrist, the steel cylinder extended to more than a foot. The terrorist leader whipped it through the air once and circled around to Jace. He didn't bother with finesse. He simply lunged at Jace, striking him with the spring baton. The whipping effect built momentum as the steel slewed through the air, giving it maximum striking power. Maximum ability to hurt. Jace twisted, taking the blow on his shoulder and upper back. He coiled, shooting a leg toward Zaahir's midsection. The terrorist cell leader swung the baton down, catching Jace's calf. Jace hopped straight up, swishing his hands under his legs and landing lightly, hands now in front of him. Zaahir struck again, even as Heather shrieked at him and Trevor struggled to his feet.

Zaahir swiveled his head toward Trevor. Two steps and a solid kick, and Trevor was flung backwards. He hit the surface of the water and sank beneath it. Zaahir drew his VM-­17 pistol and fired.

A red stain blossomed on the green surface of the water.

Heather screamed her fear and rage. Zaahir merely laughed at her, turning the pistol to Jace. Heather scrambled forward, trying as best she could to shield him with her own body, while at the same time Jace gripped her arm, trying to push her clear.

“Zaahir, where should I put the bomb?”

To Heather's intense relief, Zaahir hesitated, and finally turned to Rami with a snort of annoyance. He examined the interior, pointing across the bloody water to the far eastern wall. Two sets of twelve-­foot windows, with two more sets higher up on the wall, overlooked the outside pool area. Heather could hear, faintly, splashing and screams of laughter.

“There. The blast will push the gas outward, for maximum effect.”

Without warning, he spun, whipping the baton around and smashing it against Jace's temple. Who dropped without a sound.

Heather uttered a guttural shriek of despair. “Jace!” She fought her bonds like a wild woman, but only succeeded in digging the thin twine deep into her skin.

Zaahir shoved his handgun into the back of his pants and twisted the baton, collapsing it. Pushing it into his back pocket, he withdrew an Afghan folding knife. Heather shrank back as he loomed over her. Zaahir's thin lips twisted up, enjoying her fear. With one strong stroke, he cut the twine attaching her wrists. Grabbing her, he dragged her to her feet.

“Now you will witness our great strike, deep in the heart of the infidel cowards.” He strode toward the storage area, ruthlessly yanking Heather along behind him. She twisted around, trying to see Jace or Trevor, and stumbled. The concrete cracked against her bones as she lost her balance and fell to her knees. She repressed the yelp of pain. She would not give the bastard the satisfaction.

“You're the coward,” she spat instead. “Killing innocent women and children? That doesn't make you some brave freedom fighter. It just makes you a murderer.”

Zaahir gripped her by the throat and forcibly lifted her to her feet, squeezing cruelly. Black spots danced in front of her eyes as she strained for air. “
Al-­jihad fi sabil Allah
. I strive in the way of Allah. Jihad is my sacred duty. I have sworn my life to the struggle, to protect Islam against invaders, unbelievers, and dissenters who renounce the authority of Islam.”

Heather tried to force words past the constriction of his fingers. “Butcher.”

He let her drop, digging his fingers into her arms instead as he turned her and pushed her into the storage area and beyond. “You are a woman and unworthy,” he said. “You will bear witness to my success, then you will die.” He shoved her down the dark hallway to the bright spill of light at the door to the loading bay. Heather blinked several times to clear her vision. Someone had maneuvered the oil truck sideways, so it was parked parallel to the loading platform. Shukri now struggled to connect a long hose to the back valve of the tanker.

She shivered. They had failed. Trevor was dead, and Jace probably was, too. She was helpless to stop these men from mixing together the lethal combination of poisonous gases and slaughtering dozens, if not hundreds. Bile burned at the back of her throat.

She, too, would be dead, soon.

Maybe Jace had just been knocked unconscious. It had been a fearsome blow, but Heather clung to hope anyway. How cruel an irony it was, to have found him, only to lose him a few short weeks later. Jace, the formidable warrior, the tender confidant . . . the man she loved, with all her heart.

She choked back tears.

Shukri still wrestled with the hose connectors. Zaahir barked, “What's taking so long?”

Zaahir yanked Heather with him as he went to investigate. The valve was corroded with age, and he couldn't get a solid seal. The cell leader shoved Heather to the ground. Putting some muscle into it, Zaahir finally locked the valve and the hose together.

Rami appeared on the loading dock. “I placed the bomb, Zaahir.”

“Help Shukri.”

Rami took the front end, while Shukri hefted the more central portion onto his shoulder. Together, they began to carry the hose toward the pool. And the chlorine.

 

Chapter Forty-­Four

“R
ISE A
ND SHINE,
Sleeping Beauty.”

Something slapped his cheek. Pain exploded in his skull. He struck out, blindly, instinctively. Someone caught hold of his wrist and held it immobile.

“Easy there, mate.”

Jace forced his eyes open. He lay half on his side, with Trevor kneeling next to him, sawing on the ropes with Jace's penknife.

“You kiss me, and I'm gonna kick your ass,” he muttered.

Trevor's eyes twinkled. The twine parted, and Jace sat up. Too fast. Light exploded behind his eyes, and he sagged. Trevor slipped an arm around his shoulders.

“All right?” he asked.

Jace nodded. Flexing various muscles, he tried to determine how much damage the bastard's steel baton had inflicted. Nothing seemed to be broken, which was a miracle. Mostly, he felt like he'd gotten the shit stomped out of him.

He sat up again, albeit more slowly, and tried his legs. With Trevor's help, he stood. “You were shot.”

“Bugger just creased my shoulder.” Blood dripped steadily down his arm, though. Jace gestured for his penknife, and used it to hack a strip off his T-­shirt. The wound was high on Trevor's arm; tying the strip of material tightly around Trevor's bicep would at least slow the bleeding. Trevor nodded his thanks.

“We've got work to do. All right with that, are you?”

Jace turned toward the door. “I'll kill the bastard if he's hurt her.”

Trevor stepped in front of him, a hand on his chest. Jace narrowed his eyes, but the Brit didn't budge. “We have to stop the explosion. That has to be our first priority. Agreed?”

Jace didn't like it. Not one bit. Everything in him screamed to get to her side. Still, he knew Trevor was right. He nodded, exhaling hard. “Yeah.”

He heard footsteps in the other room at the same time Trevor did. As one, they shifted to the door, one on either side of it. Rami stepped through the doorway, dragging a hose that had to be three feet in diameter.

Jace didn't hesitate.

Two steps, a hand snaked across the terrorist's throat and another at the back of his neck. An efficient twist. The terrorist dropped without a sound. Jace snatched the man's Uzi from his dead fingers.

Trevor squatted to examine the hose assembly. “I need to cap this,” he told Jace. “Or block it off somehow. And disarm the bomb. You go.”

Jace popped the magazine, checked the ammunition, and slammed it home again. A quick peek—­there was a round in the chamber—­and he dashed through the door. The hallway beyond the storage room was still dark and empty. Uzi raised to his shoulder, Jace advanced, body taut, knees bent, muzzle following the line of his body as he hunted for a target.

He stopped just inside the hallway leading to the loading bay, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the bright sunlight. Shukri hefted the wide hose on his shoulder, obviously trying to help pull it all the way down to the pool. His eyes bulged out of their sockets at the sight of the fearsome warrior facing him. He dropped the hose to reach for his rifle.

Jace shot him. Two to the body, one to the head.

The noise rang in the small space, and with his head still throbbing from Zaahir's beating, he doubled over, grunting in pain. Blood spurted from the terrorist's wounds as he jerked backwards, fell over, and lay still. Jace spared a fraction of a thought for Aa'idah. There had been no way to save her brother.

He stepped into the loading bay, weapon up and searching for another target. Zaahir al-­Farouk stood near the stairs, looming over Heather, who was on the ground at his feet. Black eyes glittered with hatred as he aimed his deadly handgun at Jace. The two locked gazes for a long moment; one of those seconds ticking away into eternity. Jace knew he could not swing the Uzi to its new target fast enough. Not before Zaahir squeezed the trigger. He had a moment of regret for his missed opportunity with Heather, even as his body dove for cover because he didn't know how to admit defeat.

Heather launched upward, slamming into Zaahir. He stumbled back, his shot pinging harmlessly off the concrete. She flew at Zaahir, using the palm of her hand to smash under his chin, using her elbows, her knees to pummel him. Zaahir retreated, arms up to shield his face. Heather leapt for the gun, still in his hand.

Zaahir swung the butt of the pistol across his body, knocking her arm aside. His other fist smashed into the side of her head. Heather faltered. Zaahir grabbed her by the front of her shirt.

Jace shook his head to clear it. No, that wasn't ringing in his ears. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. The cavalry.

His brave Heather reached across Zaahir's fist, tangled in her collar, and twisted his fingers so he was forced to release her, then pressed her thumbs down along the back of his hand. The wrist lock brought Zaahir to his knees with a snarl of outrage. Quick as a snake, he wrapped his forearm under her knee and yanked. She tumbled to the ground. He was on her in a flash, his gun jammed up under her chin, forcing her head back.

Jace raced toward them, shouting, fearing he was too slow, too late, knowing part of him would die if Zaahir pulled the trigger. With no finesse, with no thought other than to get him off Heather, he slammed into Zaahir like a linebacker.

The handgun discharged next to his ear, deafening him. He rolled over Zaahir and was on his feet in a flash. Zaahir rocketed up; Jace kicked the wrist holding the gun, and it skittered across the concrete. The terrorist cell leader lunged for him, wrapping both arms around his waist and shoving him back. Jace brought his elbow down between the other man's shoulder blades; he responded by slamming his fist into Jace's gut once, twice . . . Jace twisted out of Zaahir's hold and aimed a side kick at the man's knee. He missed but pivoted to kick again, higher, landing his blow straight to the asshole's family jewels. He let his rage wash over him like a cleansing river, his focus sharp and his goal clear: to decimate the man who put his hands on Heather and fear in her eyes.

Zaahir staggered backwards, bending double. But oh, holy hell . . . he wasn't just bending; he was also reaching, into the waistband of his pants. For Jace's own Sig Sauer. Jace leapt for him. Just as he reached the terrorist, he heard the gunshot.

The pain was immediate and overwhelming. Red blossomed across his chest. He reached for the wound with some idea of applying pressure, only to find his arms wouldn't respond. He sank to his knees, struggling to stay conscious, gaze instinctively searching for Heather. Where was she? Was she safe?

He found her gaping in horror in his direction. Don't worry about it, he wanted to say. I'll be fine. But his vocal cords weren't working, either. I love you, he thought. Maybe she knew. He wanted her to know.

Zaahir stepped into view, blocking Heather from his sight. That pissed him off. If he was going to kick it, her beautiful face was the last thing he wanted to see. Jace reached for the Sig, still clutched in Zaahir's evil hands, but the terrorist squeezed the trigger.