Night Hush (4 page)

 

Chapter Six

August 16. 1:41
A.M.

Somewhere in Sari Daru Province, Azakistan

U
NDER NORMA
L CIRCUMSTANCES,
Jace would not doubt their ability to evade the enemy soldiers milling in the dark. By the time they organized and began to search in earnest, the A-­Team would be safely on board a bird and flying back to Camp Delta.

Still. The terrorists could get lucky. It had happened before.

Before his mind could conjure up an image of his former teammate Dougie's bloodied corpse, he forced himself back into the here and now. Once they left the burning camp behind, he and Archangel snapped their night vision goggles into place.

“We wanna know what they were searching for inside the camp? No way did they make us.” Archangel jerked a thumb back toward camp.

“Not our business,” Jace answered. “We disabled the SCUD and blew the munitions. Our job now is to get to the landing zone before our ride goes home for dinner.”

Archangel looked like he wanted to argue, but finally just shook his head and shouldered his rucksack. In silence, they moved out toward their predesignated rally point. Once they linked up with the rest of their team, who would take a different route to throw off any pursuers, they would hoof it back to the landing zone and meet their extraction helicopter.

Despite his answer to Archangel, the sudden furor in the camp tickled at the back of his skull. His Arabic was barely adequate. Earlier, the guards had gossiped about al-­Hassid's latest . . . pig. Maybe. Most Muslims did not eat pork. Maybe he'd gotten the translation wrong. Yes, in retrospect, he probably had the wrong noun; the terrorists later had speculated when it, or a pincushion, would be gifted to them. They probably would not be as excited about a pincushion. Maybe it was pork, after all. Too bad he hadn't seen a bunch of mangy terrorists chasing around after a pig; that would have been amusing.

Thanks to whatever put the terrorists into a tizzy, he could not stick around and watch the detonations, which annoyed him. He loved a good explosion.

Archangel took up the rear, guarding their six. They reached the designated meeting spot and immediately secured it. They settled in to wait for the rest of the team. It would take the yokels a while to get organized enough to search for whoever blew up their precious, newly-­acquired munitions.

It therefore seemed only fair to Jace, who was already pissed his flawless op had not gone flawlessly, that one guard had miraculously, or through blind, pig-­shit luck, followed them from the compound. True, he floundered through the sparse trees like a blind hippopotamus, but he came straight at them.

Jace's team appeared around him, part of the shadows, and melted completely into the darkness at his hand signal. They hadn't followed a trail. How could this guy have found them? The moon barely glimmered, and he didn't appear to wear night vision goggles. Jace saw that the man carried the standard-­issue AK-­47. He winced in sympathy as the man whacked his head against a low branch. He fell over backwards and lay still for a moment. Jace let himself hope the man had passed out. No such luck. He crawled to his feet again, holding his head. It might have been funny if they didn't have a chopper to catch.

The man hobbled forward again. How in hell had he followed them while high? No way, Jace knew. The guy was probably lost, looking for the compound. He grimaced again as the man bumbled toward his spot. The poor sap would pass within inches of him. With Jace's luck, he'd stop to take a leak on his head.

The man swayed again as he came near Jace's patch of earth. And looked right at him.

H
EATHER PUT A
hand to her throbbing skull. Her concussion roared back to life, vision going blurry and her concentration shot. The starvation and beatings had taken their toll; her ribs ached, breathing hurt, and something in her abdomen burned. That worried her more than anything else. The grapefruit-­sized bruise on her left side and the throbbing made her afraid she might have some internal injuries. And between the last log she'd tripped over and the branch that had nearly brained her, her body had become a churn of conflicting miseries. She was stumbling over the landscape, unable to see well, relying on instinct to get her away from the pursuit coming from the compound.

Something made her stop. She peered at the deep shadows, nostrils flaring to catch a scent of the danger she sensed all around her. There didn't seem to be anything there, but she trusted her gut. Backing away, she turned to run.

A muttered curse and a change in air pressure were her only warnings before a heavy weight smashed into her, tripping her and slamming her to the ground. She smacked down forcefully, head bouncing off the hard-­packed earth, breath leaving her lungs in a squeaky
whoosh.
Her attacker rode her down, crushing her ability to roll away, his breath hot on her neck. A wave of dizziness washed over her from the blow to her head, her injuries exploding to painful life from the force of the impact.

Before she could recover, her assailant wrapped a forearm under her neck, ruthlessly yanking her head back, exposing her throat. She whimpered helplessly as she felt the cold edge of steel against her throat. Heather closed her eyes, unable to suppress another squeaky noise as she prepared to feel her life's blood leave her.

The blade shivered against her skin, but the pain didn't come. And still didn't come. Finally, the tension against her jugular lessened.

The weight on her back shifted. Heather felt a face push into her neck and heard an inhale. He was smelling her. A flash of hope opened her eyes. Her bath! Beneath Ahmed's filthy uniform, her attacker smelled the sweeter scent of perfume and soap, and it confused him.

He shifted over her, his much larger frame enveloping her. Before he could discount what his senses were telling him, she began to babble in Arabic.

“Please don't kill me! Please don't kill me! I'm not a soldier. I stole this uniform. I'm a woman. I didn't belong in that camp.” Blind panic pushed the plea from her throat. She was speaking so quickly that her words ran together, but she didn't care.

Finally,
finally,
the cold steel left her throat. His forearm, still pulling her head back at an awkward angle, tightened, cutting off her breath. His other hand felt along her chest, finding her unbound breasts through the uniform top she wore. The hand jerked away, hesitated, then fumbled lower, cupping her pubis. The man snatched his fingers away like they'd been lit on fire.

“You gonna take 'im to the prom? Let's go, Jace.” A second man had come back and now squatted beside them.

“Holy fuck!” the man on top of her breathed.

“What is it?” the second man asked. “We gotta go.”

English! They were speaking English! As she opened her mouth to speak, to reveal herself, to beg for help, the man clamped a hard hand over her jaw and shifted back onto his knees, pulling her up with him until her back rested against his front. On her knees, bent back at an awkward angle, she could not gain any leverage. But she wasn't fighting to get away. She struggled to drag air into her lungs past his hand. Spots began to appear in front of her eyes. Panic flared as life-­giving air eluded her. Her desperate movements against the man's chest grew fainter as her strength waned. As she struggled, little whimpering noises tore from the back of her throat.

“Hold still,” he snapped in Arabic. “Settle down, now. I'll let my hand up, but you need to settle down.” He switched to English, head twisting to look at his teammate. “I think we found the woman ol' Omaid's so pissed about losing,” he said.

The other voice was startled. “Woman?”

He eased his hold on her mouth and throat, and she fell to her hands and knees, great huge rasping gulps of air pulling into her lungs as fast as she could.

“Slow down,” the man said. “You'll hyperventilate.”

Heather barely heard him through the roaring in her ears. Between her concussion and the choke hold he'd put her in, she struggled just to stay conscious. She stayed on all fours, forearms resting in the dirt and her head on the backs of her hands.

Someone else materialized out of the blackness. “Tick tock, boss.”

Heather froze along with everyone else as she heard movement through the woods. Shit. The terrorists had rallied and were now searching for her. And for these men, presumably the ones who'd blown up the camp.

Large male hands touched her head scarf, then withdrew. “Hey,” the man said. “You okay?”

Without these men, she was as good as caught. Before she could take a breath to beg, she heard the sweetest words she could imagine.

“We'll take her with us.”

“T
HE FUCK?”
S
ANDMA
N
expressed it for all of them. “You nuts, Jace? She'll slow us way down. She's just some whore. Cut her loose.”

Jace felt a flare of anger at his teammate. But the Sandman couldn't know what Jace did. This woman was no Azakistani, short of stature and broad of hip and shoulder. This woman was tall and willowy. He stood, dragging her with him, keeping her flush against his body, one arm snaked around her waist, the other cupping her chin, thumb across her mouth, tacitly warning her not to make a sound. Despite the mere sliver of moon, despite the keffiyeh—­the traditional male Arabic head scarf—­Jace looked into her eyes and knew her.

Heather Langstrom. He'd seen those eyes enough times as he stared at her photo, recognized the body against his from watching her.

He'd found her! Against the odds, against all likelihood, she had appeared as though he'd conjured her with his pipe dreams. His heart leapt and pounded so forcefully she must be able to feel it. He hugged her to him, too late realizing she would misinterpret the gesture. Sure enough, she recoiled from him.

Be professional, Reed. You know what you have to do.

“Stand still. I have to search you. Standard practice.” Friendly or not, she was not part of his team and might be carrying God-­knew-­what without even realizing it. A radio, a tracking device, explosives. Jace tried to remain impersonal and thorough, his hands now feeling carefully what he had merely passed over previously. Her breasts were unbound inside the filthy uniform top, and she wasn't wearing any underwear.

The sounds of pursuit grew louder. Closer. They had to move, and fast. His hands became rougher as he hurried. She clamped her legs together as he felt down each one, small animal whimpers reaching him as she shrank from him. Growling, he nevertheless smothered his frustration and tried to gentle his hands. She had just been through hell. But he needed to search her for everyone's safety, and if they didn't get the hell out of there, he wouldn't be able to protect her. He dug into her pockets and pulled out a pair of socks. He handed them to Tag, who felt through them carefully before thrusting them into his own fatigue pants. Okay. No weapons, no booby traps. She was clean.

Jace relaxed fractionally, suddenly very aware of the way she twisted and flinched. His agitation, the imperative to bolt, evaporated. He abruptly hated making her afraid. What had those bastards done to her? He was a total shithead.

Now that he was done with his search, she stood quietly, her breathing less panicked, but he could feel her heart slamming against her ribs in triple time. She was scared, but he couldn't take the time to reassure her. Explaining who he was would take too long. The enemy was on them.

He gestured sharply for the team to deploy around him. They—­good men—­obeyed instantly. Jace spun her around in his arms, hands cupping her shoulders as he peered into her eyes.

Aw, hell.

Confusion, fear, and suspicion swam in their depths. Her unfocused look worried him. How bad were her injuries? He put his lips to her ear and whispered, in as commanding a voice as he could, “You do what I say, when I say it. Understand? I promise I'll get you to safety.” Hopefully, her military training would force her to react instinctively to his commands.

Her eyes flared in renewed fear, her eyes darting toward the soldiers they could now see. Who could now see them, if they looked in the right direction. The trembling in her limbs increased as she nodded frantically.

“Good. Let's roll.”

Without another word, they moved out.

 

Chapter Seven

August 16. 2:50
A.M.

Somewhere in Sari Daru Province, Azakistan

H
EATHER F
OUGHT THE
waves of exhaustion coursing through her. The adrenaline of her escape had morphed seamlessly into bowel-­emptying terror as the man had slammed her to the ground and bared her throat to his knife. To kill her. Without hesitation or mercy. She had tasted utter helplessness as the blade hit her throat, known she was dead. But he'd stopped. Leaned forward to smell her hair. And—­her face flushed anew—­he had verified for himself what his senses had told him. His search had been humiliating.

So much for a rescue. The man bore no resemblance to her dream hero. No American flag sewn to his uniform's sleeve. No unit patches, no name tag. Dark green and black streaks camouflaging his face and night vision goggles attached to his helmet and snapped into place over his eyes obscured his features. Dark hair, matted with sweat, curled out from under his helmet. Instead of being swept into the arms of her rescuer, she'd been slammed to the ground and had his knife thrust under her jaw, preparing to slash.

But he hadn't killed her.

And he was taking her away from the compound.

For now, that was enough. And she was grateful. But who were these men? What were they doing out here, blowing up the camp like that? They were American, but they didn't talk or act like any military unit she'd ever seen deployed, despite the combat uniforms and camouflage paint streaking their faces.

Thousands of independent security personnel crowded the country, protecting business executives and high-­ranking government agents. Fewer but still there, bands of mercenaries infested the Middle East, paid killers for hire. If they worked for cash, they could as easily sell her back to the warlord for a reward once their own lives weren't in danger; or, they could simply kill her for being able to identify them and for knowing where they had been. Her gaze darted back and forth, but she couldn't seem to focus. She was no safer with them than she had been at the compound. Was she? She wrapped an arm around her middle. Confusion swirled through her mind, a fogginess with which she had become all too familiar over the past few days. Her concussion, acting up again. The fall that bounced her head against the ground hadn't helped. The jerky movements as they marched jarred her head, tightening the hard bands around her skull until she thought she might scream from the pain.

All right. She took a deep breath to settle herself. For now, she was putting distance between herself and the sheik, and that was good. They thought she was a Muslim woman. The darkness of night had worked in her favor, blurring her features and turning her auburn hair dark. And the big man—­Jace—­had spoken to her in Arabic. She could use that to her advantage. She would find out who they were and what they were up to. And, when she found the opportunity, she would slip away from them and make her way back to Ma'ar ye zhad.

She quivered with fatigue and dizziness. The past days of fear, starvation, and abuse robbed her of strength. The pace these men set would have been taxing under normal circumstances. Now, with her bare feet sliding around inside the leather boots she'd stolen from Ahmed, she could barely keep up. Her attacker-­cum-­savior had tucked her hand into one of the loops of his rucksack. She understood. He knew their destination; she did not. By attaching her to himself, he could move much faster.

Gritting her teeth, Heather stretched her legs and kept up.

S
HE WAS D
ISTRACTING
as hell. The perfume he'd detected behind her ears teased Jace's senses even through the funk of the uniform she wore, and her hand kept brushing his arm or shoulder as she fought to keep her balance. Once she grabbed his butt to keep herself upright. She'd wrenched her arm back as soon as she realized what she'd done.

If anything about this had been remotely funny, he would have laughed. At this slow pace, they wouldn't make their rendezvous, which meant delays, recoordination, and a pissed-­off troop leader. Once the sandstorm made its appearance, they would be stuck for its duration. Their route took them into the mountains, with the ascent slowing them even more. Shit, even the sliver of moonlight worked against them. They could be detected as they crested the ridges.

They'd only made it three miles from Omaid al-­Hassid's training camp. Not nearly far enough to risk stopping. Still, Jace could feel Heather faltering behind him. She stumbled several times and finally lost her grip on his rucksack. Going down on her knees, she simply stayed that way, head bent, hands braced on her thighs as she sucked in air. Then, suddenly, she lurched sideways and doubled over, retching and heaving. Mace, the team medic, knelt beside her, speaking to her in a low voice, holding her hair, taking her pulse. The rest of the team set up a quick perimeter, weapons pointed outward.

Jace gestured for the medic to report.

He came over to Jace, speaking barely above a whisper as he relayed the bad news. “She says she just needs a minute, then can go on, but I doubt she could take another step. Looks like someone's been using her as a punching bag, but I can't see the full extent of her injuries,” Mace said.

Jace's shoulders tightened. “Fucking bastards.”

“Plus, she says she hit her head in a car accident,” Mace added. “She's concussed. We have to get her to a hospital before we cause permanent brain damage.”

Concussion. Terrific. Well, that explained the unfocused confusion he'd noted in her eyes. Did she even remember what had happened? Who she was? Memory loss was common with contusion to the head. They needed to be very careful not to traumatize her further. He cursed himself again for his rough handling.

God, what else had they done to her? Fuckers. Did she remember any of it?

“And boss? She's speaking English. Is she . . .”

Jace made a shut-­up gesture, and his teammate snapped his mouth closed, a curious look on his face. “Why?”

“We don't know any of the trauma she's been through, or how fragile her mental state is. I'll be damned if we cause a breakdown or some shit. It's possible she has amnesia, and we could just confuse or frighten her. She's trying to pretend, or maybe even believes, she's Arabic. For now, let's just go along with it, okay? Above all else, we need to keep her calm. And thinking only about what we're doing, here and now. Can't afford her to be distracted. Or us, either.”

“Roger that. We need to keep moving, though.”

“I'll carry her,” Jace decided.

Mace returned to Heather's side. “We'll take turns. We'll be able to make up time.” He offered Heather his hand.

As she reached up to take it, they heard it. Voices. Lots of them. Then jingling. Lights, faint, moving toward them. As one, the team froze.

And, just like that, their night went from bad to worse.

Whoever they were, they came down the mountain Jace's team was trying to go up. With only shallow gullies and ridges, and a few stubby trees, they had no real cover. Alone, his men could have melted into the night. With an injured Heather . . .

Jace counted a dozen of them. Motioning his men sharply to the left and right, he did not wait to see them scatter. He signaled to their left thirty meters, where he thought he could see a rocky outcropping. The team surged upward, bent over to keep a low profile. A shade too late, they reached the outcropping and saw that the overlapping rocks made a shallow cave, of sorts. Jace heard shouting behind them, the sound of running, a few wild shots.

Jace pushed Heather inside. She wriggled farther into the opening. It was little more than a low hole, longer than it was wide and angled down into the earth. Archangel made a hand signal.
I'll draw them off.
Jace shook his head. He would lead this new band of insurgents away. Archangel leaned forward to speak directly into his ear.

“You make too big a target, Godzilla. And anyway, you're a pussy. My grandmother's poodle is faster than you. I'll lead them in circles for a while. When I get bored, I'll come back and pick you up.” With that, he was gone.

Not hesitating now, Jace pulled the quick-­release tabs on his ruck, set it in front of the overhang, and arranged shrubbery and rocks around it, creating a blind. Archangel—­Gabe Morgan—­would die rather than let any harm come to his teammates. Jace and Heather were as safe as it was possible to be under these circumstances. Unslinging his weapon, he went into their hidey-­hole feet first, sliding horizontally under the rock overhang. It was a tight squeeze. The overhang gave them a space maybe seven feet across but nine or ten feet deep. The hole sloped slightly; it was like sliding into a sleeping bag. Heather squirmed to one side, but stopped when he began to push in next to her.

“Don't be afraid,” he whispered, in Arabic. “I won't let them near you.”

She hesitated, and for a moment, he worried she was going to panic. Wouldn't that be just perfect, if she turned out to be afraid of small spaces. But she moved aside, and he slid in beside her.

They lay practically nose to nose, their bodies pressed together in the tight space. Outside, Archangel and the others led the insurgents away. He could hear the shouts, the weapons firing. His teammates yelling and returning fire, just to keep 'em coming. For a brief second, he wished he were out there with them. Then he touched a single finger to Heather's shoulder. She startled and shrank in on herself, and he withdrew it, avoiding her gaze lest he give something away. His men could take care of themselves. But Heather . . . Heather was his to protect.

Gradually, the sounds faded into the distance.

H
EATHE
R LAY STILL,
squashed against Jace's body. Maybe she'd die tonight, after all. It seemed impossible these few men would be able to elude the dozens she'd seen coming down the mountainside, no doubt hostile Kurdish guerrillas. If the rebels found them, they might all be killed, or she could be recaptured. And she would be right back where she'd started.

These men, though. They kept her with them; they were protecting her, even now. Something inside her relaxed fractionally. They might not be heroes, but maybe she'd be rescued, after all.

It all caught up with her in an instant. The ambush. Her dead comrades. The pain and fear she had endured while captured, her flight from the compound. Her narrow escape from death. Too much adrenaline, too many times. She began to tremble and couldn't stop. Bringing her hands up to press over her mouth, she tried to stop, tried to regain control. It was impossible. She shook so hard she thought she might break apart. Tears welled up, spilling over so hard and fast she could no longer see. She pressed her face hard into his chest, knowing silence was paramount, that she could not allow any noise to give away their position. They had no idea who might still be out there.

His arms came around her, pulling her in closer to his warmth. Surprisingly, he rubbed over her back in soothing circles. The gentle touch struck her as bizarrely at odds with the camouflage paint streaking his face, which made him look feral and primitive. One hand came up to stroke her hair. He seemed to understand. He put his lips right up to her ear, and whispered in Arabic, “Breathe. From your diaphragm. In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it. Again. It's just stress. You're all right. Breathe. In. Out. Again.”

She latched onto the sound of his voice with thready desperation. She clutched at him. He tightened his hold, murmuring to her over and over again to breathe. He held her until the spasms started to ease.

It seemed to take forever for the trembling to subside. Heather's face suffused with humiliation.
Way to be tough, Langstrom.
Prove the assholes right about women being too soft for combat. Disgust dripped like bile in the back of her throat. And then exhaustion rolled over her like a tidal wave, carrying her under. Against all odds, she fell asleep.

W
ASN'T THAT THE
damnedest thing? Jace couldn't be sure if she'd passed out or fallen asleep. Either way, it made it easier to listen to the night sounds, to make sure none of the little band of miscreants had circled back around to pick up a goat or something. Keeping Heather safe had become his number one priority.

She hadn't made a sound the entire time. Jesus! She was strong. Disciplined. He couldn't help but be impressed that she understood how vital absolute silence was. She'd controlled herself, even in the midst of her meltdown. He rubbed a hand over his face. What the hell had she been through?

He tried to remain professional. Tried not to notice how nicely she fit into his arms. And the fact he couldn't ignore it pissed him off. Now that she slept, her body soft against his, his body came alive. All he could do was grit his teeth and think of his new mission objective. What the hell was he thinking, even having remotely sexual thoughts about this woman?

Fuckers. He wished he could go back and kill them all over again.

Mentally circling back to the compound, Jace tried to puzzle out her presence there. Now that he thought of it, he needed to question her. Something important had been planned, some sort of attack involving the SCUD. She might know something about it. But forcing her to relive God-­knew-­what could have a devastating impact on her mental stability. He let his head drop back, his helmet thumping against the dirt and stone of their hiding place. Sand trickled inside his collar as duty and compassion warred inside him. What should he do?

As Heather slept, Jace found himself wishing he could see her face. She continued to keep the scarf covering all but her shuttered eyes. His fingers grazed the edge of the keffiyeh. Heather Langstrom. Her name sang softly through his head. Something about her flashing eyes and stubborn chin appealed to him. She had been the source of most of his fantasies since he first saw her at the Base Exchange. Having her nestled against him woke all sorts of protective instincts. Her fingers on his chest, her hair tangled on his cheek brought out the male in him.