Night Hush (6 page)

She shivered involuntarily and crossed her arms to hide it. He saw it anyway. He slipped out of his uniform top, handing it to her. She dipped her chin in gratitude, pushing her arms into it over the top of the one she already wore. Jace was so much larger than the young soldier, Ahmed, that it slid onto her thin frame easily.

“Necia . . .” Jace cleared his throat. “You're bleeding at your shoulder and around your ribs. I hate to do this to you. I can't begin to imagine, um, what you might have . . .” He scrubbed a hand through his sweaty hair several times. “But I should see how serious your injuries are. I have a first aid kit in my pack, and some training. It's not much, but . . . Will you let me examine you?”

No, she wanted to say. No way was she giving up the only advantage she had. Her anonymity meant that if she needed to slip away from them, she could make her way, unobstructed, back to her command.

“We have a bit of a wait ahead of us,” he added. “God knows how long this storm will last. When it's over, I'll find us a ride, but we have to worst-­case it. We're not exactly in friendly territory here. I have to know how badly you're hurt. If you're too injured, we might need to make some sort of stretcher for you.”

Heather spoke with more certainty than she felt. “That won't be necessary. I can handle it. I've managed so far.” She immediately kicked herself. A Turkish woman would not have used such a colloquial expression.

“I don't doubt it. So far, you've gutted it out more than some guys I know, which is . . . pretty amazing.”

Uh-­oh. The very lack of expression, either in his face or voice, warned Heather he was suspicious. She thought fast.

“Our country used to be very progressive, Mr . . . Jayyse? I was an athlete.”

One corner of his mouth twitched up. “In college. University of Ma'ar ye zhad, wasn't it? You were an amateur triathlete, maybe?”

She rubbed her palms over her knees. He wasn't buying her story. Stick as close to the truth as she could: one of the basic tenets of a good liar. “Long-­distance runner. May I sleep for a while?” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the bed. Not that she would go near it. Maybe she could curl up by the door instead.

“Sure. After I check out your injuries.”

Heather sighed. His implacability was no different from that of her guys at 10
th
Group. She wasn't getting any rest until he examined her. Reluctantly, she acceded.

“Very well.”

Without a word, he pulled his pack close and reached inside; again, he knew exactly where the first aid kit was. He crouched next to her.

“You'll have to, uh, take off your . . .” Jace gestured up and down her body.

Heather's chest tightened as she nodded, hyperaware of him, of her own vulnerability, of this isolated shack. He scared her, and yet some deep instinct told her he'd been truthful—­he wouldn't hurt her. He wanted only to help her. She dipped her chin, eyeing the breadth of his shoulders, the strength of his arms. His large hands, resting on his knees. The planes of his face. The intensity in his eyes. But she couldn't move. She couldn't make her hands reach for her buttons. She couldn't bare herself to him—­to anyone.

“I can't,” she whispered.

His gaze fixated on the cloth covering the lower half of her face, fluttering slightly with every breath she took. Her lips parted. Jace jerked his head away and busied himself opening the case at his feet, as if she'd unnerved him as much as he had her.

“Look . . . about before. In the cave. I hope I didn't frighten you. You're safe with me.”

Heather liked his straightforward approach. No hemming or hawing. No pretending he hadn't thought of kissing her. In fact, she liked his unapologetic leadership, the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands rubbing along her back. He'd protected her with uncompromising skill. No doubt former military, he might even have been Special Forces once. What made him choose to hire on with a private security firm?

But no matter who he was, she felt too raw, too vulnerable to trust herself to anyone at the moment. He met her eyes. She tried to think how a Turkish woman would respond.

“It is forgotten.”

Jace nodded. “Thank you.” He shifted from a crouch to kneeling on one knee, his back to her. “I'll start with your shoulder, okay?”

She shrugged out of his uniform jacket reluctantly, then did the same with Ahmed's smaller jacket. Suddenly nervous, she crossed her arms under her breasts. “I'm ready.”

He swiveled back, his gaze fixed firmly on her shoulder. “I'm going to pull up your shirt, all right?” His voice was soft, reassuring.

Her shoulders hunched. Jace wasn't going to like what he found. He raised the T-­shirt carefully from the back, pulling it up to her neck with both hands. A sound chuffed out of him, a sudden exhalation as though he'd been hit.

“Jesus!” Gentle hands traced the welts across her back and ribs. Some had split and oozed blood. Jace swore under his breath. She heard a rustle and a rip, then cold on her back. The antiseptic burned. Heather clamped her lips shut. “Sorry. I'm sorry. I'll be as quick as I can.” Jace cleaned the cuts methodically, taping a bandage over each. Moving to her arms, he ran his hands down them, pausing at the obviously hand-­shaped bruises on her upper arms. Some of them, the older ones, were brilliant shades of blue and purple. His fingers soothed her skin.

“Who did this to you? Was it al-­Hassid?”

Heather shivered. Whether it was from her memories of the big man, or due to Jace's light touch, she couldn't say. “It does not matter.”

“Doesn't . . .” Jace muttered a curse. He lifted her wrists, and she hissed. “Sorry.” He examined the torn skin. “I'm not going to try to clean these out. The wounds are open. We need to get you to a doctor.” Leashed fury laced his tone.

He wrapped them loosely in gauze, then traced the massive bruise on her left side. “This concerns me the most. There might be blood in your kidneys. If I'm right, you need surgery.” He glared at the ceiling as though he could command the sandstorm to vanish. The high-­pitched shriek of the wind scratched eerily against her eardrums, along with a heavy pressure that compressed the air inside the hut. “Damn it.”

Her head dropped forward. He had a point, but there wasn't a thing they could do about it until the storm passed and they could move again. Although how she was going to keep moving stumped her. She could barely stay conscious as it was.

Jace eased her shirt back down. “May I look at your feet?”

“Yes.” Her voice came out as little more than a whisper.

He unlaced her boots and pulled them off, then cut away the crude bandages he and his teammate had tied onto her feet. She flushed when she saw that the soft bandages against her soles were actually feminine napkins. He almost smiled. “They're more absorbent than Army-­issue; what can I say?”

He checked her feet thoroughly. “Like your wrists, you need a doctor.” He shifted around to the first aid kit. “They're not as trashed as I thought they'd be, to be honest. You've got bleeding blisters and hot spots, but it could have been a lot worse. You're lucky you have runner's calluses.” He hesitated, and it seemed as though he was going to say something else, but instead he turned away and pulled several items out of the bag. He covered her feet with the pads and wrapped them in gauze. Finally, he taped them.

A
SO
FT
CHURR
from his pocket distracted Jace. He moved away from Heather to answer his phone. She pulled on her boots and laced them. Scuttling to the corner nearest the door, she put her back against the wall and sat down.

“We're outside,” Tag said. “Didn't want to surprise you.”

Jace went to the door and wrestled it open, and five ghostly bodies tumbled inside. Sand caked every inch of their bodies—­heads covered by helmets, eyes protected by goggles, faces wrapped in cloth, and all of it white. They looked like creatures from another planet. They forced the door closed again, shutting out most of the terrible roaring.

Small to begin with, the hut shrunk even more with the addition of five more large bodies. Heather scooted back as far as she could, practically squeezing herself into the corner. There was a lot of stamping and shaking, and sand flew around the inside of the hut.

Alex coughed, pulling down the cloth tied around his nose and mouth and yanking off his goggles, leaving pale rings on his face. “Damn, Sandman, you sure live up to your name,” he said, grinning. Apparently, the worse it got, the better the young operator liked it. He was fitting in just fine.

“Oh, man!” Sandman pretended to double over with laughter. “You so funny, man. Oh, wait. No, you're not.” He set his rifle against the wall next to Jace's and sat on the floor to unlace his boots, knocking the sand out of them as Jace had done earlier.

Tag and Mace dropped their packs at the foot of the bed, but kept their weapons with them. They brushed off the sand as best they could.

“No more problems?” asked Jace.

There was a lot of headshaking and negatives all around.

“Child's play,” said Gabe. He glanced at the woman and away again. They all seemed to understand she needed a few minutes to adjust to their presence.

With a gesture, Jace sent his medic over to check on Heather. Alex stayed on guard. The rest of the team settled around Jace.

“Well, this is a clusterfuck.” As usual, Gabe cut to the chase. His bluntness made him invaluable as a second-­in-­command, even though his lack of tact would eventually hinder his path to promotion. Jace had to agree, though. What should have been a simple op had gone comically awry. They had no vehicle, they'd missed their extraction via helicopter, and they now had an injured Heather to bring to safety. “We contacted HQ. They're happy to come get us when they can fly again, but right now everything in this area is grounded. Pied Piper told me he lent out our ride to ferry around a bunch of damned VIPs for the president's visit to al-­Zadr Air Base. Sandstorm better end soon, or Fat Jack might kill someone.”

Jace grunted. “I hear ya.” Their pilot hated dealing with bureaucrats.

“Best bet is to get to Masrzhad and find a car or truck.” Alex spoke up, eager to prove himself. “It's barely five miles from here. And maybe we could get a boat?”

Tag shook his head even while he agreed. “We might not have a choice. We could get lucky. But al-­Hassid's gonna send his troops here first thing. It's the closest village. Once the sandstorm's over, we gotta move fast.”

Jace grunted assent. “We've lost our lead time. There's no assurance we could get there first. They have trucks.” He glanced over at Mace and Heather. “And we have baggage. But the good news is, we found . . .”

A shout from the other side the hut interrupted him. Jace was on his feet and halfway across the floor, weapon out and looking for targets, before he registered what was happening. Mace cradled Heather, who slumped in his arms.

“Report.” He knelt beside Mace and pressed his fingers to her neck. Her pulse was strong, but too rapid.

“She passed out.” Mace laid her carefully on the floor. “She's been runnin' with a concussion. All our traipsing around made it worse. She told me she was woozy and queasy. Not to mention, she's been beaten. That'll take it out of a person.” Mace canted a look at his boss. “Does she remember the convoy attack?”

“Hasn't said yet. Doesn't trust us. Fed me some bullshit story about being a kidnapped university student.” Without hesitation, Jace unwound the turban from her face and pulled it off. And stared. Underneath the bruises and cuts, she was unbelievably beautiful. He'd never seen her up close. She took his breath away.

“Hey, isn't that . . .” Alex started. Hadn't the kid been paying attention? A check in the minus column for that.

“Yeah,” Jace said. “It is. She's our missing soldier. Lieutenant Heather Langstrom.”

 

Chapter Nine

August 16. 9:12
A.M.

Bhunto, Azakistan

J
ACE
CAME ALERT,
completely awake in seconds. Darkness shrouded the hut. His team had hammered the broken shutters shut and covered them with their emergency blankets to keep out the sand. The wind had died down at some point. The storm was over.

Heather stirred. The small noise had woken him. He could barely make out the shapes of his teammates. Four sprawled in various parts of the hut, asleep. Mace perched on the edge of the bed, both keeping an eye on Heather and guarding the door.

She'd been out for about two hours. He'd sat near her almost the whole time, worried she would take a turn for the worse before they could get her airlifted out. Mace had finally shooed him away.

She sat up. “I have to pee,” she whispered. Mace helped her off the bed. She picked her way to the door. Mace grabbed the small folding shovel and placed it in her hand.

“Go outside, to the northwest corner of the hut.” He pointed. “Dig a hole.”

The wooden door seemed hard for her to manage, but Mace was right there, opening it for her and closing it behind her.

Jace checked his watch —­ quarter past nine. Grit scraped the insides of his eyelids, and fatigue pulled at his bones. “How is she?” he asked the medic.

“About the same. It's a small bleed, I think. They cleared a medevac to take off about ninety minutes ago. It'll be here in sixteen minutes,” Mace said.

“Good.” Jace stretched and angled himself so he leaned against the mudbrick wall. “We'll need to move fast. Al-­Hassid's men will be heading this way.” Both men kept their voices muted so as not to disturb the others.

He mentally reviewed the landscape. The helicopter could land just outside the village, on the flat patch of ground to the north. They would be up and out in a matter of minutes.

Seconds ticked into minutes. She should have finished and been back by now.

“Where the hell is she?” The Sandman's low voice was irritated.

“Yeah. She's been gone too long.” Jace rubbed a hand down his face. He'd been straining to hear any sign of her return. Why hadn't he told her earlier he recognized her? It was important that she knew they were on the same team. Was she lost, or had she run? Or worse, had she passed out again, unable to call for help?

Sandman uncapped his canteen, tossing the water directly into his own face and hair, then shook his head to dislodge the droplets.

Mace said, “I'll go. She might need medical help.”

No one was going after Heather but him. He needed to know she was all right, and he needed to know now. “Get rucked up and ready to move,” he told his team. “I've got this.”

Jace saw her the minute he stepped from the hut. The tightness in his chest eased. An old stone wall squatted nearby; half of it had crumbled, and there was nothing to indicate why it had been built in the first place. Heather rested on it, unmoving, head slightly cocked as though listening to something. An unnatural hush had settled over the landscape in the aftermath of the sandstorm, a silence so deep he imagined the desert itself held its breath. Heather released a breath slowly, as though unwilling to disturb the stillness.

He parked himself on the wall next to her. She tilted her head his way.

“We notified your command we had you,” he told her. Even if she didn't remember the ambush, even through the trauma of her incarceration, she knew who she was. “They're sending a medevac.”

She tried to hide a start of surprise.

“Yes, we recognized you. It'd be hard not to. Your face has been plastered all over the news for days.” He tapped a finger against the pocket carrying her photo, then withdrew it and handed it to her. “Part of my mission out here was to find you.” Why had he said that? It wasn't even true. They'd wanted to find her, but had never expected to run across her so far from the site of the attack. He was angry with her for her suspicion, he realized, however unreasonable it might be. “It would've saved a lot of time if you'd just trusted me.”

If he had not recognized her, if he hadn't known who she was, they might not have . . . what? It really wouldn't have changed anything. They still would have missed their extraction. They would still be bringing her to safety. Only their destination had changed. Still, it irked him that she had lied to him. Assumed he was a gun for hire.

He couldn't explain his reaction to her, not even to himself. When he'd realized the hardy woman he'd almost killed, then saved, was his Heather, it had thrown his entire world out of whack. His precious photo come to life. He wanted her to rely on him. To turn to him, as she had in his fantasies. To lie warm against him, as she had in the cave.

She took a lot of air into her lungs. “You've been kind to me. Truthfully, I'm not sure what I'd've done on my own,” she said. “I haven't been able to think clearly since the ambush. I banged my head pretty hard.”

“All the more reason to get you to a hospital.” It would make life simpler if he could just tell her who he was. His own government still did not acknowledge the existence of his unit, though, and secrecy was part and parcel of belonging to Delta Force. Did she still think he was some sort of mercenary? “We really are the good guys, Heather. American Army, okay? That's all I can tell you, but, honestly, you can trust me. I'm going to get you home.”