To Deceive Is To Love (Romantic suspense) (16 page)

With less than three minutes to go, the plane left the ground, clipping the top of the olive groves as he pulled the plane into rapid ascent. The explosion lit up the sky behind him.

****

The hired car carrying Chantelle and her two abductors bumped and swerved on the unmade dirt track. Chantelle shivered on the back seat. Dust particles flying through the open windows covered her face and arms and were matted into her tied back hair. She couldn’t have felt more exhausted, filthy and frightened. For four hours, they had sped along deserted country roads that wound their way through small villages, the inhabitants asleep in their beds.

Only once had the car stopped, her dignity not spared for even this as Jabir stood guard. At least he hadn’t made any more attempts to touch her, preferring instead to sleep while his friend drove. She had already promised herself she would die before suffering the degradation of rape. She had no way of knowing if she could keep the promise or whether her self-preservation knew no bounds. The coffee and sandwiches she refused, preferring to remain parched rather than sharing anything with these monsters.

Everything happening to her she blamed David for, hating him with a vengeance for putting her through hell while he was doing deals with these murderous brutes. They had misjudged him if they thought by kidnapping her, they could control him. If Danny’s words were true, he was a mercenary with no heart. And she had been fool enough to fall in love with him. She closed her eyes, praying for the nightmare to end.

Dawn was beginning to break as the derelict stone farmhouse came into view. Another place, another time and the sight of the sun rising up against the background of the Pyrenees would have been breathtaking. Chantelle barely noticed. Half-dragged, she was marched up to the farmhouse, the door opening as they approached it.

Two heavyset men dressed in army fatigues greeted her abductors in a familiar way, laughing and eyeing Chantelle in the same way Jabir had. She felt sickness rise, but with nothing in her stomach, the moment passed and she found herself pushed towards the corner of the room and told to sit.

The corner was filthy with dust and grime, the smell foul. The four men seated themselves around a table. Wine, cigarettes and bread were handed out among them. A crust was thrown in her direction.

An hour or more passed and the sun came fully up, shining through the window and directly on her, making it unbearably hot in the stench-filled corner. With lips and mouth parched, Chantelle asked for some water. Jabir turned around and looked at her, a menacing smile taking hold. Up to now, her presence had been almost forgotten as the men played cards and drank heavily. Leaning forward, Jabir went to grab her arm, only Chantelle cowered further in the corner.

He reached down and gripped her forearm tightly. Pulling her up, he yanked her over to the table, and then sat down, forcing her to come down heavily on his lap. With fingers digging into her scalp, he forced her head back and with the other hand, took a bottle of wine, tipping it into her mouth.

Chantelle spluttered and choked as the men laughed and threw ugly, crude remarks. One reached over, huge hands grabbing the material of her denim shirt and ripping it down the middle. The buttons flew off, her partly clad body exposed to four pairs of lecherous, greedy eyes.

A scream pierced the air as she grabbed the strands of her torn shirt together and struggled in a frenzy to get away. Big, powerful hands pinned her arms to her sides and in the next instant, she was thrown back along the table among the debris of wine bottles and cigarette butts. Her hands were pulled up above her head. More hands gripped her ankles, spreading her legs apart while others pulled at her jeans.

The one trying to keep a grip on her hands was having trouble as Chantelle thrashed her body around like a wild cat. Finally, one hand broke loose and frantically searched for a weapon, her fingers closing round the neck of a bottle. With an inhuman scream, Chantelle brought the bottle up and around, smashing it into Jabir’s temple just as he was leaning over her, his trousers already around his ankles. She stared up into his shocked, glazed eyes and then lifelessness took hold, blood pouring from his forehead as he fell sideways off her and onto the floor.

His three friends stood rooted to the ground as if in shock. Gradually, two of them stepped back from her, leaving the bearded one who had traveled with Jabir to remove a knife from the sheath in his waistband. Chantelle closed her eyes, fully expecting to die. Every emotion had been drained from her, even fear. She curled up in a fetal position and waited.

****

David applied the airbrakes, bringing the plane to a standstill. All he had was Bakir’s machine pistol. The rest was down to timing and a hell of a lot of luck. He wasn’t usually religious, but he had never felt such fear before for someone other than himself. He would rather sacrifice his own life than risk Chantelle.

As he disembarked from the plane, the two Algerians he had already met approached him, their weapons ready.

“Where’s Bakir?” one of them demanded.

“He had a bad trip over, didn’t like my flying much or my landing. He decided to stay with his fellow compatriots.” David spoke in a relaxed, deep drawl. It was obvious his explanation wasn’t to their liking, but he was here and they had the girl, so the odds were still in their favor. “Before I return to England, the deal was you show me the girl unharmed.”

“She’s inside. First, you hand over the package.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal. I understand it is to accompany me back to Hendersson.”

“Change of plans.” The one doing all the talking shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

An uneasy feeling took hold. This was going to be the end of the line for Chantelle and him.

His part had simply been to deliver the weapons and get the payment out of Algeria. Hendersson could now easily collect somewhere in France, unless this lot was out to double cross him, but David doubted it. It was bad business to sever such a provider. As for his and Chantelle’s deaths, obviously Hendersson had a story all worked out. It was easy to guess who would be painted as an agent gone bad.

“Well, the package, where is it?”

“Left it in the plane, help yourselves. I’m parched and in need of a bloody drink.” Pretending indifference, he strolled forward, conscious of the machine pistol in the rear of his waistband, his flying jacket hanging loosely over it. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the Algerians approach the plane while the other followed him to the farmhouse.

He walked straight through the open door and was confronted by a sight that nearly made him lose all control. Anger and disgust rose like a volcano ready to erupt. He held it back by strength of discipline, but no matter how much he had been trained, none of it prepared him for this.

Chantelle’s crumpled up body lay curled up on the table amongst broken glass. Her clothing was ripped. Standing over her was a bearded man with gleaming, malevolent eyes. In his hand was a knife, which hovered threateningly over Chantelle. In the corner of the room, David caught sight of a stretched out body, an ugly red gash across his forehead, glass protruding from it.

“
Meurtrier chienne
,” the bearded one spat at Chantelle.

One man was unconscious or dead and one outside. That left him two to take out. In that split second of taking stock of the enemy, David pulled out the machine pistol from his waistband. He fired first at the bearded one, and then swung his pistol around to pepper the other man with rapid fire. The weapon aimed back at him released its bullets into the air as the terrorist struck the ground.

David ran to the door, but it was too late. The other terrorist had taken up position behind the plane and was firing off rounds. The wooden doorframe tore apart as David dived back in. He raced over to Chantelle and lifted her face into the palm of his hand. “Chantelle?”

Her eyes stared back at him, alive but unseeing.

He swept her off the table and placed her under it, away from the flying glass spraying across the room as each window was shattered with lead. Keeping low to the floor, he checked that the three men were all definitely dead and then went to the rear of the farmhouse and out of the back entrance. With his body pressed up against the stone wall, he stealthily made his way around the side to where he had a clear view of his plane and the man crouched by the undercarriage.

He would have to break his cover and the angle was all wrong for a clear line of fire. He had to move in closer. There was a stone well to his right, the wall around it high enough to provide him with cover and a good vantage point for shooting.

Taking a deep breath, he made a run for it. Dust and stones flew up around him as bullets sprayed the ground. A sharp, searing pain shot through his thigh as he dove for cover, landing hard against the stone casing.

Ignoring the pain, David rose up, and emptied all the bullets in his machine pistol. His intended target had no time to fire back or duck out of the line of fire. His body crashed to the ground, the gun slipping from his fingers as he fell.

Lowering his gun, David looked down at his thigh. A deep red stain was spreading rapidly, soaking into the cotton. The pain faded into a dull ache.

Taking most of his weight on his other leg, David hobbled back into the farmhouse. He gently brought Chantelle out from under the table. Her body was limp, so he had to position his arms under hers to support her as he sat her down in a chair and clasped her face in both hands, making her look at him. The bruising down one side of her face was enough to make him want to kill those responsible over and over again, only much more slowly. He cursed under his breath. Her torn clothing and filthy appearance added to his guilt. He was responsible for the abuse she had suffered. If he hadn’t gotten involved with her, none of this would have happened.

Taking off his jacket and placing it around her shoulders, he spoke softly to her. “Chantelle, you’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you.” With one hand still keeping her chin up, he reached down for a bottle of wine lying at his feet, the cork protruding from it. He pulled the rest of the cork out with his mouth and spat it across the room. “Here, take a sip of this.” He held the wine to her lips.

Chantelle’s eyes widened at the sight of the bottle. Her hand swept the bottle to the ground.

“You bastard!” she screamed. Hysterical, she slapped him across the face over and over.

David did nothing to stop her, allowing each punishing slap to sting his face, feeling her pain as if it was his own. Finally, she wore out and it was then that David held her to him, cradling her like a baby.

Gradually, her face turned to his. He found himself seeking out her lips, softly at first, until the passion at having her safe in his arms took over and her arms encased his neck. It was Chantelle who finally broke away, her gaze full of contempt.

Her attention focused on the scene surrounding them, the two bodies lying in pools of blood and then to the one she had slain, lifeless eyes staring back at her, glass still protruding from his forehead. David grabbed hold of her face, tearing her gaze away from the scene.

“You did what had to be done, Chantelle.”

She struggled with the words, “I killed a man, another human being.”

“Yes, and if you hadn’t, he would have killed you with no mercy and no regret.”

“Which makes me no better than him or you. What have you done to me, you bastard?” Her hand came up again, but this time David gripped her wrist.

“I hate you,” she hissed out between clenched teeth.

“And I don’t blame you. Sometimes I hate myself, but not for killing men like these who think nothing of murdering innocent people. Spare no pity for them and instead think of the lives saved.”

“Such a fine speech. Is that what helps you sleep at night?”

“We all have our nightmares,” he replied solemnly. “Come on, we’d better get going.” He was thinking about the survivors back in Algeria. The explosion would not have killed the ones traveling in the first truck and though he knew a little of the terrorist outfit, numbers and locations weren’t easy to come by.