Shoot to Thrill (40 page)

She’d spent the whole morning watching the camp, helpless, terrified the entire time that she’d be forced to witness Kick’s summary execution. Thank God it hadn’t happened. And when the sun was at its zenith, that’s when she’d made up her mind. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she didn’t at least
try
to free him.
Them.

The first thing she did was don Kick’s extra DCUs and khaki T-shirt from the pack, wrapped her head in the parachute silk
kaffiyeh
he’d made for her, and strapped his KA-BAR knife to her side. Completing the transition from nurse to commando. Physically . . . but also mentally. All afternoon she’d prepared, most of that time spent crawling on her belly through the sand just outside the training camp, heart in her throat, retracing Kick’s movements to see what he’d done with the rest of the explosives, making a few prayer-filled modifications. Then she’d loaded Kick’s weapons onto the remaining camel, filled her DCU pockets with the NVGs, the rest of the water bottles, and food, and hiked up the ridge to watch and wait for sunset.

Which had arrived at last. Everything was set. The diversion ready to launch.

Lord give her strength.

She took a deep, steadying breath. Checked the camp below. In a few minutes the tangos would start their evening prayers.

Just one more thing to do. She reached for the field pack and took out the SATCOM. Pressing the same buttons and repeating the same words she’d heard Kick use, she made the call.

“STORMdog six come in. This is STORMsix kilo, over.”

After a short burst of static, there was an answering, “STORMdog six actual, here. Identify yourself, over.”

“This is STORMsix kilo,” she said again. She had no idea what any of that meant, but it’s what Kick had said both times she’d heard him use the SATCOM.
Oh, hell.
“Please, this is Lorraine Martin,” she said, jettisoning the military-speak and trying not to sound panicked and desperate. “Am I talking to STORM Corps?”

Another burst of static. Then, “STORM lima mike, we read you. Do you need assistance, over?”

“Yes! No. I mean, oh, God, they’ve got Kick. I just want you to know, I’m going in after him. Tonight.”

“Negative, STORM lima mike,” whoever it was said emphatically. “Do
not
attempt a rescue on your own. Do you read me, over?”

“Did you hear what I said? They’ve
captured
him. There’s another hostage, too. Kick said he’s one of ours. And there’s a traitor. A doctor named Girard Virreau. He’s in the camp with the terrorists now. I don’t have time to wait for help.”

“Please stand by, STORM lima mike. Do you read? Keep the COM open, over.”

“There’s no
time
!” she repeated impatiently. “Evening prayers are about to start. Just send in the air strike if you don’t hear from me within fifteen minutes.” That should be enough time for the plan to work. Or not, as the case might be. Either way, it should all be over by then. “Can you do that? Please? Over.”

“Miss Martin, this is STORM commander Kurt Bridger,” the guy came back, also abandoning the double-talk. “You need to listen to me very carefully. You must extract yourself immediately from—”

Why did no one ever
listen
to her? She glanced down the ridge. The tangos below were starting to come outside and spread their mats for prayers.

Time was up.

She used the old trick from the movies, pressing the COM call button to produce several seconds of static. “Breaking up,” she said, then pressed it a few more times for good measure. “Fifteen minutes. Send in the air strike.” Then she switched off the radio. And prayed STORM would actually do it. Their lives depended on the chaos to cover their get-away. Not to mention the need to eliminate abu Bakr and the rest of the tangos.

Swallowing heavily, she fished in her pocket for the lighter Kick had given her this morning, before he’d been captured. Make that before he’d surrendered himself to the enemy rather than endangering her.

This was it.
Now or never.

Before she could change her mind, she strapped on the backpack, flicked the lighter, and touched the flame to the end of the fuse. It took with a spark and a hiss and the acrid smell of sulfur.

Allahu akhbar
, the terrorists prayed below.

Sending up a silent prayer herself, she turned to launch herself down the ridge.

And ran straight into Nathan Daneby.

GINA
tried to ignore the nervousness that spilled through her as she put on the extra helmet he handed her, and slung her leg over the back of Gregg van Halen’s motorcycle.

She wasn’t nervous about the bike. God knew, she’d ridden her share of Harleys growing up in the rough neighborhoods across the river in Jersey. No, it was the meeting they were on their way to that had her wondering if she’d lost her mind.

Last night, after taking her to places she hadn’t known existed in the dark recesses of her sexual fantasies, Gregg had informed her as he’d released her from bondage that his commander wanted to see her in the morning. About Rainie.

She’d been instantly terrified. “Have they found her?” she asked. “Is she . . . ?”

He’d hesitated. Then, “I’m not sure.”

This morning, she’d tried everything to pry out of him what was going on, but he kept insisting he didn’t know.

She didn’t believe him.

He was lying about something. She could feel it in the way he avoided her gaze and her questions.

Rainie had disappeared. Was she about to, as well?

He kicked the bike to life and pulled out into the bumper-to-bumper noonday New York traffic. She wrapped her arms around his rock-hard abs, wondering what had prompted him to take his bike today. Up until now, they’d always travelled by taxi when she was with him. In fact, she’d never actually seen his bike before now. Was it so a cab driver wouldn’t be able to identify him later? A motorcycle helmet totally obscured one’s features. . . .

No.
That was crazy thinking. Gregg would never hurt her. Or let her be hurt. He might walk the line sexually, but under that controlling façade he was a good person. Sure, at times he scared the crap out of her. But at other times he’d held her so lovingly, kissed her so tenderly, her heart had simply melted in her chest.

She was half in love with the man. She was sure he felt the same about her. How could he not?

Oh, jeez.
Had she really
thought
that?

Suddenly, she noticed they were heading in the opposite direction of downtown from her Upper East Side brownstone. In fact, they’d just passed the north end of Central Park and he showed no sign of slowing.

“Where are we going?” she shouted to be heard over the noise of the traffic. “I thought we were meeting your boss.”

“We are.”

“Isn’t the CIA office downtown?”

“There’s more than one.”

Okay.

Fifteen minutes later they were driving through an area that looked like a war zone. Burned-out buildings, vacant lots; derelicts and druggies camped out in cardboard shacks. Would the government really have an office here?

“Gregg, I don’t like this. I want to go back,” she shouted.

He just shook his head.

Nervousness swamped back over her, more powerful than it ever had before. But there was nothing she could do. Jumping off the bike in this neighborhood would be nuts, just asking to be mugged. Or worse.

Suddenly, he turned into an alley. Trash littered the pot-holed pavement and graffiti covered the dirty brick on either side. Straight ahead the solid wall of an abandoned building blocked their path.

“Gregg?”

He didn’t reply, but pressed the bike’s horn in a short pattern. All at once a square section of the wall went up like a garage door, exposing the gaping black expanse of an empty warehouse bay. The motorcycle shot forward into it.

Two men with machine guns came running toward them from either side as he spun the bike around to a halt. They were dressed just like Gregg, black T-shirts, BDUs, and combat boots. She clung tight to him, burying her face in the soft leather of his jacket. It smelled like him, and she desperately needed the reassurance that he was there with her. That this armed greeting was normal in his profession, that she’d be fine, and that they’d both be laughing at her silly fears over dinner tonight. If he finally asked her out.

“Gina,” he said, pulling off his helmet, turning to her. “We’re here. You need to get off.”

Reluctantly, she dismounted the bike, took off her own helmet and handed it to him as he got off, too.

He indicated a door on the far side and started for it. “This way.”

No kiss. No reassuring hug. Not even a smile. It was like he’d become a different person.

She walked next to him with a growing sense of wild unease, down a long hall and into a small, bare room furnished only with a table flanked by two chairs. The guards marched behind them, posting themselves at the door.

“Sit,” Gregg said, indicating one of the chairs.

“Please,” she said, reaching out to touch him. “Tell me what’s going on. Why am I here?”

He didn’t take her hand, letting her fingers slide off his leather-clad arm. “I’m sorry. Colonel Blair will have to tell you that, ma’am.”

Her lips parted.
Ma’am?

Pain razored through her heart as another man strode into the room. Posture straight as an arrow, with iron-colored hair and a stern, leathery face that had seen a lot of outdoor action, the man looked like he hadn’t smiled for the five decades since he got his first toy rifle.

“Dr. Cappozi?” he asked.

Obviously Gregg van Traitor wasn’t going to be any help. She was on her own here.
Oh, what a shock.

She lifted her chin. “Who wants to know?”

Colonel Dour scrutinized her for a moment with a calculating stare. Then he turned to Gregg, thrusting him a manila envelope. “Van Halen, your team has been mobilized. You’ll join them immediately. Wheels-up in two hours.”

Gregg took the envelope and came to attention. “Yes, sir.” Without another glance at her, he turned to leave.

“Oh, and van Halen?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Good job.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Then he was gone.

Shell-shocked, Gina stared after him.
Oh, God.
What had he done?

Worse, what had
she
done?

“Now, then, Dr. Cappozi,” the colonel said with his deep, abrasive voice, no doubt made so from a lifetime of yelling at his men. “I understand you’re the head researcher on Columbia University’s respiratory syncitial virus project. Is that correct?”

She was still so stunned by Gregg’s cold turnabout she didn’t think before answering, “Yes. Why?”

If possible, the colonel’s expression shuttered even more. “I’m afraid there has been a slight change in plan.”

“What plan?” Her alarm heightened even more, bringing her around. She put on her best I-take-no-crap college professor face. “I was told you wanted to see me regarding the kidnapping of my friend, Lorraine Martin.”

He folded his arms behind his back. “I’m afraid Miss Martin is dead, along with the man who kidnapped her.”

Gina swallowed an instinctive gasp. And reminded herself this wasn’t the first time she’d received that same bad news.

“Can you prove it?”

The scrutinizing stare was back. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I was hoping you would identify the body.”

She grabbed the back of the metal chair for support. So it really was true.
Oh, Rainie.
She couldn’t believe it.

“Yes,” she said, sadness gripping her. “I can do that.” This could still be a mistake. Misidentifications happened all the time. The whole situation had been so surreal from the outset, who knew what was real and what wasn’t.

“Good.” The colonel gave a signal to the two men at the door. “Gentlemen, you know what to do.”

At his clipped order, a shiver went down her spine. For some reason it sounded . . . sinister.

“Ma’am,” one of the men said. “If you’ll follow me.”

With little choice, she did so, noting that the second man fell in behind them. As they marched her single file down the long corridor back to the warehouse bay where they’d arrived, every nerve in her body screamed at her to get out of there.

This was
so
not good. How could Gregg have just left her with these awful people, in the awful place? And without a word, or even a look good-bye?

They reached the door and went through it to where a black SUV was parked idling.

Suddenly she was surrounded by six men in ski masks, wielding even bigger machine guns than her two escorts. The barrel of one was thrust under her chin, and in the next second her arms were yanked behind her back and her wrists handcuffed.

She tried to scream, but a hand slammed brutally over her mouth, pinching her nose at the same time. She couldn’t breathe. Hands grabbed her arms and held like iron claws. She couldn’t struggle. There were too many of them. They were too strong.

Duct tape replaced the hand, and she sucked in a deep lungful of air. A hood was slipped over her head. And an accented voice growled in her ear.

“
Get in the vehicle or you die.
”

TWENTY-FOUR

NATE
grabbed Rainie and clung fast to regain their balance, sending a shower of stones and pebbles careening down the hill to the wadi. She clapped both her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming and giving away their position.

“What are you doing?” Nate demanded, glancing behind her at the hissing explosives fuse.

Her pulse had gone off the charts. Oh, hell.
Friend or foe?
She had to choose quickly. But how?

“You first,” she answered, then grasped his arm and started down the hill. “But talk fast because we have to move.”

“Where?”

“Wrong answer,” she said, whipping the KA-BAR from its sheath. She jammed it into his ribs. “Walk. Fast.”

“Jesus, Rainie! I thought you were on my side! I could have sworn you were the one voice of reason in that argument. Innocent until proven guilty? Ring a bell?”