Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) (26 page)

"What do you think?" Tristan asked. "Could they be in there?"

The cold feeling in the pit of her stomach assured her that they were. "Yes."

Tears of both relief and horror rushed into her eyes as she envisioned Emma and Sammy trapped inside—as long as they weren't dead already. She slammed a lid on the errant thought. After all, the ransom note indicated they were alive.

At the sound of Tristan's rumbling voice, she glanced back to find him on his sat phone.

"Hey, Red, this is Screaming Eagle. I've got the coordinates for the nest. You ready?"

Screaming Eagle?
Picturing the tattoo emblazoned across his back, desire rocked her on her heels. Why did he have to be so freaking appealing? With a name like Tristan, for God's sake. Why couldn't he be some average Joe who talked with a lisp or had a small penis or something?

But no—he had to look and sound like the hero of a blockbuster action flick. The muscles in his upper arm bulged as he read the numbers off his watch. The curve of his tight butt made her want to pinch it. And his penis, she remembered all too vividly, was splendid.

"What's your ETA, over?" he inquired. Glancing her way, he caught her staring and winked.

She tore her gaze away.

"Roger that. You'll find us one klick southwest in an abandoned office building. We have a clear view of the facility here."

He listened again. "Will do. Out." He put his phone away. "They'll be here within the hour."

Weariness tugged at her unexpectedly. More waiting.

Gazing back at the factory's boarded windows, she pictured Emma and Sammy sitting in darkness with a number of other hostages—hungry, despairing, and terrified. The tears that had threatened for almost forty-eight hours spilled abruptly into her eyes. Having slept so little the night before, she lacked the will to banish them.

"Hey, hey," Tristan said, in a soft consoling voice that made her face crumple. Crossing to where she stood, he gathered her against him. His big, beautiful arms went around her, holding her securely as she proceeded to wet the front of his T-shirt.

"I hate waiting," she explained.

He smoothed a hand up and down her spine. "Me, too. The trick is not to think of it as waiting. We'll be scoping out places for our snipers. We'll be gathering intel and making note of patterns because failure is not an option. We only get one shot."

"Right." She tried pulling away from him, but his hold only tightened.

"I know ways to help pass the time," he offered.

Her traitorous body quivered with hope. She dashed the moisture from her face. "Like what?"

"We could play a game of twenty questions."

He had to be messing with her intentionally.

"Seriously?" She managed to shove free of him this time.

"Yep. The subject is us," he continued undaunted. "I ask questions about you and you ask questions about me."

"Maybe I know as much about you as I want to know," she said, turning to look outside again. But with her senses still locked on Tristan, she might as well have been blind for all she could see.

"What are you afraid of?" he taunted.

She kept her gaze averted. "Is that your first question? If it is, the answer is cockroaches. They totally freak me out."

"It's not," he said. "This is my first question—Do you like me or not?"

She slanted him an incredulous look. "I wouldn't have slept with you if I didn't like you."

"Well, duh." He pretended to mock himself. "Your turn now."

"Have you ever gone without a girlfriend?" she asked, watching his reaction out of the corner of her eye.

"What kind of question is that?" he demanded, folding his arms across his chest.

"Oh, suddenly you don't like this game. You've asked me three questions already. I think you can answer one of mine."

"What makes you ask that? Did Bullfrog say something?"

She shrugged. "He told Emma, who told me. Is he right?" She finally looked at him, raising an eyebrow as she waited for an answer.

He shrugged. "What do you want me to do? Women throw themselves at me."

"Really?" She propped a shoulder against the window casing. "That's your answer. Do you even want me to like you?"

A wary look crossed his face. "Is that a trick question?"

"Because frankly you're saying all the wrong things," she added.

He heaved a sigh. "What do you want me to say?"

"Not say," she corrected, "It's what you have to do."

"What do I have to do?"

"Don't date anyone for six months. Prove to me that you have no unsavory addictions or deep-seated issues. Then I might date you."

He winced, dropping his hands. "Man, you're brutal."

"Sorry. Did I strike a nerve?"

"Possibly. But if you can dish it out, you can take it, right?" He gestured at her. "For the record, I think
you're
the one who's got issues."

His opinion startled a laugh out of her. "Me?"

"Yeah, you're afraid of getting close to people."

She opened her mouth to deny his accusation, realized he'd hit the nail squarely on the head, and promptly shut her mouth again.

"That's why you're so prickly," he expounded. "It's to keep people at a distance. Only I can see that you're really a softy." He sent her a slow smile that turned her as soft on the inside as he'd just accused her of being.

"This isn't the time or the place to try to seduce me," she retorted.

"Who said anything about seduction? I was picturing more of a mutual coming together." He looked around. "We have the place to ourselves."

Attuned to his meaning, her heart pumped faster. She cast her gaze around the empty room, thinking for a second that the desk with three legs had possibilities. Then she remembered exactly why they were there, with her sister and niece likely trapped in the building across the street. Her ardor cooled as fast as a sizzling steak doused with ice water.

"I'll pass," she said. "We're supposed to be doing surveillance, remember?" She turned to look outside again.

"Suit yourself," he said with sanguine acceptance that she was beginning to find annoying.

Moving up next to her, he leaned his hands on the windowsill and studied the creepy factory down the street. Her gaze fell helplessly to his large hands with their long, dexterous fingers. Was it too late to change her mind?

"Check it out," he said, dragging her gaze back up.

A group of rumpled men straggled out of the gate that the youths had just entered.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Looks like a duty rotation. The night watch gets to go home." He glanced at his watch. "Twelve noon. They must stay up late."

"When do you think they come back—at midnight?"

"I guess we'll find out."

She whirled to face him. "What do you mean we'll find out? You said the SAR team would be here in an hour."

He straightened and sent her a wary, but pitying look. "A successful hostage rescue depends on us knowing both the lay of the land and who the players are. Twenty-four hour surveillance is standard operating procedure. We can't just jump into a situation blind and be certain of our success."

His reasons made sense. Her head knew that but her heart did not. The thought of them still standing here twelve hours from now, watching the building with her sister and niece trapped and miserable inside, overwhelmed her without warning. Rolling away from the window, she slid down the wall until her butt hit the floor and her forehead landed on her knees in a posture of defeat.

"I'll take first watch," Tristan said in a gentle voice.

She'd performed dozens of stakeouts on her own in the past. One time, she'd waited eight days to catch a glimpse of her suspect. But this case was different. Her family needed help and they needed it
now
. Waiting and planning to ensure a successful outcome was going to kill her. And she couldn't do it without Tristan's help.

"Thank you," she whispered and closed her eyes.

* * *

Following the night's violence, none of the captives showed signs of stirring come morning. The lights blinked on, and noises floated through the floor from down below. But only Jeremiah rolled out of his hammock to check on Joe.

"How's he doing?" Emma asked when he returned to their corner of the room.

"He's suffering," he answered shortly. Closing his eyes, he betrayed the height of his stress by rubbing his eyelids. "I wish I could get him some pain medication."

"Maybe you could ask César for some," she suggested. "After all, you saved his brother's life."

"I'm going to try," he promised, opening bloodshot eyes to look at her, "next time someone opens that door."

But the door remained closed. Ann, who took Joe's place rationing the food, distributed their breakfast of corn tortillas, bananas, and water. With the hours stretching endlessly, Jeremiah crossed to the far side of the room and meditated. After half an hour, he stood up and began moving in a series of jabs and kicks that gave an outlet to his frustrations, while keeping Emma and Sammy entertained as they watched him work out from the vantage of their hammock.

"He's like a dancer," Sammy mused on a note of awe.

"It does look like a type of dancing," Emma agreed. For her daughter, who'd taken ballet since she was four, his movements resembled a dance in their grace and athleticism. She didn't need to know that they were, in fact, lethal gestures he might need to implement in order to keep them alive.

"Is Joe going to die?" Sammy whispered, bringing up what had happened without warning.

Emma gazed across the room where Joe lay in his hammock, suffering in silence. Cheryl had slept on the floor to keep from bumping him unnecessarily.

"No, honey, of course not. He's just hurting, that's all."

The sound of the steel door being unbolted drew every captive's attention to the door. On the far side of the room, Jeremiah snapped out of a defensive posture and dropped his arms to his sides.

"
Jerónimo
," called the young man leaning into the room. He swept his gaze around the large space until he spotted Jeremiah, who started in his direction.

"Sí?"

"
El jefe te necesita
."

The boss needs you
, Emma translated. Her heart immediately began to thud. She sat up from her prostrate position.

Jeremiah glanced her way, then started toward the door without breaking eye contact. At the last second, he lifted a hand in farewell, and disappeared.

Emma failed to stifle the whimper of fear that escaped her.

Sammy hugged her from behind. "He'll be back," she said with childlike faith.

"Sure," she said.

But what if he wouldn't? What if he went down those stairs and never returned? Catching herself in the middle of that negative thought, she immediately chased it off.
Think positive!
she ordered herself. In her mind, she started counting.

The seconds dragged into minutes. Through the slab floor, she discerned the distinct timbre of the head guerilla's voice, but Jeremiah spoke too quietly to be overheard.

Dread had turned into a rock in the pit of her stomach and she'd counted to three hundred and twenty-six by the time the steel door swung open. When Jeremiah ducked through it, Emma launched herself off the hammock and sprinted into his arms. With the others looking on, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly.

"You're back," she whispered, revealing the extent of her relief.

His eyes danced as he examined her flushed face. "Would you do that every time I come home?"

Her heart skittered at the oblique reference to a future they could share together. Could she handle being the wife of a Navy SEAL? "If you promise to come home every time," she qualified.

He sent her a slow smile. "Kiss me like that and I'll always come home."

The contentment that blanketed her then should not have been felt under their current circumstances, but when Sammy approached and hugged them both, her happiness merely doubled.

"What did they want from you?" she asked Jeremiah.

"I need to tell everyone," he told her. "Hey, guys," he called, waving the other hostages closer to Joe's hammock. "Gather around. We need to talk."

A needle of concern pricked Emma's contentment.
Talk about what?
Whatever he was about to say sounded like a potential game changer.

The group gathered in a semi-circle, wearing hopeful looks on their haggard faces.

"Listen up. Our captor is worried about his brother, whose foot is badly infected. He could die if he doesn't get antibiotics. But he's allergic to penicillin, and César doesn't trust his men to grab the right antibiotic when they hold up a pharmacy. He wants me to go with them."

Emma's blood ran cold. "No." She grabbed his arm and squeezed it tightly.

"It's okay." He pulled a pill bottle out of his pocket. "In exchange for my agreeing, I got some codeine for Joe." He handed the bottle to Cheryl. "Give him two tablets now and two more in eight hours."