In the Dark (3 page)

Not so fast.

There were more guards here, three of them, lighting cigarettes by the vine-choked fountain. Could she count on her filthy shirt to keep her hidden in the dark?

She paused to catch her breath. It was then that a cry came from a second-story window—
her
window, she determined, glancing up.

"El general está muerto!"
a voice cried out—
the general is dead!

And, look, the woman is missing.

Now the whole place would light up like the D.C. Mall at Christmas. This was nothing like the stealthy escape she'd envisioned.

As the soldiers tossed down their cigarettes, seizing their rifles, Hannah sprinted toward a crumbled portion of the wall. Nearing a motion-detecting spotlight, she dropped to her belly and elbow-crawled through the vegetation.

Once safely past, she sprang up again, legs wobbling beneath her. The sound she dreaded reached her ears.

"Allí está!"
The two remaining guards had spotted her.

"Alto! Manos arriba!"

She lengthened her stride, thighs quivering in protest to her sudden exertion. Bullets peppered the wall in her wake, inspiring her to run faster. She arrived at the crossover point within seconds, leaping up to grasp the top of the wall. To her horror, stone crumbled beneath her fingers and she fell back to her feet.

The guards were running toward her, thankfully out of ammunition. She jumped again, grasping a sturdy vine. Her bare toes scrabbled for leverage, but it was useless. Her arms were weak with terror.

With a sob of defeat, Hannah stilled. They were going to capture her and likely execute her for killing their leader.

Thoop. Thoop.

Those unexpected sounds had her peering over her shoulder. She found her pursuers flat on their backs, dead.

In amazement, she whipped her head in the opposite direction. Someone outside the compound was aiding her escape!

Suddenly a hand came out of the palm fronds, then an entire arm and a powerful shoulder. She made out her rescuer by the whites of his eyes and realized he was lying on the wall just feet away. "Take my hand," he commanded brusquely.

She groped for it, tears of joy burning her eyes.

He was American! His grip was firm and sure. He shook the leaves off his body as he hauled her up beside him. Sitting next to him she could scarcely make him out. He was dressed in black from head to toe, his face painted.

"Hannah Geary?" he clipped. She got the impression he was annoyed.

"Yes, who are—"

But he didn't let her finish. He swung her down on the opposite side, into a pair of waiting arms. Then he jumped to the sand beside her and scooped her up into a fireman hold. Hannah squawked in protest, finding herself suddenly well above the ground.

"Quiet!" said the commando.

"I can walk on my own!"

"Can you see in the dark?" He was moving fast, and she had to appreciate that fact because the estate was seething with commotion now: shouting, another burst of gunfire.

She couldn't see in the dark, but apparently he could. He clambered down the bluff at lightning speed, heading toward the water. The noise behind them swelled as the shouting continued. A beam of light shot out over the water. Perhaps once a beacon for ships, it was now being used to hunt her down.

But she wasn't afraid. The man beneath her moved with the sinuous confidence of a super athlete. She already knew he carried a weapon, and as he jogged along the surf, he covered ground
fast
.

The land beneath them curved like a sickle. At last he stopped, tipping her into ankle-deep water. The other man pushed a rigid inflatable boat across the sand into the water and the big man helped Hannah climb on board.

As he fired up the motor, Hannah clung to the center seat. The second man took his place at the prow, and they were off, slamming into the waves, away from the light that strafed the shore.

Up and over the crests they flew, soaring and falling. Hannah had no idea the water in the bay was so rough. She would have drowned trying to swim across it.

The noises on the shoreline faded. Eventually the only sound was the humming of the RIB's motor. Eventually, her rescuer cut the engine and they slid across the swells to a standstill.

They listened. All was quiet.

Her rescuer flipped a switch on a transmitter, spouting naval code-speak to request a pickup.

"Roger. It'll take us twenty minutes to get there. Sit tight. Out."

Hannah pried her stiff fingers from the side of the boat. "Th-thank you," she said, shuddering with cold.

He scooted closer. "Are you hurt?" He ran large but gentle hands over her wet skin.

"I think I'm okay," she said, teeth chattering as adrenaline gave way to icy-cold shock.

"Westy, toss me a blanket," the commando requested, and his partner tossed him a rolled object that he shook open and draped across her shoulders. Hannah gathered the crinkly material closer, feeling instantly warmed.

"So what was going on back there?" the big man asked. His annoyance was unmistakable this time.

"Er... I was trying to get away?"

He kept quiet for a moment. "Another three hours and we'd have had you out without a soul seeing us," he revealed.

Oops.
"Sorry. I didn't know anyone was coming for me. Who are you exactly?"

"Navy SEALs. I'm Lieutenant Lindstrom." He stuck out a hand. "Call me Luther. My helmsman there is Chief McCaffrey. Everyone calls him Westy."

Luther Lindstrom's hand was wonderfully big and warm. Hannah commanded herself to let go but couldn't. She glanced at Westy, whose face was also painted black. The man had a beard of all things. "From Team Twelve?" she guessed.

"Yes," the lieutenant confirmed, tugging his hand free. "You were delivering a notebook to us when you disappeared."

He shouldn't have reminded her. Hannah put her forehead to her knees and squeezed her legs so her shaking would subside. Memories of the last two weeks panned through her mind like a terrifying slide show.

She'd been trained to cope with hardship in a mock captivity back at CIA camp, but that had been a cakewalk compared to the last two weeks. Now that she was safe, the enormity of her experience pegged her in the chest. She made a sound in her throat that sounded embarrassingly nice a sob.

Lieutenant Lindstrom put a hand on her back. "Hey, you're okay now. I've got you right here. You're absolutely safe." His dense thigh brushed hers.

She could feel the heat of his hand burning through her filthy blouse. To her shame, she threw herself at him and hung on tight. A man this solid had to be real. She wasn't dreaming.

After a second's surprise, the lieutenant pulled her closer, his arms like bands of steel. His diving suit did nothing to conceal the awesome proportions of his physique: broad chest, trim waist, thighs hewn out of rock. For the first time in her life, Hannah knew what it was like to feel petite.

Her shuddering slowly subsided. "I'm okay," she said, forcing herself to withdraw.

But he held her fast. She sighed and went limp. Her isolation these last two weeks had left her hungering for human contact. She closed her eyes, lulled by the steady beat of his heart.

"Patrol's coming," Westy said.

Without releasing her, the lieutenant hailed the approaching craft with a special signaling device. The larger vessel loomed alongside them, its motor almost silent. He helped her climb a ladder that was lowered to them.

There were no lights on board the bigger boat. In the darkness and all the way to Guantanamo Bay Naval Installation, Hannah clung to the SEAL, one part of her appalled by her need for reassurance, the other certain that he understood.

U.S. Naval Station
Guantanamo Bay
19 September ~ 09:16 DST

Luther quit knocking at Hannah's door and put his ear to it to listen. Maybe she wasn't in there.

They'd secured rooms at the bachelor quarters in Guantanamo at well past four in the morning. Given the woman's exhaustion, she could easily sleep another ten hours. But since their flight back to CONUS—Continental U.S.— was leaving in just two hours, they needed to prepare for departure now.

The silence in the room convinced him she was already up. He hastened to the lobby, more than a little concerned. Through the double glass doors at the rear of the building he caught sight of her, seated by the outdoor pool across the table from Westy.

The scene looked like something out of a swimsuit calendar, with the pool and the multicolored umbrella back-dropped by the Caribbean Sea. Sitting under the umbrella, Hannah could have passed for the model in the calendar, only instead of a swimsuit, she was wearing a peach sundress and sandals Westy must've bought her in the gift shop.

Last night she'd resembled a drowned rat in stained clothing. Luther'd held her for the better part of an hour, one part of him conscious of the fact that she felt like a hundred percent woman, even though she was filthy. She'd clutched him in a purely feminine way that had made him feel good about the mission, despite the fact that it hadn't gone as smoothly as it could have.

Upon their arrival at Guantanamo, he'd seen her in the glare of artificial light. He'd found her tall and lanky with matted hair and a face filthy with dirt and dried blood. She'd looked so exhausted he'd thought he would have to bathe her and tuck her into bed, only she'd shut her door politely in his face, making that unnecessary.

Clearly she'd found the wherewithal to scrub up, and—to use an expression that made his mother wince for its grammatical inaccuracy—she cleaned up pretty damn good.

With curiosity goading him, Luther pushed through the doors for a better look.

Her hair, freshly washed, was cherry-red. Cut sassy-short, it left the length of her neck exposed. She turned her head in his direction, and he had to concentrate to keep from tripping over his own feet.

Green eyes gazed out of a face that struck him as translucent, despite the dusting of freckles. She had winging eyebrows, a trim but strong nose, and a mouth that was wide and pink, even without lipstick.

Awareness leaped out and grabbed him by the throat, followed immediately by a surge of annoyance. He didn't want to be attracted to Hannah Geary, who was certainly the antithesis of the uncomplicated female he was looking for. But here he was, stuck with her, at least until Jaguar's charges were dropped.

Ever the enlisted officer, Westy surged to his feet. "Morning, sir!" he said, sounding in awfully good spirits.

Then again, the freckles on Hannah's nose would put any man in a positive frame of mind.

"Good morning." Luther's gaze slid helplessly in her direction. "Hello."

"Hi." She eyed him with open interest, as if trying to reconcile him with the camouflaged being he was last night.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked Westy, who had yet to sit.

"I'll get us all drinks." And with that, Westy was gone, leaving Luther alone at the table with a woman he'd held in his arms, having no idea how incredibly hot she was. He took the seat beside her, determined to resist her appeal.

"So how do you feel?" he asked, spying a cut on her neck and several nicks on her bare arms.

"I'm okay," she said. Her voice was pleasantly husky. "My hands took the brunt of it."

"Let me see?"

She held her palms up for his inspection.

A reluctant thrill chased over him as he assessed the abrasions on her soft-looking palms and long, slender fingers. "Can you make a fist?" he asked.

She curled her hands obediently. "I'll be fine." Her eyes came up, and he was struck with the feeling that she could see way down inside of him.

His mind went blank for an awkwardly long moment. "That was a brave attempt on your part to escape," he said. "Sorry if I sounded edgy about it."

"I understand," she said with a quick smile. "You didn't want to kill anyone."

Maybe she
could
see inside him. "It was unsettling to watch them shoot at you when I wasn't in position to help out," he explained.

"I imagine it was. I'm sorry it came to that."

"That's okay." It wasn't really. But given a choice between them dying and her dying, he'd sure as hell done the right thing.

Westy reappeared just then to distribute three tall glasses of crimson-colored juice. "Papaya, pineapple, and orange," he explained at Luther's curious glance. "Did you need me for something, sir?"

"In a minute, Chief. Sit down and enjoy your drink. We need to talk first."

As Westy sat, Hannah eyed Luther expectantly.

"Miss Geary—"

"Hannah."

"Hannah." He cleared his throat. "The FBI sent us to Santiago to recover you." He fingered the condensation on the outside of his glass. "The main reason we're involved is that we need the information you were trying to get to us in the first place. Without it, Lieutenant Renault is in a heap of trouble."

Her eyebrows dipped with worry. "The last time I talked to your master chief, Lieutenant Renault was headed to a meeting with Commander Lovitt. I had a really bad feeling about it."

Luther acknowledged her concern. "Lovitt took him out on the patrol craft, promising to return him to active duty." Jaguar had been—and still was—on disability leave due to his PTSD. "But that was just a ploy. Obviously Jaguar saw something that Lovitt doesn't want him to remember. Your call probably saved his life."

Her eyes flared. "He tried to kill him!" she exclaimed.

"We flew out on a helo while Jaguar held three of Lovitt's men at bay. We got there just in time, but you're never going to believe the outcome. Lovitt convinced the NCIS that Jaguar went ballistic on him, shot him in the arm, and then went after the crew."

"You're kidding!" she breathed with horror. "What about your testimony?"

"Supposedly we made up a story to protect our platoon leader. The NCIS didn't believe any of us."

"That's outrageous!"

"We think so," Luther said, heartened by her support "Now Jaguar needs all the help he can get to counter the charges he's facing."

"What are the charges?"

"Destruction of military property and two counts of murder. There were three sailors on the PC that day. Obviously, they were working for Lovitt, who says that Jaguar shot and killed them. He didn't; we saw two injured men jump overboard to avoid being taken. Jaguar took the third man out when he tried to blow up the boat with an antitank round. The NCIS agreed that was self-defense. Hell, he saved us all."