Nauti Dreams (2 page)

her wrist and hidden beneath her body as they dragged her from the pallet.

Reality was, she was going to die here and she knew it.

Pop. She heard the sound, but it didn’t make sense. She heard someone grunt, heard

something fall.

Several more of the hollow, wet pops and more shuffling.

She knew that sound. Bullets. She couldn’t see, but she knew the guards were dead.

Frantically, she scrabbled at the floor, found one of them, and raced to tear his shirt off

his torso. Buttons. God she hated buttons. She worked them loose with stiff, swollen

fingers as she heard shouts, screams, and grunts outside the cell door.

The shirt came free, and she dragged it off his body before shoving her arms into it and

wrapping it around her. There wasn’t a chance she could rebutton it. Pants. She needed

pants.

She was frantic. She worked fast, struggling, panting, trying to ignore the pain searing her

body as she worked boots and pants off the guard.

She belted the pants on, feeling their length and filth around her. But they covered her.

She would have to do without shoes.

Gun. She had the gun in her hand, and she couldn’t fucking see. She was crying, her tears

burning the cuts on her face, burning her eyes as she crept to the cell door.

It swung open, sunlight piercing her eyes for too long, shadows enveloping her as she

brought the gun up while trying to strike out with the small wooden stake she had

managed to hone.

“Chill!” The voice was American, harsh as strong hands gripped her wrists, tore the gun

and the stake from her hands and moved quickly behind her. “Extraction in progress,” he

hissed.

Backup. He was reporting in. Extraction. SEALs? Were they SEALs?

“You got me, Faisal?”

Hands were roving over her quickly.

“SEALs?” She gasped out.

“I only wish,” he snarled in her ear, his voice deep, like aged whiskey and soothing to her

shattered senses. “Try one lone fucking sniper and a teenage kid with more guts than

good sense. Can you run?”

His arm was around her, holding her against him. He was warm and protective. Was he

protective or did she just need to convince herself that he was? Did she need this to

survive the events of the past twenty-four hours?

“I can’t see.” And she wanted to see him. Wanted her senses in order, her thoughts

clinical, as sharp as they had been yesterday.

“I’ll lead, you run?” The suggestion was almost a croon, his voice almost tempting.

“I’ll run.”

He had her on her feet. Her bare feet. But she would be okay. She would run, anything to

escape this cell, the hands touching her body, the voice at her ear, sinking into her head.

“Small cell here.” He rushed her into the heat and blinding light. “I think we got them all,

but I’m not betting on it. We have bogeys heading in a few miles out and tight quarters to

hide in.”

He was talking to her as he ran. Ran hard and fast, holding her against his side and taking

most of her weight as she forced herself to keep up with him.

“Nassar?” she questioned roughly. She hoped the bastard was dead.

“Rode out in the only gun jeep,” he informed her. “Gave us our chance.”

Nassar got away. But she had the information, had what she needed to fry his and her

husband’s asses, and she would do just that.

“I need a radio,” she gasped. “I have to report in before he gets away.”

“Fuck that.” Hard, scathing, the voice was nonetheless comforting. It was American.

Southern drawl, Kentucky if she wasn’t mistaken. “Look, little girl. I’m on a short leash

here and ammo is tight. I’m a Marine sniper with no backup or comm until closer to

extraction, or until the extraction team comes searching for me. I wouldn’t even be here if

your friend Faisal hadn’t sent out a Mayday on shortwave and connected with my only

comm. We gotta boogie and boogie hard, or both our asses are grass. Those bad boys

back there are sure to make fine lawn mowers, too.”

They were running uphill. He was barking commands. Gathering his guns, his pack.

Getting ready to run again.

“Where are we?” She was fighting to breathe, to keep up.

“Bum-fucked nowhere.” He was running full out and wasn’t close to being winded. “I

have a hole a mile out. You’re gonna have to hang on for the ride, sugar, ’cause we don’t

get there, we’re all dead. And dead and me don’t get along.”

“She live? She live?” Young, Iraqi, the boy’s voice was frantic as the man paused for just

a second. She knew the voice. Faisal was one of her informants. The young boy’s

courage was incredible.

“She lives, now boogie your ass, boy.”

“Boogie my ass, Natchie,” the boy claimed. “Boogie boogie.”

“Damned kid.” But there was affection in his voice. That affection, that sense of

protectiveness that seemed to surround her, dug into her, made her chest ache from more

than the run.

How long had it been since she had felt protected? Had she ever? But she did now. With

this stranger’s arm tight around her waist, half pulling her, half carrying her. Rescuing

her. And Chaya had never been rescued in her life.

They were running full tilt. She couldn’t see, her feet were bleeding, and her bruised ribs

were in agony. But she was free. Reality was, she was free, and with just a little tiny

miracle, she could stay free. But she knew those arms wouldn’t always be there. That

strength wouldn’t always surround her, and she spared just a moment to regret that.

Natches rushed the mile to the hole he had made the night before after Faisal’s shortwave

coded message had hit his radio. He’d made the holes, prepared them, and then went after

the girl the boy had seen hauled into the dump of a terrorist camp. A small enough camp,

out of the way, populated by barely a dozen hard-eyed, fanatic bastards and one little

American blonde.

Hell, who had been dumb enough to lose her? She was an agent, he could tell from the

automatic stamina pushing her. She didn’t have the strength to crawl on her own, but her

legs were moving and she was fighting to help him as much as she could.

Faisal was easily staying at his side, his dark face creased with worry at the sound of

gunfire behind them. They were out of sight as they rounded the low, rolling hill, and the

hole was just ahead, covered deep with stripped trees and wrapped with dead brush. A

natural part of the landscape.

“Get in the hole.” He lifted the first cover and pushed Faisal into it with the supplies he

would need in a smaller pack.

He threw himself and the girl into the second hole and jerked the secured covering over

them as the sound of a helicopter began to hum from the direction of the terrorist base.

Of course, there had to be a fucking helicopter, he thought as he lifted himself enough to

stare through the natural break he had created to see if they were followed. Fuck, he

didn’t need this.

The hole was deep enough to sit in, the upper natural covering strong enough to hold a

tank, maybe. They were secure as long as the bastards didn’t have dogs. It wasn’t very

long, wasn’t very wide, but it was the best he could do on short notice.

“Do you have extraction coming soon?” Chaya rasped.

He glanced back at her and winced. She was curled against the dirt wall, eyes swollen

closed, her lips dry and cracked. She looked vulnerable, but the woman had a spine of

steel.

“I have a tracker on me. They’ll find me when they get in close enough. When I wasn’t at

the first extraction point, they’ll have followed the beacon I have on me.”

Her lips twisted mockingly. “Are you sure? Collateral damage is the motto these days,

you know.”

Fuck wasn’t that the truth. “Every good redneck knows you always have a plan B,” he

assured her. His team was all the plan A or B that he needed. Most snipers worked alone,

but on this mission, he was numero uno and he knew it. They needed him too damned

bad to allow him to become damaged.

She breathed out wearily as he pulled a canteen from his pack and uncapped it. “Here.

Drink slow.” He lifted the water to her lips, staring at her face as she sipped.

“I have some salve and bandages for your eyes,” he said. “Bastards always go for the

eyes first, don’t they?”

She gave a small, bitter laugh. “At least second.”

He pulled out the medical kit, smoothed the salve over her eyes, then secured bandages

over them. She had the face of an angel, he thought. Fine bones, delicate cheekbones,

pretty sensual lips, he bet. Right now they were bloody and swollen.

“Old lady at home makes that salve,” he told her. “Bastards caught me last year, just

about tore my eyeballs out before I escaped. When I went home on leave, she made the

salve and made me promise to keep it with me.”

“Kentucky,” she whispered as the helicopter swept overhead.

“Lake Cumberland.” He gently touched the scratches on her face with the salve.

She was a slender woman. Dirt caked her hair and smeared her face, but he bet she was a

beauty before Nassar and his men got hold of her.

“You’re New England.” He nodded at her accent. “Damn pretty area. Damned pretty

girls.”

Her smile was tired. “There’s one less now.”

He sincerely doubted that. “Did they rape you?”

He was surprised at the fury that threatened to drown his common sense. Of course they

raped her. They were known for it.

She shook her head and grimaced mockingly. “They didn’t.”

“Who did?” He smeared the salve over her swollen lips as he caught the emphasis.

“Nassar has some interesting toys.” She grimaced. “But he was tired of using them. His

little buddies were going to do the deed when he left. Thanks for the timing by the way.”

Natches sat back on his haunches and listened carefully for noise outside. There were no

caves in this area. The next hill over had several. The area he had chosen was no more

than a flat, uninteresting gorge. Nothing but some scrappy foliage and dead brush. The

perfect place for a hole. They would check the area, but they would be more eager to hit

the caves a mile away.

“Faisal, your goat herder friend,” he explained softly. “He saw Nassar bring you in. He’s

also got a handy-dandy military shortwave and an American Army sergeant for a buddy

who taught him a little bit of code. That code caught me on my way back. I side-tracked

to rescue you. All the guys at home are gonna be slapping my back for this one. I might

even get a street named after me.”

Her smile was slower. Dazed. She was slipping away from him and he couldn’t allow

that. “Faisal’s a good kid,” she whispered, her head nodding to the side.

“Wake up there, girl.”

“Chaya. My name is Chaya.” Her voice was soft, sweet. He liked her voice.

Damned pretty name for a damned pretty woman. He touched her cheek again.

“Talk to me, Chay. Tell me where you’re hurt. I need to fix as much as I can just in case

we have to run.”

“Feet. Bruised ribs, possible concussion. No internal bleeding, no broken bones.”

She was drifting away from him.

Natches leaned in and touched her lips with his. Her head jerked back as she gasped. But

her hands reached out for him, her fingers—slender, fragile fingers—clenching his wrists,

tightening, as though she were afraid to let go of him, before she did just that. Slowly.

Hesitantly.

“There, awake now?” He moved to her feet, pulling one into his lap as he dragged the

medical kit closer.

“Why did you do that?” She sounded shocked, but awake, aware.

“My kisses are potent,” he bragged shamelessly, desperate to keep her grounded and

aware. “They wake all the girls up.”

He used a penlight to check her feet carefully, always listening, always tracking the

sound of the helicopter overhead and the vehicles now moving through the ravines.

He peeked over the edge of the hole but couldn’t see anything moving near enough to be

deemed a threat.

He smoothed the salve over her feet, then pulled his shirt and T-shirt off. He tore the T-

shirt into strips, padded her feet, then wrapped them with stretch gauze.

“All the girls like your kisses, do they?” She still sounded awake.

“They beg for my kisses.” It was nothing less than the truth, but as he stared at this

woman, so strong, so determined, he wondered at the women he had known before.

Would any of them have found the strength to make it this far? And he knew they

wouldn’t have. But this one, this one would never join in the Mackay games as the others

had.

“Conceited.” Her smile was tired, and worry lashed at him.

She was sheet white, pain and shock setting in now that she was still and no longer

enfolded in complete terror. He couldn’t risk shock. Not yet.

He dug in the med pack again and pulled free the potent pain pills he carried. “Take this.”

He pushed it into her mouth and lifted the canteen to her lips again.

She sipped and then leaned her head back against the dirt wall behind her.

Silence filled the hole for long moments. Her breathing was short and erratic, and every

few seconds she would flinch or grimace just enough that he caught the wary movements

in her expressions.

He wanted to hold her. She was almost broken, maybe not physically, but mentally at the

least. She had endured this far, he had to get her just a little further.