Night Hush (5 page)

He turned his head and put her firmly out of his mind, concentrating instead on the problem of rendezvousing with their ride. It was four in the morning. The sandstorm supposedly would pass south of them, but luck had not been with them on this mission. Assuming it was possible to reschedule a bird to fly them home, could they still get out ahead of the sandstorm? Jace combed through his mental map of the area. If they ended up being stuck here, south toward the coast was the safest egress.

Heather twitched, then began to shiver. Tiny mewls of distress churned from her throat as she slept. He rubbed her back, hoping to calm her into silence. She arched away from his touch, which caused her breasts to press into his chest. As nice as that felt, he shook her awake, placing his hand across her mouth. The insurgents were gone, but screams would carry across the desert.

She jerked awake, crying out beneath his hand, her eyes crazed. She began to flail, striking at his face and eyes with her nails.

“Settle down,” he said. “It's me.” He said it in English, although that might not reassure her considering he had almost killed her. He switched to Arabic, hoping to calm her. “You're safe. They're gone.” He banded his arms around hers and simply held on, ensuring she wouldn't hurt herself or him.

Her breath whooshed out and her body went limp, her head dropping forward onto his chest. He took his hand away. She used the edge of the scarf to wipe her face. All rational thought fled as she lifted her head from his chest. At the same moment, he looked down at her, and their noses bumped. Both froze. Jace's brain short-­circuited. The sudden urge to kiss her was intense. What would she smell like fresh from her own shower? How soft would her skin feel against his?

What the hell was he thinking?

He saw his hands reach out to pull the keffiyeh away from her face, and, stunned, had to force his hands into stillness as they gripped the very edge of the scarf. No way was he doing this. His gaze locked with hers, and he knew he'd failed to conceal his sudden desire when her eyes widened. Expecting her to jerk away at any moment, he forced his fingers to release the coarse material. She continued to stare at him, neither moving forward nor back. They lay squashed together, frozen by the impossibility of it all.

Jace raised a finger, gently touching a stray curl at her ear and tucking it back into her scarf. She trembled against him, and he immediately pulled back. He held himself still, afraid of frightening her. She had to know she was safe with him.

His eyes drifted to half-­mast as he pressed back against the cave wall, giving her as much space as possible. However, in his imagination, when he leaned back, her hand grazed his chin, tracing his jaw and cheek. He imagined her welcoming his touch, enjoying the press of his lips against the inside of her wrist, then again at her mouth. Their tongues sliding together. His hands tangling in her mass of soft curls. Tracing down the delicate lines of her throat with open mouthed, hot kisses. Her back bowing, head thrown back in pleasure.

A tiny rattle of stones outside their small cave jerked him out of his insane fantasy. Quick as a snake, he coiled onto his back, flipping his rifle up and training it on the opening.

A soft chirring noise made him relax fractionally. He returned the call, only lowering his weapon when his pack was tugged aside and Tag's unmistakable bulk filled the opening.

“We're clear. Let's rock and roll,” he said.

Jace took in a lot of air and let it out slowly, trying to get his racing pulse and inflamed body under control. Unable to see her clearly in the darkness, he reached out to touch Heather's shoulder. She seemed to shrink in on herself.

“No,” she whispered.

Jace pulled himself out of their hidey-­hole and turned to help her. She ignored his offered hand, wriggling out and scrambling to her feet, turned completely away from him as she wrapped the scarf over her nose and mouth, shoulders hunched.

Jace frowned. Was she scared? There was no time to reassure her. She was safe. And they had a chopper to catch.

“We're meeting at the landing zone. Sandman called in for a ride, but we have to hurry. The storm turned north. It'll be here in less than an hour,” Tag said.

Jace shouldered his rucksack, his heart still pounding double time. What bothered him more than his intense awareness of Heather Langstrom was his almost total lack of professionalism. He'd practically forgotten everything—­that he was in dangerous territory, surrounded by hostile Kurds, and, worst of all, that he was supposed to be protecting her. Jesus! If the sergeant major could see him now, he'd kick his sorry ass from one end of Fort Bragg to the other. And he'd deserve it.

“Let's go,” Jace said curtly. He turned to lead the way and marched several yards before he realized the other two lagged behind. He turned around. Tag guarded their six. Heather struggled over the rough ground, pain etched in her eyes and posture, though, once again, no sound passed her lips. His long strides took him back to her side.

“What's wrong?”

The woman shook her head, speaking in Arabic. “Nothing. I can keep up.”

“Well, you're not,” he answered in the same language, more gruffly than he'd intended.

She jerked her head up, eyes blazing. “I will,” she hissed. “Give me my socks.”

And, just like that, he understood. She had grabbed her captor's socks, but had stuffed her feet into the boots and run. Tag had taken her socks when they'd searched her. And then they had dragged her on a three-­mile hike over rocky terrain, in the dark, with her feet sliding around, unprotected, inside too-­large boots. Her feet must be raw hamburger.

“I'll carry you,” he said.

She shook her head, backing away from him. “No.”

He swore. Looked at Tag. “How long before we need to be at the LZ?”

Tag checked his watch, unflappable as always. “Twenty-­eight minutes and counting.”

Jace held out a hand, and Tag dug the socks out of his pocket and passed them over. He pulled the quick-­release tabs on his ruck, and Tag did the same. Quickly, efficiently, they sat her down and pulled off her boots. Tag broke open his first aid kit and pulled out a ­couple Kotex, and they covered her many bleeding blisters with antiseptic and the soft pads. Jace flipped open a knife and hacked a T-­shirt in half. Each took one half, grabbed a foot, wrapped it in the cloth, and covered it with two pairs of thick socks. They ignored her protests and laced her boots for her. Tag muttered a quick, “No offense, ma'am, but we can do it quicker.” In less than five minutes, they jumped up and continued down the trail.

Heather still moved stiffly, but kept up with the slower pace. Jace did some quick calculations. If they could squeeze some more speed out of her, they would make it, just barely. She had guts, he had to admit. As he increased his pace, so did she, without complaint, though he knew her feet must be killing her. The padding would help, but he knew how painful open sores could be.

They crept to the crest of a large hill, lying flat to scan the valley leading to their exit point. An unearthly hush covered the landscape. The hairs on the back of Jace's neck stood on end. He laid a hand on Tag's forearm.
Wait,
he signaled. Tag stopped immediately.

Jace wasn't sure what nagged at him. Every sense strained, but nothing seemed amiss. He trusted his gut, though, and his gut shrieked a warning.

He heard the wind the same time Tag did. It rose from the eerie silence like the voice of God. They watched with a kind of fatalistic amusement as an enormous wall of sand crested the far mountains and began to swirl at the far end of the valley.

Tag swore. Jace agreed with him, but he didn't waste his breath. “Tell the team to find shelter,” he barked. “Go back to the damned Kongra-­Gel camp if you have to. We need . . .” He cut himself off as a group of men topped the ridgeline, not fifty feet from them. Weapons out, they swept from left to right, on the hunt. “Shit! They're coming this way.” The two operators became part of the landscape. Jace cursed as he realized Heather hugged the ground, but didn't seem to realize she was in the open and visible. He rolled to his feet and gripped her arm. Shouts from behind assured him they'd been spotted.

Jace tugged her to her feet and they bolted, zigzagging across the hard-­packed earth until Jace realized this new group was not shooting at them. Instead, they maneuvered to cut them off. Capture them. Oh, no. No, no, no. Wasn't going to happen, not if he had to kill a thousand of them.

Never again.

He increased his pace, dragging Heather behind him like the string on a kite. She matched him stride for stride, the urgency of the situation clear to her. He spared a moment to admire her for ignoring the pain in her feet to do what had to be done.

Behind him, Tag opened up on the enemy, scattering them and giving Jace a precious few seconds. He plunged deeper into the shadows of the brush lining the lower parts of the hillside and pulled Heather to his side. Much more slowly now, they crept through the concealment. Behind him, he could hear her harsh breathing. He slid his hand under her hair to pull her close. She resisted for a moment, then leaned forward. He whispered into her ear, “Slow your breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth. From the diaphragm, just like before.” She nodded, gulping a few times before she got the rhythm.

“What about your friend?” she whispered back. In English.

“He can take care of himself.” Hey, now. Maybe her mental muzziness was clearing. Being able to communicate openly with her would be a huge help.

He led her through the brush.

 

Chapter Eight

August 16. 4:50
A.M.

Somewhere in Sari Daru Province, Azakistan

H
EATHER FOUGHT TO BREATHE
. Even with Jace's whispered instructions, she couldn't seem to drag enough air into her lungs. Anxiety pounded through her; fear, reduced somewhat since her rescuers started moving away from the Kurdish insurgents, roared back to life. She tried to emulate Jace's sinuous motions through the brush, but she could not manage his silence. It didn't seem to matter, though, because the soldiers above them shouted instructions to each other. Find them. Capture them.

She wanted to cut and run, race away as fast and as far as she could, but she knew the sudden movement would reveal their location. Even Jace's teammate had broken off and vanished. She and Jace flew solo now. Stress and strain and fear jacked all her senses into high gear. She thought she might crack wide open even as she forced herself to accept Jace's slow pace. The soldiers beat the brush, certain their quarry had gone to ground.

When the soldiers' shouts could barely be heard, Jace increased their pace. Heather's legs, frozen into the half-­crouch they'd been using, screamed in protest, and she hobbled. Jace stopped and turned, catching her as she staggered again. He wrapped a hard arm around her waist, holding her securely against him. Her legs trembled and shook. She gripped his shoulders helplessly, willing strength back into them. The days of near starvation, little water, and constant fear had taken their toll; their flight had drained her. With a silent sob, she dropped her forehead to his chest. Just for a moment. For strength. Just for a few seconds, wouldn't it be all right to lean on someone besides herself?

“It's all right. I've got you.”

The brusque words so surprised her she jerked. His arm tightened, as it had in the cave when he'd looked like he wanted to kiss her. Heat rose in her cheeks. Her own response had astounded her. Rather than feel suffocated or threatened, something had sparked and leapt inside her. The scarf she'd wrapped around her face puffed with her expelled breath. She tucked it back into place, then took a shaky inhale, confused. So who was Jace? Was he the sweet, gentle man who'd cradled her while she broke down in tears back in the cave, who supported her now as though they had all the time in the world for her to get her strength back? Or was he the merciless warrior who'd attacked the terrorist training site?

Heather had trained in small unit tactics during both Air Assault and Jungle Warfare Schools. These men were something different. They moved as one, thought as one, but their methods were like nothing she'd ever seen. He and his team must be freelancers, she thought, not military. Civilians with military or paramilitary backgrounds employed by one of the hundreds of private security firms infesting this region of the world. Heather knew of the atrocities committed by Blackwater and other private security firms. Sanctioned thugs, nothing more. And now, they had been given even more rein, with the mission to locate and kill terrorists. Enemies of the West and whoever got in their way, no doubt.

She gave her head a quick shake, trying to dislodge the buzzing in her brain. Mercenaries could not be trusted. She did not dare put her faith in this one. Yet wasn't that exactly what she was doing?

Life slowly flowed back into her legs, evidenced by furious pins and needles. Heather pulled away, light-­headed again. Was it her imagination, or did he hesitate before letting her go? He turned away with a gruff, “Let's go,” and the endless trek began again.

Jace led her steadily southwest. He stopped several times to let her rest and drink from his canteen. Each time they stopped, he tried to contact his teammates from both a throat mike and his satellite phone. Despite his failure, he kept trying, betraying no agitation or frustration. She didn't know why he couldn't get through on the sat phone. Maybe the sandstorm interfered?

Thankful for the respite, she eased herself to the ground, pressing a hand over her left side and the peculiar tightness and stabbing radiating from that spot. Jace sat nearby, deep in thought. He turned to her, seeming to be sifting through options until he finally spoke.

“Do you . . . remember how you came to be in that camp?”

It wasn't the question she had anticipated, and the odd phrasing threw her. He had asked it in English; she feigned confusion and answered in Turkish, certain he would not understand her. “My name is Necia Kuzuou. I live in Ma'ar ye zhad. Please, can you take me back there?”

His grim, unsmiling gaze rested heavily on hers, as though he could see inside her head, as though he could tell she was lying through her teeth. “You're Turkish?” he asked. “But you speak English.”

She started, realizing she had, without thinking, been either speaking or following his English instructions for miles. Oh, shit! She lowered her eyes, counting on her scarf to hide her expression. Her brain finally unfroze. “Many ­people speak English. It is only Americans who refuse to learn another language.”

There was another long silence.

“Why did you pretend not to understand me, just now?”

Heather's breath caught at the back of her throat. “You frighten me,” she said, realizing after the words left her mouth that it was true.

The man said quietly, “I won't hurt you.”

“Who are you?” she challenged abruptly, hoping to startle him into revealing something. He only exhaled a soft laugh.

“I'm the guy who saved your ass,” he said. “And the guy who's going to take you to safety. To Ma'ar ye zhad.”

Keeping her head lowered to mask her relief, she said, “Thank you for your many kindnesses. I did not mean to . . . I am grateful you took me away from that . . . that terrible place.” Her voice wobbled against her volition.

He hesitated. “How, um, how did you come to be there? You were a prisoner, right?”

Heather blew out a breath. It was an inevitable question. She chose her words carefully.

“I attend university in Ma'ar ye zhad,” she said, in deliberately stilted English. She smoothed her hands over her knees. “I speak out against the atrocities building in this country. I speak out for freedom, for . . . for fairness. Justice for the women who are being forbidden to learn, to be educated. To work, even when they are doctors, biologists, mathematicians, engineers. Many groups do not like when I speak this way. I was threatened, do you understand?” She was lying outrageously, but the sentiment was true. She hated the fundamentalist trend attacking women's rights in this formerly progressive country.

Jace rubbed his chin. “So someone kidnapped you?”

“I was taken against my will to that camp and held there.” That much, at least, was true, and it was easy to let her fear show in her voice. “Shouldn't we . . . should we not keep moving?” Heather could feel the trembling in her legs getting worse, and the longer she sat, the stiffer her feet would become. Walking was becoming excruciating. “The sandstorm . . .”

“In a minute. We've got a long road ahead of us.” He dug into one of his many cargo pockets and pulled out a ­couple of power bars. He held one out to her, and she barely stopped herself from lunging for it. It was gone in two bites. He stared at her, his expression unreadable, then proffered the other. She cleared her throat.

“No, thank you. You, also, must eat.”

“I think I've eaten a lot more often than you have,” he said quietly. “In that camp. What hap . . .” He stopped, shook his head. “Here. You need your strength. I'm sorry I didn't, um, think of it sooner.” He handed her his canteen, as well. “We'll rest here for five minutes. I'm sorry I can't give you more time. We have maybe an hour before the storm crosses the valley and reaches us. We have to find shelter. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Heather forced herself to eat the second bar more slowly, trying to give her cramping stomach time to adjust. She uncapped the canteen. Her survival instincts screamed at her to swallow huge gulps as fast as she could; but, as she had earlier, she forced herself to take small sips.

“We'll rendezvous with the guys after the storm passes. They know where.” The information was grunted grudgingly; this was not a man who explained himself often.

Heather nodded. “Thank you for the food. And water.”

The man searched her face again. Heather knew the scarf covered her. What was he looking for?

“Do you know this area at all?”

“No. I am sorry. You do not?” Heather could have told him she didn't even know where in Azakistan she was, or even if she was still in the country. Her tormentor had choked her into unconsciousness; she didn't know for how long.

“A bit. We're three klicks from our rendezvous,” he said. “Um . . . we're three kilometers from where we're going to link back up with my team.”

“I understand, but . . . Where are we in Azakistan? You said we are close to Ma-­ar ye zhad, but south? West?”

He didn't hesitate. “We're not close to Ma-­ar ye zhad. We're three kilometers from Bhunto. We missed our ride.”

“Bhunto?” As carefully as she'd studied the maps of the Middle East, she couldn't recall any city with that name.

He laughed. “Yeah. It's a three-­goat village near the border. From there, it's eighty miles to Ma-­ar ye zhad.”

Aw, hell. The middle of nowhere. “We need to get to Bhunto fast. Come on.” He rose and held out his hand. Like before, Heather turned away. She pushed herself to her feet, swayed, and barely avoided falling. The pain was bearable, but only just. Her own weakness was now her greatest enemy.

He seemed to know exactly which way to go. Heather could have figured it out, with a map and compass and muscles that didn't shake with fatigue. The wind picked up, swirling around them in warning. She drove herself forward. It seemed to take forever to walk less than two miles. By the time a small collection of mud huts came into view, menacing clouds obscured the moon and stars, and the wind tore at them. When the storm finally hit, hell would seem calm in comparison.

Jace flicked on a flashlight. None of the buildings showed any signs of life. No candles or fires, no movement, no animal noises. It looked like the tiny village had been abandoned. He checked several huts before leading her inside one. It held a table, cupboard and bed, but no dishes, clothing, or decorations of any sort.

Jace dropped his pack on the floor and handed her the flashlight. “I'll be right back,” he said, and walked out. Heather ran to the door. She found him right outside, piling rocks into a seemingly random arrangement. She recognized the trick. This way, his team would know which hut they had occupied.

He glanced at her. “I'm not going anywhere. Go sit down.”

Pale pink spread over the tops of the mountains to the east. It seemed incongruous that a sweetly gentle sunrise would soon disappear beneath the onslaught of the haboob.

Despite her shaking limbs and fuzzy head, she drew on her training and inspected the walls of the hut for holes, the cupboards for anything useful. Nothing. The tenants had cleared out long ago. She glimpsed his rucksack. He had food and water. They had shelter. They would be fine.

Jace came back inside. “The team'll be along in a bit.”

“You spoke with them?”

“Yeah. They ran into some trouble. Nothing they couldn't handle, but they went to radio silence.”

“Are they . . . unharmed?” Like a mother hen, she worried about her guys at 10
th
Group every time they went on a dangerous mission.

“They're good to go. They'll be along.”

Was he trying to reassure her she would not be alone with him for very long? Strangely, her fear had evaporated.

“Sit down, Hea . . . here, Necia.” He pointed to the bed.

Instead, Heather sat down cross-­legged in the middle of the floor. It was possible she would never again voluntarily crawl onto a bed.

Jace made no comment. Setting his weapon against the side of the hut, he opened one of the side pockets of his ruck and tugged out a tan plastic pouch. Heather's mouth watered. Meals, Ready to Eat. Army field rations. Right now, they would taste better than the finest lobster she'd ever eaten. He also grabbed two candles. Lighting both, he turned them so the wax dripped onto the floor, then set the ends into the wax, securing them. The light, though feeble, filled the mud hut. Heather switched off the flashlight.

Tearing open a flameless heater bag and setting aside the enclosed carton, he stuffed the pouch—­she couldn't see what it contained—­into the bag, added a little water from his canteen, and placed both bag and pouch into the carton. The water generated a chemical reaction inside the bag, producing heat that warmed the food. In a few minutes, she smelled spice and chicken. He found a spoon, cut open the top of the pouch of food, and handed both to her.

“Careful. It's hot. Hold it by the edge.”

“Thank you.” Heather dug in. The power bars he'd given her earlier had given her stomach time to adjust to the thought of food, and she was able to eat it all, albeit slowly.

Jace removed his Kevlar helmet, setting it atop his rucksack, then went to sit on the bed and untied a boot. He banged the heel against the floor, dislodging a fall of sand. She needed to do the same, but right now she'd fight to the death anyone who tried to take the food from her. It was chicken fajita, and it was heaven. When she swallowed the last bite, she looked up to find him studying her again.

“Better?”

Nodding, she set the empty plastic pouch aside. “Much. Thank you.”

He gestured to the canteen. “Drink it.”

Heather swallowed exactly half of what was in the canteen. It, too, tasted delicious. Wind now howled around the small hut.

“How long were you in that camp?” Jace's voice was gentle. Again, though, he seemed to be choosing his words with care. “How were you transported there? Do you remember?”