No Turning Back (2 page)

What the...

Heart pounding, she lifted her head and rolled over to stare at the plume of black, greasy smoke swirling up into the air a few blocks to the west in the militarized Green Zone. Holy hell... Was it a suicide bomber going after US or Iraqi security forces? She clutched her bags, eyes widening as she realized it was close to the barracks where the rest of her team was staying. Far too close.

Ben.

A shock of fear hit her as his handsome face and warm smile flashed through her head. What if he'd been caught in the explosion? Or the others? She stared at the smoke, her stomach twisting. Was everyone okay? She thought of them: Dec, Bryn, Ali, Fahdi, Rhys... But most of all she thought about Rhys's sexy twin brother, Ben.

She liked him. Probably more than she should, under the circumstances. Part of her wanted to call him to make sure they were all right, but the rational part knew she couldn't risk it yet.

If her boss had sent any of them after her, they could trace her too easily. Sam gnawed on her lower lip a moment, caught in indecision. Damn. She wanted to find out if they were okay, but... No, she wouldn't. Wasn't smart right now.

The smoke roiled up like a giant charcoal thundercloud against the bright blue sky. Whatever had exploded, it was powerful and must have done a lot of damage. There had to be casualties. Her hand tightened on her phone, wavering under a rush of self-doubt. What if she was being paranoid about all this? What if the CIA wasn't responsible for scaring her to death?

Truth be told, she'd rather it be them than the other option. Terrorists and radical militias. A shiver rippled over her skin even though the temperature had to be in the upper eighties. What she'd done to gain the interest of a terrorist group, she couldn't say, but she wasn't interested in finding out. All she wanted was to go someplace safe until she could figure out what to do and who she could trust. If it turned out her team was after her, she had some hope Rhys would believe she was innocent of whatever it was she'd supposedly “done". Maybe Ben would, too.

Sam pulled out her BlackBerry and stared at it for a moment. Ben and Rhys would help her.

Don't you dare. Not yet.

The wail of sirens rose in the air as the first responders raced to the scene. Once more her eyes strayed to the plume of smoke boiling into the air. Even if the team had been caught in the explosion, there was little she could do to help. Ben was the team medic; he and the others would take care of any casualties in the immediate area. Her conscience squirmed, but it didn't matter that she wanted to help. At this point she didn't really have a choice.

Move, Sam. Get going. Nothing you can do now anyway.

She forced herself to her feet, legs wobbling a bit as she ran the rest of the way to the sidewalk. Standing at the curb, she hailed a cab. The perspiration beading on her skin made her silk blouse stick to her back beneath the black robes Iraqi women wore.

When the taxi pulled up she wrenched open the door and scrambled inside. Tossing her bags on the seat, she instructed the driver in flawless Arabic to take her to the bus station. Since she had no place to go, that seemed as good as any.

The cab pulled away and stopped at an intersection. The driver met her eyes in the rearview mirror and she quickly looked away, her panic easing a little now that she was on the move. Still torn, she cast another glance out the rear window, and prayed all her friends were safe. In time, they'd all understand why she had to run. Provided she lived long enough to be able to tell them, that is.

Her mind scrambled to come up with a plan. Cash. She'd need cash to stay under the radar. Credit cards could be traced, and banks and ATMs had security cameras. She'd have to stop only once, pull out all the cash she could and hope it was enough to get her by for... well, however long this was going to last. She couldn't just wander around aimlessly, either. Wherever she went, she had to appear like she had a purpose for being there. Otherwise she'd look suspicious, and suspicious drew attention.

Finding somewhere secure to stay was going to be a challenge. She could pay for a hotel room with cash, but they'd most likely demand a passport or other ID, and that wasn't going to help her cause any. She was going to have to do something to alter her appearance, namely her hair— a shade of auburn even a nearsighted eighty-year-old could spot at a hundred yards. Even if she kept it covered with a scarf, she'd have to dye it black in case anyone caught a glimpse of it, plus it would help her blend in with the local population better. Her brows, too, although they were already a few shades darker than her hair. At least her eyes were deep brown, so she didn't have to worry about contacts to disguise their color.

Okay. First thing was to pick up the cash. Then she'd find a pair of scissors and some hair dye, and make her way somewhere to do a quick beauty treatment. Maybe in a washroom at the bus station. Then she'd need a safe deposit box or locker of some kind to leave her passport and other ID in. No way would she carry that around in case someone searched her or stole it.

Sam stared straight out the windshield past the driver's right shoulder. The thickening traffic slowed their progress. Out the back window, more vehicles closed in. It made the skin between her shoulder blades itch. She wanted, needed, to keep moving, especially during daylight hours.

“Roadblock up ahead,” the driver informed her.

Sam swiveled around to peer out the windshield, and made out the uniformed soldiers standing where the traffic was stopped. She huffed out an irritated breath. Great. That's all she needed right now, a security check. What if the military had already been alerted and was looking for her? An American checkpoint was just as dangerous to her as an Iraqi one, since she didn't know who was behind the threats.

The taxi's brakes squealed as the vehicle slowed and inched along as it crept behind the rear bumper in front of it. Sam's eyes darted around them, watching for any threatening movements. About ten cars waited in front of them. She couldn't afford to wait that long.

The soldiers searched each vehicle as it came up to the checkpoint, checking the interior, trunk and under the hood. Her fingers clenched around the backpack strap.

Please let them only be looking for weapons.

Time crawled by as she awaited their turn. The closer the cab moved, the more her heart sped up until tiny prickles raced over her skin and perspiration broke out all over her. The tinny music coming from the taxi's ancient radio scraped across her nerves like a dull knife, as did the driver's cheerful whistling.

Second in line now.

Up ahead, Sam noticed one of the guards glance at her in the backseat.
Stay relaxed. Don't let them see you're nervous.
She schooled her features into an expression of calm.

Yeah, she wasn't that good an actress. Her heart beat a sharp tattoo in her ears, her palms damp as she cradled them in her lap. She struggled not to hold her breath as the driver pulled up and stopped at the Iraqi soldier's command. He was tall and thin, about twenty to twenty-five. As he approached, his eyes swept over the driver, and then her.

Their gazes locked. He stilled.

Her stomach knotted. Did he recognize her? Something about her had caught his attention, because he put one hand on the butt of the pistol at his hip, his body language making it clear he was thinking about drawing it if either she or the driver made a wrong move.

“Hand over your identification,” he demanded in clipped Arabic.

Something was wrong. There was no reason for him to be looking at her so suspiciously unless an alert had been issued for her. Her fingers hesitated on the zipper of the pouch that held her ID. She couldn't hand over her passport.
Think, Sam, think!

Her seat. If she moved fast, she might have time to get it out and slip it underneath.

She swallowed, keeping her eyes on the guard while she inched the front zipper open, praying the front seat shielded her hand. Her shaky fingers found the smooth cover of her passport.

The driver, his profile showing his wide-eyed shock at the turn of events, snatched up his documents and shoved them through the open window, then put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. Sam yanked out her passport, cocked her wrist and shoved it under the seat as fast as she could, then covered the move by smoothing out the folds in her robe, her gaze glued to the soldier who was checking the driver's papers. He handed them back, then focused his full attention on her. She fought to keep her breath from hitching. Frowning, he opened and closed his hand in an impatient gesture.

“Your documents.”

Shit, she couldn't just ignore him. Her heart was slamming now, so hard she was sure he must have heard it. It took everything she had to look calm.
Don't panic.
“I have no papers with me.”

The soldier stared hard into her eyes.

“The bag then. Let me see it.”

Sam gripped the strap of her backpack. He might not be looking for her, but once he found out she had no ID, he might not let them through. That would lead to more soldiers and policemen coming around to question her.

“Give me the bag,” he growled and took a step back, spreading his feet out as though he was about to draw his sidearm.

The driver cranked his head around to give her a disbelieving look as if to say, “Are you crazy?”

Wincing inside, Sam lifted the bag and handed it over, glancing out the passenger window to gauge the distance to the intersection. If she tried to run for it, would she even get out of the taxi before they shot her? Doubtful.

Hands clenching and unclenching, she watched the guard rip open the zipper of her beige backpack and rifle through it, and when he raised his head, his dark scowl made her heart sink. No chance she was getting out of this.

“Mustafa,” he called out, and another soldier ambled over, shorter and stockier than the first. The guard holding her bag dumped it on the ground and gestured to her with a curt jerk of his chin. “Get out of the vehicle.”

Everything in her froze. Her breath, the blood in her veins. Her heart stopped for a beat or two, then made up for the deficiency by going into triple time. Automatically her hands came up, palms out. Mustafa yanked the passenger door open and palmed the butt of his pistol. In front of her, the driver sucked in a sharp breath and muttered a prayer to Allah. The first soldier opened the driver's door and hauled him out.

Eyes locked on Mustafa's face, Sam inched over the ripped upholstery toward the door.

“What's your name,” he demanded.

“Ariah,” she blurted, trying not to panic as he snatched hold of her wrist to haul her out of the taxi. In her current state of terror, she didn't know where the name came from or even if it was Arabic.

His grip was almost bruising. As she scrambled out, a rough yank sent her to her knees on the baking hot pavement in front of him. He wrenched her upright and flung the backpack at her feet. “Don't move from this spot while we search the vehicle.”

Without thinking, Sam grabbed the strap of her pack, clutching it in her sweaty grip. While the driver wrung his hands and prayed beside her, she stood frozen, watching while the two of them tore the taxi apart, covering a flinch when they got to the back seat. Mustafa opened up her laptop case, lifted the lid of the computer and set it on top of the trunk. Jesus, were they going to check that, too? They went back to searching the taxi.

Keep going
, she willed them silently.
Pass over it, come on, miss it, miss it...

God must have been busy just then, because her silent prayer went unanswered. The tall, skinny one fished under the seat and stared in surprise at the passport in his hand. When he aimed an angry glare at her, her stomach plummeted.

Then he was on his radio, and his words chilled her to the core.

“Sir, you must come here, we have an American woman,” he flipped open the front cover, “by the name of Samarra Wallace.” He made her surname sound like Wool-ass.

She only had a couple of seconds to digest that before one of the vehicles parked on the other side of the checkpoint threw its doors open, and three masked gunmen popped out, coming at her with their rifles up. Sam jumped. The cab driver dropped to his knees with a high-pitched wail.

Sam cried out too, unconsciously backing toward the building behind her, eyes whipping from side to side to search for an escape route.

Who were these guys? They weren't going to shoot her in broad daylight in front of everyone, were they? Quaking, she sucked sharp breaths through her mouth as the trio approached, looking like some kind of deadly Special Ops team. She should know— she'd worked with enough of them. Her legs shook so hard she had to lean against the building to stay on her feet. The men came up fast and stopped about ten feet away.

The one in the middle, a tall muscular man with light brown eyes said in nearly perfect English, “You are Samarra Wallace?”

She couldn't nod, couldn't do anything but stare into those cold, merciless eyes and wonder if she was about to die.

He stepped forward, got right in her face, and the gleam in his eyes convinced her he was getting off on how terrified she was. His hand came up. She flinched as his fingers seized her chin in a cruel grip, shoving her head back so hard it smacked against the wall.

The sharp crack of her skull hitting the building stunned her for a moment and she blinked to clear her vision. When it did, her lungs constricted in mortal fear.

“I'm not going to ask again.”

With her face held in those strong fingers, she forced out a stiff nod. Dear God, what was he going to do to her?

“You work for the CIA?”

Her head spun. Oh, shit... They were going to kill her, weren't they?

He cracked her skull against the wall again. She yelped, stars dancing before her eyes, and brought her hands up to lock around his thick forearm. There was nothing she could do, he completely overpowered her. Jesus, what had she ever done to them?