Pussycat Death Squad (18 page)

Stark gave him a sympathetic look. “I'm sure your girl is okay. If he was going to kill her, he would've done it by now.”

“Thanks, Mike,” Patrick said. “I'm sure there's some comfort somewhere in that statement.”

“You know what I mean, Trick. Old girl is an expert in kicking ass and taking names. If I was going to put money on anyone surviving this whacked-out situation, it would be her.”

Patrick didn't bother to point out how difficult kicking ass could be when you're locked up in an undisclosed location surrounded by armed guards. Besides, Stark was only trying to make him feel better, something well out of his area of expertise. “Let's find another subject, okay? I'd really rather not think about Lelia's situation if I can help it.” Apparently he'd been working for Colonel Brown for too long. He'd barely blinked while telling that blatant lie.

“Well, since you asked, couldn't you have gotten us a ride in something other than this bucket? I've pulled refugees off tire rafts that were a damned sight more seaworthy.” He gestured toward the rusting confines of the fishing boat.

“Sorry, man, but when you're being smuggled into a country, you have to take what you can get. Apparently luxury accommodations weren't available for this cruise.” He shrugged. “Maybe next time.”

“Luxury accommodations, hell. I'd just appreciate a boat that was a little more likely to actually make it to our destination.”

“Never fear,” said the captain, walking over to join them. “I've not lost a shipment yet, and I've been doing this for forty years. I thought you might want to join me in enjoying some of my latest cargo.” He handed them each a small glass.

Patrick took a tentative sip of the beverage, then closed his eyes briefly as the salty tang of the most incredible single-malt scotch he'd ever tasted rolled over his tongue. He'd never imbibed a single malt while at sea before, and the briny flavor was deeply accentuated by the salty air of the Mediterranean. It was a pleasure he hoped to enjoy again. Soon.

“Impressive, isn't it?” the captain asked. “Twenty-five-year-old scotch; it's literally worth its weight in gold.”

“I would imagine that in this part of the world a load of booze would be worth a fortune,” Patrick said.

“I do well enough, though the risks are definitely increasing,” the captain rejoined.

Patrick leaned back against the boat's railing, a risky move given that to all appearances it seemed to be rusted through. From this position, he studied the ship's captain. The man was built on a small frame, with sharp, aquiline features and a full beard. Oddly enough, his beard was fully white, even though the hair on his head was totally untouched by gray. He glanced over at Stark, who was apparently struck speechless in his rapturous enjoyment of the scotch. He'd taken the bottle out of the captain's hand and was pouring himself another glass with the reverence usually reserved for Christian relics.

The captain resumed the conversation. “You gentlemen are quite physically fit. You've more than compensated for the two crewmen I had to displace in order to accommodate you.”

Patrick raised a brow. “You mean, in addition to our very generous cash payment.”

“There is that. Doing favors for Americans is extraordinarily risky. For this”—he gestured toward the bottle of liquor—“I might lose a hand. If I'm caught with you on board, I'll lose my head.” The captain laughed. “Even so, I still have to fish. A fishing boat that returns to port with no fish is bound to raise suspicion, no?”

“I'm sure that's true, but I doubt you had to get rid of any crewmembers to make room for us. This boat, such as it is, is probably more than large enough for a dozen or more extra people.”

“That may well be true, but surely you don't begrudge a man his profit.” The captain raised a sardonic brow.

“Of course not. It's hardly worth speaking of. Besides, working for our passage has given me something to do besides worry.”

“I certainly understand that. My mother used to say, 'Why pray when you can worry?' Hard work relieves the mind, does it not?”

Patrick nodded.

“But then, when the workday is done, a man is entitled to a certain amount of pleasure.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigar. “Would you gentlemen like to join me in a cigar to accompany your scotch?” When both shook their heads no, he lit his expensive contraband and puffed away contentedly, and the boat continued toward their destination.

* * *

“Hate to mention it, but you guys reek.” Astaria turned up her nose, giving Patrick and Stark a disgusted smirk.

“That's what happens when you're smuggled into the country in a fishing boat.” Patrick tried hard not to smell himself. Amazing what eighteen hours in a fishing boat could do for your appreciation of fishing, especially when he'd paid an exorbitant amount of money for such a disgusting privilege. He glanced at the soldier who had accompanied Astaria to this clandestine meeting. “Who is he?”

Astaria immediately allayed his suspicion. “Don't worry; he's my brother. It would be dangerous and suspicious for a woman to travel unaccompanied at this hour of the night. We have a good cover story, visiting our ill mother. This is her house.”

“Yeah, and finding it wasn't exactly easy.”

“That was the point. I thought you said you were bringing the Marines.” She nodded in Stark's direction. “Surely you could muster more men than this.”

“As far as I know, you've only got one prisoner to break out of prison,” Stark interjected. “Having two marines is probably redundant.”

Patrick interrupted before they could continue the time-wasting pissing contest. “Do you have a plan?”

“We're going to sneak in dressed as male soldiers. Halil here will get uniforms for us.” She pushed back her hijab to reveal her newly cropped hair.

“Why can't we just shoot our way in? We've probably got them on superior numbers,” Stark asked.

“That would probably mean all-out war when the Colonel needs to save face. We're hoping to avoid that,” Astaria said.

“Who gives a shit if we start a war?” Stark asked. “It's not like it'll be the first one.”

“Says the man who's not in his own country,” Astaria derided. “Lelia most certainly does care. She doesn't see the point in bloodshed if it can be avoided.”

Patrick raised his brows. “You've talked to her?” he asked, feeling hopeful for the first time that she might still be alive.

“No, but as her second I know what she'd want. Lelia has a horror of civil war. If I can avoid it, I'll do what she wants.”

Patrick nodded in agreement, remembering how Lelia's parents had died in the last conflict. “It seems like a good plan. Stark and I—”

“Do either of you speak Arabic?” Astaria interrupted.

“Enough to get a taxi and find someplace to eat.” Patrick sighed. “That won't be enough to get us in,” he conceded, not bothering to hide his frustration. He'd go insane lying in wait instead of being part of the action. It went against everything he believed in to have someone else going in after his woman. But he knew she stood a better chance of surviving with Astaria taking point. He'd just have to suck down his ego and live with it.

Astaria, clearly surprised by his quick capitulation, gave him an understanding look. As a warrior herself, she knew how hard this was for him. “Don't worry, Trick. I fear there will be plenty of gunplay. Probably even enough for your trigger-happy friend here.”

* * *

Patrick gritted his teeth as he struggled against the urge to move around. Waiting was always the worst part of any operation, and as the getaway driver, all he could do was sit tight until the rest of the operation went down. He and Stark had been hiding in the back of the truck for less than thirty minutes, but time seemed to be waxing, second by second as they waited. The back of his neck itched with impatience, and he resisted the urge to scratch. Unlikely as it was, it was possible that the truck, which was supposed to be empty as part of the palace fleet, was being watched.

Stark, apparently suffering from the same malady, asked in a barely audible voice, “Do you think they're in yet?”

Glancing at his watch was a rookie mistake, but Patrick succumbed to it anyway. He barely nodded his head in response. “If everything is going according to plan, they should be on their way out by now.”

Their plan was almost absurdly simple. Astaria and two other soldiers would present themselves at the Bilal Palace, which is where they had concluded al-Fariq had to be holding Lelia. It was the most isolated of his palaces, and it was the only one that the Amazonian Guard was never detailed to. It had also been rumored to be the Colonel's secret prison for political prisoners for years.

They would tell Lelia's guards they were there to escort her to a new prison. They had forged papers and had deliberately chosen a late hour because no one would dare awaken al-Fariq to confirm the transfer.

The sounds of the night surrounded the large truck. Insects chirped as night birds took wing to search for their evening meal. Patrick struggled to empty his mind of all thought, almost impossible to do, especially when his heartbeat thrummed with fear.

He'd finally accomplished his goal of calming his racing pulse when Stark articulated what he'd been thinking for the past five minutes. “Something's wrong, dude.”

Patrick gave his friend a brief glance. “Let's go.”

Lelia stood in the doorway of her cell watching as Abdullah, her assigned guard, read the papers he'd been given. She'd recognized Astaria and the other three soldiers immediately and was thankful no one had said anything to her. She doubted she could have spoken with her heart beating so erratically in her throat. Their coming for her was a fait accompli, but still she had prayed they would take another course and simply let her meet her fate. Sweat trickled down her back under the uniform she'd insisted on wearing in spite of the oppressive heat, a small act of defiance that helped keep her mentally acute and prepared for the rescue when it came. Now that they were there, she struggled to overcome the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.

She choked off a sigh of relief when the guard moved behind her to place handcuffs on her wrists. Maybe this would work after all. She met Astaria's gaze, then lowered her head. Where was Patrick? She realized she should probably ask a few questions, though she doubted any answers would be forthcoming. Anyone who knew her would be suspicious if she just blindly went along without any objections. Even so, she didn't have to fake the tremor fear had placed in her voice.

“Where are they taking me, Abdullah?” she asked the soldier she'd known practically all her life.