Secret Soldier (19 page)

Chapter Twelve

It’d been a while since the last gunshot. Abigail ignored the pulsating pain in her legs and pushed herself up enough to see out the window. At first, she didn’t see anyone, but then spotted a U.S. soldier coming out of the hangar. They’d won. She was safe. Her limbs began to shake as the tension left her body. More soldiers exited the hangar and hurried through the door of the smaller building. Spike wasn’t among them.

Something moved in the sand. She blinked. There. Again. A trapdoor opened slowly, then Jamal emerged, running straight for the plane. He was spotted, but too late. He returned fire; then the door of the plane flew open and he dived in, shooting back with one hand while starting the engine with the other.

He hadn’t seen her. She had kept down. If he managed to get airborne, she was as good as dead. The men below were going to shoot that plane straight out of the sky.

With all the strength she had left, she lunged forward and threw her weight on him, smashing his head against the dashboard. She heard the sickening snap of a bone, wasn’t sure if it was his or hers. Her momentum carried her forward and she slid out the open door, fell onto the sand in a searing explosion of pain.

SPIKE LEANED AGAINST the wall, breathing hard, and pulled off his helmet, tossing it aside. The counter showed thirty-two seconds left, and it stayed there. He’d done it. He felt a flash of relief. Then the next thought assailed him—Abigail was gone. There had been no explosion, and yet his heart had been ripped from his chest. Every thought, every emotion he had blocked out so he would be able to focus on the bomb rushed him now. He staggered under the weight.

His face was drenched, a strange thing in the desert where sweat usually evaporated as fast as it formed. He wiped the moisture from his cheeks with the back of his hand. It wasn’t sweat after all. He was crying. Damn. He didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried since his mother died.

“Yo, Spike.” Thompson rushed through the door and stopped in his tracks when he saw the numbers on the timepiece, relaxing as he realized they weren’t moving. “Everything okay down here?”

Spike wiped his face again then nodded.

“We’ve got them. Both El Jafar and your “wife.” He jumped to his feet, blood rushing to his head, not from the movement but from the sudden jolt of hope.

“Is she alive?”

“I don’t know. Just got the word.”

He pushed by Thompson and ran down the hallway, up the stairs, out into the blinding light of the sun. He could hardly see anything, but moved toward the group of men by the plane. Then he could finally make out the motionless figure on the sand. Abigail.

He ran the last couple of yards, fell on his knees by her side. Her eyes were open but unfocused.

“She’s not responding. Both legs are broken from what I can tell. Might have some internal injuries, too,” J.D. said.

Werner and Erickson were already coming with a stretcher.

He held her hand. “Abigail?”

She didn’t seem to hear him.

He helped the others carry her to the chopper, reluctant to let her go. “Take her now. Call in for another transport for us.”

The pilot nodded. The rotor blades started up. Spike squeezed her hand one last time, then bent his head and ran back to the buildings with the rest of his team. They had a dirty bomb they had to get out of the country before the Beharrainian military came to check out the gunfire. If they got their hands on the bomb, the U.S. might as well kiss the most important piece of evidence goodbye.

They needed the bomb so they could trace it to those who had helped make it EL Jafar had been the buyer, the delivery boy. They had to find the source and take it out. Their work was far from over. He looked up at the disappearing chopper, then stepped through the smaller bunker’s door.

ABIGAIL AWOKE IN a white room, alone. A hospital room. She followed the line from the IV bag to her arm. Both of her legs were in casts. She hurt like hell all over. She turned her head, saw the Call button and pushed it.

A couple of minutes went by before the nurse came. Jenny.

“Hello, Dr. DiMatteo. I’m so glad you’re awake.” She gave her a warm smile and glanced at her vital signs on the display screen. “Let me get Dr. Taylor. He can give you an update on your condition.”

She was gone before Abigail had a chance to say thank you.

Dr. Taylor came in after a few minutes. “Glad to see you’re feeling better. Sorry I couldn’t come by sooner. We have a couple of serious injuries. How are you?”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing that won’t heal, but you’ll be probably uncomfortable for a while. Fractured fibulas in both legs, the right one I had to set, the other is not too bad. You also have a severe concussion, but that should be starting to feel better soon. It’ll be a couple of months before you can walk. You’ll be receiving full treatment here in the meanwhile. Courtesy of the U.S. government, I’m told.”

“I see.” She tried to think, but the pain and the pounding in her head were too distracting.

“There’s a gentleman here to see you. He’s been waiting for you to come to. Is it okay if I send him in?”

Spike.
A mix of emotions swept through her. “Yes. Please.”

“I’ll check in later. If you’re in pain just push that button. It’s all set up with the proper dosage.”

That sounded pretty good right about now. But first she wanted to speak to Spike and wanted a clear head for that. “Thank you.”

The doctor nodded and left, but the man walking in a few minutes later dressed in an impeccable black suit wasn’t the one she’d expected.

“How are you, Dr. DiMatteo?” The agent who had questioned her during her first visit to the base now seemed to be in a softer mood. He pulled up a chair to sit by her side, and she remembered his name at last Jenkins.

“Fine, thank you,” she said, her spirits sinking.

“We’re going to make sure that you get the best of care.”

“Dr. Taylor told me.”

“Will you be going back to the U.S. when you’re released?”

It seemed the sanest thing to do, but she had no wish for it. Nothing had changed. The children still needed her. “I’ll be returning to Tukatar”

The man hesitated. “I see.’

He must have thought she was crazy. He was probably right. “Is there anyway I could talk to Spike? Gerald Thornton?”

He looked her straight in the eye. “I’m sorry. There’s no person by that name on this base.”

“He was at the takedown, blond—” Then she understood. Spike was already gone. She swallowed the fresh wave of pain. “Were there any U.S. casualties?”

“You were kidnapped by bandits and taken into the desert, then luckily rescued. You have seen no terrorists, no U.S. military personnel—you’re just happy you’re still alive, and are too traumatized by the experience to want to talk about it.” He watched her face for a few seconds and added, “No U.S. casualty.”

She drew a deep, ragged breath and felt her lungs fill properly for the first time in a long while. “What about my husband? He was with me when we left the village. I’ll be asked.”

Jenkins’s expression softened. “As far as the villagers are concerned, he’s been unlucky. As of now, consider yourself a widow.”

She blinked, not wanting to cry in front of him. “Do you have any questions?”

She shook her head.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. DiMatteo. It’s very much appreciated.”

She nodded and squeezed her eyes shut, not opening them again until he was gone. Spike had left, on to his next adventure. God, she. had terrible judgment when it came to men. First Anthony,’who’d broken her trust, and now Spike. He’d broken her heart.

She had no one but herself to blame. He’d made no promises, just the opposite. He had let her know from the beginning that everything between them was strictly temporary.

And it was exactly that—temporary insanity.

She had a feeling that recovering from him might be harder and take longer than recovering from her physical injuries. But she would do it. She had to. Others were depending on her. She would not let them down.

ABIGAIL LOOKED AFTER the boys as they ran out of the schoolhouse into the sunshine, each going to their chores. They worked in the mornings, took schooling during the hottest part of the day and then were back again helping the locals in the evening. Their blankets were rolled up neatly by the wall, waiting for them to return to the schoolhouse at night to sleep.

She still had trouble believing that they had a schoolhouse. Her jaw had dropped when she’d first seen it three months ago as she arrived back to Tukatar. In contrast to her fears that the boys had dispersed and she would have to start all over again, they’d all been there and then some. Grinning with excitement, they had told her how a few weeks before, a truckload of U.S. soldiers had arrived and put up the schoolhouse and the teacher’s hut in a single day before leaving.

She had her hut back. With a real door.

Since the schoolhouse lent prestige to the village, the mullah had been pleased. The villagers rallied around her, convinced by the changes and feeling sorry over the loss of her husband. Small gifts arrived, an old blanket here and there, another water jug. Nothing terribly valuable, but each item needed and infinitely useful.

She used her grant money for books and food. Some of the farmers began to pay the boys in produce for their help, so food was becoming less and less of an issue. Seeing her dreams slowly become reality felt surreal and humbling at the same time. She had so many plans to take things even further, help even more people, she scarcely knew where to start.

Keeping busy had been her salvation. It kept her mind from other things that brought nothing but heartache, kept her from dwelling on the one hole in her life that would never be filled.

She put away the chalk and dusted off her hands. “Have I ever told you about this fantasy I had about Mrs. Mootsky in the third grade?”

The familiar voice startled her. She swallowed the wave of exhilaration mixed with panic that rose inside, turned around slowly.

Spike stood in the doorway, his wide shoulders silhouetted in the sunlight. He was tall and handsome, a dream. She’d forgotten how good-looking he was with out bruises. All the feelings she’d ever had for him rushed her—respect, admiration, love. Yes, love. Still there, stronger than ever. Nothing hard changed in her heart. Unfortunately, nothing changed on the outside, either. They were still who they were, with no possibility of a happy ending between them. He shouldn’t have come. She wasn’t sure she would survive having her heart broken again.

“Hi.” She didn’t step closer.

“Sorry I didn’t come sooner.” He walked toward her.

“I’ve been away. There was this situation I was sent to bring under control.”

“That’s okay. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“I do.” He was just a few feet from her now. “They told me you made a full recovery.”

“Good as new. Are you here on another mission?”

She glanced away and back, aware of him—his eyes, his smile, his scent. His presence tingled across her skin. “Sorry, you probably can’t tell me. It’s okay.”

“I’m here on leave.”

Her heart raced ahead. Hearts were foolish that way-they never seemed to run out of hope, not even when it led them tumbling into ruin.

“I missed you.” He stopped within arm’s reach. She stepped back. She couldn’t look at him. Her gaze settled on his hands as they reached for her.

“Please, don’t.” Her voice came out weak, a plea.

He moved forward and took her hand, rubbing his thumb over her fingers. “I had a lot of time to think. And I—truth is, I don’t think I can make it through the rest of my life without you.”

Deep inside, wariness mixed with surprise. She did look at him then, but could no longer see him from the tears pooling in her eyes. Two fat drops rolled down her face.

He brushed them away with the back of his hand. “Abigail?”

“You want the impossible,” she said, wishing it weren’t so. Then self-preservation kicked in and she pulled away. “It could never work, don’t you see? We’d just end up hurting each other. We can’t have a normal relationship. There’s no sense in torturing each other.”

She had to be sensible, sane. Having him walk out of her life once nearly stole the soul out of her. She couldn’t go through that again.

He took her hands back, pressed them together gently and kissed them. “Do you want normal?”

Of course. Didn’t she? Didn’t everyone? But then, why was she here, instead of living in the suburbs somewhere, planting geraniums in front of a picket fence? . No. She-didn’t want normal. She wanted to make a difference. She wanted to do whatever that took.

Like him.

She shook her head, her tears spilling over again.

He smiled and melted her heart. “Thank God. Because I don’t have any ‘normal.’ I only have this.”

He pulled her to him and held her tightly, kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. And, at last, she was home. As long as she was in his arms, she was home, no matter if in a makeshift schoolhouse in the Middle East, or in the desert, or in the U.S. She was home when she was with him.