Shoot to Thrill (13 page)

His guards shoved him inside, and when he fell they yanked him to his feet, only to toss him onto a hard metal table and strap him down.

Fear and anguish flooded through his veins.

Oh, God. Please, God, no.

The Sultan peered down into his face and smiled. “Are you ready to talk now, Pig?”

“MISS
Martin?”

Rainie came awake, a gasp ready to burst from her lungs; she swallowed it ruthlessly down. Not a sound escaped. She’d trained herself to suppress those instinctive reactions. Not terribly professional to act like a scared rabbit when she was woken up from a nap, which sometimes happened during emergency double and triple shifts.

She took a deep breath, wondering why the sleeping room cot was so damn hard. “Yes?”

“It’s Mr. Jackson. I think you should take a look at him.”

With a
whoosh
, everything came back to her.
C-17. Kick. Withdrawal.
No time to panic now. She was on her feet in a flash. “What’s wrong? What are his symptoms?”

“He’s sweating bullets and his pulse is through the roof.”

Kick was sprawled awkwardly across several flip-seats, holding his chest and sucking down air. She ran to him and dropped to her knees. Someone handed her a first aid kit.

“Are you having chest pain?” she asked, wrenching open the kit and pulling out the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope.

“Maybe a little,” he said. His face was flushed and bathed in sweat. He held out his arm to be cuffed. “The beat feels wonky.”

“Your heartbeat? Wonky, how?”

“Double-time. Speeding up then slowing down.”

Not good. She listened to his heart. Way too fast. Slightly erratic. Damn. She pumped up the blood pressure cuff and measured it twice. High. Way high.

“So, am I having a heart attack?” he asked with a half groan, half smirk, trying for humor. But his eyes weren’t laughing.

“Not to worry. Just residual symptoms from the withdrawal.”

“Is it life-threatening?” Forsythe interjected.

“No. But he needs to lie down and rest until they go away.”

“Sorry, no can do,” Forsythe said. “We’re almost to Cairo, about to land. He and I will be transferring immediately to a small plane that’ll take us south to—”

“Absolutely not. He needs a few hours of sleep before—”

“Not an option. We’re on a tight schedule. He can rest on the plane to the drop-point.”

“I’ll be fine,” Kick said, struggling to sit up. “Long as I’m not having a heart attack.” One of the seats flipped up and whacked him in the elbow. “Ow! Goddamn piece of—” He jetted out a breath and smiled through his teeth. “See? Feeling better already.”

“Like hell,” she started to argue. Both men leveled looks at her like a pair of stubborn mules. So she saved her breath. And made a decision that shocked all three of them. Mostly herself. “Okay. Then I’m coming with you.”

“No,” the men said in unison. “No chance.”

She got her own mule on. “Oh, really? Because I’m pretty sure the Egyptian authorities will be more than interested to hear how the CIA kidnapped an innocent woman and transported her in an official US military plane across international—”

“All right, fine!” Forsythe interrupted, holding up his hands in surrender. “You win.”

“Fast learner, aren’t you,” Kick said to her through clenched teeth.

“Been taking a crash course.”

He was not happy.

Tough.
She wouldn’t leave him in this kind of medical limbo. His symptoms themselves might not be life-threatening anymore, but if he didn’t stabilize . . . It would be insanity to go on a dangerous mission in an unstable condition. And if that was the case, she’d be the only one standing between him and certain death.

Which was another thing. She couldn’t believe he was being so cooperative with these horrible people. When he’d first talked about this mission, he’d fought it tooth and nail, saying his former employers wanted to send him to hell. Why the sudden change of heart? She had a sinking feeling they’d threatened to harm
her
if he didn’t go along.

He was risking his life to protect her. It was the least she could do to stay with him for a few extra hours, to protect his. But
damn
, she resented being used as a pawn. It made her feel even more responsible for the man.

More respect, too.

And mad enough to get on another plane, just to spite them both.

“Good,” she said, and tucked the first aid kit firmly under her arm. “I’ll hang on to this. Just in case.”

“WE’RE
hitching a ride with FedEx?” Rainie asked in surprise when Forsythe pointed toward a small plane with the familiar logo splashed all over it.

They’d all been shuttled by a silent soldier in Air Force fatigues over to another section of the bustling Cairo airport that was used by small private and commercial planes.

She shielded her eyes for a better look. It was an hour before noon and the sun was high overhead. She’d never been in such intense heat, even in the worst New York summer. It had to be two hundred degrees out. The orange logo on the plane was actually wavering in the heat waves like a flag.

“Not exactly,” Forsythe said. “That’s a STORM Corps Cessna. They have an agreement with FedEx. Amazing where those guys fly packages. Nobody looks twice at their planes. Pretty damn good disguise if you ask me. Wish we’d thought of it.”

Kick rolled his eyes, hefting his pack over his shoulder.

Rainie glanced at him, hand still shielding her eyes. With a frown he took off the desert-print cammie cap he was wearing, the one that matched the desert camouflage uniform pants—or DCUs as he called them—he’d changed into, and tugged it onto her head.

“What about you?” she asked.

In answer, he pulled a pair of gold-lensed aviator glasses from his pocket and wordlessly slid them on.

The sight of him standing there all inscrutable in his fatigues and boots, a fitted khaki T-shirt, and impenetrable glasses sent a shiver through her body. He looked so irrefuta bly male. So powerful. So . . . damn sexy.

Hard to imagine just twenty-four hours ago he’d been weak as a kitten, and so recently had that relapse. No sign of weakness now. He was still a little flushed, deep lines etched around his mouth, but that could be the heat and stress. And his heart rate had almost gone back to normal last time she’d checked. Pretty close, anyway.

Thank God. Because she really needed him healthy, so he could hold her hand during takeoff.

Okay, more like her whole self. Last liftoff she’d lost it in a major way. Hopefully, after spending eleven hours in the C-17, this time her panic attack wouldn’t be so bad.

She glanced up at the FedEx plane. It was small. Really small.

Almost SUV small.

The substantial lunch they’d eaten on the C-17 roiled in her stomach.

Deep breath. Let it out slowly. Deep breath, let it out.

I will be fine.

I will be calm.

I will be safe.

You can do this, girl.

She was so busy breathing and clinging to Kick’s stiff arm, she almost missed the trio of men that ambled up and stuck out their hands in greeting. Except, no one could possibly miss these guys. The STORM Corps team was . . . impressive.

“Hey. Bill Henning,” the first man said by way of introduction. Built like a linebacker, his smile was infectious. “This here’s Marc Lafayette, and that’s our pilot, San Chenov.” Lafayette was olive-skinned with long black hair and sparkling blue eyes, and Chenov looked like everyone’s dream cowboy, hat and all.

“Good to meet you. Jason Forsythe and Kyle Jackson,” Forsythe said.

“Call me Kick.”

They shook hands all around, conspicuously skipping her in the rotation. But they eyed her curiously. “An’ who’s this
jolie fille
?” Marc Lafayette asked in an interesting French-ish accent.

“I’m Rainie,” she supplied, clinging a bit harder to Kick. She didn’t offer her hand. The men looked friendly, but there was something about them. An attitude of watchfulness. An edge of . . . something raw and uncivilized. Like Kick had had when he strode into that speed dating event looking so dark and dangerous.

Hell, like he looked now.

“So, Rainie, you oscar mike with us?” Bill asked, raising a brow.

“
Uh
. . . wh-what?” she stammered.

He and Marc exchanged a look.

“Military alphabet. O for oscar, M for mike. Means on the move,” Kick explained. “And no, she’s not.”

“Well, only as far as the insertion,” Forsythe supplied smoothly. “Rainie is a medic. Mr. Jackson has had some health issues recently.”

“Nothin’ serious, I hope,” Marc said, glancing at him with mild concern.

“Nope.” Kick smiled and started walking again. “Let’s get this damn show on the road.”

Oh, God
. They were oscar mike.

GINA
had been calling the phone number Wade had given her for the CIA all day. Trying desperately to find that Forsythe character, hoping against hope he could tell her what had happened to her best friend.

Rainie was gone.
Gone.
As in dropped-off-the-face-of-the-earth gone. No trace of where she was or what had happened to her. Other than that short, enigmatic phone call two days ago.

Unfortunately, Wade had only given her the general phone number to the New York City CIA field office, and according to them Jason Forsythe didn’t work there. But as always, persistence eventually paid off. Gina must have called a couple dozen times, and each time she’d been routed to a different person in pursuit of the illusive Forsythe. She was sure she’d talked to everyone in the whole damn office.

Everyone
but
Jason Forsythe.

“You don’t understand,” Gina told the insufferably unhelpful woman on the other end of the line in sublime frustration. Some flunky CIA receptionist with nine-inch Passion Pink fingernails and a boob job, no doubt. Gina was normally a very patient person—you had to be to succeed with the kind of long-term research she was involved in—but by now her temper was hovering dangerously close to the red zone.

“
She. Has. Been. Kidnapped.
” She enunciated each word through her clenched jaw in an attempt to keep from yelling.

“Then I suggest you contact the poli—”

“Goddamn it, what is
with
you people? She was kidnapped by
you
! The
CIA
!” Gina was seriously close to a melt-down. “I am telling you I want to speak with Jason Forsythe and I won’t stop calling until I do!”

“I don’t think—”

She ground her jaw. And pulled out her trump card. “Do the words
New York Times
mean anything to you?”

There was a pregnant pause on the other end—
finally
thank you Jesus she had the bimbo’s attention—and what sounded like a muffled hand over the mouthpiece.

A few seconds later a man’s deep voice came on the line. “Miss Cappozi, I’m—”

“That’s
Dr.
Cappozi,” she corrected, then demanded, “Are you Jason Forsythe?”

“No, I’m afra—”

“I do not
believe
this. No
wonder
the reputation of this country’s intelligence service is in shreds. A bunch of
morons
are running it!”

His response was calm and unruffled, his voice modulated with reasonableness. “If you’ll just hear me out, Miss—er, Dr. Cappozi. My name is Gregg van Halen.” He paused for a nanosecond. “No relation.” When that didn’t even earn him a chuckle, he continued, just as calm and unruffled, “Mr. Forsythe is unavailable, but I assure you I will get to the bottom of whatever this situation is.”

She let out a burst of hot steam. “Just like the other twenty-seven people I spoke with?”

“I’d very much like to hear what you think has happened.”

Amazing.
Miracles
did
happen. It was about time someone actually showed some genuine concern, if only because she’d threatened to go to the press. She chose to take it as a good sign.

“Okay,” she began, quickly organizing her thoughts. “My friend Lorraine Martin called me two da—”

Van Halen interrupted, “Dr. Cappozi, I’d prefer not to do this over the phone. Can you come down to my office and give me a full—”

Oh, yeah, she was
so
sure.
Not.
“Do I
sound
stupid?” she demanded incredulously. “You want me to come down there so
I
can disappear, too? I seriously don’t
think
so. The phone will do—”

“Fine. How about meeting in a public place?”

She took a steadying breath. “How public?”

“What do you say to a restaurant? Tonight, after your shift ends. We could eat and—”

She blinked.
Hello?
“Are you asking me to
dinner
?”

“Well, I can hear you’re angry, and you’ve obviously gotten the runaround today. I figure you don’t want to wait until tomorrow, and you do have to eat. What do you say? Government’s treat.”

She shook herself out of her frozen shock. She couldn’t care less who paid. She was too upset to eat, anyway. She glanced at the clock. “I get off at eight. Where should we—”

“I’ll be waiting for you out front.”

Alarm spiked through her already frazzled nerves. “Wait. How do you know where I work?”

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t, now, would I? See you at eight.”

EIGHT

IF
the other men thought it was strange that Rainie sat as good as paralyzed with Kick’s arms wrapped around her, doing deep breathing exercises for a good twenty minutes after they climbed into the no-seater Cessna and took off, they gave no indication other than the occasional exchange of amused male glances. Kick wasn’t being exactly warm and fuzzy, but at least he was there for her. He seemed to know instinctively that she needed his strong physical presence to keep the panic under control.

So much for professional. She was just glad she was able to hold it together enough to sit still. They were all perched on the field packs because there were no seats. Not even jump seats. And no seat belts. Skydiver configuration, Kick had stated when she asked. That’s when she’d noticed the parachutes.