Shoot to Thrill (37 page)

“Now, what are they again . . . ?”

“NVGs. Night vision goggles. They’ll let you keep track of me in the dark tonight. I’ll have a marker in my pocket that will blink hot and cold so you can tell it’s me.” He adjusted a knob.

She slid them on and winced at the bright green images. “Yikes.”

“The daylight messes up the optics so I’ve stopped them down, but you get the general idea. When you’re done, put them somewhere safe until tonight. I’ll rig the explosives now. And for God’s sake, stay down and well out of sight.”

She watched anxiously as he went a few yards further along the top of the ridge, hunkering down and cutting off small chunks from what looked like a brick of grey clay, which he then placed around several sandstone boulders, and connected the chunks with stiff string. Then he pulled a box out of his pocket and carefully unwrapped its contents.

“Detonator cap,” he explained. “Without this, no bang.”

Gingerly he measured and attached a long piece of a different type of string to it and stepped away.

“That’s the fuse I’m supposed to light?” she asked nervously.

“Det cord, yeah. It’s super-slow-burning so you’ll have plenty of time to get clear to the other side of the camp after lighting it.”

“You’re sure?” she asked, grim visions of Wile E. Coyote blowing himself up while lighting endless sticks of dynamite dancing through her head.

“I’m sure,” he said, handing her a disposable lighter. “Keep this safe, too.”

She slid it into her pocket.

Movement down in the camp snagged their attention. The men were gathering in an open area in front of the cement hut, laying down little rugs on the dirt.

Stricken, she stared.
Oh, Lord.
“They’re praying.”

“Don’t,” Kick said, taking hold of her shoulders and spinning her away from the sight. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“But how can we—”

“Remember why those men are here, Rainie. They’re here to learn how to bomb and kill and maim. Think of the innocent people in the embassies who’ll die, and the workers in the refinery, how easily and brutally they killed them. And never, ever forget what they would do to
you
if they found you.”

She bit down on her lip. “I know you’re right. It just feels . . .”

“Believe me, I know. But if they were truly spiritual men, they would not be here.” He pulled her close. “I’m sorry, I have to get going or I’ll miss my window. Will you be all right?”

She sucked down a breath and nodded.

He gave her a kiss. “Be safe. And if anything happens to me down there, you know what to do.”

Her heart squeezed. “Yeah. Come in after you, guns blazing.”

He scowled. “Don’t even joke.”

How well he knew her. And yet, how little. If he were captured, did he really expect her to run off to the Bedouin and leave him here to be tortured and killed?
Yeah. Snowball’s chance.

“Please don’t let anything happen to you,” she pleaded, throwing her arms around him. She was so afraid to let him go, even just to quickly set things up on the fringes of the camp. How much worse would it be tonight, to watch him charge right into the midst of the enemy and try to drag a wounded prisoner out of there?

Oh, God. This plan was never going to work.

Deep breath. Let it out slowly.

He will be fine.

We will both be fine.

One final kiss and he stepped out of her arms.

Yes. Yes, it
would
work. It had to.

Because there was no other way to get out of this whole situation alive.

For any of them.

He disappeared over the top of the ridge, and for a long time she sat hidden and watched like a hawk for him to appear somewhere below.

The weird, melodic chanting of the terrorists’ prayers drifted across the desert, creating a surreal soundtrack to her jangling nerves. The sun was high over the horizon now and the temperature hotter than Hades. Sweat ran down her temples and slowly soaked through her T-shirt.

But there was no sign of Kick. That was good, right? If she couldn’t see him, and she even knew he was down there, the bad guys couldn’t see him, either.

Wait! What was that?
A disembodied shadow moved across the back of a mud hut, then blended into a pile of debris next to an old Jeep. He’d said he planned to disable it. And also to try and find where they stored the petrol and their extra ammo, then wire it all to blow, in order to lay down a second layer of cover.

With her heart lodged firmly in her throat, she waited for him to reappear. And waited. And waited.

There!
For a split second he was a blur crossing a bare section of desert just beyond the camp perimeter, making tracks for a nearby wash. Thank God! He must be finished and heading back to her.

But all of a sudden, there was a loud shout. One of the terrorists, the one who’d been guarding that damned cement hut, yelled and pointed, then took off running after Kick.

“No!” she cried, then slapped her hand over her mouth.

Instantly, every man in the camp was on his feet giving chase.

Run, Kick! Run!

She bit down hard on her tongue, wanting to explode in rage and scream in pain, and keep screaming and screaming for him to keep running and running, until she couldn’t make another sound.

Suddenly, he just stopped in his tracks. And with a quick look up at the ridge where she was hiding, he turned, and raised his hands high.

No
. No, no, no!
What was he
doing
?

Don’t surrender!

The terrorists were on him like a pack of angry dogs. Shaking their fists and shooting off their guns, they savagely dragged him into the camp. He didn’t even resist.

Oh, dear God.

Please, God, no!

He’d given himself up! But
why
? Why not run? Run and hide, as he’d done on that very first day?

Because he didn’t have any way of tricking them this time, she realized with a sinking heart. He knew they wouldn’t give up hunting him until they’d found him. And . . .
Oh, God
. It suddenly hit her like a two-by-four what must have driven his decision to surrender so quickly. They’d find
her
, too.

Oh, dear Lord. Kick had deliberately let himself be captured by those monsters.

In order to protect
her
.

TWENTY-TWO

MACHINE
guns were going off. Shooting wildly.

Shouting.

Outside the four walls of his pigsty, mayhem reigned.

What the fuck was going on?

Pig swallowed heavily. Possibilities burned through his head.

Was this it?

Had his captors finally decided to put on the Big Finale? Would they come for him now and drag his ass out into the middle of the camp and slice off his head as the video cameras rolled, amid much joy, celebration, and merriment?

Shit.

Every day for as long as he could remember he’d expected to die. Just not, like, right now this minute.

Fuck.
He wasn’t ready. He still hadn’t gotten down with his redheaded Angel. Hell, he still didn’t even know her damn name. Or his own, for that matter. He couldn’t die. Not yet. He wasn’t—

Suddenly, the door swung wide. Sunlight streamed through the opening, lighting up his dark, confined world. Great. Why couldn’t he have stayed blind for just a few more weeks? Now he’d be able to see their laughing eyes as they killed him, see the glint of the curved sword they’d use to—

Someone was tossed into the small space, slamming into the back wall with a bone-crunching crash.

“Yeah! Fuck you, too, Osama!” the guy yelled, along with a string of other curses as he slid down the mud wall onto his ass.

Holy Christ, that was English! American English
.

Pig gripped the edge of his tattered mattress in disbelief. The door smacked shut, cutting off the light like a switch.

“Jesus.” The single word whispered through the hut like a breeze in the tall pines back home. Back home . . . Home had pines?

And that voice . . .

His pulse shot through his veins like neutrons in a superconductor. Impossible. No.
This had to be a dream. Another of the redhead’s cruel games.
He couldn’t even remember what a pine tree looked like. If there was such a thing. And that voice probably only seemed familiar because it sounded like the voice in his own head. He knew he was American. They’d told him often enough.
American Pig!

“Hey,” he attempted to say aloud, but it came out more like a croak.

The American voice didn’t answer.

He squinted and peered but couldn’t see shit. Maybe he really was dreaming . . . He crawled closer, on unsteady hands and knees across the packed dirt floor, desperately trying to clear his fuzzy vision and wade through the dimness to see—

A man really was sitting there where he’d dropped, staring back at him. Probably in horror. Yeah, well, they didn’t call him Pig for nothing.

“My God,” the man whispered in the darkness.

“Are you real?” he asked the dim vision, hardly daring to hope. He wanted to wish—for the other man’s sake—he was only hallucinating. But he couldn’t. He was too starved for friendly human company to do anything but pray like hell the guy was for real. And friendly.

Again no answer.

He picked his way closer still. Slowly, warily, ready to roll into a ball at the least sign of violence. The guards had tricked him before. But this man didn’t move. And the guy wasn’t dressed like a guard. Were those Army DCUs and boots?

He lifted his hand and touched . . . a real face. Warm flesh and bone. Not an illusion . . .

Real fingers reached out to touch his face in return. He flinched away.

“Jesus God,” that familiar voice breathed. “It can’t be. I must be losing it. . . .” Infinitely slowly the fingers kept coming.

He couldn’t help his instinctive reaction; he squeezed his eyes shut, shrank back, and started to shake violently. Waiting for the slap, or the punch, or the grab and twist. But instead a gentle touch pushed aside his long, rat-nest hair and faintly traced the outline of his bruised cheek.

“Jesus. Jesus God, Alex. It’s really you.”

RAINIE
had to get out of there. Fast.

The ugly bastard that seemed to be in command had tossed Kick into one of the shacks, then started shouting loudly. As she watched, just as she’d feared, a swarm of gun-wielding men came pouring out of the terrorist camp. To search for Kick’s hideaway, to confiscate his belongings. The hideaway where they’d foolishly left evidence of
two
people, not just one. Once the terrorists found it, they’d know there was a second infidel lurking around somewhere. And go after her.

Crap.
This could get very ugly, as Kick would say.

She had to get down there first, and remove all her belongings. Anything that would give away her presence. Kick’s life depended on her staying alive and free.

She managed to rush down the hill without killing herself or leaving too obvious tracks, then clamber up onto the camel and get the recalcitrant beast moving. For a moment she was so terrified she debated with herself if she really should go back to camp to gather up any signs of a second person . . . or just take her chances.

Except she also needed water. She only had a half bottle left. And no food. Heck, no sunscreen, either. Oh, yeah, or weapons, other than a cigarette lighter. She
had
to risk going back. All of Kick’s guns were still at camp—except for the SIG, which he’d had with him—along with everything else she’d need to survive in this desolate country.

Let alone rescue him.

Just thinking about the man she loved in the clutches of those maniacs made her heart sick with pain. And bolstered her courage.

Pack up and get as far away from here as fast as you can.

Nope. Not gonna happen, baby.

Either
both
of them got out of this godforsaken place alive, or neither of them did.

Make that all three of them.

She turned the camel and urged it forward, heading to the wadi.

Failure wasn’t an option. She had plans for Kick. He might think he could never . . . whatever . . . but last night he’d shown her he loved her, even if he couldn’t say the words. Hell, she didn’t care about the past. His past,
or
hers. For the first time ever, she was more concerned about the future. As in, she
wanted
a future. A future with him.

It was up to her to make sure they both got that chance.

All she needed was a plan. And water, sunscreen, and anything in the field pack that went bang.

GINA
gazed at Gregg over the rim of her wineglass. Yep, it was official. She was a total weenie.

The jerk hadn’t even asked her out to dinner. Again. And yet, for some mysterious, incomprehensible total-insanity reason, she’d let him into her apartment anyway when he’d shown up at her doorstep at a quarter till the middle of the night.

Again.

So granted, he
was
the hottest thing she’d ever seen in a pair of pants, or those black T-shirts and leather jacket he always wore. Or that lickable bronze tan that left white crinkle marks at the corners of his eyes and thin white lines shooting back into his military-short haircut from wearing those sexy aviator sunglasses all day.

Never mind when he took
off
those pants, T-shirts, and shades.

Okay, so he was one killer hunky man.

But sorry. No excuse.
Gregg van Halen was a Neanderthal of the first degree.

Because not only all that, but now he wanted to know why she hadn’t told him she’d be working the afternoon shift at the hospital. And insisting she detail for him exactly what she had planned for tomorrow. Like it was his God-given right to know.

So
unattractive in a man.