Acts of Honor (42 page)

“They had initiated a full-scale plan with Colonel Foster prior to his leaving the Pentagon. Lieutenant Kane and a team of Shadow Watchers were to infiltrate IWPT, and at the first sign of deviation from the standard training session, they were to intercept Sara, shut down the operation, and handle the arrests.”

Jarrod rubbed at his nape. “Is the team in place?”

“Communications are down. O’Shea says they’re operating from the perspective that Sara’s on her own.”

Jarrod’s heart stuck somewhere between his backbone and throat. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

Relief flooded Shank’s face. “You’re covered until tomorrow at midnight. Koloski’s on duty. William will be back then, which means you damn well better be, too.”

“Fine.”

“What about transportation? You’re welcome to take my plane.”

Jarrod smiled and pulled the keys to Sara’s car out of the hole he had made in the wall pad where the cave had once been painted. “Covered.”

“Joe, be careful. I’m worried about her. I’m worried about you, too. Are you up to this?”

“I’m up to it.” To help Sara, he’d force himself to be up to anything.

Shank moved toward the door. “Reaston’s down on the first floor, running interference.”

Jarrod rushed down the hall, when a detail body-slammed him. “Shank, where the hell is IWPT?”

“Reaston’s got maps and intel for you.”

Shank left him at the elevator. As the door slid closed, she called out, her voice cracking, “Don’t you let them kill her, Joe.”

“I won’t,” Jarrod promised, praying it was a promise he could keep.

Sara’s teeth chattered.

She was exhausted, freezing, and the rain showed no signs of letting up. Mud dripped down her face and stung her eyes. She swiped a fingertip across her lid and blinked hard, trying to clear her vision.

A large clearing stood straight ahead. Avoiding it, she bore right, hugging a grove of oaks. She twisted between their gnarled trunks, sidestepping exposed roots that stuck up from the ground like crooked fingers.

Someone grabbed her by the throat.

Sara came to an abrupt halt, darted her gaze to her assailant. The beefy lieutenant.
Oh, damn. Bloody damn.

“I’ve got her,” he shouted out.

Two other sets of footsteps crunched over the leaves and came closer. The sergeant and Lieutenant Kane.

Sara’s heart sank, and then rocketed against her ribs. She had to act—now. She kicked the lieutenant in the groin then followed up with an uppercut to his jaw.

He rocked back from the force of the blow, his knees gave out, and he crumpled to the ground. “You
 . . .
bitch.”

Sara ran. Blindly. Full out. A stitch caught in her side. She pressed a muddy band over it and kept running, knowing she was maybe five yards ahead of the sergeant and Kane.

“Sara!” A man called her name. It sounded like Jarrod. Her mind playing tricks on her. Had to be. He was locked up at Braxton. Yet, she instinctively looked back. The beefy lieutenant turned his back to her, raised his gun, and fired.

Jarrod?
The man he shot looked like Jarrod. But that was impossible.
It had to be impossible!

Kane and the sergeant grabbed her, one at each arm, and dragged her back to the lieutenant. They stopped before him, and his face contorted in anger. Sara let her gaze drift from him to the man on the ground. He was breathing. With his back to her, she couldn’t be sure he was Jarrod, but—
oh God
—she felt certain he was, and he was breathing.

The lieutenant slapped her. Her head jerked, her face stung. Before she could recover, she felt the burn of a needle entering her arm. “Is that man going to die?” she asked Kane.

“From a stun gun?” Kane frowned at her. “Where the hell did you get weapons-qualified, Major?”

Sara heard his question, but it sounded as if he were talking from the far end of a long tunnel. Her vision blurred. Her head felt heavy, her legs like lead. She struggled to stay upright but felt herself slumping, consciousness fading, enveloping her in darkness with the ease of clicking off a light.

Sara awakened in the dark.

Something gritty grated at her face. Hazy and thick-tongued, she curled her knees to her chest and lifted a hand to her face. Dirt. It was dirt. Dried mud. She had to have been here for some time.

Her calf muscles cramped. She tried to straighten her legs but couldn’t; the box was too short. With gliding fingertips, she felt the rough edges of the box. Wood. Rough and unfinished. Too small to sit or stand, too short to lie stretched out. Dirt floor.
Oh, God. Oh, God. It was the coffin!

Don’t panic, Sara.
She heard Jarrod’s voice.
You can’t afford to panic. Think ice.

Ice. Yes. Ice.
She took in a cleansing breath. Her head throbbed—definitely a drug hangover. Rohypnol?

Maybe the date-rape drug, but it could be any of dozens that produced short-term amnesia.

They shot Jarrod.

No, they hadn’t. It was impossible. It couldn’t have been him in the woods. Jarrod was at Braxton. She shut out any other possibility. He was at Braxton.

The walls shrank in on her. Shivering, in a cold sweat, she fought the symptoms, forced her breathing to steady, warning herself not to hyperventilate. Frustration and futility swarmed through her chest. She couldn’t combat claustrophobic feelings, too. Not now. She just
 . . .
couldn’t.

Her uniform was gone. She ran her hand down the length of her body, felt a one-piece jumpsuit of some kind. She didn’t want to think about who had put it on her, or what they might have done to her while she was unconscious. Instead, she would be grateful she was dry and still alive, if more thirsty than she’d ever been in her life.

A low thud sounded. Then again. Soon, the beat was rhythmic, steady, constant. Feeling herself growing irritated, she recalled Jarrod describing this. A heartbeat. Yes. A heartbeat.

One that eventually had driven him beyond reason.

No. Don’t think that. Don’t let it happen. You choose. Let it comfort you.

The walls closed in, sucking out all of the oxygen. She couldn’t get enough air.

Think ice, Sara.

Ice. Yes. Free-floating on a large iceberg. The sun shining down on clear, blue water. Jarrod smiling at her.
I know. I love you, too, Sara
 . . .

The low-level percussion grew louder, stronger, thumping inside her head. Her heart rate mimicked it.

Deal with the emotions, Sara. Don’t bank them. You can’t bank them.

She twisted onto her back; the top of the coffin was less than a foot from the tip of her nose. The damp wood smelled strong. Cedar. God, but she hated the smell of cedar. Almost as much as pine.

Deal with the ice, Sara.

No. No, not with the ice. Deal with the
 . . .
something. She couldn’t remember.
She couldn’t remember!

Panic
shot through her stomach, tightened her chest. She curled up, warned herself to calm down, to stay calm. She could deal with this. She really could. But, God, she had to have air to do it.

She sucked in deep lungsful. There was no air on this iceberg.

Or any water.

Her chapped lips burned, and her mouth was so dry that her inner lips and cheeks stuck to her teeth. Already, she was beginning to dehydrate. She could feel it. Vivid images danced before her eyes, tormenting her. Tall glasses of iced tea, gallons of water sliding down her throat. Parched and achy, hot, she called out. “Water.” Her voice croaked, thready and weak. “Water,” she tried again.

Minutes passed, then something splashed against the outside of the box. A thundering sound drowned out the percussion. Someone was squirting the top of the box with a water hose. The splattering water trickled down between the top slats of the box, near her feet. Sara stretched and scooted, strained to reach and catch the drips in a cupped hand.

As she got her hand positioned, the splashing stopped.

The dripping ceased.

The percussion returned.

Her chest constricted and, near tears, she pressed the precious droplets dampening her palm to her cracked lips, swearing that next time she would be ready—and praying it wouldn’t be too long until the guard again picked up the hose.

The persistent thumping returned with a deafening vengeance.

No, no.
She grabbed her head and squeezed, cursing it. Low-level percussion, Jarrod had said. It didn’t feel low-level. It felt like bass drums pounding inside her skull. She had to get out of here. To get water. Now.

But which way was out? Dirt beneath her. She could dig her way out. Yes. She scraped at the lower edge of the box, shoving aside the loose, sandy dirt. Something sharp cut her fingers. They stung and burned, and warm blood dripped down her fingertips.

A metal strip. Jagged edges. She couldn’t dig herself out.

It’s okay, Sara. You can deal with this.

Jarrod’s voice in her mind. Helping her. She could deal with this. Oh, please, God, help her to deal with this.

Minutes turned to hours. How many, she couldn’t tell. Each second seemed lifetimes long. And the steady thump grated at her, deeper and deeper.

She ground her teeth, searching for something to combat it. Rage was the worst possible thing she could allow. She’d end up more scrambled than Jarrod had been. Suffer more incidents of episodic rage.

Episodic rage.

The music had stopped the incidents.

No water. No air. Oh, God, no air.

Think ice.

It wasn’t working. She couldn’t hold the images in her mind. She was too fuzzy. Frantic, she searched for alternatives. Meditate.
Meditate.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she slowed her breathing and chose her word.
Jarrod. Jarrod. Jarrod.

And in the distance she heard faint strains of music.

Celtic music.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Sara awakened, unsure if it was day or night, the percussion thundering inside her head.

“You ain’t sleeping in there, are you?” a man shouted from outside and kicked the box.

Tormenting her. Again. How many times now had they awakened her? Four? Five? She forced herself to remember. Seven. Seven times. She had to have been in here for days. Her mouth felt stone-dry, her tongue thick and swollen. Caked with dried mud, her skin itched, and she needed a rest room so badly her stomach cramped continuously, and her eyes burned.

How long had she been here? Where was here?

Deal with the ice, Sara.

She shook her head. Sandy dirt sprayed from her hair, stung her face. No,
Deal with the ice
wasn’t right. But what was right?

The infernal thumping droned on and on and on. If only it
would stop, then she could think.
Why wouldn’t it stop?

Hopelessness flooded her. Tears welled in her eyes, tumbled down her cheeks. Jarrod, I can’t fight this anymore. I can’t feel the ice. I can’t breathe. I can’t hear anything but that damned hammering. I’m going to die in this box. It’s going to be my coffin.