Cover of Darkness (6 page)

He glanced away from her delicate, ashen face to find every member of the team staring at her. The air in their shelter practically hummed with protective male energy. It was good in a way, Declan reflected, so long as it didn't distract anyone from doing their job. It meant they were still capable of sympathy and the desire to protect the weak, even underneath all their discipline and testosterone.

But Jesus, look at them. Eight bad ass Navy SEALs sitting around fussing over an injured woman, one sliding a folded blanket under her head and another tucking one around her like they were a bunch of goddamn nursemaids. This op was already one for the books, and it wasn't near over.

They gave her more water, then Spencer took a cloth and washed her face and neck. Her long, thick lashes fluttered and she sighed in relief before dropping off into an exhausted sleep.

"You got that lip stuff?" Dec asked Spence.

The medic gave him a funny look but retrieved it from one of his pockets and Dec silently smoothed some on her cracked lips. Jesus, it must have been bad for them in that cellar. She 53

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made a small murmur, barely audible above the wind, but it made something ache deep inside him.

Without a word Spencer went to work on Daoud, checking his eyes with a penlight for even dilation. "Pupils are slow to respond," he reported, dabbing an alcohol-soaked piece of gauze over a long cut on his patient's temple. "And he's still disoriented. We'll have to wake him every half-hour to check him, make sure he doesn't slip into a coma."

"Well, it's not like we're going anywhere in this." The good news was, neither were the terrorists. But once the storm eased enough for them to move, they better haul ass to the extraction point before the enemy got moving.

Silent, but for the wind keening outside the tent, they waited.

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Day 4, In the Syrian desert

Dawn

Bryn's eyes snapped open. Something had brushed against her hip. In the dimness she stared up at the lieutenant looming over her to hook up another bag of saline to her IV, her body uncertain whether fight or flight was necessary.

With effort, she slowed her racing heart. "Hi," she whispered.

She didn't remember a thing after the lieutenant had put the stuff on her dry lips. She'd fallen into a sleep as dreamless as if someone had knocked her unconscious.

He smiled down at her, revealing dimples beneath the camouflage paint. A handsome man, and one she would be eternally grateful to.

"Morning," he answered, studying her.

His eyes were an amazing shade of caramel.

"How are you feeling?"

"Much better." She felt like she might make it after all.

"The wind's starting to die down a little, so we'll have to move out soon. One last bag of fluids for you—"

Her stomach growled ferociously, and he grinned, those fascinating golden-brown eyes lighting up.

"—and something to eat first."

The medic—Spencer, she'd heard someone call him—

crouched down beside her and checked her pulse, then wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her upper arm and 55

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inflated it, a stethoscope in his ears. "Bet you've never eaten an MRE before."

He had eyes the color of a summer sky.

"I have no idea what that is," she admitted, watching him study the dial on the cuff. "Is it awful?" Her heartbeat throbbed under the pressure of the Velcro strap.

"Depends," the lieutenant answered. "Do you want to start out with a cracker to see how it settles, or do you want to try the MRE version of beef stew? Or maybe spaghetti with meatballs?" He held out two silver pouches, labeled accordingly.

"Take the stew, ma'am," one of the other men advised.

"The spaghetti tastes like hell."

Spencer removed the cuff before she could answer. "One-ten over seventy," he announced in satisfaction. "Your blood volume's way up from last night, blood pressure's normal.

You're doing great, ma'am."

Compared to a few hours ago, she felt fricking fantastic.

"Please, call me Bryn." Thirty-one was still too young to be ma'amed. "How's my father? Is he awake?"

"No. His symptoms are getting worse," Spencer told her without mincing words. "He'll need surgery once we evacuate him on the chopper. He'll go straight to a hospital in Beirut."

So he did have a serious head injury. Her stomach clenched. She twisted around towards him. Her father was lying on the other side of the tent, eyes closed, and he looked gray. Her chest constricted. "What about his vitals? Did the fluids help him?"

"They've kept him alive so far, yes."

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"Lieutenant—"

"Call me Dec. Short for Declan," he explained when she frowned. "My family's Irish. Here, start with this." He fished out a packet from one of the equipment bags, then handed her a flask of water and something resembling a cracker, which she accepted hungrily.

She wolfed it and two others down, keeping an anxious eye on her father. "Has he woken up at all?" Even with her limited knowledge of first aid she knew enough to be afraid he would lapse into a coma. By the look of him right now, he might already be there.

"He woke a couple of times during the night," Dec said.

"His speech was a little slurred, but that's to be expected.

We'll get you both out of here on those choppers ASAP."

He said it with absolute confidence before heading out into the storm. He had a steady, competent air about him, a certain calmness that came from being very sure of himself.

Even if she hadn't known his rank she would have figured him to be the leader of the group. Bryn felt perfectly safe, despite being in a tent in the middle of a sandstorm with a bunch of special ops soldiers. She only wished there was something they could do for her father.

After she had eaten, Spencer removed the IV needle from her arm while she looked pointedly elsewhere, lest she bring up her breakfast, and bandaged her before helping her into a sitting position. While everyone else packed their gear and got ready to move she hunkered down next to her father, passed a hand over his hair and down the side of his pallid face. His skin was clammy and cool. Bryn's heart turned over.

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What would she do if he didn't make it? They might not have been as close as she would have liked, but he was her father and she loved him anyway. The sight of such a powerful, intelligent man lying there so still and quiet broke her heart.

Someone put a hand on her forehead, and she looked up into Spencer's blue eyes.

"You're still a little warm," he told her, pulling a camouflage jacket over her and doing it up as though she were a child. "I gave you a shot of antibiotics last night, but you'll need more once you get back to Beirut. Some of the cuts on your arm were pretty deep, might be infected."

She studied the scratches and little holes already scabbing over. She felt like Alice down the rabbit hole. A bomb blast, a kidnapping, nearly dying of dehydration, then rescued by Navy SEALs in the middle of the night. Certainly more exciting than her average day as a social worker, given the sad cases she had to deal with.

Dec stepped back inside, pulling off his goggles. "Can't see much out there, but it's better than it was last night. Think you can walk, Miss Mc—"

"Bryn, please, and yes I can walk. Thanks again, all of you, for coming to get us." To her horror, a lump formed in her throat and tears burned her eyes. It was nice to know she was hydrated enough to make tears, but damn it, she would not cry like a helpless female in front of these brave men.

They might think she was weak.

"Believe me, it was our pleasure."

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She forced a small smile and dropped her eyes to the ground, biting her lip to stop from crying as she rolled up her bedding. Spencer took pity on her and patted her shoulder.

"Don't worry about it," he whispered so no one else would hear. "You've been through a lot. Nobody would think less of you for it."

She nodded. "I'm fine, just tired. Don't worry about me falling to pieces or anything. I'm tougher than I look." She cast an anxious glance over her shoulder at her father.

When she turned back, Spencer grinned as he picked up his rifle. "You single?"

She gave him a startled glance and laughed. "Yeah, why?

You want to take me out on a date once this is all over?"

He merely widened his grin and made his way out of the shelter.

Outside, Dec organized the team and gave the signal for two of the members to lift Jamul on a stretcher. "Okay, lady and gentlemen. Let's move."

Day 4, Syrian village

Morning

In disbelief, Farouk Tehrazzi stared down into the empty cellar. How had they escaped? Not by themselves, he knew that much. A molten rage swept through him. His plan was ruined. Not only had they lost the leverage to secure the money, but whoever had freed them—probably American special forces—would be on the hunt for him now.

His throat was so tight he could barely choke the words out. "Who is responsible for this?"

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One of his men shifted from one foot to the other. They all avoided his lethal gaze as he raked his eyes over them. With effort he reined in his temper. The anger morphed into an icy rage, far more dangerous. "Find out who did this," he commanded. "Then bring them to me."

Someone in the village had betrayed him, and he had a sickening feeling he knew who. They would pay dearly. It was not something he wanted to do, but he must make an example of them to prevent such actions in the future. The prospect sickened him.

"Post a reward for their capture," he snarled, his fury polluting the air around him like a poisonous cloud. "I want them hunted down like rabid dogs." Alive or dead, he didn't care what condition they were in so long as he got his hands on the traitors.

Day 4, Syrian desert

Afternoon

She'd slowed them down. She hated knowing that. Still weakened, she tired easily on the shifting sand. She was used to walking on sand—she lived right on the beach back home in Oregon—but she'd never done a forced march through a sandstorm while recovering from heatstroke and dehydration.

Dec didn't seem to be all that concerned about it, or he would have picked her up and thrown her over his wide shoulder like he had the night before. He really did cut a nice figure in his battle gear, she thought.

As though sensing her eyes on him, he turned to her over his shoulder, pulling the protective covering away from his face and mouth to yell at her over the ceaseless wind.

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"Okay?"

Rather than wasting precious energy yelling, she nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. She felt like she weighed a thousand pounds. Even her hair felt like a lead weight at the back of her neck. She'd twisted it into a braid and tucked it into the back of her shirt to stop it from whipping around but it hung there, threatening to pull her head backward.

"We're almost to the cliffs—just another half mile."

Might as well be ten, in this weather. She gave him another thumbs-up and trudged on behind him. The two men carrying her father were second in line behind Dec, Spencer at her back, and the last four bringing up the rear. Her muscles trembled with exhaustion but she refused to quit, refused to complain. These men were risking their lives to help her and her father, and she would keep moving until her legs gave out before adding to their burden. And even then she would keep going. If she had to crawl, so be it.

She pushed on, lungs laboring as she leaned into the wind and forced her feet to move one step at a time. These guys were in amazing condition, but she shouldn't be surprised.

Her best friend's dad was a former SEAL, so she knew plenty about what they were capable of. Good and bad.

Nearing the end of her limit, she tripped and went down hard on her knees. Spencer was right there behind her to scoop her up, but she pushed away from him and stumbled on, her legs like jelly. She had to pull her own weight, like everyone else on the team. The wind calmed slightly, the sand thinning in the air as the protective wall of the towering cliffs came into view.

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You can do this, she told herself sternly. Come on, Bryn, just a little farther. Suck it up. One foot in front of the other.

At last they stood at the base of the cliff.

Dec and the others began to dig out equipment while she collapsed on her butt, and someone handed her a canteen and a protein bar. She wolfed the bar down and with growing alarm she watched them work. She didn't see any caves anywhere, and the men appeared to be pulling out ropes and harnesses—

Wait a minute...after all that, did they expect her to climb up the damn cliff?

One of them started up the rock wall, hammering anchors at regular intervals, threading a rope through the anchors.

She gaped at them in horror. They were! They were going to have to scale the frigging cliff!

Bryn swallowed hard, wanting to cry. The thing had to be sixty feet high, at least. She couldn't make it. She didn't have anything left.

"Bryn?"

She swung her head around toward Declan. "Y-yes?" Oh man, how was she going to do this? All she wanted to do was lie in a heap and sleep for a week.

He came over to her, hunkered down at her feet. His topaz gaze studied her carefully. "I don't expect you to climb it."

She sighed in relief, closed her eyes and slumped.

"I can carry you up."

Her eyes flew open in alarm. "What?" Like hell he could.

Yeah, he was strong—he'd carried her over his shoulder 62