Double Impact: Never Say Die\No Way Back (28 page)

Ami shivered again with something more than fear, then almost laughed out loud. She was pathetic. Despite her dire circumstances the man's deep, compelling voice still had the power to make her tremble with a mixture of emotions that frightened her even more than the thought of death.

She faced him again, knowing that nothing she said or did at this point would make a difference. She was dead. It was only a matter of time. She would never see her baby again. And who would raise him? Would Robert still care for Nicholas now that she was out of the picture? She prayed with all her heart that he would. Why hadn't she married him a year ago? Then there would be no question. She'd been such a fool.

“What decision?” she asked…no, it wasn't a question, it was a demand, she realized as the harshly uttered words echoed in the room. Feeling suddenly brave, or maybe too incredibly stupid to care, she lifted her gaze and stared directly into his. “What decision do you have to make?”

He touched her then. Her breath caught, but to her credit she didn't pull away. Those long fingers lingered on her cheek, then trailed along the column of her throat, making her tremble yet again.

“The decision,” he said, his accented voice soft yet
undeniably lethal, “as to what I will do with you now that I've found you.”

She looked away, unable to tolerate that penetrating gaze a second longer. “Whatever you believe I've done to you, you're wrong.” She stared fully into those dark eyes. “I'm not who you think I am.”

He flattened his hands on the door on either side of her and leaned in closer, so close she could feel the whisper of his warm breath on her face.

“It is not a matter of what I believe,” he told her, his voice just as soft, just as deadly as before. “It is a matter of what I know. I know what you've done. And I know exactly who you are.”

M
ICHAL LEFT THE ROOM
,
his senses humming with a mélange of emotions. Need had somehow surged to the fore-front and overtaken all others, however, and that infuriated him beyond reason. He did not
need
this woman.

He would not fall prey to her seemingly innocent temptation again. For he knew firsthand that she was not innocent. His jaw tightened with the fury building inside him at his own stupidity. She had plotted the assassination of her own father and had used him to accomplish that end. She had made him drunk with her wicked, feminine wiles…had given up her body entirely to him. Whatever he had wanted she had given until he had grown blind with lust, driven only by need, and finally becoming completely obsessed.

She had been his one obsession, his one mistake.

Then he had lost her.

He closed his eyes and fought the emotion that accompanied that last thought. For two endless years he had believed her dead. He had grieved the loss, prayed for his own death, apathetic of his destiny without her. In their short time together she had become everything to him.

And now he'd found her again…alive and well.

His eyes opened wide with renewed determination. He would not fall under her spell this time. She was evil…a harlot. A bitch who cared for no one other than herself.

Wherever she had been hiding, whatever she had been
doing all this time, mattered little to him. She was here now and
now
she would pay for her betrayal.

The word had traveled swiftly to him. Some imbecile had failed in his attempt to assassinate Natan Olment. The press had insisted that the American was the target, but Michal knew better. Olment was high on the list of those wanted dead by the supporters of the fallen Taliban. Though forced underground to carry out its machinations, money was no obstacle for the crippled organization. The payment for making such a kill would be substantial, the task a simple one. Olment and his security advisor were fools. Michal could have taken him out on numerous occasions, had played the scenario over in his mind and laughed at the ease with which he could accomplish the hit if he so chose.

Now that ridiculously lax security would be tightened. The security advisor replaced, as should have been done months ago. Those with less skill than Michal would bemoan the loss of potential opportunity. To him it made no difference. The reputation he had earned spoke for itself. Lucky for him, Olment had no part in his plans for the immediate future.

Of course that could change, but Michal didn't see that happening as things stood. Olment dabbled in nothing that interested him.

The woman on the other side of the door he braced against dragged his attention back to the present. He had a more pressing quandary at the moment than what his next crusade would be. He had to decide what to do with her. His jaw tightened again. She had to die. There was no real question there. But he would be the one to decide when her fate was to be carried out.

If his heart proved too weak to exact the necessary ven
geance, he would cut it out. It was worthless to him, anyway. The organ merely continued to beat, nothing more.

He moved away from the door as if her very essence could somehow penetrate the heavy wood and reach him, ultimately making him weak. He would not consider the issue further now, he decided as he moved toward where the others waited. When he was stronger, when the shock of seeing her again had passed, would be the proper time for such a course of action. He would need all of his strength, all of his powers of concentration, to do what had to be done.

She had to pay.

Just not today.

“Why is she still alive?”

The irate tone of his comrade heightened Michal's already mounting frustration. He stared at Carlos, his right arm—the man who had proven his worth over and over again. But, to Michal's way of thinking, in the last twenty-four hours that worth had lessened considerably. A comrade's value could only be accurately measured by his willingness to follow his leader and/or his orders to the death.

Michal was not accustomed to being questioned where his decisions were concerned.

“She is alive,” he said to his friend, his tone lethal, his words leaving no room for discussion, “because I allow it. Do you have a problem with that?”

His defiance never wavering, Carlos openly questioned Michal's authority for the first time. He sauntered a step closer, his posture growing even more belligerent. “I watched the effect this woman had on you two years ago.” One dark eyebrow slanted high above the other. “She distracts you,” he suggested in the thick accent that gave away his Israeli roots. “We—” he motioned magnanimously to the others lounging in the room “—were almost
captured because of her.” He banged a fist against his chest. “Our own brothers despise us now, attempt to bring us down at every opportunity because of her.
That
is my problem!”

Tamping down his fury to a more tolerable level, Michal closed the remaining distance between them. “You have stated your objections.
This
—” he looked straight into his old friend's eyes “—will be the end of it. The decision as to what will become of her is mine and mine alone.”

Absolute silence reigned in the room. No one dared to even move. The others waited for the outcome, not one had the courage to side with Carlos, yet not one would dispute him since he wanted to live to see another day. The tension built so swiftly, so thickly, that the very air evacuated the room.

“Mark my words,” Carlos said, “she will be the death of us all.”

Michal laughed softly, but didn't relax his battle-ready stance. Staying in control was crucial. “So now you are a prophet, is that the way of it?”

Carlos grunted a halfhearted laugh. “Clearly you are not. But, as you say, the decision is yours.”

Michal turned to the others, taking his time, studying each familiar face in turn. These were the men with whom he had worked for the past three years. He had earned their respect under the tutelage of their former leader, a man known only as the Wolf. After his assassination, Michal had risen to the challenge as his successor. No one had questioned the move, not even Carlos who had worked with the Wolf for a longer period of time. Carlos claimed that he preferred the chain of command just as it was. He had no desire to lead, only to follow.

Michal had an uneasy feeling about that now. He'd noted Carlos's need to have more of a say during recent
strategy meetings. He imagined his days were numbered to Carlos's way of thinking. Michal did not fear the confrontation. He had long ago decided that death might be a relief.

Until now.

Now
everything had changed.

“Is there anyone else who would question my authority?”

Heads wagged from side to side, negative responses were grunted all the way around the room. All eyes remained fixed on Michal; no one had the nerve to meet Carlos's unrelenting gaze as they, however belatedly, openly professed their loyalty.

“Then we are in agreement, no?” Michal turned back to the man at his side, watching and waiting for some indication of just how far he intended to take this vie for power.

The corners of Carlos's mouth curled into a sly smile. “We are in agreement.”

Michal nodded. “A wise decision.” He surveyed the group once more. “We must take advantage of this time to rest and hone our skills. We have some time yet before our next mission. This one will be tricky. Keen focus will be the key. No one—” He shot a sidelong glance at Carlos. “No one can be distracted. This is assuredly not the time for division.”

Carlos merely stared back at him, his previous display of aggression reined in for the most part.
“No one,”
he agreed pointedly.

Michal left it at that and sought refuge outside in the coming gloom. The air was cool and he filled his lungs with the pleasant scents of the changing season. He closed his eyes and tried to remember how his homeland smelled. But it had been far too long since he had set foot upon
that soil and, in an effort to keep his sanity, he had worked far too diligently to banish it from his mind to recall it now. A high price had been leveled on his head there; he was considered a murderer and worse. In reality, he had no homeland. But he no longer cared. He had stopped caring about anything at all two years ago.

Forcing his thoughts away from the woman inside, he surveyed the grounds for as far as he could see in the encroaching dusk. The perimeter guards moved around soundlessly, all of whom would have taken note of his presence the instant he exited the house. Michal had many dedicated men at his disposal, any of which would willingly die for him. Except, perhaps, for Carlos. Until a few days ago he would have said the same for him. But he had changed of late, particularly since Amira's return. That, too, seemed suspect to Michal. Though Carlos's rationale for being disturbed by her presence was sound, there was something more going on.

Only time would reveal this unknown factor. Michal turned and stared up at the room—his room—where he held Amira prisoner. Just as time would also determine her fate.

 

H
E WASN'T COMING
back.

Ami sucked in another shaky breath, mentally commanding herself to pull it together. She had to think. She couldn't just stand here and wait for him to return. She had to run. To hide. Something.

She pushed off from the door where she'd remained glued even after he'd walked out of the room. She simply hadn't had the strength or courage to move away from the support it gave or the hope it offered since it led to the balcony outside. But the guards were out there, as well. He'd said they had orders to shoot. She shuddered.

Clothes. First, she needed clothes.

She looked down at herself again and fought another wave of terror as she considered that he, or someone who worked for him, had undressed her. That was done. Nothing she could do about it. She looked around the room and decided to start with the armoire. All she had to do was make it across the room.

Putting one foot in front of the other, she slowly made the journey, praying with each step that the floor wouldn't creak, giving her movements away. She felt certain there would be a guard right outside her door.

Slowly she opened the armoire doors, her heart thudding so hard she could scarcely hear herself think. She scanned the folded items on the shelves, then opened each drawer in turn, sorting through the contents as carefully as possible so as not to leave anything out of place.

Nothing she had been wearing when she rushed out of the hospital.

Jeans, shirts…all, she presumed, belonging to her captor.

She turned to survey the room once more. Where were her clothes? Surely they wouldn't have thrown them away.

Moving more quickly now, she got down on her hands and knees and looked under the bed. Nothing.

She pushed to her feet and rushed to the en suite bathroom and came up empty-handed again. Towels and face-cloths, toiletries.

Her pulse fluttering wildly, she moved back into the large bedroom. Everything she'd been wearing was gone. She remembered that she hadn't had her purse with her so she had no ID other than her hospital badge, and no money.

A phone.

She glanced around frantically. She needed a phone.

An old-fashioned, rotary-base telephone sat on the table between the two chairs next to the armoire. She ran toward it, almost stumbling in her haste, and snatched up the receiver.

The line was dead.

She had to bite down on her lower lip to hold back a cry of panic and to regulate the breathing that was coming in ragged spurts. Why wasn't there a dial tone?

She got down on her hands and knees and traced the line leading from the telephone to the wall.

Two inches from the wall jack the line lay on the floor, severed completely. She jammed the ends together and tried to think of some way to tape it. That would work, wouldn't it?

She scrambled up and back to the bathroom in search of any kind of tape. Bandages, gauze tape, anything. She flung the contents of the various drawers to the floor, no longer concerned with caution.

Nothing.

No kind of tape and not a single item she could use for a weapon.

She sank to the floor and hugged her arms around her knees. It was hopeless.

Long minutes later, maybe thirty, maybe more, she heard the telltale creak of the bedroom door opening. She didn't bother gathering the scattered items on the floor. She was dead. What difference would a mess make?

He was going to kill her and there was nothing she could do about it. She would never see her baby again.

When he stopped in the doorway, she peered up at him. She could feel the scald of tears on her cheeks, but she no longer cared about that, either. She was numb inside.

She was going to die.

Michal watched her for a moment, uncertain what she
might do next. Judging by the disarray of the room, panic had clearly gotten the better of her. He brutally squashed the first sensations of sympathy that tried to bore into his hardened heart. He would feel nothing for her except the desire he could not conquer.

“I brought you a change of clothes.” He angled his head toward the bed behind him. “When you've bathed, you may dress for dinner.”

She continued to stare at him as if he hadn't spoken at all. A jolt of fury screwed his gut into knots when the pangs of sympathy would not abate. He took her by the arm, ensuring that his fingers bit deeply into her flesh, and jerked her to her feet.

“Do it now,” he growled near her face.

She flinched but didn't bother trying to pull free of his hold. He shoved her away, his hand tingling from even that brief encounter with her smooth skin.

He turned his back on her and strode to the bed. He grabbed the package he'd sent one of his men to collect from a boutique in Marseilles and carried it back to the bathroom. He tossed it onto the floor and glowered at her since she still stood exactly where he'd left her.