Mackenzie's Pleasure (7 page)

to a secure location before then.

He stopped at a turn in the corridor, flattening himself against the wall and easing his

head around the corner just enough that he could see. Empty. Noiselessly, he moved down the

hallway, just as cautiously checking the few rooms that opened off it.

He had pulled the black balaclava into place and smeared dust over his bare arms to

dull the sheen of his skin and decrease his visibility. Giving his shirt to Miss Lovejoy and

leaving his arms bare had increased his visibility somewhat, but he judged that his darkly

tanned arms weren't nearly as likely to be spotted as her naked body. Even in the darkness

of the room where they had been keeping her, he had been able to clearly make out the pale

shimmer of her skin. Since none of her clothes had been in evidence, giving her his shirt was

the only thing he could have done. She'd been shaking with cold—evidence of shock

because the night was warm—and she likely would have gone into hysterics if he'd tried to

take her out of there while she was stark naked. He had been prepared, if necessary, to knock

her out. But she'd been a little trooper so far, not even screaming when he had suddenly

loomed over her in the darkness. With his senses so acute, though, Zane could feel how fragile

her control was, how tightly she was strung.

It was understandable. She had likely been raped, not once but many times, since she had

been kidnapped. She might fall apart when the crisis was over and she was safe, but for now she

was holding together. Her gutsiness made his heart clench with a mixture of tenderness and a

lethal determination to protect her. His first priority was to get her out of Libya, not wreak

vengeance on her kidnappers—but if any of the bastards happened to get in his way, so be it.

The dark maw of a stairwell yawned before him. The darkness was reassuring; it not

only signaled the absence of a guard, it would shield him. Humans still clung to the primitive

instincts of cave dwellers. If they were awake, they wanted the comfort of light around them,

so they could see the approach of any enemies. Darkness was a weapon that torturers used to

break the spirit of their captives, because it emphasized their helplessness, grated on their

nerves. But he was a SEAL, and darkness was merely a circumstance he could use. He

stepped carefully into the stairwell, keeping his back to the wall to avoid any crumbling edges of

the stone. He was fairly certain the stairs were safe, otherwise the kidnappers wouldn't have

been using them, but he didn't take chances. Like idiots, people stacked things on stair steps,

blocking their own escape routes.

A faint lessening of the darkness just ahead told him that he was nearing the bottom of

the steps. He paused while he was still within the protective shadow, listening for the

slightest sound. There. He heard what he'd been searching for, the distant sound of voices,

angry voices tripping over each other with curses and excuses. Though Zane spoke Arabic, he was

too far away to make out what they were saying. It didn't matter; he'd wanted to know their

location, and now he did. Grimly he stifled the urge to exact revenge on Miss Lovejoy's

behalf. His mission was to rescue her, not endanger her further.

There was a stairwell at each end of the building. Knowing now that the kidnappers were

on the ground floor at the east end, Zane began making his way to the west staircase. He

didn't meet up with any guards; as he had hoped, they thought the rescue had been effected,

so they didn't see any point now in posting guards.

In his experience, perfect missions were few and far between, so rare that he could count

on one hand the number of missions he'd been on where everything had gone like

clockwork. He tried to be prepared for mechanical breakdowns, accidents, forces of nature,

but there was no way to plan for the human factor. He didn't know how the kidnappers had

been alerted to the SEALs' presence, but he had considered that possibility from the beginning

and made an alternate plan in case something went wrong. Something had—exactly what, he

would find out later: except for that brief communication with his men, telling them to

withdraw and switch to the alternate plan, they had maintained radio silence.

Probably it was pure bad luck, some late-night citizen unexpectedly stumbling over

one of his men. Things happened. So he had formulated Plan B, his just-in-case plan,

because as they had worked their way toward the building, he'd had an uneasy feeling.

When his gut told him something, Zane listened. Bunny Withrock had once given him a

narrow-eyed look and said, "Boss, you're even spookier than the Spook." But they trusted his

instincts, to the point that mentally they had probably switched to Plan B as soon as he'd

voiced it, before he had even gone into the building.

With Miss Lovejoy to consider, he'd opted for safety. That was why he had gone in alone,

through the window, after Spook's reconnaissance had reported that the kidnappers had set

guards at intervals throughout the first floor. There were no lights in any of the rooms on

the fourth floor, where Miss Lovejoy was reportedly being held, so it was likely there was no

guard actually in the room with her; a guard wouldn't want to sit in the darkness.

The kidnappers had inadvertently pinpointed the room for him: only one window had

been covered with curtains. When Zane had reached that room, he had carefully parted the

heavy curtains to make certain they hadn't shielded an interior light, but the room beyond had

been totally dark. And Miss Lovejoy had been there, just as he had expected.

Now, ostensibly with nothing left to guard, the kidnappers all seemed to be grouped

together. Zane cat-footed through the lower rooms until he reached the other staircase, then

climbed silently upward. Thanks to Spooky, he knew of a fakly secure place to take Miss

Lovejoy while they waited for another opportunity for extraction; all he had to do was get her

there undetected. That meant he had to do it before dawn, because a half-naked, red-haired

Western woman would definitely be noticeable in this Islamic country. He wouldn't exactly

blend in himself, despite his black hair and tanned skin, because of his dark cammies, web gear

and weaponry. Most people noticed a man with camouflage paint on his face and an

automatic rifle slung over his shoulder.

He reached the room where he'd left Miss Lovejoy and entered as quietly as he'd left. The

room was empty. Alarm roared through him, every muscle tightening, and then he saw the

small, dark hump on the floor and realized that she had curled up with the thin survival

blanket over her. She wasn't moving. Zane listened to the light, almost inaudible evenness of her

breathing and realized she had gone to sleep. Again he felt that subtle inner clenching. She

had been on edge and terrified for hours, obviously worn out but unable to sleep; the slight

measure of security he'd been able to give her, consisting of his shirt, a blanket and a temporary,

precarious hiding place, had been enough for her to rest. He hated to disturb her, but they had to

move.

Gently he put his hand on her back, lightly rubbing, not shaking her awake but easing

her into consciousness so she wouldn't be alarmed. After a moment she began stirring under his

touch, and he felt the moment when she woke, felt her instant of panic, then her quietly determined reach for control.

"We're moving to someplace safer," he whispered, removing his hand as soon as he

saw she was alert. After what she had been through, she wouldn't want to endure a man's

touch any more than necessary. The thought infuriated him, because his instinct was to

comfort her; the women in his family, mother, sister and sisters-in-law, were adored and

treasured by the men. He wanted to cradle Barrie Lovejoy against him, whisper promises to

her that he would personally dismember every bastard who had hurt her, but he didn't want to

do anything that would undermine her fragile control. They didn't have time for any

comforting, anyway.

She clambered to her feet, still clutching the blanket around her. Zane reached for it,

and her fingers tightened on the fabric, then slowly loosened. She didn't have to explain her

reluctance to release the protective cloth. Zane knew she was still both extrasensitive to

cold and painfully embarrassed by her near nudity.

"Wear it this way," he whispered, wrapping the blanket around her waist sarong-style so

that it draped to her feet. He tied the ends securely over her left hipbone, then bent down to

check that the fabric wasn't too tight around her feet, so she would have sufficient freedom

of movement if they had to run.

When he straightened, she touched his arm, then swiftly lifted her band away, as if even

that brief touch had been too much. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Watch me closely," he instructed. "Obey my hand signals." He explained the most

basic signals to her, the raised clenched fist that meant "Stop!" and the open hand that meant

merely "halt," the signal to proceed and the signal to hide. Considering her state of mind, plus

her obvious fatigue, he doubted she would be able to absorb more than those four simple

commands. They didn't have far to go, anyway; if he needed more commands than that, they

were in deep ca-ca.

She followed him out of the room and down the west staircase, though he felt her

reluctance to step into the Stygian depths. He showed her how to keep her back to the wall,

how to feel with her foot for the edge of the step. He felt her stumble once, heard her sharply

indrawn breath. He whirled to steady her; his pistol was in his right hand, but his left arm snaked

out, wrapping around her hips to steady her as she teetered two steps above him. The action lifted

her off her feet, hauling her against his left side. She felt soft in his grip, her hips narrow

but nicely curved, and his nostrils flared as he scented the warm sweetness of her skin.

She was all but sitting on his encircling arm, her hands braced on his shoulders.

Reluctantly he bent and set her on her feet, and she immediately straightened away from him.

"Sorry," she whispered in the darkness.

Zane's admiration for her grew. She hadn't squealed in alarm, despite nearly falling,

despite the way he'd grabbed her. She was holding herself together, narrowing her focus to the

achievement of one goal: freedom.

She was even more cautious in her movements after that one misstep, letting more distance

grow between them than he liked. On the last flight of steps he stopped, waiting for her to catch

up with him. Knowing that she couldn't see him, he said, "Here," when she was near, so she

wouldn't bump into him.

He eased his way down the last couple of steps into the faint light. There was no one in

sight. With a brief wave of his hand he signaled her forward, and she slipped out of the

darkness of the stairwell to stand beside him.

There was a set of huge wooden double doors that opened onto the street, but Zane was

aware of increased noise outside as dawn neared, and it was too risky to use that exit. From

their left came a raised voice, shouting in Arabic, and he felt her tense. Quickly, before the

sound of one of her kidnappers unnerved her, he shepherded her into a cluttered storage room,

where a small, single window shone high on the wall. "We'll go out this window," he

murmured. "There'll be a drop of about four feet to the ground, nothing drastic. I'll boost you

up. When you hit the ground, move away from the street but stay against the side of the building.

Crouch down so you'll present the smallest possible silhouette. Okay?"

She nodded her understanding, and they picked their way over the jumbled boxes and

debris until they were standing under the window. Zane stretched to reach the sill, hooked

his fingers on the plaster and boosted himself up until he was balanced with one knee on the sill

and one booted foot braced against a rickety stack of boxes. The window evidently hadn't been

used in a long time; the glass was opaque with dust, the hinges rusty and stiff. He wrestled it

open, wincing at the scraping noise, even though he knew it wouldn't carry to where the

kidnappers were. Fresh air poured into the musty room. Like a cat he dropped to the floor,

then turned to her.

"You can put your foot in my hand, or you can climb on my shoulders. Which do you

prefer?"

With the window open, more light was coming through. He could see her doubtful

expression as she stared at the window, and for the first time he appreciated the evenness of

her features. He already knew how sweetly her body was shaped, but now he knew that

Miss Lovejoy didn't hurt his eyes at all.

"Can you get through there?" she whispered, ignoring his question as she eyed first the

expanse of his shoulders and then the narrowness of the window.

Zane had already made those mental measurements. "It'll be a tight fit, but I've been

through tighter ones."