No Turning Back (5 page)

The tallest of the men came at Neveah, his weapon aimed dead center in her chest. He seized her arm and whipped it behind her, shoving her face-first into the wall. Ben paused the tape to tighten the focus on the guy's face as she tried to fight out of his grip. Damn. Nothing, except that his eyes seemed to be a light brown.

Ben hit play, determined to find something solid to go on.

Pinning her against the wall, Neveah's attacker leaned around so he could see her face. The camera angle showed his light brown eyes, gleaming from behind the slits in his mask. Though Ben couldn't see the rest of his face, he knew the bastard was smiling. His hands itched to reach through the monitor and permanently remove that taunting smile from his face.

On screen the man leaned in closer, and the audio was clear enough for Ben to hear his words. “We've been expecting you, Dr. Adams,” he purred in flawless English. “Welcome to Kabul.”

Evil bastard. Ben stopped the video and leaned back with a sigh. Great. A pale brown eyed Middle Eastern man who spoke English without an accent had taken Neveah. Could be any one of a million men.

He ran a hand through his hair. What a fucking mess. Sam's cousin was in deep shit, but so far nothing more about the hostages had come in. Wherever Sam was, did she know what had happened? Was that why she'd disappeared?

He and Rhys had been monitoring the situation for the past twenty-four hours, and they'd both been sure the kidnapping would bring Sam out of hiding. That was the scary part. The fact that she hadn't resurfaced put a lot of weight behind the theory she was already dead. If by some miracle she was still alive, sure as hell she knew about her cousin, and would do whatever she could to get her out. Ben didn't like to think about the possible ramifications of that.

The lingering uncertainty upped the burning beneath his sternum to an eight on a zero-to-ten pain scale. He put a hand there and pressed, hoping to ease it. Nothing seemed to help, least of all his Tums, which temporarily masked the heartburn episodes he'd been suffering more and more frequently. But heartburn was merely an irritating side effect of what was really going on with his digestive tract. His attempt to smother his worry and emotion behind a super-cool mask over the past few weeks was finally taking its toll by eating a hole through the lining of his stomach. That's what he got for trying to be like his Teflon-skinned brother.

Ben rubbed at his tired, burning eyes. Damn, he'd have killed for a smoke, but he didn't dare start that shit up again. He dug in his pocket for a stick of Big Red instead and popped it in his mouth. The burst of cinnamon on his tongue helped quiet his busy mind.

If Sam was out there somewhere, she must have known the U.S. State Department and the CIA were in contact with the team about the kidnapped Doctors Without Borders group. Because Luke had so many connections within the Agency and the Spec Ops world, anything to do with Tehrazzi put him in the thick of the intelligence and operations concerning him, so he'd been one of the first people alerted. After what their team had already been through, Ben couldn't wait for the chance to nail the terrorist's ass.

The office door opened and Rhys strode in, short black hair damp from a recent shower. They might not be identical, but with their similar builds and a few days’ growth of stubble on their faces, they looked more alike than ever.

Rhys came right over to the bank of computers and even though he was only two inches taller, somehow still managed to loom over him. Unyielding bastard couldn't even let him have the height advantage between them, Ben thought sourly.

His brother took a cursory glance at the illuminated screens. “Anything?”

“Nope. Nada.” The sick feeling in Ben's gut told him Sam was probably dead. The chances of her surviving this long on her own with terrorists on her tail were slim at best, and she was no field operative. The thought of her dying was bad enough, but the possible methods of her demise kept him awake at night. To keep from thinking about it, he turned his attention back to the monitors showing live feeds coming in from a team searching the streets of Baghdad for her.

“All we need is one lead,” he mused with a shake of his head. “One lousy piece of intel.”

Suddenly his cell phone beeped, signaling a text message was coming in. Fishing it from his belt, he flipped it open and froze. The message made his pulse spike. “Jesus, it's Sam.” Rhys came up behind him to look over his shoulder, remaining characteristically silent as he read it.

Need help. N hostage A-stan. S.

Sam was still alive. The incredible thought kept running through Ben's head. Where the hell was she? How did she know about her cousin if she'd cut contact with everything and everyone?

Unless she hadn't.

He ran through the possibilities. Maybe she
was
in contact with someone. Someone on the other side of this. He might be acting like a paranoid nut job, but he couldn't help that. Every Special Ops soldier had that trait. It's what kept a man alive in enemy territory when he only had a utility knife and his gut instinct to keep him that way.

“We don't know it's her sending it.”

Ben aimed a scowl at his brother. Damn, could Rhys be any less emotional? “We don't know it isn't, either.” And he was going to think positively until he found out otherwise.

“Just don't want you getting your hopes up.”

Too late.

Ben stared at the digital image of the photo attachment icon on the tiny screen for another second. Part of him dreaded seeing it. What other surprise did Sam have up her sleeve?
Ah, screw it.
He opened the picture file she'd attached. The breath hissed out between his teeth when it showed Neveah tied up and blindfolded, surrounded by armed militants.
Son of a bitch.
The kidnapping had been bad enough, but it enraged him that anyone would terrorize an innocent woman that way. They'd purposely sent it to Sam for maximum effect.

“Call it in to the boss,” Rhys said.

The rare note of urgency in his deep voice had Ben swinging his head around to look at him. Rhys was staring holes through the screen, his mouth so tight the edges of his lips were white.

Whoa. Seeing his twin display even that amount of emotion was a shock. Then Ben realized what it was about. Rhys knew Neveah, because he'd met her in Paris after an op he'd worked with Sam. Gauging Rhys’ dark expression, Ben had to assume she'd made enough of an impression on him that his brother wasn't able to stay completely detached from this.

As far as Ben knew, that was a first for Rhys. “They won't touch her,” he offered by way of consolation, lame as it was. “She's worth way more to them alive.”

Rhys pivoted around and headed for the door, shoulder and chest muscles straining the seams of his extra large, army-issue-brown t-shirt. “I'll get Davis.”

Ben let out a breath and turned his attention back to the screen. With her cousin in their custody, the kidnappers were going to squeeze Sam for whatever information they wanted from her. Unfortunately for her, she had a lot that might be of interest to them because of her close contact with Luke. “Where the hell are you, Sam?” he muttered, dialing Luke and shoving the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could keep typing. How had she received the photo before they did, unless the terrorists were in direct contact with her? Another dangerous possibility for him to worry about.

Ring number three droned in his ear.
Come on, answer
. He didn't hold out much hope that Luke would fill him in on anything else he knew. The guy was a living God in the Special Ops world, and tight as a fricking vault. Probably less than a handful of people really knew him, and fewer yet had his trust. Ben understood that part all too well. Aside from his brother, he didn't trust easily. Everyone else had to earn it. That went double for all these intelligence agents and operators. All of ‘em were professional liars to some degree.

As the phone rang for the fifth time, his fingers flew over the keyboard, typing in commands to trace the signal from Sam's phone. With any luck, they'd have a location to start a new search from. “Hey,” he said when Luke finally picked up. “We've got a situation.”

Basra, afternoon

After talking to Ben, Luke set his phone down on the lap table he'd pulled across his hospital bed. So, Sam might still be alive and wanting to talk. Her timing made him suspicious, but he wasn't going to leave her out there on her own for two reasons: One, she might get killed if he didn't bring her in, and two, right now she was the best means of tracking Tehrazzi.

They couldn't be sure she wasn't setting up a trap, of course. Tehrazzi could literally be holding a gun to her head, or he could have sent the message himself from her phone once he pried it from her cold, dead hands.

Since Ben was the one to receive the message, he was going to set up a meeting with her while the others provided surveillance and security. Once they confirmed she was alive and got her back into their custody, they could find out exactly what had happened the last week she'd been off the radar. For now, Luke had to get his ass up to Baghdad ASAP.

His phone went off, and he glanced at the call display. Davis, the best he'd ever found for counter-insurgency and intelligence gathering. He picked up. “Hey. You heard about Sam?”

“Yeah, but you gotta see this.”

Luke's guts clenched. He knew that flat tone, and braced himself for bad news. “See what?”

“Package came for you this morning with a video tape. Tehrazzi sent you some fan mail.”

A quick surge of something close to excitement raced through his veins. “What kind?”

“I'm sending you a video file right now.”

Luke hung up and a few minutes later opened up the file on his BlackBerry. He turned the volume up and waited while it loaded, his heart pumping hard in his chest. The clip started, showing a grainy film of Tehrazzi sitting cross-legged on a prayer mat in front of a green martyr's flag.

Luke sucked in a sharp breath and jerked upright so fast a blinding pain shot through his skull. The room seemed to sway a moment until he got his equilibrium back, and he had to swallow repeatedly to keep from throwing up.

Tehrazzi was wearing white robes.
The symbol of his intention to martyr himself.

Fighting back the waves of nausea, Luke listened to the soft, clear voice deliver the message in Arabic. An Islamic angel of death, calling to his minions.

“My name is Farouk Ahmed Tehrazzi. I am a soldier of Islam, a crusader against the invading American infidels and all who sully the name of Islam. The time has come for me to announce my intention to continue the jihad against our enemies. But now I commit myself to the higher purpose Allah has called me to. I am ready to sacrifice this life in the name of Holy war, and will embrace the glories of the afterlife without hesitation. Allah willing, we will rid the earth of the American people and their allies. I speak to those who have taught me. I pray that my sacrifice will please Him, and that He will reward our struggle here on earth.” The image faded to black.

I speak to those who have taught me...

Luke cursed as those words rang in his ears. This was about
him
. He'd trained Tehrazzi. From however Sam was actually involved, to her cousin's kidnapping— all of it was about Tehrazzi getting to him. “You son of a bitch,” he hissed, hands clenching into fists.

He hit the call button wound around the rail of his bed and systematically went to work taking out the IV stuck in the back of his hand. He was pulling the plastic catheter out of his vein when the nurse arrived and gasped at the sight of him.

“Mr. Hutchinson,” she began in a stern voice, rushing over to stop him.

Luke cut her off with a warning glare. “I need out of here.
Now.
”

Wide-eyed, the nurse shuffled back a step. “Al-all right,” she murmured. She went into a cupboard and handed him a bandage and some tape to stop his arm from bleeding.

Luke slapped a piece of tape over the cotton ball on the IV site, his mind racing. Tehrazzi wanted to play hardball? Fine.

Bring it on, you bastard. Bring it on. I'm more than fucking ready for you.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, and nearly landed face first on the linoleum. He threw out a hand to grab the side rail, fighting to stay on his feet as the room did a tilt-a-whirl around him. Dammit, he thought, pissed off at his body's weakness. He didn't have time for this.

A doctor stormed in. Luke squinted at the triplicate image of him, trying to focus on the one in the middle.

“Sir, you need to get back in that bed and stay there.”

He didn't dare risk shaking his head. “I'm leaving.”

“No, you're not.” The enraged doctor marched over and grabbed his upper arm.

Fighting down the sudden spike in his temper, Luke merely broke the hold instead of throwing him on the floor.

The doctor's expression turned wary.

“I. Am.
Leaving
.” He straightened, trying to look down his nose at him.

The doctor's lips compressed in displeasure. “If you leave, it will be against my medical opinion.”

“Fine with me.”

“You can't even stand up.”

The hell he couldn't. Luke let go of the railing, wobbled a bit, but managed to stay on his feet out of sheer force of will. He raised a taunting brow while his stomach did hula-hoops around his ass.
So there, you little puke.

The doctor glowered. “We still have to run more tests. If you push it too fast, you could end up with permanent brain damage.”

“Just get me the release forms.”

“Stop trying to be a hero. You're not going to be able to function.”

Luke narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck do you know about being a hero?” The doctor blanched, but he just kept on talking. “I needed to be in Baghdad six hours ago. The terrorists you see blowing up people all over the world? I'm this close to nailing one of their top commanders. Every second I sit here on my ass costs lives, so you need to let me the hell out of here. Right now.”