Unexpected Oasis (13 page)

The minutes continue to creak by, with only the wind as a soundtrack to my beating heart. I'm growing more anxious with every tick of my inner clock. What's going on out there? What were the gunshots about? Where the hell is Trey? God, I hope he's okay.

I can barely stand it. Half of me wants to try and find Trey and the other half wants to crawl under the covers and hide from the bogeymen outside.

Low voices join the chorus of wind, creaking metal, and my rapidly beating heart. I can only assume it's whoever fired the shots, or whoever the shots were directed at. I can't tell how far away they are, but I'd guess thirty, maybe forty feet from where I'm standing. Their voices grow louder, but I don't think they're actually getting closer. I think they're arguing. Something about the rise and fall of the pitch. It's hard to say for sure since I don't speak a word of Urdu, or Arabic, or Pashto, or any of the number of languages they might be speaking.

From the number of different voices, I think there are at least three of them. Hopefully there aren't a dozen more that just happen to be quiet types. For Trey's
and
my sake…

And God, the cooks. Kaihan and his men. The maintenance crew…

The sound of metal twisting and breaking makes me jump.

It's close. Maybe even the container next to mine. My hearts jumps into "holy fuck" mode, especially when the sound repeats. Are they kicking in doors? 'Cause that's sure what it sounds like. They must be going through the containers and it's only a matter of seconds before they get to mine.

I have to hide. Like, five minutes ago.

For a brief moment, I figure I can just duck under the bed. They'll break into the room, steal whatever they want and then leave. All the other canisters have been empty; there's no reason they'd think mine would be any different.

A quick scan of the room tells me I'm a fool for thinking that. Not only is "under the bed" impossible, but my bag lays in a heap on the floor, a mess of tangled covers are twisted on the mattresses, and my steel-toe boots stand watch by the door like useless soldiers.

A string of silent curses run through my mind. I should have been removing evidence of my existence instead of standing here by the window like an idiot. Unfortunately, there isn't a Goddamn thing I can do about it now.

I have to hide. Now.

I decide the bathroom is my best bet. Not only can I lock the door—not that it'll do much good considering the door is basically made of paper—and hopefully give Trey time to come to my rescue, but I can shoot intruders as they enter.

It's a grim thought but I can't waste time dwelling on it. I close the bathroom door just as the front door busts open.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
here's no time to turn the lock. I'm afraid if I try now they'll hear me. They continue talking in unrestrained voices, obviously not caring whether they're overheard or not. The shot earlier must've been directed at Charlie, otherwise they might be concerned about security.

Since the shoot-out, I haven't heard any more gunshots, so I have to assume Trey is still out there, unharmed. It's the only thing that keeps me from dropping into panic overload as the voices get closer.

News stories of past hostage accounts flash through my head. Kidnappings that rarely end well. I force the image of a public beheading out of my mind.

Trey will come. Trey will come. Oh God, please hurry.

I don't have time to chide myself for my stupidity because the intruders are feet away. I still my entire body, begging my heart to be quiet. My chest is so tight, my breath comes in with stacato hesitancy. Afraid even that noise will alert them to my presence, I trap the air in my lungs.

Trey isn't coming. I don't know what happened, but he's not coming. I'm going to have to kill a man, or two, or three.

Swallowing, I ease the trapped air from my lungs and take a deep, silent breath. I tighten my grip on my gun. I can do this. I've killed before. It was a deer, and I can't guarantee it was my shot or my grandpa's that struck the fatal wound, but I shot at the deer, it died, and I helped clean the carcass. Surely I can kill a man threatening my existence.

The voices are right outside the door. I press my lips together. The handle jiggles. Here goes…

A gunshot sounds in the distance and the intruders shout in alarm. Another shot, and then another. Heavy footsteps thump away from the bathroom door and I hear the outside door slam against the container wall.

The voices and footsteps drift off into the distance. I swear I listen to the following silence for a good minute or two before I resume normal breathing, and then a couple more before I dare move.

Carefully, I press my ear to the door and listen. Nothing. Only the sound of the front door banging against the container as sporadic gusts of wind slam it into the wall. I still give it another minute before I touch the door handle, and even then it takes me a few moments before I have the courage to actually push the door aside…slowly. Painfully slowly.

It jerks out of my grasp and I see the barrel of a gun pointed directly at my face. My own gun is uselessly held off to the side. Unless I want to shoot the bathroom mirror, it isn't going to do much good where it's pointed.

I open my mouth to scream, or call out, or grunt—I have no idea— but a huge hand clamps over my mouth. The gun barrel drops. "Easy, Andrea, it's me."

"Oh!" My entire body relaxes and I slump against Trey's chest.

He pats my shoulder tentatively. "Thank God you're all right. I should have never left you alone."

All I can do is nod. I wish he hadn't left me alone either. But that's completely my fault.

"We need to get out of here. My phone is out for the count, but there are extra satellite phones in the security center. We can call for backup. The wind has cleared the dust considerably so hopefully they'll be able to send a chopper. Grab what you need, especially any important documents, but nothing unecessary. And hurry."

I obey, grabbing my bag and shoving the loose clothing into it only so I can zip it. A quick retrieval of my work documents casually sitting on the nightstand in the pouch meant to be worn around my neck—for safe keeping and all—a shove of my feet into my boots and I'm ready. Sort of.

I present myself to him.

"Here." One of those monstrous bulletproof vests drapes over his shoulder. He grabs it and places it over my head and onto my shoulders. My knees give under the weight. I tighten every muscle in my lower body to resist.

"This shouldn't be going down like this," he says as he tightens the side laces. "You shouldn't be in this kind of danger."

"I trust you. I know we'll be fine."

He nods, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment before he pulls away and heads for the door. I stay at his heels as we creep from the trailer and ease our way through the darkness.

There are so many questions buzzing through my brain. What were the gunshots about? Is Charlie dead? What about the others at camp? Are they injured, dead, hiding? And who are the intruders exactly: militant rebels, religious zealots, disgruntled sheep herders? So many questions and no way to get answers.

Focusing on Trey's huge back helps keep me from completely freaking out. He moves with such power, such focus. Every step he takes with his size fourteens is laden with confidence, and he buzzes with energy. The gun in his hands, a large automatic number, is like an extension of his body, and he carries it like an old friend. He doesn't seem the least bit nervous, why should I be?

I'm shocked by how much the dust has cleared in such a short time. At the same time I feel vulnerable, exposed. Right now, I'd love nothing more than a murky layer of dirt to hide us from our enemies.

There's still an eerie quiet shrouding the camp, broken only by the wind as it rattles through aisles made by vacant containers. No sound of other life, nothing. So when we round the corner and an alarm of foreign voices ring out, my heart nearly explodes.

I get a flash of three men, all heavily armed, standing in front of us, before Trey shoves me behind him. I recognize one as the
guard
from outside the fence.

The intruders continue to yell and Trey replies in their native tongue, his deep voice authorative yet urgent. The muscles in his back tense as he shifts his gun. Pivoting, he makes a sweep with his gun. I'm guessing he's directing the barrel at each man in turn. I don't know for sure since all I can see is the broad expanse of his back.

He repeats the phrase, more assertively this time. One of the intruders responds, sounding just as assertive. Whatever's being said, no one sounds like they're backing down. I wish I could see what's going on, but Trey is very deliberately blocking my view and very slowly backing up, inching us toward the edge of the container.

More urgent, tense sounding words are exchanged. I can only assume they're words like, "Drop
your weapon!" or "Stand-down!" Trey makes a jerking, threatening gesture as he utters another aggressive phrase. When he spoke it a few days ago to Kaihan and the crew, I thought Urdu sounded beautiful and exotic. Now it just sounds angry and violent.

The building edge is getting closer and closer and I prepare to dive for it. My heart thunders wildly in my chest. I'm not even sure my legs are going to respond when I command them to jump, or if I'm going to leap over the building wit
h my super strength, adrenaline-fueled muscles. And I have no idea what happens after I dive for cover, but I know getting us away from the outnumbered standoff is Trey's goal and I'm not about to let him down.

His back is even with the corner of the container and with the slightest turn of his head he whispers, "Go."

I suddenly have this huge fear he's going to be shot and if I wasn't such a coward I could have helped him take out the intruders. After all, I have a gun. I used to be a decent shot. Yet here I am, cowering behind him like some, well, coward.

But I remember he shoved me behind him and I don't have delusions of heroic grandeur, so I leap aside and behind the building. My spaghetti legs don't fail me. I'm so amped up I end up making a track and field long jump and fall to my knees.

The moment I'm behind the building and protected from enemy fire, a round of shots ring out. They sound like they're being shot right in my skull and my hands instinctually fly to cover my ears as I turn to see what's happening.

Clutching his gun to his chest, Trey's back hits the wall. More shots are fired—from less guns this time, but definitely not from Trey's. He glances briefly at me and then inches the barrel of his gun around the corner of the building, following slowly with his body. His eyes look eager, excited, and I'd bet money he's enjoying this.

The gun fires, shattering what's left of my eardrums and as he jerks back behind the building for cover, I hear a single voice cry out. More shots ring out from what sounds like a single gun this time.

Unsure what I should do or how I can help, I watch him exchange shots with the intruder(s) for a few moments. It feels like I'm watching a shoot-'em-up action movie from the front row, with 3D glasses. I'm not crazy about my role as damsel in distress, but I'm not sure what else I can be. I guess middle-aged woman in distress would be a better descriptor since my damsel days are long behind me. I do, however, happen to be quite distressed.

The hairs on my neck suddenly pop to attention and my skin jumps alive with electricity-like tingles, nagging me to turn around. I do just as one of the intruders emerges from behind the other side of the building. My gun instinctually flies up and I manage to get a shot off, though it feels like someone else is in control. I have zero recollection of my brain making any commands.

It sounds like there's an echo to my shot. My would-be assailant flies forward, blood bursting through his chest. I know immediately it wasn't my shot that took him down or he would have fallen backward. More shots ring out behind me.

And suddenly it is silent.

Standing at least a hundred feet from where I'm kneeling is Kaihan, a gun gripped tightly in his hands.

God, I could have hit him in my failed attempt to shoot the enemy. This is exactly why untrained people shouldn't have guns, why I shouldn't have a gun. I click on the safety.

Trey turns me to face him. I fall into his chest and he embraces me briefly before gripping my shoulders and holding me at arm's length. His eyes cover me from head to knee.

"Are you okay?"

I nod, adrenaline making the movement jerky and irregular.

"Everything is going to be fine now," he says.

I want to believe him, but there's this nagger in my brain reminding me dozens of enemies could easily be lurking in the darkness, maybe even drawn here by the gunfire. I decide to believe him anyway.

Kaihan joins us and the men shake hands. "Thank you," Trey says before rattling off a bunch of stuff in Urdu. It's obviously a conversation not meant for my ears. I'd be lying if I said it isn't just a little irritating, but when their faces fall from serious to grave, I quickly decide I'm not sure I want to know what they're discussing after all.

And then the conversation is over and they're shaking hands again. Kaihan glances at me and smiles sadly. My first thought is,
Uh-oh, I'm not wearing my headscarf
. And then realize how ridiculous that is. I continue to stare at him, though I'm not sure why. He just looks so sad. I'm suddenly very worried for him.

With gentle hands, Trey turns me around and begins guiding me away at a rapid pace. "We still need to get to the phone," he explains.

I nod, feeling like I'm in a trance. Even the crumpled bodies of the intruders, large red stains soaking their clothing, don't seem real as we pass them.

But I know they are.

"Shouldn't we do something about the bodies?" I ask, my voice strangely quiet.

Trey doesn't slow, in fact, I think he kicks it up a notch. "Kaihan will take care of it."

"Oh."

He's moving so fast now that I'm jogging to keep up. We cross the open expanse between the living quarters and the security building. I feel vulnerable and oddly exposed, even though Trey's massive body is wrapped around me like a shield.

After unlocking the door and performing a quick scan of the small building, he pulls me inside, dead bolting the door behind him.

The room is filled with high-tech looking gadgets. I recognize some of them—the video surveillance equipment and satellite phones sitting on chargers, but that's about it. The rest looks like it belongs in a sci-fi movie.

Trey is busily taking inventory of the room. With rapid, decisive strides, he turns on all of the surveillance monitors. Grainy, greenish tinted images of our camp flash on the screens. The last one he turns on shows the legs of one of the fallen intruders. In the corner of the screen there is a little movement. For a brief moment I'm afraid it's more of the enemy, but then Kaihan's face flashes briefly into view.

"Is he going to be in any danger?" I ask as Trey picks up one of the phones and powers it up.

"Who?"

"Kaihan. Won't they retaliate against him for helping us? For killing that man?"

"Possibly but probably not. Not once Hughes & Ralston pays the blood money."

"Blood money?"

The phone is still loading, searching for satellites no doubt. "Tribal custom," he explains, not looking my direction. He's studying the surveillance screens. "A form of punishment for murder, whether the killing was justified or not."

"And they'll pay it?" Astounded begins to describe my reaction.

Finally he turns to me. "They have every time before."

I suddenly feel sick. "Every time…before? How many people have been killed on these jobs?"

"I only know of a few."