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“In!” The gunmen shouted again, waved the rifle toward the Jeep and this time he shot at the ground in front of them.
Gabby screamed and James, his face twisted in terror, jumped into the back. Gabby was shaking so hard she had to try twice to get a good enough grip to pull herself into the Jeep. But Mr. Van Horton didn’t follow.
“Speak English?” He addressed one of the gunmen. “I have money. No need to take us. I can—”
With an expression of pure hatred, the thug bashed Mr. Van Horton in the head this time and he collapsed to the ground. The men picked him up and threw him into the back of the Jeep, got in the front and sped off.
Blood gushed from Mr. V’s head. So much blood. She shrugged out of her suit coat and tore it into a makeshift compress. “James, hold this while I take off his tie.”
“What?” He was shaking uncontrollably.
“We’ve got to stop the bleeding. Keep pressure on the wound.”
James just stared at her.
With a tsk of exasperation, she reached over and placed his hand on the bandage. “Press hard.” Then she loosened Mr. V’s tie and used it to hold the compress.
She kept a close eye on Mr. V as they bumped along in the rusty Jeep. It seemed like hours as they climbed into the mountains. Even if she’d wanted to jump out, the kidnappers kept a gun trained on them. And she couldn’t leave Mr. V, who still hadn’t woken up.
The heat was relentless until they entered the shade of the jungle, and even then, the humidity pressed in on them. By the time they came to a stop, Gabby was soaked in sweat, she was dying of thirst and she really had to relieve herself. But all of that ceased to matter as they dragged her, James and Mr. V into a hut in the middle of nowhere and tied them up.
Somewhere along the way James had become catatonic. Mr. V still hadn’t regained consciousness. And she wasn’t sure any of them were going to get out of this alive.
* * *
“YOU READY?” L.T., Clay’s lieutenant, asked in a low voice.
Petty Officer Clay Bellamy gave L.T. the thumbs-up, and then waited for the signal to go.
L.T. radioed to Main that they were going in, asking for confirmation on the extract location.
Clay’s SEAL team had parachuted into the mountains of Paraguay last night, landed in a clearing, then traveled for miles on foot through a dense jungle to set up position half a click from the target. Their mission: personnel recovery. Three United States civilians held by unknown assailants.
Intel was sketchy but they didn’t think this was the work of the local cartel. The Americans were bankers, and the international bank they worked for had received a ransom demand via Twitter two days ago. Which, hopefully, meant the civvies were still alive. But hostages were rarely left alive after a ransom was paid. And just because this might not be a cartel didn’t mean that the kidnappers weren’t armed to the teeth.
Clay’s lieutenant squeezed his shoulder and Clay rose from his squat and sprinted toward the back of the dilapidated hut, staying low.
L.T. maintained his position hidden in the foliage to communicate with Main, while Bull—positioned at nine o’clock—kept his silenced M40 trained on the two guards by the door of the hut.
Clay gave the signal that his team was in position. Through his scope, Bull shot both guards. Doughboy and Chipper sped around the corner and caught them as they fell to prevent the thump of dropping bodies from alerting anyone inside. Clay grabbed the guards’ phones and guns, and then gave the signal for a hard entry.
They burst through the door and Chipper shot the guy sitting at a table just as he aimed his gun.
Spreading out, they checked the other two rooms, calling out “clear” as each was found empty. Damn. The hostages weren’t here. And where were the rest of the kidnappers? They weren’t hiding outside. His team had been watching the area for hours before dawn and would’ve spotted them.
If he’d had any, the hair on Clay’s neck would’ve stood up. “Cover me,” he ordered Doughboy and Chipper, then, staying low, ran outside to what he’d assumed was a well. Basically, a two-foot-high wall of adobe surrounding a man-made hole in the ground. But now he realized what seemed off about it.
As a kid, one of his summer jobs had been cutting grass for all the neighbors and church folks. One old man—a buddy of his stepfather’s—had a well on his property with a similar structure aboveground except it had been made of stones. But it had been built next to a tree and had a long rope tied around the trunk with a pail attached to the other end.
This well had no rope. No pail.
As he drew closer, Clay leaned over the adobe structure and called down into the well. “US Navy. Anybody down there?”
Silence.
He cursed under his breath and turned to head back to the hut.
Then, a faint call from below. “We’re here.”
It was a female voice, hoarse from dehydration no doubt, but...alive. Yes! He spun back. “How many?” He grabbed his flashlight and shone it down into the hole.
Clay could barely make out a pair of arms moving as they covered a face.
“Two,” the female called.
“Can you tell me your names?” The rule was to first verify all captives.
“Gabriella Diaz and James Pender.”
Identities confirmed, Clay called it in to L.T. then shouted into the well again. “Anyone need medical attention?”
The woman called up, “We’re okay. But Mr. Van Horton isn’t here. He was hurt. Do you have him?”
The woman sounded pretty calm considering what she must’ve gone through. Van Horton. Wounded and missing. Not good. “We’ll get you out. Hold on.”
“Don’t leave us! You’ve got to get us out of here!” a man cried. Clay shifted the beam of light onto the other, paler hostage.
“I’m going to throw down a rope. Tie it under your arms and I’ll pull you up one at a time.”
Clay signaled the team. “One still missing. Search the area.” Doughboy, Chipper and the rest fanned out, heading into the surrounding foliage. Clay leaned his M4 against the adobe wall, took off his pack and pulled out his length of nylon rope. With nothing else nearby to secure it to, he tied it around his waist and then tossed it down, hoping it would be long enough.
“Me first. I have to go first!” Clay heard the man in the well whine.
“There’s a body partially buried out here,” Chipper’s voice sounded in Clay’s earbud. “Caucasian. I think it’s one of the hostages.”
The rope jerked and Clay braced his feet against the adobe, leaned back and pulled the rope hand over hand until a tall, thin, mud-caked man appeared above the edge. His face was streaked with tear tracks as he scrabbled out and clung to Clay, sobbing.
Clay finally had to force him to let go and relinquish the rope. What kind of coward didn’t let a woman go first?
Disgusted, Clay tossed the rope back down into the well. “Now you, ma’am.”
Within a minute the rope tugged and Clay easily lifted the rope until a heart-shaped face appeared above the rim. Her long dark curls were a mass of tangles and her large, dark brown eyes seemed to gaze at him in disbelief. Her wide mouth trembled, though he could see she was trying to keep her lips clamped tightly together. As he pulled her up and over the edge, she landed on her feet, but her knees buckled beneath her. He caught her around the waist and she clung to his shoulders. “Sorry. I...”
“No worries. We’ll have you home safe in no time.”
“What about Mr. Van Hort—”
Shots fired to Clay’s right and he dropped to the dirt, taking the woman with him and covering her. The man screamed and sobbed louder, cowering next to him.
“Stay here, stay down.” A spray of bullets fired as Clay grabbed his M-4 and peeked over the well wall.
In his ear, L.T. was barking orders. “Q.R. coming in at one click to the south. Secure the targets and get out.”
Damn. Quick response. The kidnappers weren’t going to make this easy.
“Chipper’s down!” Doughboy yelled into his earbud.
Shorty came hightailing it into the clearing, shooting behind him. His left arm was bleeding. Clay covered him, firing multiple rounds in the direction of the flying bullets.
As Shorty slid behind the well wall, the male hostage clutched at him. “You gotta get me out of here!”
The woman crawled over and put her arm around the guy, murmuring soothing words into his ear. Clay had to admit he wasn’t sure he could’ve stayed that calm in her place.
L.T. barked more orders as all hell broke loose. “Our position’s compromised. Go to secondary extract!”
Clay signaled to Shorty that he would lay cover while Shorty got the two hostages out. Clay was going back for Doughboy and Chipper.
Rising from his crouch, he laid down fire while Shorty grabbed the two hostages and ran for L.T.’s position. But the woman stumbled—or the male hostage shoved her as he clung to Shorty, and the fire was too heavy for Shorty to go back for her. Calling out every curse word he knew, Clay raced over and covered her with his body while firing into the foliage.
“I’ve got Chipper. Headed for secondary extract,” Doughboy called through Clay’s earbud.
One less thing to worry about. Clay scooped up the female around the waist and ran toward the exit route, but the kidnappers’ truck came barreling through the brush straight for them. Taking a sharp left, Clay darted into dense undergrowth, heading for the fallback exit he’d scoped out last night. He pulled a flash-bang from his belt and pitched it behind them. Hopefully, that would slow their pursuers down.
Heedless of near impenetrable vines and shrubs, he fought through the jungle growth to put as much distance between them and the abductors as he could manage.
Gunshots popped in the distance, the sound of the trucks’ engine grew fainter. The woman was keeping up on her own, so he dropped his arm and grabbed her hand instead, slowing a bit. “Follow me and stay close.” From the corner of his eye he saw her nod.
Hoping the pace wasn’t too much for her, he trudged farther and farther into thickening vegetation, using his M-4 to hack plants out of the way. By the time he determined gunshots had stopped and no one was following them, he was puffing out deep breaths and his camo was soaked with sweat.
He came to a halt and crouched down, and the woman crouched with him. Wiping his face on his sleeve, he tried to assess the situation. They were cut off from the rest of the team. No way they would make it to the secondary extract. Not in time. Before his team got too far out of range, he radioed L.T., confirmed their position and instructed him to send a helo to the emergency extract.
The petite woman was staring at him expectantly, but not questioning him. Her faith in his ability to get her out seemed solid. He just hoped he could prove her right.
Because they were going to have to spend the night in this jungle.
2 (#ulink_09177371-3885-5685-92c4-7ee8c5e0fddf)
A SEARING PAIN burned across Gabby’s back. She hadn’t noticed it until this moment. The adrenaline that had seen her through the escape had vanished. But she was alive.
“We need to keep moving.” Her rescuer straightened and extended a hand to help her up.
But Gabby couldn’t move. She sank to her hands and knees on the wet jungle floor, shaking uncontrollably. She was paralyzed. Not with fear, or even shock. It was just...overwhelming emotion. She was alive! She was out of that disgusting hole. She was going home!
But... Mr. V. She hadn’t seen him since the kidnappers had dropped her and James into that well. What if he was dead? All her bravado collapsed and she burst into tears. She couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop crying.
Vaguely she heard her rescuer curse and she tried to stifle the sobs. “I’m sorry.”
“No, ma’am, don’t you apologize.” For the first time, she noticed his heavy Southern drawl. Maybe Georgia or South Carolina? But not Texas. Her own Texan twang had been remarked upon by her Northern coworkers, but this man’s accent had a softer, slower cadence. Thinking about something trivial like that helped stifle her embarrassing outburst. She sniffed and before she could wipe her nose on her sleeve, he placed a large, thick green camo bandanna in her hand.
“Thank you.” She cleaned her face with the bandanna, inhaling the clean, crisp laundry scent. She breathed it in and felt calmer.
The hulking soldier snapped off his helmet and crouched beside her. “Hey.” He cupped her shoulder. “You’re doing good. Don’t worry. I’m going to get you out of here.”
His eyes. They were a soft brown, so full of reassurance and concern, so incongruous with the frightening dark-green-and-black face paint and the grim set of his mouth.
“What about Mr. Van Horton? And James?” James’s terror had never subsided. Inside the well it had gotten worse. Gabby had tried to comfort him as best she could, but he’d grown steadily less stable as the hours passed. “They’re going to make it home, too, right?”
He nodded. “Mr. Pender is on his way to the American embassy.”
“And Mr. V?”
The soldier hesitated.
Oh no. Gabby could feel her eyes sting with more tears. Mr. V was dead? She’d never known anyone who’d been murdered before. She’d tried to nurse him as best she could, asking their captors for water and medicine for his fever, but Mr. V had never regained consciousness.
“Can you get up?” The soldier slid a strong arm around her waist and she cried out.
He yanked it back, blood smeared on his palm. “What the—” He looked at his hand. “You’re bleeding? You were hit?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice shook. She twisted to try to see and whimpered at the stab of pain.
The soldier spat out a curse word, dropped his helmet and backpack, then dug inside the pack and pulled out a first aid kit.
She’d been shot? She could feel panic rise up and choke her. She’d survived two days with homicidal kidnappers only to be shot? What if she bled to death? Mr. V was dead and now her. What if this soldier couldn’t get the bullet out, or it was lodged in her spine or—
“Take off your shirt.”
Gabby froze and blinked at him, but he wasn’t even looking at her. He was busy pulling out a pack of wet wipes, a tube of ointment and a roll of gauze.
A wild urge to laugh bubbled up. She must be in shock. Of course the GI didn’t mean anything sexual by his demand, but this wasn’t exactly how she’d pictured herself undressing for a guy for the first time. Well, she wasn’t panicked anymore.
“Ms. Diaz? I need to see to your injury.”
“Yes. Okay.” She turned away from him, forcing her fingers to undo the buttons on her formerly white silk blouse.
He helped her lower it off her shoulders and down her arms, then she felt gentle fingers wiping something cold across the middle of her back. It stung and she tensed. There was sharp surface pain, but she didn’t feel anything internal. That had to be good, right? “Is it...?”
“Just a graze. You’ll be fine. I’m applying a topical antibiotic.”
Just a graze. She breathed out a relieved and grateful breath.
She felt him smear some ointment on and then heard ripping paper as he pressed a bandage to her back and began winding the roll of gauze around her. His arms wrapped around her waist and his whiskered jaw grazed her cheek. He froze, the sides of his hands touching her rib cage. She sucked in and then realized that only lifted her breasts higher. He had an up close and personal view of the cleavage above her bra.
She turned her head to look at him and their gazes met.
His lips were parted and she could see that they weren’t as harsh as they’d looked before. They were sensual and—they flattened as he sat back on his heels and continued wrapping the gauze around her. But when he returned to her front he very carefully kept his arms at a distance. And his gaze averted.
What would it be like to kiss those lips? What if...
