The Americans were leaving.
There was a buzzing in her brain, her pulse pounding so hard it all but drowned out the sound of the helicopters, that nameless fear gathering momentum, rushing against her like a wave, the terror in her mind coalescing into a single, heart-stopping thought.
“Shut your mouth, or I will cut out your tongue!”
Strong hands shoved her toward the house, making her stumble. She looked back, saw the tall man watching them, and she realized he was waiting to board the helicopter until the others were safely back inside. Then he, too, would disappear up that ramp.
As the women reached the door, he took two steps back, then turned away from them, speaking words she couldn’t hear into his microphone.
The Americans were leaving—without her.
Dizzy with terror, she jerked away from the other women. “Wait! I’m an American, too!”
But her words were blown away by the roar of the helicopter’s rotors.
Javier caught the words over the drone of the helos, but it took them a moment to register. Had that come from beneath one of the burkas?
“Senior chief, watch out! You got one running up behind you!” Ross ran down the ramp, dropped to one knee, aimed his weapon.
Javier pivoted, weapon ready, and saw the tallest of the women running toward him, the red dot from Ross’s laser sight dancing on her covered forehead.
“Hold your fire!” Javier aimed his M4 at her. “Stop! Get down!”
But she had already fallen to her knees, turquoise blue cloth billowing around her, her breath coming in terrified sobs. She cried out again, her accent American. “H-help me! I’m . . . I’m an American, too!”
He started toward her, just as one of the other women broke out of the group, this one holding a knife in her hand. She shouted something in Arabic and ran not toward Javier, but toward the woman on the ground, her intent clear.
Without hesitation, Javier raised his M4 and dropped her with a double tap, her knife falling to the dirt.
The other women, now clustered together in the doorway, screamed.
JG’s voice sounded in his ear. “Senior chief, what the hell’s going on?”
“I think we’ve got a hostage.” He strode quickly to the terrified woman, grabbed a fistful of blue burka, and ripped it aside, exposing her completely.
For a moment all he could do was stare, his gaze taking in the tears and bruises on her cheeks, her swollen lip and thin face, her threadbare nightgown, the shock and terror in her eyes.
And then his training kicked in. “This is now an AMCIT recovery. I say again: This is now an AMCIT recovery. Do you copy?”
Ross and Zimmerman ran down the helo’s ramp and took up defensive positions, ready to take out anyone who threatened Javier or Laura.
“We hear you lima charlie, senior chief,” the Boss answered from the third helo several hundred feet in the air above them. “Get her, and let’s go. We’ve got enemy QRF pushing our position from the east. You need to get airborne
The second Chinook was already nosing its way downwind. Slow and cumbersome at liftoff, the helos made great targets for the Soviet-era RPGs that AQ combatants loved to fire at them. If the pilots couldn’t get them in the air and up to speed before the enemy got within firing range . . .
“Roger that.” Knowing the others were covering for him, Javier clipped his M4 into his tactical sling, lifted Laura into his arms, and turned toward the last helo, covering the ground in long, fast strides. Without a glance back, he ran up the ramp and settled Laura into his jump seat, Ross and Zimmerman pounding up the ramp behind him.
“All boots on board!” Zimmerman shouted.
“Ramp!”
“Ramp!” The shout was repeated as the cargo ramp was raised.
The helo rotors accelerated, seconds ticking by like hours as the big bird slowly left the ground, heading into the wind, the pilot fighting for translational lift. Javier listened as the pilot relayed their altitude, enemy QRF drawing ever closer.
A shell exploded not far from the helo’s tail, its blast wave making the helo lurch and drawing a gasp from Laura. Javier put a gloved hand on her shoulder, hoping to reassure her. “Sit tight.”
The seconds ticked by, punctuated by two more explosions, each of them more distant than the last as the helo gained speed. Then came the deep rumble as JG detonated the explosives in the caves.
“We did it, senior chief!” Krasinski pointed at Javier. “Cobra strikes again!”
“We’re not done with the mission till we get back to home plate, Krasinski.” Heart beating hard, Javier leaned back against the webbing that lined the helo, grabbed it for balance, catching his breath, ratcheting down on the adrenaline, taking stock of his men, of the situation. Reeves had caught a round in the shoulder. Wilson, the platoon medic, had already treated it. Reeves would need surgery and PT, but he’d be fine. Apart from a few bruises and scrapes, no one else was wounded. Al-Nassar was battered but alive, his laptops, cell phones, disks, and drives bagged and tagged.
Delta Platoon had done what they’d been tasked to do on this mission—and they’d come away with something extra.
He let his gaze drop to Laura, felt a tangled rush of relief and rage. Clearly in shock, she sat there shivering in a white cotton nightgown that left little to the imagination, her face downcast, her long hair tangled. She was rail thin and pale, as if she had recently been ill or hadn’t eaten a good meal in months. There were fresh bruises on her face and her arms, proof that the other women had tried to restrain her.
All this time—eighteen goddamned months—she’d been here
Al-Nassar’s group had claimed they’d executed her. They’d lied. Why?
He glanced at Al-Nassar, whose gaze was fixed on her, hatred mingling with something predatory in his eyes.
Lust.
The asshole had wanted her, had used her, had hurt her.
Cocksucker.
Like some trapped wild thing, Laura looked around at the helo full of men, her vulnerability tearing at Javier. He drew a blanket out of the webbing and wrapped it around her shoulders.
She hugged the blanket tightly around herself and looked up at him as if she weren’t quite certain he was real. “Th-thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He’d never told her he was a SEAL, and he was certain she didn’t recognize him beneath the uniform and camo face paint.
One by one, Javier’s men acknowledged her with polite nods.
“Ma’am.”
“We’re happy to have you on board, ma’am.”
“Welcome back, Ms. Nilsson.”
Then Al-Nassar began to speak, muttering something to her.
Her pale face went a shade whiter, fear in her wide eyes.
And something inside Javier snapped.
