Thank you, Jesus, his in-county sources had been spot on. They’d told him which band of rebels Banks had most likely tangled with. And bingo, there she was, her highness Brianna Banks, the latest know-it-all from one of many twenty-four-seven, capitalist, propaganda machines to hit America’s big time. She was tripping along beside a dust-covered, rust-pitted older model Toyota pick-up, itself a DIY project, bristling with banners, armament, and enough rebels to void its shock absorbers warranty. If it still had one.
Most of these rebels were dressed in traditional baggy pants, ragged button-up shirts, vests, sashes, and leather boots. Nothing colorful. Everything dusty, dirty, and some shade of brown. Yet the entitled American woman among them wore a bright red scarf wrapped over her head and around her arrogant neck, making her a gawddamned target. Kee-rist! What did she think she was? Untouchable? Didn’t journalists understand a gawddamned thing about this country? Guess not.
Kruze fingered the focus wheel on his compact binoculars to bring her in closer, watching her walk that dusty road with her head held high and her nose in the air. Despite the too-big-for-her-face Jacki-O sunglasses propped on her nose, she screamed Made in the USA and proud of it. Not the smartest declaration in this war-torn region.
She was definitely under close guard. Two armed men followed behind her. When she slowed, bent over and rubbed her bare foot, one shoved the butt of his rifle into her back. Which, oddly, raised the hackles between Kruze’s shoulder blades into dinosaur stegosaurus plates.
When she fell to her knees, those plates stiffened more. Even high on the hillside like he was, he could hear the ugliness in their voices. He didn’t know their language, but he knew by the tone that they were mocking her. Calling her vile names behind her back.
His harsh opinion of the American woman changed—a little. She was still an arrogant piece of entitled ass, and for sure, she had no business being in this war-torn part of the country. Her ignorance had put her life—and now his—at risk. Damn the mentality that made foolish, entitled American princesses like her.
A single glint created a tiny prism inside the outer ring of his binocs' lens. Kruze shifted his view to the opposite side of the canyon. Well, what do you know. A robed man stood across from Kruze’s position, the long rifle in his hands also aimed at the caravan below. The guy was probably after the reward on Banks’ head, a lucrative offer in any part of the world, but especially here. Whoever he was, he’d be everyone’s best friend by nightfall—if he made the shot, and if he could prove he and he alone had killed the American journalist. Which meant he’d be after some kind of trophy. That red scarf would do. Or her head…
“Shit,” Kruze hissed. He flattened to his ledge, needing to stay the course, save the girl, do his hero thing, then get the hell out of there.
He had two choices. Plan A: Shoot the assassin before he got a shot off and killed Princess Banks, or fire into the caravan to create a distraction. But even if those worked, there was no guarantee Banks would take advantage of it and run for her life, or that she’d get away if she did. These mountain people weren’t stupid. The lived on what they hunted, for hell’s sake. They’d run her down in no time, might even beat her for causing trouble.
Steadying his rifle scope across the canyon, Kruze opted for the direct approach: Shoot the motherfucker. One round ought to create enough distraction to separate Banks from her marching buddies. Getting down this side of the canyon in time to rescue her would take a couple minutes, though. She might not have that kind of time.
Plan B it was. Instead of taking out the assassin first, he called out to the men below, pointed to where the assassin now hunkered down, and yelled, “Turkish Army! Hadi! Hadi!” Which he hoped meant hurry, hurry.
That put a wrinkle in things. The brave assholes below scattered and took up defensive positions. The assassin ducked down and recalculated. Kruze grabbed the opportunity is distraction provided, clutched his rifle over his head, and slid down the nearly vertical face of his side of the canyon. A loud cry went up below, but no one fired at him. That was nice.
He landed boots first, then pointed up at the precise lookout of the assassin, and yelled, “Shooter!” His Turkish wasn’t good; his Kurdish and Farsi weren’t much better. But most Kurds knew enough English to understand what he was trying to help them. They reacted as any targeted gang would. The assassin got one more shot off, but it went wild, as every rebel soldier in that convoy peppered his location with enough lead that they knocked a small landslide loose.
Kruze took advantage of the fog of war. In three quick steps, he grabbed the flustered American woman by her hand, ripped that stupid red scarf off her head, tossed it to the dirt, threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold, and ran in the opposite direction.
“What? Wait. No, stop! I can’t leave.” She wanted to argue? Now?
“Shut the hell up. I’m here to save your stupid ass. Stop kicking!”
He didn’t plan to go far, just needed to get to the last vehicle in this roughneck convoy before that rockslide buried them all alive. While the rebels were busy being heroes, Kruze hurried to get Banks out of sight. Once they noticed she was missing, they’d come unglued. But they’d also expect her to run in the opposite direction. Kruze didn’t plan on being that kind of stupid. He tossed Banks to the ground beside the last vehicle, a square-fender
