When the thunder ceased, so did the shooting. Smaller rocks continued to rain down on the convoy. Kruze guessed the rag-tag army was hiding under the rest of the vehicles if they were smart. At last, the rockslide slowed to a trickle of bangs, thuds, and hisses, then stopped.
With his entire body still wrapped protectively around Banks, Kruze cocked his head to better hear what was going on beyond what had proven to be the perfect hiding place. More yelling. More bellowing. But the noises sounded crazy-happy instead of pissed, angry, or hurt. A roar went up and shooting recommenced—until some guy with voice, as deep as that growling landslide, started singing a somber, respectful song. The yelling and shooting ceased as quickly as it had begin. Given the diversity of dialects, Kruze didn’t understand everything word being sung, just ‘Pesnê,’ their word for praise.
Well, I’ll be damned. They’d killed the assassin, and now, these simple mountain people, as rude and cruel as they could be, were praising Allah. The reverent song lasted for all of five minutes. Once it ended, the rebels circled the massive rock that could’ve crushed Kruze and Banks to death.
“I’m scared,” Mizz Brianna Banks whispered, her breath a soft warm feather that didn’t feel half bad when she huffed into the hollow of his sweaty neck.
Kruze retracted his arms from around her head and his hands from her face. “Deal with it,” he growled quietly, his elbows now tucked to his side and his hands flat to the dirt. He was ready to push up and away. Any minute now…
“They stopped shooting. Why don’t we make a break for it?”
“Because here is safe; out there is certain death. Keep quiet.” These guys would expect them to run. Kruze didn’t intend to be that kind of stupid. He wasn’t moving until he was sure he and Banks could get away without being seen or shot in the back.
Kruze was all male. A former Navy SEAL, he’d seen combat in some of the world’s worst places. He was bigger boned, thicker muscled, and a helluva lot heavier than the dainty, entitled celebrity mashed beneath him. He was one of America’s baddest badassed warriors, by hell, and he could be a mean son of a bitch when the situation demanded. He’d faced death too many times to count, and he’d ended every HVT he’d ever been ordered to hunt. He’d survived the harshest weather, in the worst places, and the worst kinds of disasters known to man. He wasn’t made to fail.
But he wasn’t immune to the soft, feminine curves against his belly and thighs, or the tender brush of this woman’s breasts against his much harder chest muscles, with every breath she took. Or the quivering tones of pure terror in her voice, and that heart, its beat so loud he was fairly certain it was climbing up her throat. He’d seen terror before, in the eyes of men, women, and little kids without hope. Brianna Banks was each of them all over again, her pride and ego stripped away, willing to do anything to survive.
If she were alone, she’d probably think she stood a chance running from those men out there. She’d bolt. Which proved yet again, she had no business being this deep inside Turkey’s Eastern Anatolia Region. Do-gooders like her should’ve stayed home where they belonged. Because, when they didn’t, once they’d overstayed their welcomes—if they’d ever been welcomed in the first place—some unfortunate SEAL team received orders to retrieve the idiots. And sometimes those men died. For what? The life of a journalist who’d turn on them as soon as there was money to be made in the press? Kee-rist! When would people learn?
Growling, Kruze forced his focus back on the endgame of getting Banks out of his life and himself back to the States. He’d been down this road before, and because this woman was who she was and did what she did for a living, he didn’t care if she was scared or not. She should be.
Inhaling a deep, quiet breath, he wondered how long their reprieve would last. Not long. He’d no more than exhaled, when one of the rebels yelled, “Americans!” Every fighter around that rock scrambled in all direction to find him and Banks. More bellowing. More gunfire. Ouch. Damn it. A ricochet caught Kruze’s left biceps. High. Just skimmed the meaty muscle near his shoulder joint; nothing to worry about. He’d treat it later.
It was all the boots pounding past their location that concerned him now. He and Banks were literally hiding in plain sight. It’d only take one sharp-eyed man or woman to spot them and raise an alarm, maybe kill them both where they laid. Yet Kruze knew the jittery nerves of an army under attack, especially after a boulder the size of Rhode Island landed where it had. These guys were hyped-up on adrenaline and fueled by religious zeal. They fanned out in all directions and up both sides of the canyon. Again, not a good time to make a break for it.
Fortunately, enough rocks and dirt had blocked one side of the Jeep, enough to provide a quantum of cover. Kruze shifted his hips, aware that his thigh holster might be digging into the trembling body beneath him, but not caring one bit if it was. He knew he was being an ass, but he refused to baby Banks. She’d asked for this, well, hello Karma. She was going to get precisely what she’d had coming to her.
Turkey was off limits to United States civilians due to its high level of terrorism, arbitrary detentions, and, oh, guess what? Increased risk to Americans! Wanna bet Banks hadn’t checked with the US State Department before she’d trotted her privileged ass across whatever border she’d breached to get here? Journalists! The bane of every active duty soldier, airman, sailor, and Marine. Probably Coasties, too.
Planning how to get her
