Terror At Dawn

none.

Shit. He settled back against the seat belt holding him and contemplated just remaining there. His legs were almost in Mertz’s lap, and the belt supported him sprawled against the seat. He could think of no reason to move.

The noise of a helicopter overhead brought him back to full consciousness. He forced himself to care about the situation, and reached with stiff fingers to the shoulder harness and belt buckle. It was jammed in position by his weight hanging on it. Swearing, he pulled a combat knife out of its sheath and cut the straps.

He fell down in a heap on the interior left side of the truck, landing on Mertz. For a moment he rested, wondering if his legs would support him. Then, as the sound of the helicopters grew closer, he forced himself to extend his legs. He was standing inside the truck cabin, his head poking out of the shattered right-hand window.

The door. If it’s not jammed—He shoved, putting all of his weight into it, and the heavy metal door complained and moved up. With a resounding thud barely audible over the noise of the helicopters, it fell back against the body of the truck. He grabbed the sides of the opening and pulled himself up, finding footholds on the dashboard and in the seat. Every muscle in his body was screaming that as bad as the pain was now, it would be worse in the immediate future. He ignored it, grateful for the training that enabled him to do so.

Moments later, he was free of the truck. The sound of a helicopter was receding slightly. He took a deep breath of fresh air, smelled the distinctive odor of diesel fuel. A new sense of urgency overtook him. He lowered himself carefully from the side of the truck, trying not to damage his body any further, and hobbled off the path. With each step, his muscles eased slightly. While he could no longer move with the easy grace that he was accustomed to, at least he could walk.

The Carter compound

2358 local (GMT -7)

Drake struggled furiously against the bindings, but there was no give to the duct tape that held her hands together and her legs to the chair.

She could hear her cameraman swearing quietly as he struggled with his own bindings.

She had covered too many of these sorts of situations overseas not to know what was coming next. Eventually, there would be a takedown, a violent, no-holds-barred approach on the house. And unless the Americans were a good deal more cautious about it than their contemporaries overseas, there was a good chance she would not survive.

This can’t be happening here. It doesn’t happen in America. Afghanistan, the Middle East, China. Not here.

She heard a quiet movement out front and froze. Any second now. If only she had some way of calling out a warning, of telling them that she was still inside and that the men they were after were gone.

The door in front of her slammed back and bounced off the wall behind it. Men dressed in dark colors were outlined in the door frame. She held her breath, waiting for the first bullet.

The men moved rapidly, spreading out in all directions. One grabbed her chair, dragged it outside, and threw it to the ground. He was fast, so fast — moments later, a knife was sliding along her skin, cutting into the duct tape. He ripped it off her mouth.

“Where are they?” he asked, wasting no time.

“Gone. There’s a tunnel.”

“Do you know where it goes?”

“No. I was only in it for moment. It looked pretty long.”

“Medic!” he shouted. He proceeded to unbind her hands and her legs. “They’ll take good care of you.” With that, he disappeared into the open door.

Two other men approached her, one carrying a small bag. “I’m OK,” she said, trying to stand up.

Gentle hands held her down. “We’ll be the judge of that.”

“Pamela,” a familiar voice said. She turned to see Tombstone kneeling next to her. When had he walked up? She must be more shook up than she thought. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, all at once unable to trust her voice. This wasn’t the first time she’d almost died covering a story, but it was the first time she’d felt so completely violated, so helpless.

“Get her back to the truck,” Tombstone said. “Is there anything you can tell us?”

“Tunnel. About ten men.” Her voice was shaky. She took a deep breath, alarmed at the shuddering that was spreading throughout her body.

“Did they say where they were going?”

She shook her head.

“Anything else you can tell me?” Tombstone asked again, examining her closely. Clearly, he wasn’t used to seeing her shook up.

“No.” Pushing away the two medics, she struggled to her feet, assisted by Tombstone’s hand on her elbow. “Thanks. For getting me out.”

Tombstone kept his hand on her elbow and for just a second, she saw a trace of the man she had once been engaged to, her lover, the man he’d been before he’d lost Tomboy. But it disappeared to be replaced by the new, sterner Tombstone that had emerged over the last several years.

“All right, then.”

He turned to head to the house, but she called out to him. “Tombstone. I meant it. Thanks. And — uh — is my cameraman here?”

“I want live air,” Drake snapped into her cell phone. “I have the whole story — every bit of it. I was there.”

“I understand, Miss Drake.” the long-suffering evening producer said. “It’s a dynamite story. But we’re on live feed from the Middle East right now.”

“Is there any blood? Right now, this second, I mean?” Drake demanded.

“We’re not sure, but it looks like a big strike against some shore stations.”

“I don’t care what it looks like. You know the rule: ‘If it bleeds, it leads.’ And right now, Idaho is a whole lot bloodier than a bunch of bombs hitting sand in the Middle East, at least at this very second. And seconds are what count.”

“Okay, okay. Stand by. We’ll feed you as breaking news in four minutes.”

“Okay, and I want two minutes,” Drake said.

“Shit, no. I got bombs falling over there. Thirty seconds.”

“Ninety.”

“Done.”

Drake snapped her cell phone shut and turned to her cameraman. “On in four for ninety.” He just nodded — he’d worked with her often enough to know that as long as he did his part, she’d be letter-perfect with hers.

Drake shut her eyes, mentally outlining her report. Ninety seconds — thirty better than she’d been willing to settle for, but still not enough time for everything. They’d already uploaded the footage they’d taken from the hill overlooking the Smarts’ and the coverage during her meetings with Carter. There’d be some outside footage of the compound — damn, she needed visuals! Sure, she could stand in front of the camera and talk, but viewers these days went for the visuals, not the talking heads, and there was only so much of the stark landscape around them that they’d want to see.

Just then, she heard someone shout, “We found them. Ten of them, in the tunnel!”

“Any survivors?” Tombstone asked.

“No.”

Ah. She felt a mixed surge of relief and pity that Abraham Carter and his men had not made it out.

If it bleeds, it leads. And just what could be more interesting in the Middle East right now than this?