If Looks Could Chill, page 21
With his back to the wall, he stole a peek in the window closest to the corner. Inside appeared to be some kind of dormitory. Unmade camp beds littered the room, along with two dressers. A few items of clothing hung out of the drawers. An ancient TV occupied a metal stand. A couple of beat-up suitcases were sprawled open on the floor in the corner like they’d been hastily ransacked and dumped.
No people. No weapons.
Tension coiled tighter in his chest.
Warily, he stuck his head around the back corner of the building, just in time to see Kick do the same from his side. Kick looked madder than a stepped-on rattler. With a few hand signals they traded intel. So far neither of them had found a fucking thing. Damn. He’d been so sure.
Bobby Lee suddenly noticed the three rear windows. All were boarded up tight as a drum with thick slabs of plywood, the edges of which were sealed shut with some kind of gloopy grout. Recently.
It wasn’t hurricane season. His blood pumped faster as he signaled to Kick and they exchanged a troubled glance. If the barriers weren’t there to keep out the weather, they might just be to keep someone in.
Like a kidnapped scientist.
Kick’s jaw clenched and he gave Bobby Lee an urgent signal to go back around and meet him up front.
Bobby Lee agreed. No more pussyfooting around. He wasn’t getting the vibe this was a trap waiting to spring. The knot in his stomach screamed they were too fucking late for a trap. Shit.
He hurried back along the side wall, checking through the windows as he went. First the dormitory—still no sign of life—then a narrow kitchen—no one visible—and last a common room with sofas, chairs, and a dining table up against one side. Not a peep.
He scooted around the corner and met Kick at the front stoop. “Anything?” he asked in a voice barely audible.
Kick shook his head. “Just more boarded-up windows. Goddamn it,” he growled under his breath.
They regarded each other for a brief moment. Bobby Lee knew Kick well enough by now to be certain they were both thinking the same thing. The mission was to find the terrorists. Not to engage them. But what the hell.
“Feel like disobeying a direct order from STORM Command and DHS?” Bobby Lee murmured.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Just then a scuffle came from inside the building. Followed by a muffled scream. A woman’s scream.
Kick reacted instantly, winding up a leg to crash the door down. Bobby Lee grabbed the radio just as fast.
“This is STORM Alpha Six actual. Possible hostage situation. We’re going in.”
GINA couldn’t believe she was still alive.
Barely. But alive.
She was locked in her room again. Sprawled broken and bleeding on the bare mattress.
But alive.
What had happened? Why had she been spared?
After refusing to do Tawhid’s final dirty work, he’d hit her. Hard. She must have passed out. Who knew how long or what had happened then. She vaguely remembered the sensation of being dragged by one of the gorillas and dumped on the bed. How long ago was that? Impossible to tell with the outside windows battened down and the lights off.
She tried to shift her burning, aching body, to see if she could even think about getting up to turn on the overhead. A soft moan slipped from her throat. Jesus, she hurt. No freaking way she could move.
So she listened.
The place was silent. More silent than she’d ever heard it before. No TV. No incomprehensible chatter. No loud prayers being chanted. Had they all gone? Left her alone to die in the icy darkness? She was almost grateful.
Suddenly, she heard a noise; barely perceptible, but definitely there. Breathing. Heavy and even. Someone else was in the room!
Oh, sweet God.
Why couldn’t they just have killed her?
Because she had disobeyed. Tawhid had warned her what would happen. The other cell members must have left to execute their appointed tasks of terror, everyone except this last man. His task was surely to execute her. Slowly and painfully, as Tawhid had promised.
Why hadn’t she killed herself?
In the darkness, the man said something unintelligible in a young, harsh voice. She recognized that voice. It belonged to the most youthful of the terrorists, a kid of maybe eighteen. The most fanatical and zealous of the lot. And violent. What was it about youth that made a person so cold? She’d seen the hatred in his eyes and the bloodlust. To think not too long ago she’d preferred younger men.
He spoke again, louder this time. To her? She didn’t understand his words, but their meaning was clear. She’d been a gift to him. He’d waited for her to regain consciousness, and now it was time to open his present.
A mewl of desperation escaped her. This was not going to happen. Not again. She’d force him to kill her first. Or she really would do it herself.
Suddenly the light switched on, blinding her stinging eyes.
Then he was on her, his body reeking of foul sweat, the stench of his breath overwhelming. She gagged and struck out with all her might, kicking and clawing. Ignoring the pain in her body, fighting with every last ounce of strength. Her knee connected with the soft sac between his legs. He cursed, fury sweeping across his face. A knife appeared from nowhere in his hand. He raised it high above her chest.
She screamed. It was useless, hopeless, she knew. But she screamed anyway, flailing, kicking, fighting him with all her might. Something crashed loudly; he yelled and swore at her, but for each blow he struck, she landed two.
All at once there was a loud bang! He froze above her with a surprised look on his face. She squeezed her eyes shut as once again a shower of blood rained down on her. But mercifully, this time it wasn’t hers.
Before she could react, his weight was lifted and men suddenly surrounded her, shouting. In English.
She felt a sob rise within her. A trembling cry of hope. It lodged in her throat, unable to pass the lump of burning emotion growing there.
Dare she believe?
Amidst the chaos, someone gently took her hand. “Dr. Cappozi?”
She didn’t dare open her eyes. In case it was all just a hallucination or a cruel joke.
Please don’t let it be a cruel joke.
“Gina?” the man’s voice said softly. Almost tenderly. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. We’ve come to take you home.”
NINETEEN
THEY hadn’t told Tara about the hostage. The female hostage.
Peering up at them, she was trembling violently, curled in a tight ball on a blood-soaked mattress. A curved, gleaming knife lay on the floor next to it, testament to how close a call it had been for her.
Tara moved aside as Marc and Quinn dragged the woman’s struggling attacker from the room. He was screeching at the top of his lungs, bleeding like a stuck pig from a stump of wrist, his hand hanging by a thin strip of flesh where it had been severed by Quinn’s well-aimed shot.
The hostage looked terrified, cringing away from the armed male commandos and their prisoner. Kick was kneel ing at her bedside, holding her hand, trying to calm her fears and get her to focus on him. But it was obvious to anyone with eyes that the woman was in shock and not hearing a word he said. Tara slid past him to get to her side.
“Let me try,” Tara said, squeezing his shoulder. “Do we know who she is?”
“Dr. Gina Cappozi,” he answered, reluctantly moving aside. “A scientist from New York. She’s my wife’s best friend.”
Tara’s eyebrows flicked in surprise at that last part, but she didn’t ask. That could wait. “See if you can scare up a washcloth and some warm water,” she told him. “And a blanket.”
“We need to question her,” he said, not without sympathy. “If she knows where Tawhid’s gone, how long ago the others left, we could—”
“I understand. But first she has to trust us.”
After a brief hesitation, he gave a quick nod. “You’re right. I’ll get the blanket and water.”
Tara turned to Dr. Cappozi. Gina. And did her best to keep her horrified reaction to the brutal injuries on the woman’s face and body from showing on her own face. It wasn’t easy. Dr. Cappozi must have gone through hell and back at the hands of those monsters.
She knelt down. “Gina, my name is Tara. I’m a police officer. Hang in there, okay? Medical help is on the way.”
Large brown eyes, ringed with bruises, stared back at her. But the fear in them ebbed, just a little.
“Is there someone we can contact? To tell you’re safe?” No reaction. “Kick says you’re his wife’s best friend. Is that Rainie? Rainie Jackson? We can phone her if you like.” Tara didn’t know if that was strictly kosher, but she needed a way in past the shock.
Gina’s throat worked. Her head shook a fraction back and forth. “Rainie . . . not . . . married.”
A response. Relief washed through Tara. “Ah,” she said, wondering if she’d misunderstood what Kick had said. Although, how many women were named Rainie? “Well, maybe—”
“They just got married a couple months ago,” Marc interjected from the doorway. He was holding a blanket, cloth, and a pan of steaming water. “May I come in?”
Gina’s eyes shot back to Tara’s, panic filling them anew. The woman was terrified of men . . . or maybe just men with black hair and olive skin. Who could blame her?
“It’s okay,” Tara assured her. “He’s with me. American through and through. Marc won’t hurt you, I promise.”
He came far enough into the room to hand her the things he’d brought, along with a bottle of water, then backed away to the door again. “I was in the Sudan with Rainie,” he said. “That’s where she was . . . taken . . . back when you were trying to find her. But she’s home now. Safe and sound. Like you will be soon.”
Gina’s gaze went to him, filled with conflicting emotion. She swallowed, lips trembling, as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t. Tara cracked the water bottle and fed her a sip.
“She saved my life over there,” Marc continued, his voice quietly intense. “Kick’s, too. I’ve never met a braver lady. Donc, not until today, anyway.”
A tear seeped from the corner of Gina’s eye and dropped onto the mattress. Tara’s own vision swam out of focus. She didn’t know the story, but the warmth and sincerity in Marc’s confession touched her heart.
These men she was with—Marc, Kick, even Quinn and the others—were unlike any men she’d ever met before. Tough and macho to the max, each one could kill a man swiftly and efficiently without a second thought when necessary, she was quite sure. And yet, none of them seemed to be afraid to let his emotions show when it really mattered. To allow himself to be vulnerable and sensitive to another human being’s needs.
She thought about how tender Marc had been with her last night, when she’d been shocked and terrified by what he’d told her, desperately needing someone to hold her. He’d gently soothed her fears, then given her a night she would never forget as long as she lived. She’d been horribly embarrassed this morning by her weakness, her neediness. She’d tried to withdraw from him, pretend it had never happened. Yet, he’d refused to go along. He’d openly shown her how much he still wanted her, in front of the others. Even when she wouldn’t acknowledge him in return.
What was wrong with her?
“Five,” Gina softly rasped.
Tara whipped her gaze from Marc to Gina, and he took an involuntary step forward into the room. “What?”
“Five . . . spray canisters,” Gina said, her voice shaking with the effort. Tara gave her another swallow of water. “Virus. In the lab.”
“Five canisters. That will help us a lot, Dr. Cappozi,” Marc said, taking another cautious step in. “Can you tell us about the men? How many? Who they were?”
Her body suddenly jerked and started shaking again. Tara grabbed the blanket and spread it over her, gingerly tucking it in. “Marc, she’s in no shape to talk yet.”
“Yes,” she protested. “Want to. Tawhid . . .” She halted.
“Abbas Tawhid?” Marc prodded, coming to full attention. “Leader of the al Sayika terrorist organization? Are you sure that’s who it was? You saw him yourself?”
Gina’s eyes shut, her face crumbling. She sucked in a stuttered breath. “Yes. Plus four more. Five . . . maybe. Or a dream . . . nightmare . . .” She stopped again, squeezing her eyes even harder.
Tara gave him an imploring look. “You’re okay, Gina,” she said to her. “No one can hurt you any more. I promise.”
After giving her a moment, Marc persisted. “All men?” he asked. “Any women?”
“No,” Gina whispered. “He hates women. Kept telling me I would die in pain like all the other whores.”
More tears seeped down her cheeks. Okay, that was a good sign. It meant she wasn’t completely numb, her emotions not shut off totally by the experience. Marc was right. She was an incredibly strong woman.
“Do you have any idea where they were going when they left here?” Marc asked. “Any hint at all?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Transportation?”
She licked her lips, and Tara gave her more water. “Boat. Brought me in a boat.”
“Okay. Bon.” He nodded. And apparently decided there was no more information to be gleaned at this point. “We’re going to get these fils du putains, Dr. Cappozi. On that, you have my solemn word.”
“Kill them,” she rasped, her voice choked with feelings Tara couldn’t even begin to guess at. “Please. Kill them all.”
Looking at Gina, Tara agreed completely with the sentiment.
“I’ll probably have to fight Kick for the privilege,” Marc said somberly. “That man is definitely on a mission of vengeance.”
“Kick,” Gina said haltingly, uncertainly. “Kidnapped Rainie . . . and married her?”
“Mais, yeah. Fell crazy in love, him.” Marc sent her a gentle smile. “He’s phoning her now. To let her know you’re okay.”
Tara saw Gina’s tense muscles slowly start to ease as her eyes brimmed over in earnest. Trust finally taking hold. “Thank you. Both. For . . .”
“No need. My pleasure, ma’am.” Marc started to back out the door. He shifted his gaze to Tara. Paused. “STORM is on the way with an evac helo. We’ve got to get her out of here before DHS arrives. Can you stay with her? Make sure that happens?”
“Of course. But why?”
“For her own safety. They’ll explain on the helo.”
Alarm suddenly sang through her. “Wait. Where will you be?”
“Not sure. I’ll let you know.”
She came to her feet. “You’re going after them, aren’t you?”
“We don’t know that yet.”
The truth suddenly slammed her in the gut. “You’re going without me.” And this time he really would.
She didn’t know why this time it felt different. Worse. Like a razor slashing through her heart. This morning at Charlie’s she’d practically bitten his head off, after he’d treated her so sweet last night. Actually told him she was grateful for his lovemaking. So cold . . . Had he finally had enough?
She struggled not to let her eyes bleed the pain she was feeling. Not to fling herself into his arms and beg him not to leave without her.
“Cher, it’s not like that. Someone needs to stay with Dr. Cappozi until—”
Screw it. She ran to him and wrapped her arms tight around his waist. “I’m sorry, Marc. I’m such a fool. I am yours, just like you said.”
His eyes softened. “I know, mon cœur. But for now, take care of Gina. I’ll call you.” He kissed her. “D’accord?”
“But . . .”
He kissed her again. Then he was gone.
Leaving her feeling the slightest bit frustrated and desperate. And not a little uncertain.
I know?
Thank God she hadn’t said, “I love you.”
“He seems like . . . a good man.” Gina’s strained observation interrupted Tara’s bout of acute self-doubt.
She let out a ragged breath, turned, and knelt down by the bed again. “Yes. He is. It’s me that’s totally screwed up.”
For the first time, a glimmer of a smile flitted over Gina’s cracked lips. “Join the club,” she whispered. Then she closed her eyes and issued a pain-filled sigh. “At least he didn’t seduce you, make you fall in love with him, then sell you out to terrorists he knew would use you and kill you.”
She frowned. If what Gina was implying was true, that really sucked. Tara’s life had been no bed of roses, but she couldn’t even imagine such an unforgivable betrayal.
Suddenly, she realized what the other woman was saying. “Gina, you know the person who did this to you?”
Gina’s body gave an uneasy shudder. “Yes. At least who delivered me to the kidnappers.”
Good lord. “Who was it?”
She swallowed heavily. “Gregg van Halen. Works for CIA. Black ops.”
“My God. Someone from our side?”
Now Tara understood why Kick had been so adamant about getting Gina out of the research center before DHS arrived.
“Who’d have thought.” Gina’s bruised eyes leaked tears from the corners. “We were lovers,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
Jesus. “You must really hate him,” Tara said without thinking.
“You have no idea.” But the expression on Gina’s face didn’t look like hatred. It looked more like utter desolation.
Tara carefully took Gina’s battered hand in both of hers, anger surging through her on the other woman’s behalf. “Please don’t tell me you still have feelings for the bastard?”
The rescued hostage turned her head slowly, gazed up at Tara, eyes swimming. “How could I possibly still have feelings for a man who’s so heartless and evil?”
Ho-boy. The poor woman was in far worse shape than Tara had thought. Physical injuries would heal in time. But how could anyone ever get over such a badly broken heart? The goddamn bastard.
“You don’t love him,” Tara told her firmly. “You’re just confused. In shock. Not yourself yet. Ever hear of Stockholm syndrome?”
Gina smiled bleakly. Weak, but at least it was a smile.
