Taylor wiped a stray tear he was trying to hide and then lowered his arm. “Well, he’s not here, is he? He probably won’t be coming back, so why does it matter?”
Eric got up and noticed Mary-Margaret standing, looking into the living room. She had dark circles under her eyes and was twisting a dish towel between her hands. He moved beside Taylor on the sofa and could feel just how tightly the kid was wound. He set his hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Taylor’s mouth started to tremble as he fought back tears. “Hey, you need to be strong,” Eric said. “Your dad is a smart guy, and if there’s one thing I know about Joe, it’s that he’s resourceful. Guys like your dad don’t get to be in the position he’s in without knowing how to watch their backs.”
Another tear slid down Taylor’s face.
“I’m going to find your dad. I’m going to bring him home. You need to pull it together for your mom.” He let that sink in for a minute.
“Uncle Eric, do you really think my dad is okay?” Taylor asked.
Eric couldn’t bear to break his heart, but he also couldn’t lie to him. “I hope so. Just know this: I won’t come back until I’ve found your dad. I need your word, Taylor, before I leave. No more shenanigans, no more smoking, no more testing your boundaries. When I bring your dad home, the three of us are going to sit down and have a talk about your responsibilities and the choices you’ve been making.” He rubbed Taylor’s shoulder and squeezed when he wiped at his eyes as more tears fell. He was so scared, and so young.
“Okay,” he replied, his voice cracking. He looked up at Eric, his eyes red, the skin underneath raw and puffy. He’d obviously been crying and was trying to hide it.
“Okay, then.” He patted Taylor’s leg. “I’ve got to get going.” He stood up, and Mary-Margaret was still there. She pulled her arms across her stomach as if it was the only way to hold herself together, and Eric went over to her, pulled her into his arms, and hugged her. “I promise you I’ll find him,” he said.
She was gripping his shirt, and then she was crying, her hands pressed to her face as she choked back a sob. She pulled away, forcing a pathetic smile to her face, and patted his chest, then his arm. She looked down as if she was embarrassed for falling apart, and she licked her lips and cleared her throat but didn’t say anything. He could hear Abby in the bedroom, her voice light. He was so proud of her, of how she was trying to keep everyone distracted.
“Abby, I’m leaving,” he called. “Come out here and give me a kiss.”
Rachel came racing from the bedroom first. “Daddy, Daddy, don’t go!” she cried, leaping into his arms. He tossed her a bit, and she giggled as he kissed and hugged her.
“I won’t be gone long. You listen to your mommy and be a good girl.” He put her down just as Charlie wrapped his arms around his leg, Abby coming down the hall right behind him. Eric lifted Charlie, kissed him, and then set him down and pulled Abby into his arms. He held her against him and breathed in the fruity scent of her hair. He loved the smell of her shampoo—everything about her. “You take care,” he said. He held her for what felt like an eternity, but letting her go still came too soon.
She slid her hands up his chest and rose up to kiss him, just keeping him there for a few seconds. “I love you,” she said. “Stay safe. Come home to me.”
Maybe it was the way she watched him, with a depth of strength and humility he’d never seen before, that allowed him to turn and walk out the door.
Chapter 9
Sand, grit, hot air, and stench. Eric didn’t want to get too comfortable, knowing what filled the air as he rode in the Humvee from the airfield to the compound where Joe had been stationed. The moment he’d stepped onto the military plane, all throughout the rough, uncomfortable flight, and then as he stepped off into the waiting Humvee, he had instantly been back on watch. He wasn’t sure how it would feel to be over here, back in action. The fact was that he’d spent most of his military career at sea. The anticipation of a fight, the adrenaline of leaving home, had him instantly watching every move and aware of his surroundings. It was an animal instinct, one he took for granted when he was home.
It was business as usual when he pulled into the military compound. He stepped out and followed the corpsman to the command post, where he ducked under the flap and recognized DeLaurie, who was surrounded by a dozen or so military, some at computers, some standing over a table, everyone performing some task that kept this military camp running.
“Commander DeLaurie, I’m Captain Hamilton,” he began.
The commander extended his hand and shook Eric’s. “Yes, good trip, Captain?”
“As comfortable as could be, considering the circumstances. Listen, what news do you have on the whereabouts of Lieutenant Commander Reed?”
The commander started over to a large square table where a map was laid out. Personnel stood around it, discussing something. “Master Chief Cassidy, this is Captain Hamilton,” DeLaurie said. “He’s here about Lieutenant Commander Reed, who was captured with Tucker, your man.”
The way the master chief took him in, saying nothing for the longest time, made Eric wonder if the man was about to tell him to piss off. Then the master chief seemed to run his tongue over his teeth and shake his head as if someone had distracted him. He went back to the map, jabbing his finger at a spot. “They were taken here,” he said. “The lieutenant commander followed Tucker, and they got pinned down. We followed the insurgents up here.” He circled the spot on the map. “This group, JILA, has been going through the mountain camps, murdering and displacing these villagers. They’ve been beheading, burying alive, torturing, and stealing the women and children. This group is like nothing we’ve ever seen.
“They’re not simple terrorists,” he continued. “I’ve never seen this kind of military power, and from what we’ve learned, this group is well financed. They have military and tactical abilities beyond the norm. They’re recruiting from other countries to join this faction, from across Europe. They’re also systematically gaining ground in Turkey, Iraq, and Syria. This isn’t an easy in-and-out extraction. And the women they took…” Cassidy just shook his head. “Wouldn’t hold out much hope for their safe return.” He walked around the table to a screen with a satellite feed. “This is their camp, one of them, where we believe they have Tucker and the lieutenant commander. They have a dozen buildings. We think they’re keeping the prisoners somewhere in this area. As you can see from the sheer numbers, getting into this camp is next to impossible. These guys are set up well. They have their own satellite and a weapon source in the Middle East. I swear I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Eric didn’t know what to say as he looked at the encampment. What the hell had Joe been thinking, going in there after them? He hadn’t been trained for this kind of extraction. Why did he feel he needed to be the one to save those women? Had Mary-Margaret been right to worry about Joe and his distractions? Eric hoped he was wrong. If they managed to get Joe out alive, he planned to have a heart to heart with the man about what had been going through his head.
“So what exactly is the plan?” he asked, turning to the commander, who directed his attention to Cassidy.
“Captain Hamilton,” Cassidy replied, “we’re going to have to work out a way of getting in there without getting ourselves killed.”
Chapter 10
Joe opened his eyes. Had he died?
The sun was streaming over his face. There was light, and he realized he was comfortable, no longer on a stone floor with the stench of decay and rot around him. He was warm, on a mattress, covered by a blanket.
“You’re awake. That’s good. I was starting to worry that one of my men hit you harder than necessary. No worries, though. He’s been taken care of.”
Joe didn’t know what to say. He stared into blue eyes so hard they could have been made of steel. The man’s face was square, with a strong jaw. He had brown hair and was of average height, with broad shoulders. Joe could see he was a soldier, a man in good shape. He wore a burgundy knit shirt and black pants, and Joe didn’t miss the tactical watch on his wrist. Nothing cheap or average, it was the kind worn by those in the special forces.
He looked up and took in his surroundings. This wasn’t a prison—this was a home, a nice one, judging by the stone walls, the lighting, and the four-poster bed he was lying on. There was an area rug in rich gold, as well as green chairs, occasional tables, and artwork. It was the comfort level that surprised him.
He heard a strange sound. The man spoke perfect English, with no accent, as he sat there watching Joe, arms crossed over his chest at the end of the bed. He was focused on Joe and then glanced ever so slowly across the room, as if leading Joe with his eyes to what had made the noise. Joe followed where he was looking, and it took him a moment to get through the shock of seeing a woman chained to the wall.
She had her legs bent and curled up, trying to hide her naked body. She had dark skin and short, dark hair, and he could see only the side of her face, as she was looking down, her wrists cuffed. The chain was looped to a hook in the wall by her head. It was Grieger, and he realized then that the sound he had heard was her whimpering. What the hell had been done to her?
“She’s a fine specimen,” the man said. “My men have enjoyed her well.” He wandered over to a chair: dark wood with a deep, plush velvet seat. He lounged in it and ran his finger under his lips as he glanced at Grieger and then back to Joe—as if the lieutenant was an animal, not even a pet to be treated humanely. She had been left tied for when he was ready for her. Joe could see she meant nothing to him, and her fate was yet to be determined.
“A man like you shouldn’t have to put up with women in positions of authority,” the stranger said. “It’s not right, what the Western world deems necessary. Women have a place, but war and fighting…those are a man’s role. We need more great fighters to rid the world of immorality, of laziness. Look at the mess your Western culture is in: children who disrespect their elders, daughters who shame their parents with premarital sex and pregnancy, and women who compete with men to do things only a man should do. Islam is the only way. It restores balance. Everything else must be destroyed.”
A man walked in, dressed in a long-sleeved knit shirt and fashionable dark pants. Another soldier, maybe. He leaned down and whispered something to the other, and it took Joe all of two seconds to figure out that the man who had been lecturing him was in charge. He had no idea who he was. The man nodded and then flicked his hand in the air as if to dismiss the other man, whose dark hair, olive skin, and dark eyes showed his Iraqi heritage.
“Come, the show is about to start,” his captor said. He paused for a moment. “Or do you need help?” The way he asked, Joe was smart enough to realize that weakness of any kind in the face of this man would be a mistake.
“No, I’m fine,” he said. He was far from fine, but he made himself roll to his side and put his hand on the bed, pushing himself up as he struggled to hold steady. His arm was shaking, and he fought the nausea, wondering if he had a fractured skull. He knew what a concussion was—he’d had a few. This was worse.
He put his boots on the ground and felt the room sway but grabbed hold of the foot post and held on. He breathed deep, and his vision blurred for a moment. He saw the man was pleased.
Joe realized then that his head was now bandaged, gauze covering his forehead. At least he wasn’t bleeding anymore. The man snapped his fingers, and the same soldier who had been there a moment ago appeared at Joe’s side, grabbing his arm and looping it around his shoulder to help him walk. He panicked for a minute, wondering if maybe this was it for him.
“Do not worry. Mijala will help you walk,” his captor said. “You’ve proven yourself already. I don’t want you falling over and missing this show I prepared just for you.”
Joe didn’t know what to make of this man or his show, but his Spidey senses had been screaming from the moment he woke in that concrete hole. There was nothing he could do for Grieger right now. He could hear her whimpering softly. This show…he didn’t want to know what it was, because his worst fear was that he was walking into his torture or execution.
A door opened, and bright sun and hot air filtered in. There was yelling and shouting and sounds of men celebrating. For Joe, fear underlay everything: the fear of dealing with someone, something, that wasn’t sane.
There were men, fighters, everywhere, scarves covering their faces. All carried guns. It was dusty, dirty, and hot. A long line of people—women, he thought—was being led in. They were covered head to toe, tied together by a long rope. Men were leading them roughly. Joe could hear crying, begging as he took in the man beside him. His captor watched over the proceedings. There wasn’t an ounce of sympathy in his expression.
“I seem to be at a loss. You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” Joe found himself saying. He wondered whether that was smart. Either the man would tell him, kill him, or beat him. He didn’t know what would be worse, but whatever this hell was, whatever he was witnessing, he didn’t believe for a minute he would ever walk out of here alive.
“Ayoud,” his captor said. “I will make this easy for you, as I see you’re trying to piece together who I am.” He nodded at someone in the arena.
“I don’t understand,” Joe said. “You’re white―” He stopped himself before he could say “not Iraqi, not Muslim, not a terrorist.”
“My mother was a white woman, a Christian. My father owned her, bought her, but I am very much here for Allah.”
There had to be dozens and dozens of women in the center of what Joe could only think of as an arena. Men surrounded them, but there was an opening right in front of Joe and Ayoud. The leader wasn’t that old, close to Joe’s age.
Joe was standing on his own now. The man who had helped him onto the balcony had already stepped back. Joe didn’t understand a word being said. A man in the center of the women was talking on a bullhorn, shouting to the crowd. He didn’t recognize the dialect spoken—maybe Armenian, Kurdish? He wasn’t sure.