Mackenzie's Pleasure (4 page)

the bad news about the SEAL team on which they had all been pinning their hopes.

Ambassador Lovejoy looked even more haggard. "We'll have to use another team," Art

Sandefer said. "That'll take too much time!" the ambassador said with stifled violence. "My

God, already she could be—" He stopped, anguish twisting his face. He wasn't able to complete

the sentence.

"I'll take the team in," Zane said. His amplified voice was clear in the soundproofed

room. "We're the closest, and we can be ready to go in an hour."

"You?" the admiral asked, startled. "Zane, you haven't seen live action since—"

"My last promotion," Zane finished dryly. He hadn't liked trading action for

administration, and he was seriously considering resigning his commission. He was thirtyone, and it was beginning to look as if his success in his chosen field was going to prevent

him from practicing it; the higher-ranking the officer, the less likely that officer was to be in the

thick of the action. He'd been thinking about something in law enforcement, or maybe even

throwing in with Chance. There was nonstop action there, for sure.

For now, though, a mission had been dumped in his lap, and he was going to take it.

"I train with my men, Admiral," he said. "I'm not rusty, or out of shape."

"I didn't think you were," Admiral Lindley replied, and sighed. He met the ambassador's

anguished gaze, read the silent plea for help. "Can six men handle the mission?" he asked

Zane.

"Sir, I wouldn't risk my men if I didn't think we could do the job."

This time the admiral looked at both Art Sandefer and Mack Prewett. Art's expression

was noncommittal, the Company man refusing to stick his neck out, but Mack gave the

admiral a tiny nod. Admiral Lindley swiftly weighed all the factors. Granted, the SEAL team

would be two members short, and the leader would be an officer who hadn't been on an

active mission in over a year, but that officer happened to be Zane Mackenzie. All things

considered, the admiral couldn't think of any other man he would rather have on this mission.

He'd known Zane for several years now, and there was no better warrior, no one he trusted

more. If Zane said he was ready, then he was ready.' 'All right. Go in and get her out.''

As the admiral hung up, Ambassador Lindley blurted, "Shouldn't you send in someone

else? My daughter's life is at stake! This man hasn't been in the field, he's out of shape, out of

practice—"

"Waiting until we could get another team into position would drastically lower our

chances of finding her," the admiral pointed out as kindly as possible. Ambassador Lindley

wasn't one of his favorite people. For the most part, he was a horse's ass and a snob, but there

was no doubt he doted on his daughter. "And as far as Zane Mackenzie is concerned,

there's no better man for the job."

"The admiral's right," Mack Prewett said quietly, with the authority that came so

naturally to him. "Mackenzie is so good at what he does it's almost eerie. I would feel

comfortable sending him in alone. If you want your daughter back, don't throw obstacles in

his way."

Ambassador Lindley shoved his hand through his hair, an uncharacteristic gesture for

so fastidious a man; it was a measure of his agitation. "If anything goes wrong..."

It wasn't clear whether he was about to voice a threat or was simply worrying aloud,

but he couldn't complete the sentence. Mack Prewett gave a thin smile. "Something always

goes wrong. If anyone can handle it, Mackenzie can."

After Zane terminated the secure transmission he made his way through the network of

corridors to Mission Planning. Already he could feel the rush of adrenaline pumping through his

muscles as he began preparing, mentally and physically, for the job before him. When he

entered the room with its maps and charts and communication systems, and the comfortable

chairs grouped around a large table, five hostile faces turned immediately toward him, and he

felt the surge of renewed energy and anger from his men.

Only one of them, Santos, was seated at the table, but Santos was the team medic, and he

was usually the calmest of the bunch. Ensign Peter "Rocky" Greenberg, second in command of

the team and a controlled, detail-oriented kind of guy, leaned against the bulkhead with his arms

crossed and murder in his narrowed brown eyes. Antonio Withrock, nicknamed Bunny

because he never ran out of energy, was prowling the confines of the room like a mean, hungry

cat, his dark skin pulled tight across his high cheekbones. Paul Drexler, the team sniper, sat

cross-legged on top of the table while he wiped an oiled cloth lovingly over the

disassembled parts of his beloved Remington bolt-action 7.62 rifle. Zane didn't even lift his

eyebrows at the sight. His men were supposed to be unarmed, and they had been during the

security exercise that had gone so damn sour, but
keeping
Drexler unarmed was another story.

"Planning on talcing over the ship?" Zane inquired mildly of the sniper.

His blue eyes cold, Drexler cocked his head as if considering the idea. "I might."

Winstead "Spooky" Jones had been sitting on the deck, his back resting against the

bulkhead, but at Zane's entrance he rose effortlessly to his feet. He didn't say anything, but

his gaze fastened on Zane's face, and a spark of interest replaced some of the anger in his

eyes.

Spook never missed much, and the other team members had gotten in the habit of

watching him, picking up cues from his body language. No more than three seconds passed

before all five men were watching Zane with complete concentration.

Greenberg was the one who finally spoke. "How's Bobcat doing, boss?"

They had read Spooky's tension, but misread the cause, Zane realized. They thought

Higgins had died from his wounds. Drexler began assembling his rifle with sharp, economical

motions. "He's stabilized," Zane reassured them. He knew his men, knew how tight they were.

A SEAL team had to be tight. Their trust in each other had to be absolute, and if something

happened to one of them, they all felt it. "They're transferring him now. It's touchy, but I'll put my

money on Bobcat. Odie's gonna be okay, too." He hitched one hip on the edge of the table,

his pale eyes glittering with the intensity that had caught Spooky's attention. "Listen up,

children. An ambassador's daughter was snatched a few hours ago, and we're going into

Libya to get her."

Six black-clad figures slipped silently along the narrow, deserted street in Benghazi,

Libya. They communicated by hand signals, or by whispers into the Motorola headsets

they all wore under their black knit balaclava hoods. Zane was in his battle mode; he was

utterly calm as they worked their way toward the four-story stone building where Barrie

Lovejoy was being held on the top floor, if their intelligence was good, and if she hadn't been

moved within the past few hours.

Action always affected him this way, as if every cell in his body had settled into its

true purpose of existence. He had missed this, missed it to the point that he knew he

wouldn't be able to stay in the Navy without it. On a mission, all his senses became more

acute, even as a deep center of calm radiated outward. The more intense the action, the

calmer he became, as time stretched out into slow motion. At those times he could see and hear

every detail, analyze and predict the outcome, then make his decision and act—all within a

split second that felt like minutes. Adrenaline would flood his body—he would feel the blood

racing through his veins—but his mind would remain detached and calm. He had been told that

the look on his face during those times was frighteningly remote, jarring in its total lack of

expression.

The team moved forward in well-orchestrated silence. They each knew what to do,

and what the others would do. That was the purpose of the trust and teamwork that had been

drilled into them through the twenty-six weeks of hell that was formally known as BUD/S

training. The bond between them enabled them to do more together than could be

accomplished if each worked on his own. Teamwork wasn't just a word to the SEALs, it was

their center.

Spooky Jones was point man. Zane preferred using the wiry Southerner for that job

because he had unfrayable nerves and could ghost around like a lynx. Bunny With-rock,

who almost reverberated with nervous energy, was bringing up the rear. No one sneaked up

on Bunny—except the Spook. Zane was right behind Jones, with Drexler, Greenberg and

Santos ranging between him and Bunny. Greenberg was quiet, steady, totally dependable.

Drexler was uncanny with that rifle, and Santos, besides being a damn good SEAL, also had

the skill to patch them up and keep them going, if they were patchable. Overall, Zane had

never worked with a better group of men.

Their presence in Benghazi was pure luck, and Zane knew it. Good luck for them and,

he hoped, for Miss Lovejoy, but bad luck for the terrorists who had snatched her off the street in

Athens fifteen hours ago. If the
Montgomery
hadn't been just south of Crete and in perfect

position for launching a rescue, if the SEALs hadn't been on the carrier to practice special

insertions as well as the security exercise, then there would have been a delay of precious hours,

perhaps even as long as a day, while another team got supplied and into position. As it was, the

special insertion into hostile territory they had just accomplished had been the real thing instead

of just a practice.

Miss Lovejoy was not only the ambassador's daughter, she was an employee at the

embassy, as well. The ambassador was apparently very strict and obsessive about his

daughter, having lost his wife and son in a terrorist attack in Rome fifteen years before, when Miss

Lovejoy had been a child of ten. After that, he had kept her secluded in private schools, and

since she bad finished college, she had been acting as his hostess as well as performing her

"work" at the embassy. Zane suspected her job was more window dressing than anything

else, something to keep her busy. She had never really worked a day in her life, never been out

from under her father's protection—until today.

She and a friend had left the embassy to do some shopping. Three men had grabbed her,

shoved her into a car and driven off. The friend had immediately reported the abduction.

Despite efforts to secure the airport and ports—cynically, Zane suspected deliberate footdragging by the Greek authorities—a private plane had taken off from Athens and flown

straight to Benghazi.

Thanks to the friend's prompt action, sources on the ground in Benghazi had been

alerted. It had been verified that a young woman of Miss Lovejoy's description had been taken

off the plane and hustled into the city, into the very building Zane and his team were about to enter.

It
had to be her; there weren't that many red-haired Western women in Benghazi. In

fact, he would bet there was only one—Barrie Lovejoy.

They were betting her life on it.

Barrie lay in almost total darkness, heavy curtains at the single window blocking out

most of whatever light would have entered. She could tell that it was night; the level of street

noise outside had slowly diminished, until now there was mostly silence. The men who had

kidnapped her had finally gone away, probably to sleep. They had no worries about her being

able to escape; she was naked, and tied tightly to the cot on which she lay. Her wrists were

bound together, her arms drawn over her head and tied to the frame of the cot. Her ankles were

also tied together, then secured to the frame. She could barely move; every muscle in her

body ached, but those in her shoulders burned with agony. She would have screamed, she would

have begged for someone to come and release the ropes that held her arms over her head, but

she knew that the only people who would come would be the very ones who had tied her in this

position, and she would do anything, give anything, to keep from ever seeing them again.

She was cold. They hadn't even bothered to throw a blanket over her naked body, and

long, convulsive shivers kept shaking her, though she couldn't tell if she was chilled from

the night air or from shock. She didn't suppose it mattered. Cold was cold.

She tried to think, tried to ignore the pain, tried not to give in to shock and terror. She

didn't know where she was, didn't know how she could escape, but if the slightest opportunity

presented itself, she would have to be ready to take it. She wouldn't be able to escape tonight;

her bonds were too tight, her movements too restricted. But tomorrow—oh, God, tomorrow.

Terror tightened her throat, almost choking off her breath. Tomorrow they would be

back, and there would be another one with them, the one for whom they waited. A violent

shiver racked her as she thought of their rough bands on her bare body, the pinches and

slaps and crude probings, and her stomach heaved. She would have vomited, if there had been