Raptor 6 (39 page)

“But not near as pleasurable,” Kamran said, his face contorted in anger.

Zmaray snapped his fingers and two guards appeared. “Lock her up.” To Kamran he said, “Come. We have a party to attend.” He sneered at Zahrah. “You might want to sleep tonight, Miss Zarrick. Because tomorrow, everything changes. I
will
have your cooperation.”

Presidential Residence, Balkh Province

“I have to admit,” Jeffery Bain said as he lifted a champagne flute from a silver serving tray ushered through the room crowded with dignitaries, politicians, princes, and other partygoers, “you confuse me, Captain.”

Dean snapped a glare to the journalist. “No rank.”

“Oh, come. You can’t honestly think that these men don’t know you’re American military.” He tipped the crystal glass toward Dean’s head. “Not with that buzz cut and the look of war on your face.”

Dean glared again.

“Are you going to be this much fun all night?”

Monitoring Burnett talking up an Arab in a keffiyeh, Dean maintained a constant vigil. Nemazi had yet to show his face, and Dean wasn’t sure if he should be glad or nervous.

“Look, in all seriousness.” Bain leaned closer. “I’m not sure what you’re up to here, but this is some kind of stupid.”

“Welcome to the Army.”

“Cap—”

“Dean.”

“Dean,” Bain corrected. “These men won’t hesitate to kill you.”

“I know.”

“No,” Bain muttered, his voice lowering. “You’re not following me.”

Dean met the man’s brown eyes. Studied him—the knotted brows, the sweat in a chilled environment. Bain licked his lips and looked to the side. Dean’s heart kick-started. “What do you know?”

“They know you’re here.”

“Who?” Dean’s pulse sped.

“Everyone. Keep your eyes open. They’ll probably try to take you.”

That was the point of this mission. But it didn’t make Dean happy. The only thing he could guarantee tonight was that he wouldn’t walk out of here a free man. Whatever tomorrow brought—if he saw tomorrow—was out of his hands.

“Do you know anything about General Zarrick’s daughter?”

Bain smiled. “Except that you’re going to marry her?”

Dean said nothing as he slid his gaze around the room. Noticed the two men near a door watching him. They were trying to be all cool and low-key, but nothing screamed trouble like an Arab playing low-key.

“You must’ve won a lot of brownie points with Zarrick to get him to let you marry his daughter—and I’ve seen her. She’s worth the death threat.”

Dean scowled, which forced a bit of contriteness into the journo.

“Sorry.” Bain sipped his drink as his gaze trolled the room. “My point is, it wasn’t smart to announce your relationship on national television here. It painted a target on your big head.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean muttered.

“So the old man didn’t have clearance?”

“Would it matter to Z-Day?”

Bain sniggered. “True, true.”

“Jeff, darling, would you come meet Kismet?” said a woman who didn’t look a day over thirty and yet had the same nose and eyes as Bain.

“Of course, Mother. If you’ll excuse me,” he said to Dean and started away, but not before turning back. “Watch yourself.”

Dean gave a breathy snort, realizing he stood alone, though he technically was never more than five feet from Burnett. The reassurance felt hollow in light of what he faced—being captured. Everyone had advice for him, but he got stuck with the gig. The evening played on, Burnett chatting up dignitaries, his position obvious though he wore no uniform. One didn’t end up in DIA and not have facial recognition among the local royalty and power players.

“Who is your friend, General Burnett?” A burly man who stood at least six-three looked straight at Dean. “He looks a bit nervous.”

Burnett nodded. “You would too if someone just kidnapped your fiancée.”

Dean’s heart pounded as several of the men clucked their tongues and shook their heads.

Dogs. Every man in this room probably knew where they were keeping Zahrah. And that heated his veins.

He also didn’t like this plan of attack, the one Z-Day and Burnett had concocted to hit this gathering head-on, leave little question who Dean was and what he wanted. Didn’t like the open, direct line of talk. Bain had been right—the concentric rings of the target seemed to burn against his chest.

It was one thing to intentionally walk in here knowing he could get kidnapped. It was another to bait the enemy. If Burnett and Dean pushed too hard, the enemy could smell the trap. Walk away. Mission failed.

The thought made him itch to leave. To believe they
had
pushed too hard. It’d be easy. So easy to cross the marble floors, past the pillars and gauzy curtains, and stroll right out the front doors.

But Zahrah …

His fists balled.

“A glass of wine, sir?”

It took Dean a second to realize the server spoke to him. He finally gave a haphazard glance and shook his head.

“Very well, sir,” the guy said as he walked past, bumped against Dean’s shoulder.

Something slid into Dean’s hand. Heat spread across his chest as he casually lifted it. Glanced at the paper. It read:
They know what you’re planning
.

He drew straight, his gaze skipping around the room. His mind bungeed back to the server. Who was he? How did he know to give Dean the note? Who told him? Patrolling the perimeter with his gaze, Dean edged his way to the side. All too aware of the heavy firepower and itchy trigger fingers.

Crap. Why hadn’t they let some of the guys come? He hated this—feeling naked without his team. Without the reassurance of them covering his six. He had nothing now. Nothing but a hollow feeling in the pit of his gut.

God …
What? What did he pray? He walked into this knowingly. Did God’s mercy cover idiocy?
Just help me find her
.

Only as his heart settled with a strange warmth that spread through his limbs did Dean realize Burnett wasn’t in the room. Scanning the room, his gaze collided with a chilling pair of eyes.

Crap!

The cold emptiness in his gut boiled as he stared at the man. Behrooz Nemazi.

A door opened behind the man, who stared back unabashedly, and Dean’s pulse thudded. Burnett being hustled down a hall by the burly guy and two men aiming guns at his head.

Dean lurched forward.

But suits surrounded him.

Instinct kicked in.

A weapon in his face, Dean grabbed the muzzle and jerked it toward himself even as he stepped into the fight. Rammed the heel of his hand into the guy’s nose, sending the cartilage into his gray matter.

Something flew at him from the right. He ducked and wheeled around, his leg swiping the target’s feet out from under him, and yanked the weapon free. Armed with the Kalashnikov in his right hand, Dean brought it up as he squared off with four more. He fired twice.

But a half-dozen men dropped on him. He punched and kicked, knowing he was supposed to surrender, but the adrenaline drove him. The panic of dying. The terror of facing torture and unimaginable pain.

A weapon stock drove into his face. He rolled with the momentum of the blow, pain booming across his cheekbone and knifing through his right eye, which he felt swelling shut as he came back up.

Another hit nailed his jaw. Split his lip. Blood glanced along his tongue.

His knees went out from under him.

Pain exploded across his neck. Seconds later, he blinked and found himself on the floor with what felt like a dozen men on his back. He grunted and tried to arch his back. In a blur of black, the world vanished.

Presidential Residence, Balkh Province

S
on of a biscuit—get off me!”

Lance struggled against the wrestler’s hold that had his face pressed into a soft cushion, his arm strung up along his spine, straining the tendons and ligaments as the man held him down.

“It’s better this way.”

“You sorry piece—let me go. They’ll take my guy. I can’t let them!”

“It’s better this way,” the man repeated, his knee in the small of Lance’s back. “Trust me.”

“Not after this. Never again.” Lance struggled.

“It’s clear.” One of the two who’d stabbed their Glocks into his side and ordered him to walk out without Dean returned, his face bearing a sweaty sheen. “We must hurry.”

“I thought you were a friend,” Lance growled to the man holding him hostage. The handsome Sikh had not exactly been an American ally but a source of credible information. He’d saved their rear ends more times than Lance cared to admit or record on paper. Takkar’s skills and connections were as unfathomable as his rejection of radical Islam. Lance hadn’t fully trusted him. Ever. But he hadn’t expected this … this betrayal!

Tall, broad-shouldered, Sajjan Takkar stood unfazed, the white turban making him taller than his six-two height. “I am the only friend you have here, which is why you’re still alive.” Strong-arming Lance, he pressed forward, looking at Lance from behind. “Are you ready to play nice?”

“If by nice you mean punching your lights out—”

The man hauled him up and pushed him out the side door. They hurried down a service tunnel and into a waiting armored SUV.

“Don’t do this,” Lance shouted. “I can’t leave. Let me go—I have a man inside there!”

“As for your man, that I cannot help you with, but right now, your country needs you.”

“I can’t serve my country by being a coward—what do you mean you can’t help my man?”

“A
dead
coward isn’t going to do you much good either.” Takkar ushered Lance into the back of the SUV and climbed in behind him. “Go.” The locks engaged as the SUV spun out of the driveway.

Lance pounded his fist against the window, cursing. “Take me back. Take me back right now!”

“They knew what you were doing.”

“Of course they knew—we made sure they did.”

“No. They knew you planted the information. They know your friend was not Zarrick’s fiancé but a soldier on a mission.”

Lance stilled. “No …”

He nodded gravely. “You are alive because I bought your life. They were going to kill you both.”

“How … how did they know?” The vehicle drained of oxygen. His head spun. “They’re going to kill him.”

Somewhere in Afghanistan

S
leep came in snatches. With the shouting, the wailing, the moaning, the hinges groaning, the guards shouting or banging on walls—or her guilty conscience screaming against the murders of two people—Zahrah embraced what little rest she could find. Against the heaviness of exhaustion and starvation, she leaned on the wall and gave a soft snort. Never thought she could sleep without a pillow, then she came to Afghanistan and to her kaka’s house, where she was just grateful to sleep on a mattress on the floor.

Now, she’d kill for that mattress. Or a blanket. Anything to ward off the chill seeping into her bones despite the heat of summer. Arms folded over her chest, she fought off the memory of the near-rape. She pressed into the wall, wishing she could disappear into it.

What had the Chinese man meant about everything changing?