Книга - Special Forces: The Spy

Special Forces: The Spy
Cindy Dees


A secret agent kidnaps an undercover operative! To maintain his cover, spy Zane Cosworth kidnaps Medusa member Piper Ford. She might be trained to endure a hostage situation, but when one of her kidnappers continues to protect her from harm, she finds herself losing her heart.







A secret agent kidnaps an undercover operative!

The Mission Medusa series continues...

To maintain his cover, spy Zane Cosworth kidnaps Medusa member Piper Ford. She might be trained to endure a hostage situation, but when one of her kidnappers continues to protect her from harm, she finds herself losing her heart. They flee for their lives, and the lines between enemy and lover begin to blur. But will they survive long enough to explore this new passion?


New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author CINDY DEES is the author of more than fifty novels. She draws upon her experience as a US Air Force pilot to write romantic suspense. She’s a two-time winner of the prestigious RITA® Award for romance fiction, a twotime winner of the RT Reviewers’ Choice Best Book Award for Romantic Suspense and an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Best Author Award nominee. She loves to hear from readers at www.cindydees.com (http://www.cindydees.com)


Also by Cindy Dees (#u95de7290-5a1b-50d6-984a-38aef340738a)

Special Forces: The Recruit

Colton Under Fire

Undercover with a SEAL

Her Secret Spy

Her Mission with a SEAL

Navy SEAL Cop

Soldier’s Last Stand

Soldier’s Rescue Mission

Captain’s Call of Duty

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Special Forces: The Spy

Cindy Dees






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-09404-7

SPECIAL FORCES: THE SPY

© 2019 Cynthia Dees

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Contents

Cover (#u22b6d7fd-86a6-5c53-9a00-6b8bad57848d)

Back Cover Text (#u643f2180-bd76-581d-8c90-bfa474b107fa)

About the Author (#uce18b306-0866-5476-b931-e0739a7feb7b)

Booklist (#u99c10165-fab2-538c-bd80-84142427c591)

Title Page (#u76ebac09-96a5-558a-8941-48c1130e8258)

Copyright (#u44f8e665-edaf-5eed-bbef-db99d38e935c)

Chapter 1 (#u118909d7-52e7-5fa7-bc89-3e4b6d050ddb)

Chapter 2 (#u94e9492e-217e-54fb-95f8-e62f2058aacf)

Chapter 3 (#ufc265450-0bea-5189-a1fc-f139df8d30c8)

Chapter 4 (#ub334f2e0-19cd-5a75-8c52-e08ea0047155)

Chapter 5 (#u9eb31f60-2b05-54f4-8fd4-b67b7ffc507d)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter 1 (#u95de7290-5a1b-50d6-984a-38aef340738a)


Relishing the morning sunshine pouring through her cozy bungalow’s kitchen window, Piper Ford poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table to catch up on current events. Of course, she didn’t bother with newspapers. Instead, she browsed the classified briefing she and her teammates got each day covering every hot spot in the world.

It was one of the best perks of being a Medusa. She loved knowing the dirt that few besides her all-female Special Forces team had access to. But then, she always had been a poli-sci geek. Even at West Point, she’d reveled in getting into political debates with her classmates and instructors.

Her cell phone rang and she picked it up. Her next-door neighbor was calling. Susan and her six-year-old son, Jack, had welcomed her warmly to the neighborhood when she bought this place a few months back.

Piper had a particular fondness for the little boy, and he for her. Jack was a cool kid—funny, curious and smart as heck.

“Hi, Sus. What’s up?”

“Hey, Piper. I’m stuck at the hospital. My day replacement called in sick at the last minute, and they can’t find a nurse to sub in. I’m stuck in the ICU pulling a double shift. But my babysitter can’t stay late this morning. Is there any chance you could run Jack over to his school on your way to work?”

“When does he need to be there?”

“Eight fifteen.”

The Medusas had training at nine, but it was only about a twenty-minute drive from the town of Houma, Louisiana, to their classified facility, Training Site Vanessa, usually referred to as the TSV. It was tucked next to the Mandalay National Wildlife Refuge, deep in the bayous of southern Louisiana.

“Yeah, sure. I can drop him off on my way to work. Will he be ready to go around eight?”

“He should be. Rosie feeds him breakfast, gets him dressed and packs his lunch. I really am sorry about the last-minute notice. You’re an angel. I owe you one.”

Piper laughed, “I’m hardly an angel.”

“Shrimp étouffée? My place, this weekend?” Susan offered.

“Deal. I’ll bring the wine.”

Piper dressed in jeans and a casual white oxford shirt, befitting her cover story of being a civilian historian researching pirate activity in this part of southern Louisiana.

She stuffed the daily intel brief into her backpack, along with her pistol, some basic survival gear she felt naked without and a uniform for running around in the woods with the Medusas. Vietnamese Special Forces instructors were in town this week teaching her and her teammates advanced jungle camouflage and ambush tactics—key skills for Special Forces operators like the Medusas.

Piper backed her little sports car out of the garage and pulled into the driveway next door. Susie’s salmon pink front door opened and Jack darted out, all restless energy. Piper pushed the passenger door open for him and waved at Rosie, the babysitter, who followed him out the door at a more sedate pace, locking it behind her.

“Thanks for taking Jack to school!” Rosie called. “I have a doctor’s appointment today in New Orleans, and I’m gonna be late as it is.”

“No problem!” Piper called back. As Jack tumbled into the car beside her, she admonished, “Buckle your seat belt, squirt.”

A bolt of envy for Susan and regret for opportunities lost shot through Piper’s gut at the sight of Jack. Longing for a child tugged at her—longing for a family of her own. She’d have thought she would be over the sense of hollow emptiness for the children she would never have by now, given the career she’d picked. But it turned out biological clocks were powerful little bastards.

It had been a trade-off, and she’d made her choice. She had arguably one of the coolest jobs on the planet. But the sacrifice in return was no time for a private life.

In point of technical fact, she supposed a personal life was possible. But that would entail finding a man who didn’t mind his partner being a lethally trained special operator, prone to running off at a moment’s notice to who knew where to face who knew what danger.

The only man besides her boss who even knew the Medusas existed at this point was Captain Beau Lambert, the Medusas’ operations officer. And her teammate, Tessa Wilkes, had that man locked down tight. The two of them were engaged and had set a wedding date next year. They made a great couple. Goo-goo eyes flew thick and fast whenever they were in the same room.

But that left her without any eligible prospects in the love department.

“I like riding in your car, Miss Piper.”

“Why’s that?”

“’Cuz your car doesn’t have a back seat, and I get to sit in front.”

“When you get bigger, your mom will let you sit in front with her.”

“That’s what she says. I’m eatin’ as much as I can so I’ll get big really fast.”

“Patience, grasshopper. You’ll be all grown-up before you know it. Enjoy being a kid while you can.”

“Don’t you like being a grown-up?”

“I do most of the time. But it’s a lot easier being a kid. And more fun.”

“My mama says you have a super boring job.”

Piper mentally snorted. If Susan only knew the truth. The poor woman would run screaming from Piper. She smiled serenely. “I like my job.”

“Lucky dog. I hate school. I suck at it.”

“You do not. I happen to know you rock at all your subjects.”

“School’s boring.”

“Maybe you’re just too smart for the first grade.”

“Mama says I’m smarter than my teacher.”

Piper laughed, “I can believe it.”

They pulled up in front of Southdown Elementary School, a dark redbrick building that Piper privately thought looked more like a prison than a school. As Jack jumped out, she called after him, “Have a good day. And behave yourself!”

He flashed her an impudent grin and dashed inside.

She made it nearly halfway to the TSV before she happened to glance down and spied a brown paper bag on the floor of the passenger side of the car.

Rats. Jack had forgotten his lunch.

If she hit the stoplights exactly right, she had just enough time to zip back to his school, run his lunch inside and make it to the training site on time. The Medusas’ commanding officer, Major Gunnar Torsten, had no sense of humor whatsoever when it came to tardiness.

Classes had started by the time she got back to the elementary school, and the drop-off area was deserted. Parking quickly, she grabbed Jack’s lunch and hurried inside. To the left of the front door was a large glassed-in office that looked like a reception area lined with institutional, Formica-topped desks. Several women sat at them. A little girl who looked about eight years old stood beside one, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

Piper stepped inside. “Is this where I drop off a lunch a student has forgotten?”

“Yes, ma’am. Just a minute.” The gray-haired woman who answered her went back to talking with the child. “Your mom says she’ll be here in ten minutes with your inhaler—” The woman broke off, staring at something behind Piper.

A flurry of movement in the hallway outside caught Piper’s attention out the corner of her eye. Something—someone—adult-sized had just run past.

Was there a problem?

As she turned to take a better look, a man dressed all in black with a black ski mask over his face burst into the office. Piper flipped into combat mode in a millisecond, her senses going on high alert and adrenaline rushing to all her muscles.

She noted several things at once. The weapon, held across the man’s body, was an AK-47 with an extended mag, and he handled it like he was familiar with it. He was a shade over six feet tall. Athletic in build. Moved fast and silently, rolling from heel to toe with each step. Like a Special Forces operator.

“Everybody down!” he shouted.

The three women at their desks started to scream, and the little girl awaiting the inhaler froze, staring up at the man in openmouthed terror, like a rabbit in front of a wolf.

Stunned, Piper dropped to the floor with the other women. She was unarmed, alone and had no idea how many more men like this there were already inside the school. Terror and panic exploded in her gut in spite of all her Special Forces training.

God. Not a school shooting. A worst-case scenario on all counts. Nonexpendables everywhere—children—completely unequipped to defend themselves from harm. Targets handily clustered together in classrooms. Limited egress points. Even more limited sight lines. Chaos guaranteed.

Tragedy guaranteed.

By force of will and outstanding training, she pushed back all the paralyzing feelings and focused on acting.

Surreptitiously, she eased her cell phone out of her jeans pocket and dialed 9-1-1 by feel. She stuffed the phone under her hip lest the armed man brandishing the AK-47 hear the operator ask what the nature of her emergency was and kill her before she could answer.

She eased her hip off the phone and shouted, “What do you want, barging into an elementary school with an automatic weapon like that?”

“Quiet, or I’ll kill you!” the man shouted back. “Where’s Mrs. Black?”

“She’s out sick today,” one of the other women quavered from the floor.

Piper eased back on top of the phone, praying the emergency operator had gotten the idea and called for the SWAT team. And the FBI and the National Guard and whoever else could be called.

Standoffs with kids caught in the middle were no picnic, but maybe when law enforcement got here, they could negotiate some sort of hostage release.

She calculated her options at the speed of light. She could probably take out the lone armed man—she did have all the necessary unarmed-combat training and the element of surprise on her side.

Question was, where were the other men she’d peripherally seen racing past, and how many of them were there? If she got the weapon away from this one, she could go hunting for the others...although hunting in a building full of children and teachers would be a dreadful environment for taking out bad guys. The odds of shooting an innocent bystander were far too high to risk.

As those thoughts darted through her mind, the armed man did an odd thing. He strode over to the little girl, grabbed her by her upper arm, glanced around, then led her over to a tall wooden coat cabinet against the wall.

He opened the door, pushed her inside and said low, “Stay in there until the police come for you and don’t make a sound until then.”

Piper stared, so confused she momentarily forgot her terror. Did the intruder just save that little girl? Why on earth would an armed assailant do something like that?

He shut the closet door just before two more men raced into the office, dressed like him and similarly armed. Terrorist the First nodded tersely at his buddies.

What in the hell was this about? What did a bunch of men, attired and armed like bank robbers, want with a freaking elementary school?

“Where is she?” one of the newcomers demanded in Farsi. Piper’s Farsi wasn’t fluent, but that was definitely what she’d heard. These guys were Iranian? What on earth did they want here?

The terrorists commenced walking around the room, examining each of the women cowering on the floor. One screamed as an assailant grabbed her shoulder and lifted her up enough to see her face. These guys were looking for somebody? This was a hell of a violent and aggressive way of finding whoever they wanted.

The terrorists reached Piper, and she stared fixedly at their combat boots. Steel toes, nylon uppers, flexible rubber soles, quick-don zippers. Special operators’ footwear.

Was this some sort of exercise aimed at her? The Medusas did some wild stuff in the name of training, but surely they wouldn’t scare the hell out of a bunch of kids and teachers. Nah. This was the real deal.

A hand grabbed her shoulder roughly and threw her over onto her back. She rolled with the shove, not resisting. Unfortunately, the roll exposed her cell phone, and one of them kicked it away from her with his foot. Reflexively, her hand went out to retrieve it, but she froze as she made eye contact with the kicker.

Clear amber eyes stared down at her, the color of a fine cognac. They were hard eyes, but they didn’t contain the rage or fanaticism she’d expected.

He glanced at her outstretched hand splayed on the floor and did a double take. She swore mentally. Clearly visible on her fourth finger was her West Point class ring. In her guise as a civilian historian, she told people it had been her father’s, but it was actually hers.

The man’s eyes lit with recognition as he spied the chunky ring and its dark green central stone.

Dammit.

“Here she is!” he called out to the others in Farsi.

What? These men were here for her? How on earth did they know who she was? Nobody knew about the Medusa Project. It had been resurrected from ashes less than a year ago, for crying out loud.

Everyone had been led to believe the program was defunct and the military had abandoned the idea of training and equipping a team of female Special Forces operatives after the second Medusa team was wiped out in a mission gone terribly wrong.

The other two masked men grabbed her by her arms and hauled her upright. Adrenaline roared through her body, and it took all the discipline she had not to lash out and fight for her life against these men. She was hopelessly outgunned, and three on one was not the kind of odds she wanted to take into a fistfight.

She was a good hand-to-hand fighter, but she wasn’t invincible. Martial artists won against three attackers only in the movies. Carefully choreographed and scripted movies. Not real life. Not in an elementary school full of children.

“You’re sure this is her?” one of the other men asked the terrorist who’d hidden the little girl.

He stared at her indecisively. His gaze strayed to a telephone sitting on the desk beside her, to the exit door and then back to her face. He exhaled hard. Regret glinted in his stare. “Yes. That’s her.” His voice was a rough baritone and sounded stressed.

Who in the hell did they think she was? Who were they?

Her only play was to delay these guys as long as she could. Give the police time to respond to her call.

“Who are you?” she demanded in English. No way was she giving away that she understood anything they were saying to one another. “What do you want with me?”

She didn’t see the blow coming. A fist plowed into her jaw from the right side, snapping her head hard to the left and making her see stars. Dazed, she stared at the first man—the one with golden eyes—wincing silently in front of her.

Gingerly, she poked her right cheek with her tongue. No teeth felt loose, but the inside of her cheek was shredded. She opened her mouth, flexing her jaw experimentally. It didn’t feel broken.

Well. That didn’t go as planned. Dazed, she stared at her attackers. Real fear for her life flowed through her. She registered it, cataloged the emotion and forcibly pushed it down. She had no time for fear. Not if she wanted to live. And not if she wanted to protect the kids in this building.

She had to get these men outside, into the range of armed law enforcement officials, but slowly enough that said officials could get here before these guys fled.

“You’re sure it’s her?” the third man asked doubtfully in Farsi. “She doesn’t look much like her picture.”

“Yes, yes,” Goldeneyes snapped back in Farsi. “Blonde. Tall. Thirty years old. And she does match the picture. These Western women wear a lot of makeup and it changes how they look. I’m used to that, and you’re not. I’m telling you it’s her.”

With that declaration, Goldeneyes apparently sealed some sort of fate for her. The other two men nodded, accepting his word.

What picture? Part of becoming a Medusa was having her life scrubbed completely off the internet. Completely off. A team of cybersecurity experts did the initial wipe and then maintained continuous scans for any new images that might pop up. Even official public records were scrubbed. She did not exist in cyberspace.

So, how did these guys know her, let alone have a picture of her? She certainly had no idea who they were.

Belatedly, her mind working a couple steps slower than normal, she mentally corrected him. She was twenty-seven years old, not thirty, thank you very much.

In the distance, sirens became audible. God bless the 9-1-1 operator. She’d called in the cavalry, after all.

“Time’s up. Let’s go,” Jaw Puncher bit out.

The men hustled her out into the hallway. She briefly considered making a stand right there in the entrance, but they had AK-47s, and one blow from the butt of one of those would knock her out cold. She would just as soon stay conscious if she could. Also, there were all those kids just down the hall. She had no way of knowing if there were any more armed men in the building, and she dared not provoke these guys to start shooting.

She did her best to slow the men down, though, shortening her steps and resisting moving forward between them in the guise of being too zoned out to do anything but shuffle along drunkenly.

Irritably, they overpowered her and shoved her outside into the parking lot. More sirens were audible now. Lots of them. Unfortunately, they still sounded a half-dozen blocks away.

Goldeneyes stepped up close behind her and bodychecked her hard but not painfully, shoving his hip into her lower back, helping the other two men throw her into a white step van. She tumbled to the floor, slamming hard into its metal ribs. Gasping for air, she noted a fourth man darting out of the building to join them. A fifth man drove, pulling away from the front door with a hard lurch of the van.

One of the men snapped at the driver not to leave tire tracks, and the vehicle lurched again as he slowed down abruptly.

Fear bubbled up again in her throat, momentarily choking her.

She did the four-step breathing technique she’d been taught. In. Hold breath and count to four. Out. Count to four. In...

It took several breaths, but calm prevailed once more over her panic.

Okay. She was being kidnapped. Major suckage.

But there had been multiple witnesses. Law enforcement would put out an APB for this van in a few minutes. Houma was a small town deep in the bayou country, which meant there were only so many roads these men could travel in between the copious waterways.

This would be okay. An hour. Maybe two. A standoff, perhaps. With her, a trained Special Forces operative, on the inside. She would be the police’s secret weapon when it came time for a rescue. All she had to do was stay conscious and keep her wits about her. Trust her training.

The van pulled out of the parking lot and turned right. That would be south on Maple Street. They went straight for what she estimated to be five minutes, and then they turned left. A few minutes, another right turn and then they accelerated to highway speed. Maybe Bayou Black Drive heading west out of town?

Which would be ironic. That road would take them right past the unmarked turnoff to the Medusas’ secret facility, where her teammates were gathering for today’s training.

A sense of unreality washed over her. Surely, she was not being kidnapped by Iranian terrorists. This had to be a bad dream. It couldn’t be happening to her. Was that shock lowering its protective fog over her brain? It felt just the way her instructors had described it. Everything was happening at a distance. Muted. Not really touching her.

One of the men admonished the driver in Farsi, but she didn’t understand the command. In a second, she felt the vehicle slow down to a more sedate speed. Piper frowned. What on earth did Iranians want with her? She’d never had anything to do with that part of the world before—had never served or even traveled there and had no particular expertise on the region beyond reading her daily intelligence brief. What was going on here? She had to be missing something critical—

Something heavy smashed painfully into the back of her head, and she toppled forward as everything went dark.




Chapter 2 (#u95de7290-5a1b-50d6-984a-38aef340738a)


Zane Cosworth swore silently, wincing involuntarily as the terrorist calling himself Yousef clocked the woman prisoner on the back of the head with the butt of his AK-47. “Don’t kill her,” he snapped at the guy, the most volatile of the bunch.

“Shut up, Amir. I didn’t like how she was looking at me,” Yousef snarled back.

An urge to return the favor and clock the bastard upside the head made his hands twitch. Zane balled them into fists at his sides.

Amir was the name he’d used to infiltrate these SOBs’ sleeper cell. Not that they were sleeping after this morning’s little stunt.

They were a frustrating bunch, closemouthed and stingy with information for him, the new guy on the team. He was the only actual American among them, and he was convinced it was the sole reason he’d been brought on board. They called upon him to interact with other Americans and used him as their errand boy in any public situation where their accents might draw attention.

But that also meant he was completely expendable if he offended these guys or got in their way of whatever the hell their actual end goal was.

The team’s leader, Mahmoud, was definitely taking instructions from someone who communicated via encrypted cell phone, or occasionally via a Dark Web site that was even more heavily encrypted.

Rolling his eyes at Yousef, Zane leaned over the woman, ostensibly to check her pulse. He grabbed her right wrist with his left hand while surreptitiously slipping the ring off her fourth finger with his other hand and palming the piece. No way in hell could he let his compatriots discover that this woman was a West Pointer. If he was gauging Mahmoud correctly, the guy would kill her instantly.

Mahmoud said practically nothing about his personal beliefs, but he made no secret of despising Americans, particularly military members.

Zane slipped the ring into his pocket. He was seriously grateful that chance had thrown a female soldier in his path this morning. What she was doing at some elementary school in a small town in southern Louisiana, nowhere near an active military base, he had no idea. Call it a small act of God that had gone his way.

Not that he was a whole lot happier about throwing a soldier to the lions than he would be about doing it to some random civilian woman.

But he’d been forced to make the best of an impossible situation.

Of the four women cowering on the floor in the school’s front office, she’d looked to be by far the youngest and fittest of the bunch. Naming her as the target had been the least awful choice under the circumstances. Which wasn’t saying much.

Honestly, he’d feared that if he told the others he didn’t see their target in the office, where she normally worked as an assistant principal, they would start shooting kids to get the woman to reveal herself.

Mahmoud was a cagey bastard and had barely shared any information with any of his men about this fiasco. He’d briefed the cell members only about an anonymous woman they were supposed to find and kidnap.

Zane hadn’t thought it was enough detail to pass on to his superiors. He’d assumed Mahmoud and his boys would spend days or weeks finding the target, doing surveillance on her, picking the perfect spot to abduct her and then launching an operation to kidnap the woman.

Zane thought he had plenty of time to find out who the woman was, slip away from the other men and send a message to his superiors about this little operation. It galled him to have been outmaneuvered by a freaking terrorist like this.

Mahmoud also hadn’t given the team any indication whatsoever that today would be the actual snatch.

Zane had been nearly as shocked as the teachers and kids of Southdown Elementary School when they’d piled out of the van for real, armed with actual weapons and ammunition.

Mahmoud had passed around a picture and name of the target, Persephone Black—whoever the hell she was—in the van as they turned into the school parking lot. Zane hadn’t even had time to send an emergency text to his handlers to let them know who the target was and that an attack was imminent before Mahmoud had ordered them out of the van and barged into a flipping elementary school, armed to kill.

The picture itself had been informative. It was fuzzy and taken from a distance. The woman had been with a man on a crowded street that looked like some place in Europe. She was looking over her shoulder at something, and the shot of her face had been snapped in that moment. For all the world, it looked like a surveillance photo taken by someone following the couple.

Did that mean Mahmoud and his men were in the US on behalf of some foreign government with an intelligence service of its own? Iran was the obvious candidate, given that they sounded like native Farsi speakers.

Regardless, they were some sort of black-ops team, and they’d proved this morning that they were not averse to using violence.

As soon as he’d heard that the real target was out sick, he’d known he had a big problem. Mahmoud and his boys wouldn’t hesitate to shoot up a school full of little kids in retaliation for their victim being absent.

He felt really bad for this woman he’d inaccurately fingered as the target. He glanced down at her, crumpled on the floor of the van at his feet, and silently vowed to make it up to her somehow.

One thing Zane hated worse than just about anything else was being forced into a no-win choice. And God knew he’d faced one of those already today. He could either go along with assaulting a school, snatching a woman and scaring the hell out of a bunch of kids...or he could blow his cover, and throw away months’ worth of work gaining Mahmoud’s trust and worming his way inside what Zane’s superiors believed to be a dangerous and violent sleeper cell.

He’d very nearly gone ahead and turned his weapon on his coconspirators to take them out this morning. The one thing that had stopped him was being in an elementary school. The possibility of an innocent child being hit in the cross fire was the only reason any of these bastards were still alive.

If he just knew who they were, he would end this farce right now.

He did know one thing about them. They would never say anything under interrogation. They were all fanatic enough to die before giving up even their names.

He’d lived and worked with Mahmoud and his fellow psychopaths for months, and he still didn’t have any idea who they worked for or what their ultimate goal was. That was how closemouthed these men were.

Normally, Zane would pull the plug on an undercover op like this immediately and get the civilian victim out. Hell, he was on the verge of doing that very thing right now.

The only thing stopping him was that ring in his pocket. If the kidnapped woman was a West Pointer, maybe he could let this thing play out just a bit more—a few minutes or a few hours—and get his answers before he called in the big guns to take these jerks down.

Thing was, if Mahmoud and company did work for Iran, they would only be replaced by another sleeper cell of trained killers when US authorities took these guys out.

Hence the urgent need to know who they worked for and what their end goal was. He didn’t for a minute believe that kidnapping some woman from an elementary school was the primary reason this cell had infiltrated the United States.

They posed some much-greater national security threat. But what?

Nope, he’d had no choice today. He had to throw this woman he’d never seen before under the bus and maintain his cover a little longer. He hated it, and he would do whatever he had to do to protect her.

Just a little while, he mentally promised her.

The unconscious woman beside him moved faintly and then subsided again. Yousef had hit her way too damned hard if she was still out cold. Zane knew from long experience in the field that if she was unconscious more than a few minutes, she would likely be out for the next couple hours.

Patience, Zane. Now was not the time to make his move to rescue her. He was probably her only chance of survival. But he would get one shot—and no more than one shot—at rescuing her. He had to wait until she was conscious, able to move fast and willing to cooperate with him.

He hoped to God she understood his choice and one day forgave him for it.

Did it make him a dreadful human being that he’d forced her into helping him figure out what these terrorists were up to? That he’d potentially sacrificed this woman’s emotional well-being, and maybe her life, to save many more lives down the road?

Hell, he was already a dreadful human being. As an undercover agent, he deceived people and lied for a living. He’d even done criminal acts in the name of keeping his covers. He drew the line at hurting or killing innocent victims, although he was skirting dangerously close to that line today. Hell, sometimes he wondered if he was even one of the good guys anymore.

He owed this woman huge. When the time was right, he silently promised her he would find a way to save her from these men.

But how...and when...he had no idea.

Scowling, he leaned back beside her slumped body. He propped an elbow casually on his upraised knee. “Anyone following us?” he asked Bijan, the youngest of the crew, who crouched at the dirty rear window of the van.

“No. We’re clear,” the kid answered.

Zane had to give these guys credit. They’d run the grab-and-go to perfection, managing their time on scene to the second and getting away moments before the first police car arrived. His certainty that they were military trained—more specifically, Special Forces trained—intensified.

His concern for the woman intensified, as well. Men like this wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if and when they figured out they had grabbed the wrong person.

He studied her face. She was pretty. Her hair was dark blond and her skin was smooth and slightly olive complexioned. The combination was unusual and striking. Her legs were lean in her blue jeans, and her shirt was currently twisted tight against some nice curves. Her fingers were long and slender with short, cracked fingernails.

Those fingernails surprised him. She looked put together enough to be the kind of woman to always have a perfect manicure. What did she do to beat up her hands like that?

“Pull over at the next gas station,” Mahmoud, the team leader, ordered Hassan, the driver.

It took a few minutes, but Zane felt the van decelerate. They pulled around to the side of a tiny rural gas station advertising with a hand-painted sign that it also sold beer, fishing bait and, more alarmingly, gator bait.

After a quick check to verify that the gas station had no surveillance cameras, Mahmoud and Yousef piled outside. Zane followed more slowly. The other men were already peeling off temporary decals on the side of the vehicle announcing it to be an air-conditioning service van. Meanwhile, Bijan used a screwdriver to change the rear license plate. When had these guys set up this van as a slick getaway vehicle?

Alarm slammed through him. Had they done it before he’d joined the team? Or had they done it behind his back?

Odds were they’d done it recently. Which was freaking scary. It meant they still didn’t trust him.

Which also meant that not only was his life in mortal danger, but the woman’s, as well.

The underlying tension that always hummed in his gut when he was undercover ratcheted up violently. He didn’t like this. Not one bit. Was he a prisoner in this van, too? How fine a tightrope was he walking with Mahmoud and his men? He’d been useful to them as long as they were trying to keep a low profile and not be noticed by the locals. But if they’d completed their mission, these men would go to ground or flee the country and not need his services any longer.

His intuition screamed that he was blown. That it was time to bug out.

Normally, he never went against his gut feelings. Over and over through the years, his gut had proved to be right. And right now, it was telling him in no uncertain terms to abandon this operation immediately. The feds had plenty of ammunition to arrest these men and put them away for a very long time after this morning’s stunt in the elementary school.

The authorities might never figure out what Mahmoud’s primary goal had been, but at least this particular terror cell would be off the street.

However, the woman changed everything. Zane couldn’t possibly bail out now. Not as long as these men held an innocent woman captive. An innocent women he had put into these violent men’s hands.

He mentally swore. He mustn’t do anything to arouse these guys’ suspicions. The danger of staying in this undercover assignment drove home hard, a punch in the gut that left him gasping.

Too tense to be still one more second, Zane walked around behind the van, pretending to stretch his legs. “Can I help with the signs?” he asked casually.

Mahmoud wadded up the last of the adhesive vinyl and tossed it in a trash can. He shoved a cigarette lighter down into the barrel, and a thin stream of smoke commenced rising from its contents. “No. We’re finished. As soon as Osted gets out of the bathroom, we’ll go.”

Zane nodded slowly, trying to look impressed. “You guys are good. I’m grateful you let me learn from you, almuelim alhakim.” He dropped in the Arabic phrase meaning “wise teacher” to gauge Mahmoud’s reaction.

The guy nodded shortly and looked vaguely less irascible than usual, acknowledging the compliment.

Zane guessed they were assets of VAJA—the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence. But they never talked politics, not even in the most general of terms. They talked about European soccer and the weather for the most part. And such a degree of operational discipline scared the living hell out of him.

He strolled to the corner of the cinder-block building and, with a glance over his shoulder to make sure no one saw him, surreptitiously dropped the woman’s class ring on the ground. There. One piece of evidence showing her to be a soldier erased. Now he just had to make sure she didn’t have some other form of ID on her—dog tags, or maybe a wallet with a military ID in it.

For that matter, he needed to get rid of any identification she had on her. He had to keep up the ruse of her being Persephone Black for as long as he possibly could. Until both he and the woman could escape. Everything depended on it.

Including his life. And hers.

* * *

Tessa Wilkes eyed her boss cautiously. Major Gunnar Torsten was not a happy camper this morning. He barked, “Still no answer on Piper’s phone?”

“No, sir,” Rebel McQueen replied from her post at the ops center’s communications panel. “I pinged her phone’s locator function, and it puts her in Houma.” Which was the nearest actual town to their secret training facility.

“Where in Houma?” Torsten demanded.

“Um, at an elementary school.”

“What in the hell is she doing there?” he snapped.

Rebel didn’t answer and instead threw Tessa a distressed look. She felt Rebel’s pain. Torsten was usually a stern guy and all business, but this morning he really had a burr up his butt. Catching the silent plea for help, Tessa sighed and spoke up. “Do you want me to go fetch her, sir?”

“No! But I damned well want to know why one of my highly trained, supposedly responsible operatives has gone AWOL.”

Rebel spoke from her console again, muttering, “That’s odd.”

Everyone looked at her. She glanced up and started. “Oh. Um, I just pinged her backup locator. The one in her class ring from West Point. It’s not in Houma.”

“It had better be headed this way at a high rate of speed,” Torsten ground out.

Man, the boss had seriously woken up on the wrong side of the bed today. Not that he was ever tolerant of screwups. He was fond of saying that seconds were the difference between life and death. He wasn’t wrong, of course.

Rebel reported, “Her secondary locator is moving away from us on Bayou Black Road, heading northwest. It’s about fifteen miles west of here.”

Tessa, the first member of their new Medusa team and more at ease with Torsten than Rebel, leaned forward. “Something’s wrong. Piper would have called one of us if she had a problem and couldn’t get here on time. And she would never go AWOL.”

Torsten huffed in irritation. “We can’t wait any longer. Our Vietnamese instructors are only here for a few days, and I need you to learn as much as you can while you have access to them. Fall out, ladies.”

Rebel and Tessa stood, trading worried glances with one another. It was supremely unlike Piper to blow off required training, and even more unlike her not to check in with someone. A note of worry started to vibrate low in Tessa’s gut.

The major led the way to the reinforced steel door disguised to look like weathered wood siding, unsealing it and stepping out into the morning’s steamy heat. Tessa fell into step beside Major Torsten.

She said soberly, “Sir, I’m worried something has happened to Piper. You taught us to listen to our intuitions, and mine says she’s in some sort of trouble. I think one of us should go look for her.”

He frowned, but at least he didn’t rip her head off. “I’ll take your intuition under advisement. If Piper doesn’t show up in the next hour or so, I’ll go looking for her myself.”

Yikes. Piper was in a heap of trouble.




Chapter 3 (#u95de7290-5a1b-50d6-984a-38aef340738a)


Piper regained consciousness slowly. Her head throbbed painfully, and it didn’t help matters that every time the van hit a bump in the road, the metal floor bounced underneath her temple, whacking her head again.

Her lips were dry, and her bladder was full, which meant she’d been out for a while. A couple hours, possibly. Dang it! They could’ve changed directions a dozen times without her knowing. She had no way of knowing where she was now!

A sense of disorientation swirled around her. As if she was completely disconnected from the real world. It was scary as hell, and she had to force herself to lie perfectly still until her breathing settled back down and the panic attack passed.

Questions peppered her mind almost too fast to catalog. Where was she? Who were these guys? What did they want with her? How much danger was she in? Where were they taking her? Would she have a shot at escaping them? Did they plan to kill her? Was this even real?

Cautiously, she cracked her eyes open and saw black pants and black combat boots. It hadn’t been a terrible dream. She really had been kidnapped. The weight of panic landed on her chest again, and she struggled to control her breathing.

She could just lie here pretending to be unconscious...but just then the van hit a big bump and slammed her head hard into the floor.

Ow.

She probably had a concussion already from the blow that had knocked her out. No need to exacerbate the stupid thing. Piper pushed against the floor with both hands, sitting up groggily. At least none of the men stopped her from doing so.

The ski masks had come off, replaced by baseball caps pulled down low and dark sunglasses. Drat. She still wouldn’t be able to identify her kidnappers in a lineup. She felt the weight of their stares upon her and did her best not to freak out and start screaming hysterically.

Whatever this was, whoever they were, she had to keep her wits about her, watch, wait and seize the opportunity to escape when it presented itself. And surely one would. She had to believe she would have a chance to get away, eventually.

Be calm. Breathe. Relax.

She did her level best to settle into the state of loose readiness that Major Torsten stressed over and over was absolutely necessary to peak performance.

At least they hadn’t tied her up. It was a small victory, but she knew from her POW training that those were all a hostage could hope to achieve.

Choking fear bubbled up in her throat unbidden, and she stomped it down hard. She had no time for that. This was a battle of wits and wills, and she needed all of hers. In the meantime, maybe she could figure out who these guys were, why they’d grabbed her and where they were going.

Pitching her voice to be polite and diffident, she asked, “Who are you?” A little rapport with her kidnappers could never hurt.

They stared back at her in stony silence. One of the men was seated beside her, between her and the driver. Which ruled out her making a dive for the steering wheel and maybe putting the van in a ditch.

“Why did you kidnap me?” she added.

Still nothing.

She debated starting up a one-sided conversation with these men to provoke them to talk, but ultimately decided she would be better served acting scared to death and letting them lead the conversation wherever they wanted to.

She craned her head to peer out the front window and saw a ribbon of interstate highway stretching away in front of the van. The sun seemed to be overhead, so she had no means of working out what direction they were going. But it confirmed she’d been unconscious for a while.

She realized her elbow was lightly rubbing the arm of one of the bad guys. Based on his build, she thought it might be Goldeneyes. Subtly, she shifted away from him. If she wasn’t mistaken, she heard him exhale in irritation. What did he have to be irritated about? She wasn’t his freaking girlfriend. And she wasn’t about to cozy up to some homicidal terrorist.

Except, when they finally stopped at a rest area near a truck stop, that same homicidal terrorist was the one who helped her out of the van and steadied her elbow for a second while blood flow returned to her legs. Yup. Definitely Goldeneyes. He was the tallest and broadest of shoulder of the whole bunch.

He muttered in unaccented English, “Don’t try anything, or my companions will shoot this place up and kill everyone here.” Oddly enough, he sounded almost apologetic when he made his threat. What was the deal with this guy?

He also was the one who guided her over to the ladies’ restroom, parked outside the door and said gruffly, “Two minutes, and then I’m coming in after you.”

She went inside and checked quickly to see if there were any other women in there whom she could ask for help. The place was empty except for her. Damn.

But there was a window on the far end of the long bay of toilet stalls. She eyed it critically. It was small and high, but she might be able to squeeze through it. At least it was worth a try.

She climbed up on the nearest sink to the window and punched her fist through the screen covering it. The actual window was mounted on a hinge that swung out, and she forced it wide-open. It was awkward aiming her arms through the small opening while jumping up, but she managed to land her waist on the sill. Pushing against the outside wall with her hands and kicking her legs, she wriggled through.

She fell headfirst and caught herself with her arms, rolling into a somersault.

Yes. Free.

She jumped up and took off running as fast as she could. A large field of mowed grass separated her from the truck stop—and other people—perhaps a quarter mile away.

She sprinted for all she was worth. Her breath came in huge gulps, and pounding blood roared in her ears. Must. Get. Away. Her thighs burned and her lungs screamed for air, but she pumped her arms hard and kept on going for all she was worth.

She was about halfway across the field when, without warning, something huge and heavy tackled her from behind, landing on top of her and knocking the breath out of her. She gasped frantically for air, but none came.

Dammit. She’d never even heard him coming.

A hard hand plastered over her mouth, which did nothing to help her regain her breath.

A male voice snarled low in her ear, “You and I are going to stand up. Then you’re going to turn around and walk back to the van and climb in, all nice-like and cooperative.” Hot breath wafted over her ear as her captor leaned close to add, “And if you don’t, I’ll knock you out and carry you back to the damned van.”

A detached voice in a far corner of her mind registered that he hadn’t threatened to kill her. But in the abrupt rush of adrenaline that accompanied the return of her ability to breathe, she ignored the voice and thrashed wildly beneath him.

She managed to get turned over on her back, but he was significantly bigger and stronger than she was, and apparently a trained wrestler. He flattened her with demoralizing ease. Their bodies pressed together in what would be a blatantly sexual fashion under any other circumstances.

As it was, she held herself rigid beneath him and did her best to ignore the way his thighs pressed against hers, the bulge of his crotch against the junction of her legs, the way his hard stomach pressed into hers and how her breasts smashed against his chest.

Goldeneyes, indeed.

She stared up at him in shock. Either his tackle or their struggle had knocked his baseball cap and sunglasses off, and she got her first good look at him.

If one human being could look any less like a violent criminal, this guy was it. His hair was a sun-tossed mix of brown and gold, nearly the same color as his eyes. His skin was tanned, his jaw chiseled, his features classy. All in all, he looked like he belonged on Martha’s Vineyard, wearing chinos, a polo shirt and a white cricket sweater, sailing a boat on a crisp summer day.

Her brows twitched into a frown. She’d pegged all of these guys as Iranians from their use of Farsi. But this one didn’t look even remotely Persian.

“Who are you?” she breathed.

“Get up.” With a quick flex of powerful biceps, he popped to his feet. He had a crushing grip on her hand and gave a hard yank on it now, dragging her upright.

He frisked all her pockets and then did a weird thing. He checked her neck for jewelry. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Making sure you don’t have a wallet with any identification in it or dog tags on you,” he muttered.

Realization smacked into her, like a slap across the face. He didn’t want any of the other terrorists to figure out her real name. If that was the case, then this wasn’t about her being a Medusa at all. That was a relief, at least. Although it still left behind the glaring question of what in the world these guys wanted with some woman who worked with little kids.

With a quick jerk, he twisted her arm up and back behind her, shoving her along in front of him, back toward the rest stop building. The van was out of sight on the other side of the structure.

“What’s your name?” she gasped.

“Amir.”

“Baloney,” she blurted. “That’s not your name. You’re named something preppy like Chad or Blaine.”

He gave a warning tug on her twisted arm that was just shy of painful.

“You really should set me free,” she tried. “I guarantee you don’t want to face the criminal penalties when you guys get caught. All the law enforcement authorities will already be out looking for me. You’ll never get away with this. If you let me go right now, by the time I can get over to the truck stop, call the police and wait for them to respond, you guys can be long gone. A clean getaway.”

“The others will come out of the van any second to see what’s taking so long. They have long-range rifles and know how to use them. You’d never make it across that field alive.”

He almost sounded regretful about that. Weird.

“Be quiet,” he bit out as they approached the building she’d broken out of.

He shocked her by walking her into the ladies’ room and shoving her toward a toilet stall. He was still going to let her go to the bathroom? By rights, he should haul her back to the van, toss her in and let her suffer—or soil herself—after her attempted escape.

She used the facilities fast and was not surprised when she opened the stall door to see him looming just outside. He grabbed her elbow and steered her toward the van.

He growled low, “If my partners find out about your little stunt, they’ll kill you—or worse. However, if you’ll promise not to say anything about your failed escape attempt, I won’t, either.”

“Um, okay,” she responded in confusion. Now, why on earth did he make that offer? Surely it was only because he would get in trouble for her nearly getting away. Still. Something was off about this guy.

He hustled her back to the van and started to hoist her inside. “I’ve got this,” she snapped, yanking her arm out of his grip. She got the distinct impression he chose to let go of her. His hand felt plenty strong enough to have resisted her tug.

“That took a long time,” one of the other men complained in Farsi.

“Women,” her strange captor responded, rolling his eyes.

The other man grunted in commiseration.

A frisson of satisfaction coursed through her. If they wanted to underestimate her because she was a woman, she was totally fine with that. Wait till they figured out she was a trained Special Forces operative. They weren’t going to know what had hit them. Anticipation of the moment when she kicked butts and took names coursed through her.

Patience, Piper. Patience.

Not to worry. She would show them, all in due time.

She considered her captor’s name. She supposed it was possible his name really was Amir, but it had rung false when he said it. He just didn’t seem to own the name the way he would have if it had been his actual name. No, Goldeneyes fitted him better.

They drove for perhaps two more hours, taking back roads exclusively. The next time they stopped, she spied through the windows a tiny town boasting a single flashing red light, one gas station/convenience store/Laundromat and a Baptist church. Goldeneyes was the only man to exit the van. Which made sense if he was the only American in the bunch. He would draw a lot less attention than the others in this rural part of the country where few foreigners visited. He went outside to pump and pay for gas, and escorted her to the restroom again.

She didn’t have a peanut-sized bladder, and in the absence of anything to drink didn’t particularly have to use the restroom, but she still took the chance when offered. Who knew when they would stop again? And it felt good to get up and move around, get some circulation back in her legs. Wary of her captors killing the cashier, she didn’t cause a fuss as Goldeneyes marched her inside.

She did, however, make a point of saying hello to the teen girl behind the counter and making direct eye contact with her. Maybe if this girl saw some sort of news story on a kidnapped woman, she would remember seeing Piper and call the authorities.

Goldeneyes had a painfully tight grip on her elbow as they walked past the store attendant, and Piper didn’t test his unspoken warning to behave herself. There was no telling how far his goodwill would extend, and she’d pushed it pretty hard already.

He deposited her back in the van and went inside once more, returning after a few minutes carrying several grocery bags full of sandwiches and snacks.

Oh, no. That looked like road-trip food. Which meant they still had a ways to go before reaching their final destination.

“Where are we headed?” she tried.

Her captors just stared at her stonily.

The van pulled back out onto the road, and despair washed through her. The next time they stopped, she needed to let someone know she was in trouble and to call the police. But how? With Goldeneyes hovering over her every move and the threat that his teammates would kill innocent bystanders ringing in her ears, it wasn’t like she had a lot of options.

He passed her a bottle of water. Silently, she took it and downed the whole thing. She had to give him credit; he was taking pretty decent care of her, all things considered. For the moment, at least, these men seemed interested in keeping her alive. Thank God.

At least she was able to tell by the setting sun that they were traveling more or less toward the north, and maybe slightly west. By now they had to have left Louisiana, which put them possibly in Arkansas.

They started to go up and down hills—which made sense if they were in the western portion of Arkansas, entering the Ozark Plateau. Which was both good and bad news. Good because it was lush country with plenty of food, water, shelter and cover for her eventual escape. The bad news was that it was isolated country with areas of very sparse population. She might have to evade her captors for days before she found help.

Why in the world had these men gone to all the trouble of kidnapping her just to haul her off on this extended road trip? Why not kill her in or near Houma? Did they plan to ransom her back to the Medusas? Surely they knew the US government adhered to a strict pay-no-ransom policy. And it wasn’t like she had a rich family that would cough up money for her return. Her dad owned a small auto-repair shop and her mom was a preschool teacher.

Her captors took turns napping and driving into the evening, all except for Goldeneyes. He seemed to have appointed himself her personal guard, and the other men seemed to have silently agreed to let him assume all babysitting duties.

A small blessing for which she was grateful. He seemed generally concerned about her comfort and well-being, while the other men looked at her with open contempt as if she were of no more worth or interest than a bug crawling across the floor of the van. Their dismissive attitude would be their undoing if she had anything to say about it.

It had gotten dark outside when she noticed most of the men were dozing. Only the driver and Goldeneyes were awake. His disturbingly beautiful stare was locked on her like it had been for most of the past twelve hours.

“What’s your real name?” she asked in a low voice.

“Amir.”

“Fine. Be that way. I’ll just stick to calling you Goldeneyes in my mind.”

His right eyebrow lifted faintly, but he didn’t show any other reaction.

“My name is Piper.”

He replied firmly, “Your name is Persephone Black.”

“I beg your pardon?” she blurted. He’d asked about a Mrs. Black when he’d first stormed into the school office. Was she a teacher? Why would these men kidnap an elementary school teacher?

“Your name. It’s Persephone Black. You can pretend to be anyone you want. But we know who you really are.”

What on God’s green earth was he talking about? Had they kidnapped the wrong person?

“But...you looked right at me... You said you’d seen my picture...that you knew I was the right person—”

“Quiet,” he bit out low, cutting her off.

She looked away from him and realized that the man who acted like the leader was awake, his eyes barely slitted open. How had “Amir” known the boss was awake? She hadn’t gotten the slightest indication of it—not even a hint of intuition that she was being watched. Wow. Her powers of observation were messed up worse than she’d realized. And his—they were sharp and on point.

“May I please have some more water?” she asked meekly.

Goldeneyes passed her a bottle of water without comment.

She downed it and added the bottle to the pile of trash growing in the back of the van: food wrappers and soda cans. These men’s discipline clearly did not extend to picking up after themselves. Either that or they planned to ditch the van at some point. Still. There would be fingerprints and DNA all over that trash.

With darkness, the team had taken off their sunglasses and hats, and she’d seen all their faces now. She’d watched them all evening, learning each man’s features from many different angles. The bump on the bridge of a nose, the angle of a jaw, the shape and fullness of lips, even the timbre of their voices.

She was confident she could pick out any of these men from a lineup if it ever came to that. Now she just had to make sure she stayed alive and got away so it could.

All of them except Goldeneyes were black haired, dark eyed, and their skin was caramel toned, in keeping with a Middle Eastern heritage. Two of them looked quite young, in their early twenties.

The other three looked hard as nails and closer to their midthirties in age. The older men reminded her of Gunnar Torsten. They all had the same hardness and cool, lethal confidence as her boss. She made a mental note not to mess with any of the older men.

As for Goldeneyes, he was the odd man out. Besides his fair coloring, he looked about thirty years old, and he carried himself differently than the others. At least, he did now.

When he’d stormed into the school office, he’d exhibited all the deadly confidence of the older men. But now, he slouched in the back of the van, eyes down, shoulders hunched. As if he was trying to make himself invisible to the other men. Odd. He didn’t strike her as the submissive-follower type. At all. But he was clearly acting like the low man in the pecking order.

The van slowed and turned off the winding two-lane road they’d been following up and down mountainsides for the past hour. It commenced bumping and banging over what was obviously some sort of bad dirt road.

They spent two or three more minutes getting tossed all over the back of the van, and then, just like that, the vehicle stopped. The driver turned off the ignition.

They’d arrived. Wherever that might be.

The silence and stillness were a shock to her system after spending the last twelve hours or so in the rumbling, vibrating van.

“Out,” the one called Mahmoud ordered.

Bijan, one of the young ones, opened the double back doors, and Piper glimpsed the dark silhouette of a decent-sized log cabin with a long porch across its front. Trees—deciduous, she noted—crowded close, and there was no ambient light in the sky to indicate a city of any kind nearby. Yup. These guys had brought her out into the middle of nowhere to hold for whatever dastardly purpose they had in mind for her.

Goldeneyes hopped out of the van in front of her and turned around to help her out. She was tempted to shake off his hand, but her legs were numb, and as she stood on them, they tingled so badly she wasn’t sure they would hold her full weight. She clung to his powerful forearm while circulation returned to her aching limbs. After a few seconds, she let go of his arm.

“Better?” he murmured under his breath.

“Uh-huh,” she muttered back.

He stepped behind her, efficiently twisting her arm behind her, but putting no pressure on it that would be painful. His intention was clear: if she didn’t fight him, he wouldn’t hurt her.

For now, at least. As long as their silent truce held.

She didn’t for a second believe these terrorists had brought her out here solely to enjoy the fresh air. They had some agenda up their sleeves. She just couldn’t fathom what it was.

Which led her back to the same question that had been preoccupying her all day. Why her?




Chapter 4 (#u95de7290-5a1b-50d6-984a-38aef340738a)


It didn’t take long after the report of armed men at Southdown Elementary School in Houma hit the news for the Medusas to put two and two together. They were taking a water break in the woods when Rebel, glancing at her cell phone, exclaimed.

Tessa piped up, asking, “Whatcha got, Reb?”

The communications specialist looked up from her phone grimly. “I just got a breaking-news alert. Armed men burst into Southdown Elementary School in Houma this morning and kidnapped an unnamed woman. She’s described as tall, blonde and in her mid-to late twenties.”

Tessa lurched upright from where she’d been lounging on a patch of moss. “That’s got to be Piper!”

Major Torsten cut in. “Where are Captain Ford’s cell phone and class ring locations now?”

Rebel answered, “I’d have to go back to the ops center to answer that, sir.”

“What are you waiting for, then?” Torsten snapped.

Tessa got that he was worried about Piper. But he didn’t have to bite their heads off!

Her train of thought derailed abruptly. Torsten was always tough, but he’d never been this snappish before. She traded worried looks with her fiancé, Beau, and his thoughts clearly mirrored hers. He was worried about the boss, too. Beau had worked for Gunnar Torsten for several years before being asked to help train the new Medusa team. If even Beau was worried about him, something was definitely wrong with Torsten.

When they hustled back to the vehicles to drive back to base, she made a point of climbing in the front passenger seat of the Hummer Torsten was driving.

“What’s up, sir?”

He glanced over at her and bit out, “I’ve got a missing and possibly kidnapped team member.”

“Besides that,” she replied carefully.

“Isn’t that enough?”

“You were way more tense than usual even before we thought anything was wrong with Piper...sir.”

He exhaled hard and turned his eyes back to the road. “I got an intel report last night.”

“And?”

“It indicates that Abu Haddad may not be dead.”

“What?” she and Beau squawked simultaneously. The two of them had by a hair escaped dying in the explosion that had killed Haddad last year. The international, and very illegal, arms dealer, had to be dead! His entire yacht—and everyone on it—had been blown into bits not much larger than her finger. Beau had set the charges himself.

Torsten replied heavily, “We never did get a confirmation of death.”

Beau leaned forward from the back seat and ground out, “That’s because nothing but matchsticks and the occasional chunk of meat were left when I was done blowing up that bastard’s yacht.”

Tessa frowned at their boss. “Why does someone think Haddad may be alive?”

Torsten huffed, clearly as unhappy as she and Beau were. “A rumor has surfaced that the Haddad network may be doing some sort of big secret deal with a Middle Eastern nation. The source apparently has it on good authority that Haddad himself is expected to close the deal. It’s possible that one of his flunkies has taken over the business. But there’s also a very small chance that the bastard is back.”

“What country is this deal with?” she asked.

“Rumor places the deal in Iran.”

“For what kind of weapons?” Beau asked quickly.

Tessa wasn’t sure that mattered. The Iranians were dangerous enough with the weaponry they already had. Although she supposed the last thing anyone needed was for that country’s leaders to get their hands on something high-tech and truly deadly.

“No idea,” Torsten replied.

“It’s not like we have a ton of human information sources on the ground in Tehran,” she commented. “If someone outside its borders could figure out who’s making the sale and what the cargo is, we’d have a better chance of finding out what the Iranians are getting their hands on.”

Appearing to give himself a mental shake, the major replied, “Not our problem, today. Right now, I need us to focus on finding Piper.”

“Of course, sir.” But curiosity about what a dead arms dealer was selling to a country like Iran continued to niggle at the back of Tessa’s mind.

They parked in front of the one-story building that was their communications facility and operational headquarters for Training Site Vanessa, named for Brigadier General Vanessa Blake, the founder of the Medusas over a decade ago.

Their headquarters squatted on stilts and looked like every other ramshackle fishing shack in this part of Terrebonne Parish. Notable only was the building’s lack of windows, and the unusually bulky storage shed under the center of the building.

In reality, that shed disguised the elevator shaft down into the underground/underwater bunker that housed the heart of their ops center. The aboveground building mainly disguised antennae and receivers for the equipment below.

They piled into the elevator and stood in silence as it whooshed them down into the bunker. The door opened into the perpetual twilight of a room crammed with computers and monitors.

Rebel sat at her communication console and typed quickly. In just a few seconds, she reported without looking up from her screen, “Piper’s phone is still at the elementary school where it was this morning.”

“And her backup locator signal?” Torsten asked.

“It appears stationary about fifty miles west of here,” she reported. “Reporters are saying a group of masked men were seen coming out of a white air-conditioning company van and heading into the elementary school. They left in the same vehicle. Presumably with Piper in tow.”

Major Torsten left Rebel to man the ops center in case Piper called in, and loaded Tessa and Beau into his Hummer. They drove west, paralleling the murky waters of Bayou Black to the GPS coordinates Rebel had given them for Piper’s backup locator signal. It turned out to be coming from a crappy little 1950s-era gas station in the middle of nowhere.

The gray-haired Cajun man inside the station swore he hadn’t seen any woman fitting Piper’s description all day. When Tessa showed him a picture of Piper on her cell phone, the attendant declared her hot, but again denied having seen her. Tessa was inclined to believe him.

Torsten called Rebel to confirm they were at the right place, and she was adamant that their position locators were literally on top of Piper’s. And it was still pinging.

They fanned out to search the area, and after a minute or so, Tessa spotted a glint in the gravel at the corner of the building. She bent down and picked up Piper’s West Point class ring. The one with the locator in it.

“I found her ring!” she called out.

“Don’t move!” Torsten ordered immediately. He knelt down, examining the dirt between himself and Tessa. After a moment, he moved off to his right, toward the side of the building. Using his finger, he drew a rectangle on the ground. “Tire track. Recent,” he commented, continuing to stare at the dusty clay.

Beau moved forward to join him in staring at the ground. He had a sniper’s outstanding eyesight and was the best tracker of all of them.

“Looks like three men,” he murmured. “They milled around beside the vehicle.”

Torsten nodded. “And one walked over there to the corner of the building and back, close to where the ring was.”

“Did he drop it, maybe?” Tessa asked.

Beau answered grimly, “I don’t see any tracks small or narrow enough to be Piper’s. These are all men in boots.”

“Agreed,” Torsten muttered. “I don’t think she dropped it as a bread crumb for us.”

“Either way,” Tessa commented, “we know she was headed west a couple hours ago.”

Beau crouched and studied the dirt a bit more, adding, “It looks like some of the tracks lead over to this burn barrel.”

Tessa detoured around the footprints to stare into the rusty container at the pile of light gray ashes inside. It didn’t look like it would hold any clues to Piper’s whereabouts.

Torsten moved over beside her to gaze into the trash barrel, the contents of which were smoking lazily and stank of burnt plastic. He gingerly poked around in them.

“Do you see anything, sir?” she asked hopefully.

“Nope. Just ashes. If the guys in the van dropped anything in here, it’s gone.”

Damn.

Torsten moved away from her and pulled out his cell phone.

“Where’s Piper now?” Tessa asked logically.

Beau looked up grimly from snapping pictures of the tracks. “I think it’s safe to say she was kidnapped. Which leads to the even more salient question. Why her?”

They stared at one another grimly. Were the Medusas compromised?

How? Practically no one knew of their existence, let alone what their real mission was supposed to be. The only—deeply buried—paper trail that led to the team vaguely referred to it as an environmental research group.

“Back in the Hummer,” Torsten ordered briskly. “We’re going to New Orleans.”

“What’s in New Orleans?” Tessa ventured.

“An NCIS field office. It’s time to bring in the big guns to track down Piper and figure out what in the hell is going on.”

She wasn’t about to voice the idea that, if Torsten had listened to her and Rebel earlier, Piper’s kidnappers wouldn’t have such a big head start on them. Torsten looked like he was probably having that thought all on his own, without her having to say it.

They climbed back into the Hummer in silence, and Torsten stomped on the accelerator, blatantly ignoring any notion of speed limits as they raced toward New Orleans at nearly a hundred miles per hour. No doubt about it, the boss was definitely more worried than he was expressing aloud.

They all were.

* * *

Zane goose-stepped the woman into the cabin as gently as he could. “Piper,” she’d called herself. After a brief stop in the bathroom, he followed Mahmoud’s order to take her downstairs into the basement and secure her.

The cellar was dirt walled and windowless, cool and dank smelling. He led her over to a four-inch steel pipe running vertically up one wall and pulled out the pair of handcuffs Mahmoud had handed him.

He looped them around the pole and then carefully snapped her wrists into the cuffs. He made sure they were tight enough that she couldn’t slip out of them, but not so tight that they hurt her.

Zane brought over an armload of blankets and spread them out on the ground beside her. “It won’t be the most comfortable place you’ve ever slept, but it’s dry and you’ll be warm enough.”

“Why are you doing this for me?” she asked under her breath.

Why indeed? If he was one of the bad guys, he ought to be roughing her up, scaring the living daylights out of her and terrorizing her into unquestioning cooperation with him and the other men. But she was the innocent victim in this scenario, and he was the criminal who’d put her here.

He had already considered telling her who he was in hopes of gaining her trust and cooperation. But he’d reluctantly ruled out revealing his true identity to her.

If—when—Mahmoud and Yousef got around to torturing her, which Zane had no doubt both men were sadistic enough to enjoy doing, he really needed her not to blurt out that he was an undercover CIA agent. People in the midst of torture would say or do just about anything to make the pain stop. He dared not give her a grenade that she could lob to save herself.

As much as Zane would like to put her mind at ease and tell her he was one of the good guys, he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until the two of them were out of here and clear of Mahmoud and company.

Her eyes were big and dark as she stared at him, revealing for a moment the fear that she was valiantly holding at bay. God, she was brave. Admiration for her coursed through him.

“Get some rest,” he said gruffly.

Her brows furrowed in confusion.

“I’ll take you upstairs to use the bathroom in the morning. If you have an emergency before then, let me know.” He bent down and deposited a bottle of water and a protein bar on the floor next to the pole. “There’s a drink and a snack right here, where you can reach them.”

He headed toward the stairs and his hand lifted toward the light switch.

“Could you please leave the light on?” she asked.

“Of course.” His hand fell to his side. He hated leaving her alone down here with her fear and uncertainty, but Mahmoud and the other men would be suspicious as hell if he hovered over her like a worried mother hen.

He hurried up the steps before he could lose his resolve.

“She tied up?” Hassan asked when he emerged into the kitchen.

“Yup. Not going anywhere.”

Hassan nodded and set a TV dinner on the table for him. Turkey and gravy. Not his favorite, but he wasn’t about to complain. Not with so much on the line.

Zane ate about half the bland meal before asking around a mouthful of pasty mashed potatoes, “What does Mahmoud want with the woman?”

Hassan shocked him by actually answering. Whether it was because the man already knew that Mahmoud planned to kill Zane, or because Zane had actually earned some trust today by participating in the kidnapping, he had no idea. “She’s the wife of some guy that our employer needs to do something.”

“So she’s being held as leverage, then,” Zane commented neutrally, leaping all over Hassan’s rare chatty mood. “Got it. Keep her alive. Reasonably healthy. Just maintain control of her.”

Hassan grunted in what Zane took as an affirmative.

“Do we know who her husband is?” Zane asked.

“Above my pay grade.”

“And who exactly ordered the kidnapping?” Zane pressed.

“Above your pay grade.”

He grinned and shrugged at Hassan. “Sorry. It’s hard for me to keep operating in the dark all the time. At some point you guys are going to have to learn to trust me.”

“I think you’re okay. Don’t take it personally. Mahmoud always plays everything close to his chest.”

“Thanks, man.” Zane got up and carried his empty dinner tray over to the trash can and tossed it in. “Tomorrow, you gotta let me go to a store and get us some real food if we’re gonna be here awhile. That crap tasted like cardboard.”

“No lie,” Hassan laughed. “I’ll ask Mahmoud in the morning.”

“You want me to guard the prisoner overnight?” Zane offered.

“Don’t you want to take shifts or something?” Hassan blurted.

“I don’t mind doing it tonight. You drove most of the day and could use some rest. I can sleep at the foot of the stairs. It’s not like she can get loose and go anywhere.”

“You show admirable dedication to the work, my friend.”

He shrugged and made eye contact with Hassan. “Just trying to prove myself to you guys. But you’re tough nuts to crack.”

Hassan grinned and merely dipped his chin at the compliment, reverting to his usual taciturn self.

By the time Zane went back down to the basement, the woman was curled up on her side next to the steel pole, nested in the blankets like a puppy. She was out cold. Exhausting day she’d had. He pulled one of the blankets over her gently.

Rough day for him, too. He unrolled the sleeping bag he’d carried down here and spread it at the bottom of the steps. His offer to stay with her was a two-edged sword, of course. Not only did it keep Piper from escaping, but it kept the other men from paying any extracurricular visits to her, as well.

Confident that she would be out cold for hours to come, he closed his eyes, knowing that sleep would claim him immediately. It was a combat trick he’d learned during his stint in the army, fresh out of college. When he’d never known when or where his next chance to sleep would come, he’d become expert at napping anywhere on a moment’s notice.

* * *

A painful kick in his ribs woke Zane up sometime later. He tensed to do violence before he remembered where he was. He threw off the sleeping bag and rose, silent and fast, to his feet. Yousef was grinning at him and looking pleased with himself.

“Boss wants to see you,” the man announced.

Zane suppressed an urge to bury his fist in the guy’s face and merely gestured for Yousef to go first up the stairs. A quick glance at Piper confirmed that she was still dead to the world.

Yousef led him to the living room, where Mahmoud and Hassan already sat. These three were the senior members of this cell. The other two guys, Bijan and Osted, acted mostly as muscle.

Mahmoud held out a cell phone and a national newspaper to Zane, who stared at them suspiciously. After months without him having access to any kind of news or electronic communications, why in the world was the guy offering him both now?

“I need photographs of the woman,” Mahmoud announced. “Clear ones where her face is easy to see. And she needs to be visibly tied up. We want her husband to understand in no uncertain terms that she is a captive.”

“Of course,” Zane responded. “Do you want them right now?”

“Yes.”

“Back in five minutes.”

Zane jogged down the basement stairs loudly, announcing his coming to the woman. Sure enough, when he looked across the space at her, she was awake and watching him.

In the middle of the cellar, he set down the wooden chair he’d carried from the kitchen, then moved over to her to unlock the handcuffs.

“What’s happening?” she asked quickly.

“Picture time, Mrs. Black.”

“You need proof of possession of me? To show whom?”

“Your husband, of course.”

“Are you asking for a ransom? Blackmail? What’s the play here?” she demanded.

An interesting, and decidedly military, turn of phrase. He responded, “The play is you’re going to sit in that chair with your hands tied behind your back. You’re going to look properly terrified, and I’m going to take a picture of you to send to him so he’ll do what we want him to.”

“Which is what?” she snapped.

God, he’d love to know that very thing. But he also wasn’t about to admit to her that he didn’t have the slightest idea what any of this was about. He propped the newspaper against her chest, being careful not to touch anything personal while he did so. When he was satisfied that the headline was prominently visible, he stepped back from her.

“Say cheese,” he muttered as he pointed the camera at her.

“Are we doing just stills, or do I get a video, too?” she asked.

“So you can blink out an SOS or something clever like that?” he asked dryly. “Trust me. Your husband will know you’re in trouble without you having to tell him.”

“Jerk,” she muttered.

“You have no idea,” he muttered back.

“Do tell.”

“Look scared, Persephone.”

The end result was her scowling at the camera, looking more defiant than frightened. But her features were clear and readily recognizable.

Which was, of course, a gigantic problem for him. As soon as Mr. Black saw the photos and declared them not to be of his wife, and that information was relayed back to Mahmoud, this woman would be dead. How long did Zane have until all that happened? A day? Two, maybe?

Urgency to get this woman out of here and run far, far away from these bastards pounded through his gut. The only thing keeping him here with her was the fact that he still had no idea why she’d been kidnapped. That, and so far, the men upstairs had shown no inclination to harm her. If he kept his cool for just a bit longer, hopefully whatever Mahmoud had planned for this woman would be revealed.

He briskly led her back over to her pole and cuffed her to it once more. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said wryly.

“Are you kidding?” she retorted. “I love what you’ve done with the place. Why would I leave this cozy little dungeon?”

One corner of his mouth turned up in sardonic humor. She was a sharp one, all right. “Don’t try that sarcasm on any of the others. They’ll kill you for showing them such disrespect.”

“But not you?” she asked quietly.

“I’m the one with the sense of humor. Just don’t push your luck.”

She subsided, silenced by the admonition. Dammit. He much preferred her sassy and mouthing off to him over this silent, apprehensive version of her. If only he could tell her who he really was, what his mission was here.

“Look,” he muttered under his breath, “I don’t know what the boss has planned for you. I’m going to do my best to protect you from harm. But I need you to hang in there for a little while longer.”

Her brow twitched into a perplexed frown. “Who are you?”

“I’m the guy giving you a wad of cotton balls. Keep them in your pocket for now, but if it looks like we’re coming back down here en masse to rough you up, slip them in your mouth between your molars and cheeks. They’ll protect the inside of your mouth, cushion any blows and help keep us from knocking any of your teeth out.”

Her frown deepened sharply as he tucked several cotton balls into the front pocket of her jeans. The pocket was snug and warm against her body, and he jerked his fingers out quickly. Must not allow himself to feel anything for this woman. No attraction. No interest. No affection.

He scooped up the fluffiest of the blankets and breathed, “Lift your shirt.”

“I beg your pardon?” she squawked.

“Keep your voice down,” he admonished sharply. Using the knife out of his ankle sheath—a big fighting blade he kept razor sharp—he sliced the edge of the fleece and then tore off a strip of the soft, thick cloth as quietly as he could.

He reached for her, and she flinched away from him. He couldn’t blame her for the reflex, but it cut at his soul and made his heart bleed a little. Reaching up under her shirt, he wrapped the length of fleece around her torso. His palms smoothed across her body, and it was slim and warm...and surprisingly muscular. This woman was in hella good shape. Thank God. She might just survive the worst of whatever Mahmoud and company threw at her.

He tucked the top edge of the blanket under the sides and back of her bra, then tugged the shirt down over the padding. He stepped back to examine his work.

“You can take another strip,” he muttered half to himself. “You’re leaner through the middle than I realized.” He tore off another strip of the blanket and wrapped it over the first one.

“Sorry about this,” he warned her, before tucking the second piece beneath the underwires of her bra. The backs of his knuckles momentarily rubbed against soft, resilient flesh, and his entire body tensed at the feminine feel of her.

Nope, nope, nope. Not going there.

Quickly, he tucked the blanket around the sides and back of her bra, too. “If Mahmoud gets any crazy ideas, that’ll absorb the worst of the impact from his fists. It’ll still hurt like hell, mind you, but maybe you won’t bruise so badly or break any ribs.”

“Why are you doing this for me?” she mumbled as he tugged her shirt into place once more and stood back to observe his handiwork.

She looked a little thicker than before, but he didn’t think the other men had been paying all that close attention to her, based on how they’d treated her so far. She’d been a target to them. An object to be seized and stolen. Not an actual human being.

“Do you by any chance know how to take a punch?” he asked in a low voice.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

This time it was his brow that twitched into a frown. How on earth did she know how to get punched? That wasn’t the sort of thing many people had practical experience with. Not even graduates of West Point. He prayed she’d tried boxing at some point in her past, and not any less savory possible sources of the knowledge.

“Try not to dislodge that padding. I may not get a chance to fix it before you need it.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled. She looked up at him without warning, and their gazes locked. It was all right there in her eyes. Naked fear, confusion, questions.

She whispered, almost as if she wasn’t even aware of saying the words aloud, “Am I going to die?”

“Not if I can help it,” he answered, before he could stop to think about the words. An urge to wrap her in his arms, to surround her in safety and comfort, nearly overcame him. His arms even started to lift toward her.

No! He mustn’t give himself away to her! Both their lives depended on him, and he had to keep his cover intact until they got out of here. He looked at her in silent apology, willing her to understand. To trust him a little bit longer.

She frowned faintly as if she sensed his unspoken message but was confused by it. “Why would you help me?” she whispered.

He stared at her, frustrated at his inability to answer her truthfully. God knew, she deserved a straight answer. “I can’t tell you. But I promise you this—I will do everything in my power to get you out of this alive and unharmed.”

She weighed his words, his sincerity—heck, him—for a long time. Then she nodded, apparently accepting him at his word. “Okay, then,” she breathed. “Thanks again.”

“No problem. I’m gonna be sleeping down here with you tonight. If you need anything, let me know. Quietly. Honestly, the quieter and less trouble you can be, the better.”

“Don’t draw attention to myself, in other words?” she asked.

“Exactly. I’ve learned that Out of Sight, Out of Mind is a good motto around these guys.”

She stared hard at him, and mentally he cursed at himself for having been too revealing with that comment. He spun away from her and jogged upstairs to deliver the camera to Mahmoud.

Mission complete, he came back down and wrapped up in his bedroll at the foot of the stairs. He mustn’t give away to her who he was. Not yet.

He tried to sleep, but it eluded him. Instead, he spent the time wondering who on earth she was. How did an army officer, obviously in fighting physical shape, end up in Houma, Louisiana? There wasn’t an active military base anywhere near that town. Was she on leave, maybe? Visiting family in the area?

He could only be grateful for whatever twist of fate had thrown Piper in his path. She’d been braver and calmer than any woman should be about being kidnapped at gunpoint, thrown in a van and driven hundreds of miles into the wilderness. He just needed her to be brave for a little while longer. Just until Mahmoud revealed his orders, now that the sleeper cell had been activated.




Chapter 5 (#u95de7290-5a1b-50d6-984a-38aef340738a)


Piper was immeasurably grateful for the padding and cotton balls her friendly captor had given her, but she also was overwhelmed with dread at what it signified for her near future. As she lay in the quiet, dimly lit cellar, unable to sleep, she listened to the light, slow sound of Goldeneyes’s breathing, and mentally braced herself for the torture to come.

In her POW training, the trainees had been slapped around some, and they’d all pretended it was an approximation of the pain they might experience as prisoners of war. But as she lay here now, she settled into the grim realization that nothing could prepare her for what was going to happen to her soon. She was going to suffer a real beating—or worse—at the hands of men who wouldn’t hesitate to break her.

Her instructors had told the POW trainees that their endorphins would kick in and the pain would lessen. That women had an advantage over men because their bodies threw out more endorphins faster than men’s, as a result of being biologically designed to withstand childbirth.

But she was still scared to death.

Goldeneyes had made it clear to her that the other men thought she was some woman called Persephone Black. Should she pretend to be that person, or was she better off denying being Mrs. Black? Would she piss off her kidnappers if she insisted she wasn’t the woman they’d meant to kidnap?

But she had no idea who this other woman was. She couldn’t correctly answer any questions about her. Her kidnappers would figure out soon enough that she couldn’t possibly be the woman in question. Maybe she should just go ahead and stand by not being Persephone Black.

Of course, then her kidnappers would demand to know who she really was. And it wasn’t like she was eager to spill her true identity or the fact that she was part of a highly classified Special Forces team.

The best bet was probably to go along with being Mrs. Black for now.

Working quickly, she built up a fake identity for herself. Originally from Minnesota, she decided to pretend she was from Wisconsin. Not that she expected any of the men except Goldeneyes would know a Midwestern accent when they heard one.

She would stick with the historian cover she already used in Houma: she was researching pirates in the early days of American history, particularly those who’d run through and hidden in the bayous of Louisiana.

She knew her captors thought she was thirty years old. How long had she been married? Three years seemed like a safe enough number. If only she knew what Mr. Black did. Since these people were obviously trying to coerce him into doing something, she probably had better avoid the topic of his work. If she was lucky, her captors already knew what work Mr. Black did and wouldn’t bother to confirm it with her.

Since sleep was totally not happening in the face of impending pain, she opted to rest and meditate, practicing centering herself and separating her mind from her body. And she prayed for strength.

The long hours of the night passed, and eventually, she heard stirring overhead. Apprehension tightened across her skin, and she checked her padding awkwardly. Still in place, thank goodness.

She stood up and maneuvered the cotton balls into her palm just in case.

The door at the top of the stairs opened and daylight flooded downward. Goldeneyes stood quickly, just in time to meet three of her captors at the foot of the stairs. They held a quick, quiet conversation in Farsi, most of which she missed.

Goldeneyes threw her a single warning glance, touching his cheek briefly with his finger.

Damn. It was time for the cotton balls. Turning her back to the men, she quickly slipped them into her mouth and used her tongue to push them into place between her molars and cheeks.

“Bring her over to the chair,” Mahmoud ordered.

Goldeneyes moved over to her and released one of her handcuffs. Using them like a leash, he dragged her toward the middle of the cellar. She resisted, unable to stop herself. She simply couldn’t go meekly into whatever was coming.

She wouldn’t say Goldeneyes was exactly gentle with her, but he wasn’t rough as he forced her over to the chair and pushed her down onto it. Quickly, he threaded the handcuffs through the chair’s back slats and pulled her free hand behind her back to recuff it.

Panic ripped through her and she looked up at him in anguish.

“Courage,” he muttered without moving his lips.

Right. Courage. She was a Medusa and would acquit herself like one.

She hoped.

Mahmoud moved over to stand in front of her. He passed what looked like a video camera to Goldeneyes. “Film this.”

Great. If this was going to be theater, then she could expect big dramatic punches. Blood. Pain. Lots of pain. She was all over giving these guys the best show she could. Maybe they would stop sooner if she did a lot of screaming and wailing.

Goldeneyes took the video camera, opened the foldout screen on its side and nodded. He didn’t look up at her. Rather, he stared fixedly at the tiny monitor. Almost as if he couldn’t bear to look directly at her.

The one called Yousef stepped up in front of her. He drew his arm across his body and backhanded her across the face. Hard. She let her head snap to the side with the slap, doing her best to move with the blow and minimize its impact.

But her entire right side of her face exploded with stinging fire. Crap, that hurts.

She glared at Mahmoud, standing behind and slightly to one side of Yousef. “Aren’t you going to ask me any questions before you start slapping me around?”

The bastard’s only response was, “Again.”

Yousef struck from the opposite direction this time, smacking the other side of her face painfully. That was the same side that he’d punched yesterday at the school, and the inside of her mouth was already cut up. She was immensely grateful for the cotton ball to cushion the blow. Her eyes watered copiously, though.

She gritted her teeth, partially to keep the cotton balls hidden and partially because she was getting mad. Past her tight jaws, she ground out, “You guys are freaking cowards, hitting a woman who’s tied up and can’t defend herself. Does it make you feel like men? Because it makes you look like scared little boys.”

Yousef punched her this time, burying his fist in her left side, at belly button height. She let her body pivot in the chair as the blow landed, tensing her abdominal muscles to protect her internal organs.

She yelled a curse as pain exploded in her gut, relieved not to have passed out from a drop in blood pressure from being hit in that location.

After that, she did her best to absorb each blow with a minimum of damage, but the toll started to add up. One of her eyes swelled nearly shut, and blood ran down her chin from her nose and mouth. Soon her entire body felt like hamburger, and the pain was so loud and steady now that more blows almost failed to register.

That must be the endorphins kicking in. Thank God.

Yet again, her attacker came back with a fist aimed at her face. She closed her jaw and kept her tongue well away from her teeth, prepared to let her head snap to the side, rolling with the punch.

“Stop!” Goldeneyes yelled.

Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at him, along with everyone else.

“What?” Mahmoud demanded.

“Unless our orders are to kill her right now,” Goldeneyes ground out, “you need to stop making a punching bag out of her. As it is, you may have already seriously injured her. If she’s got internal bleeding, hitting her again could kill her. What did your handlers tell you to do, Mahmoud? Are we here to kill her now or not?”





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