Saint by Zoe Dawson

10

Rose was leaningon Solace heavily and it was clear she was struggling. Sweat was pouring down her back inside her flight suit. She stopped and helped Rose to the side of the road and carefully lowered her down in the shade.

“How much farther?” Rose asked, looking up at her with far away eyes. Solace bit her lip.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s close.” Solace was second guessing herself. What if they did get back to the airport and there was nothing there but rubble and death? What the hell would she do then? Rose needed a doctor and rest. It was clear she had a concussion.

Solace unzipped her flight suit down to her stomach and tied the long sleeves around her waist. Beneath the suit was an olive-green sleeveless t-shirt.

The soft breeze whispered over her, but it was enough for her to sigh in relief as the wind ruffled her loose hair, cooling her sweat-slicked skin. She pulled the canteen off her belt and took a swig. They were getting very low on water. Regardless, she had to do her best to keep them from complete dehydration. She crouched down and helped Rose take a few sips from the lip of the container.

Rose wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand and met Solace’s eyes. “You look worried.” Rose waved toward her forehead. “It looks worse than it is.”

“That’s a bunch of bullshit and you know it, lady,” Solace said, her eyes darting around the area. Now that the sun was up and they were out in the open, exposed and vulnerable, she had to remain vigilant. Anyone could see them coming.

Rose studied her for a moment, then tipped her head and smiled, an astute gleam in her eyes. “You’re one of those?”

Solace laughed. “One of those?”

“Those people who are very observant. I bet there’s nothing or no one you can’t handle.”

“For the most part.” Solace didn’t want to have to face men with guns and bullets were out of the question. She wasn’t superwoman. Those bullets would kill her as dead as Will. Her mouth tightened, guilty and remorseful from having to leave his body behind. He didn’t deserve that.

“Come on, we’d better push on,” Solace said as she reached down and grasped Rose’s arm and helped her up. “You doing all right?”

Rose reeled against her, her hand flinging out as she pressed her palm flat to the tree to steady herself. Solace worked at keeping her balance, her stance wide to take on the shift in weight. “Whoa, there.”

After a moment, Rose looked at her. “I’m so sorry, Solace. Maybe you should conceal me here and go for help?”

“No. No way. I can’t leave another person behind, Rose.” Her voice broke. “Don’t ask me to do that. We’ll get through this together.”

Rose digested that, then nodded, her mouth tightening, too. It didn’t take a genius to understand that Rose felt the same way. Solace’s right-minded conscience piled more guilt on her head. I’ll go to his family and tell them how brave and strong he’d been, niggled her conscience, then maybe I can sleep at night without seeing his face haunting me. She now felt terrible all over again.

Then she finally let herself think it. Let herself have a moment of sheer panic. Where was Fast Lane? How were he and his team faring when there was no exfil for them or the hostage? She had once been his wife, loved him beyond imagination. In this moment, she would give anything to know that he was all right and not a cold, still body somewhere in the brush of this godforsaken country.

She had been used to being without him even when they were married. Between their deployments, training, and duty, there had been little time to really enjoy each other. She just had gotten used to being completely without him, but he’d pushed too hard, tried to control who she was and what she did for a living out of his own failure to trust in her abilities.

Losing Fast Lane had just about killed her.

But dwelling on a life she hadn’t lived with him wasn’t going to get her out of this situation. She hoped like hell he was all right, along with his team and the mission they were on. Fear warring with her fight to stay calm and in control was a constant battle. No food, barely any water, exposed out here—they were in a bad situation.

When she heard voices, her gut clenched, adrenaline shooting into her system. She and Rose froze. They weren’t speaking Bosnian, so that was something. No, it was Somalis who were out there.

Her heart pounded and her legs felt a powerful urge to run but panicking now could mean the end for them. Rose was in no shape to run, and Solace wasn’t going to leave her behind.

She inched back into the undergrowth but stopped short when a gun barrel jammed against her back. In horror she turned to find a black man in the shadows of the trees, his eyes glittering with malice. He wore a red bandana around his head.

With a short jab, his face hard and impassive, his message was clear. Rose gasped as she and Solace were forced out of the cover and back onto the dusty road. Rose clutched at her, but five men materialized. One of them grabbed Rose, secured her hands behind her back, pulled a hood over her head and dragged her away. She saw that they were taking her toward a jeep that was parked not far from them. She and Rose must have stumbled into their camp without realizing they were here.

Their luck had run out.

The man who had forced her onto the road, Red Bandana, grabbed her by the hair and got into her face, his grip painful as her scalp burned.

“What is your name?” His breath was foul with booze, and he smelled rancid with sweat. It hurt, but she reeled back to get away from the stench.

She clamped her jaw closed and the man’s eyes narrowed.

“Is she the one or is it the other?” a man asked. He had a scar on his face.

“Omar wasn’t clear. He just said a white woman. We have two,” Red Bandana said.

“We will let him sort it out,” Scar Face said, then grinned, his teeth yellowed. “We’ll take whichever one he doesn’t want.” He tied her hands behind her back with a nylon rope.

Omar? Axmed Omar was after a white woman? Had Aella Mikos escaped? This information gave her hope that the SEALs had successfully freed the ATF agent.

“Let him know we have two white women, and we will meet him at the airport for the exchange. Make sure he does not forget the money.”

Scar Face pulled out a radio and talked for a few minutes. He nodded to Red Bandana, and he pulled a black hood out of a backpack. She backed up, but Scar Face grabbed her arm. It was the last thing he would ever do.

About two seconds later his brains exploded out of his temple.

As soon as they heard the gunfire, the jeep gunned its engine and fishtailed away, leaving the three remaining men and dead Scar Face.

Solace dropped to the ground as people shouted. Gunfire exploded and she didn’t have time to think about the ugly sound that bullet made leaving his skull, or the dampness on her arm. She rolled to her back and arched, working her bound hands under her butt, behind her knees, then her feet. Trying not to look at Scar Face’s blank eyes staring back at her, her stomach cramped with revulsion, and she swallowed back bile. She shut him out and, using her teeth, loosened the crude rope. Her palm cramped from bending her hand to reach the cord at her wrist, but it finally slipped free. Then she was up and running.

The remaining rebels fired toward the vegetation as she plowed through the forest, leaving everything behind her. Her heart twisted for Rose. But Solace couldn’t help her if she was dead, and escape was the only way. She swatted at vines, pushing faster. She was in top physical form, but the exertions of the last two days had sapped a lot of her energy.

Her breath strained, and her head swam.

Then a figure stepped out in front of her, and she stumbled back, falling on her rear. She looked up and went still. A man was silhouetted against the sun, the blinding brilliance radiating behind him in a fiery corona.

“Solace?” he said, the tone of his voice flustering her, and she couldn’t speak, mostly from the relief and the sight of him as he moved forward out of the masking brightness of the direct sunlight. Everything about him registered with startling clarity.

He was tall, looming over her, radiating an aura of strength and masculinity. He was powerfully built with heavily muscled shoulders, but beneath his unquestionable virility, beneath his physical toughness, there was something…some indefinable quality that drew her. It shocked her to realize that she really didn’t know her ex-husband. He was fresh off the battlefield, dressed in fatigue pants and a blue cotton shirt that fit him like a second skin, no SEAL insignia in sight, but that made sense. He wore scuffed combat boots, and his automatic rifle was in his hands. His face was shadowed by the brim of his helmet, but nothing could conceal the strong jawline.

She stared at him, her mind numb while her throat cramped up and her vision blurred. Ford. He was here. Afraid she would break down, she said, “Ford! Thank God!” She worried that if he showed any concern at all, she wasn’t sure if she could keep it together. He and his team had taken out Scarface and the others. She had been rescued from a terrible fate.

She felt strangely breathless when he touched her. Catapulting her from the ground into his arms, he crushed her to him, holding her so tightly his embrace hampered her ability to draw air. She unabashedly clung to him, absorbing his strength, the feeling of fear and helplessness fading. Behind him was Dodger, Pitbull, Mad Max, Jugs and Hemingway. Her gut clenched. Where was Dragon, 2-Stroke and Saint?

Over Fast Lane’s shoulder, Solace saw Pitbull’s smile fade from his face at what must have been the raw panic on hers as her eyes darted around. Maybe she’d missed them?

“2-Stroke and Dragon are assigned to another mission. They’re fine.”

She released a sigh of relief. “Saint?”

“He sprung Aella, but we separated to come back to the airport when we saw the explosions.”

Fast Lane had broken up his team to come back for them? That shouldn’t surprise her at all. She was the one who had been responsible for exfiling them and instead, he and his team had just saved her life and possibly given Rose a chance at survival.

“Who was in that jeep?” he growled. His head tipped toward her as he turned so that she was sheltered by his large frame.

She looked up at him, afraid that if she opened her mouth to answer, she was going to cry. Burrowing into his shoulder, she tried to swallow, the growing pressure making it impossible.

His gaze narrowed, and the angle of his jaw hardened. “Who, babe?”

Her panic, her fear, her relief at having him there, came dangerously close to the surface, and Solace reached for the core of strength in her, her training, her resilience kicking in. She answered, her voice breaking badly, “Rose. It was Rose. She’s in bad shape, severe concussion, dehydrated, injured. I don’t even know the extent of her wounds. We’ve been running for what seems like forever. I thought—” Closing her eyes against the sudden welling of tears, she clenched her jaw, feeling as if she were about to shatter.

She heard him swear; then he gripped her chin and brought her head up, forcing her to look at him. “Solace, listen to me,” he commanded gruffly. “I know things have been scary and hard and you’ve been through hell, but I need you to tell me what you know about where they’re taking Rose and why.”

Startled into stillness, transfixed by his touch, Solace stared up at him, the urgency of his words registering. She closed her eyes, and a violent shiver coursed through her, then she forced herself to pull it together.

Concentrating on what he’d told her, she met his gaze, indicating with a small movement of her head that she understood. Fast Lane stared at her, his eyes dark, then he gave her head a gentle little shake. “Come on, babe,” he coaxed, his voice soft and husky.

She managed a weak smile and nodded. “Apparently Omar has put a bounty on Agent Mikos’s head. Those men thought one of us might be Agent Mikos. They were taking us to rendezvous with Omar at the airport to collect the money. Once they realize Rose isn’t Agent Mikos, they will kill her or worse.”

“Pit, give her some water. Can you run?”

Pitbull moved alongside her with a limp and handed her his canteen. She drank thirstily, then handed it back. Fortified with the water, she nodded. “I can run. We will not let her die.”

* * *

Aella Mikos.

His world narrowed down to that name, that woman.

She’d eluded him for the last time. His men were on their way here with a white woman. It had to be her.

Warsame Omar paced the torn-up tarmac at the decimated airport, excited for the first time since he’d seen the perfect, lovely Yasmiin. His blood ran hot thinking about taking that smooth, lithe body. He would also have her back, all in good time. So much was at stake here, and nothing excited him more than winning. The whole world had been handed to him. He was no longer under his father’s shadow. He was the master of his future as long as everything with the coup went as planned.

His two best men, Taifa and Magan, had truly outdone themselves this time. Aella Mikos would be his soon. He was hoping that the man who had been with her, that killing machine—hard, fast, ruthless and skilled—had perished. He looked around at the men who surrounded him, a mixture of Al-Shabab and his crew. Al-Shabab, nothing but Somalian thugs—strong, solid, dangerous, perverse and reliable—had their own agenda.

But a woman. Nothing but possessions. That’s all they would ever be, with their faithless, twisted hearts. He hated their unpredictability. He loathed having their emotional presence anywhere in his life. A wife was seen and not heard. She spread her legs when commanded and bore children to carry on the fight.

His phone rang and he eagerly answered it. “Yes.”

“I was sorry to hear about your father.” The cool collected voice of that Bosnian bitch iced across the line. “He will surely be missed. Aella Mikos can be a handful. Have you recovered her?”

He knew her underlying jab at him was well aimed. Zasha was rubbing his face in the fact that the woman had murdered his father. Her condolences were empty, like her. He gritted his teeth. “No, but I am close,” he snapped. “What is it you want?”

“Only that the deal I had with your father still stands. Don’t try to screw me over, Warsame. You won’t like the results.” Her tone was deadly quiet.

“Don’t threaten me, woman,” he shouted into the phone. “I will honor my father’s agreement. You have been…resourceful and true to your word so far.”

“Has the palace fallen?” she asked, completely unruffled by his loss of control.

His fist tightened around the phone, his gut burning. He waited until he got his fury under control, then he responded. “No, not yet. They are a strong and resilient force, but no matter, they will not prevail.”

“I told you we had limited time,” she said, the cold in her voice seeping through the phone with icy disdain. “Once the US gets wind of a coup in this country, they will come here in force to restore order. I need this chaos to continue for at least another twenty-four hours. Are we clear on that timeline?”

“The timeline will be met,” he said with distaste, his jaw rigid. “We will be victorious.”

“I’m counting on it, Warsame.” Zasha’s tone sent a chill across the back of his neck.

She disconnected the call, and he gritted his teeth again just as the sound of a jeep’s engine roared into range.

He turned as the vehicle pulled up.

He frowned. There were only two men inside along with a woman who had a hood over her head. She rocked with the movement of the jeep, her head lolling, her chin to her chest. He strode forward and grabbed the driver who was bleeding on his arm. “Where are Taifa and Magan?”

“Dead. We were ambushed.”

“Ambushed?” He turned his attention to the woman. He nodded to one of his men across from him and he pulled the hood off the woman, revealing her face.

He reared back and scowled. It wasn’t Aella. Her face was all wrong, her body lithe and slim where the ATF agent was more toned and curvier.

“What happened? Who is this woman?”

The driver of the jeep clutched his arm, sweat pouring off his face. “We don’t know. She was with another woman.”

“Did she have dark hair?”

He nodded and Omar was confused. He didn’t think this other woman could be Aella either. She was in the company of a man and six children. He motioned his medic over and they helped the man out of the jeep, taking him to what was left of the American’s headquarters.

“Bring her,” he ordered as a man slipped her out of the jeep and threw her unconscious body over his shoulder.

Once inside the rubble-strewn building, his men set her down against a cracked and pitted wall. The medic quickly bandaged the man’s arm. Warsame gestured to the female.

“What is wrong with her?”

His man lifted her head, pried open both her eyes, then checked the head wounds. “She has a concussion. She needs medical attention, water and rest.”

“Wake her up.”

The medic pulled something out of his bag and waved it under her nose. The woman’s hands came up pushing whatever he held away from her as her head rolled against the wall and she opened her eyes.

“Who are you?”

Her jaw flexed and her eyes went hard. “Where am I?”

Warsame crouched down, crowding the medic away from her. He grabbed her jaw and forced her to focus on him. “Who are you?” he asked again, squeezing.

Neither the pain in her face or her gasp deterred him.

“Go to hell,” she said.

He backhanded her across the face. He wasn’t going to get anything out of her. She was still against the wall, having lapsed back into unconsciousness.

“Kill her,” he said as one of his men pulled out a side weapon and pointed it at the woman’s head.

“Wait!” he shouted. “The Americans are so keen on leaving no one behind. She might be useful.”

He grabbed the collar of the nearest man and said, “Find out where those girls came from.”

“What?”

“The children…what village did they live in?”

“Yes sir,” the man said, nodding. He pulled out a cell and started to talk.

He was tired of chasing ghosts and shadows and losing men and machinery. When he found the children—including Yasmiin—he would find that bitch ATF agent and her protector. He would reclaim his future wife and the two people who were responsible for his father’s death would meet their end.

* * *

“Fast Lane,this is base. How copy?”

Iceman had been listening to GQ’s voice going out on the airwaves for about thirty minutes. They had made good time out of Thebephatswa Air Base, Botswana, Africa and had crossed the Kenyan border into Somalia forty-five minutes ago.

At least they had a rough idea where the team was when the coup happened. Yet there hadn’t been any response from Fast Lane. They would keep trying instead of assuming the worst—Fast Lane and his team were KIA.

“Fast Lane, this is base. How copy?” GQ repeated.

“Go for Fast Lane.”

Iceman would recognize that gravelly voice anywhere. The excellent, ball-busting lieutenant who headed up 2-Stroke’s team.

“Hey,” Iceman said, “you regular bastards need some help I hear.” Fast Lane’s team was regular SEALs where Iceman, Preacher, GQ and Kodiak were from SEAL Team 6 or DEVGRU which stood for Development Group. It was a separate command under JSOC—Joint Special Operation Command and was considered a Tier 1 unit while the regular SEAL teams were under SOCOM, Special Operations Command and considered Tier 2 units. Tier 2 SEALs focused mostly on direct action. Tier 1 had a wider scope and included counterterrorism with a tight focus on close-quarter combat.

“Who am I talking to, so I know whose ass to kick.”

Iceman and his fellow SEALs chuckled. “Iceman.”

“Ice, good to have you on this goatfuck.”

“Copy that. Where can we pick you up?”

“Negative. We are in pursuit of a CIA agent who has been abducted by the rebels.”

“Copy that. Name?”

“Rose Sinema.”

“Where have they taken her?”

“The airport. We are currently on foot and approximately ten klicks from the airport. Can you intervene?”

“Copy that. We’ll head to the airport now. Approximate rebel force?”

“Unknown.”

“Copy. There is another team coming in, but they have some mechanical issues and are delayed. Rock’s team.”

“Copy that. The more the merrier. We secured Agent Mikos but got separated from Saint, who is currently with her and six children they rescued.”

Kids. Son of a bitch, he hated when kids were involved. “Good Copy. We’ll rendezvous at the airport. Ice out.”

Iceman got the coordinates for the airport and relayed them to the pilot, who banked the chopper and headed toward the former spec op base. “Land one klick away so we can go in quiet,” he said into his mic.

Once on foot, they approached the airport. As they hid themselves, a chopper took off from a clear spot on the ruined helipad. As soon as it disappeared, he motioned Preacher to take a look-see.

Preacher’s voice came in low over the comm. “Small party, boss. Looks like four inside the bombed-out headquarters, including a woman.”

“Is she mobile?”

“No…wait, she woke up and it’s not good for her. One of her captors sent the other guys away and is pulling at his belt.” The static over the comm crackled in the silence. “Whoa, she’s got his weapon, took him out and she’s running. Bad ass. She’s headed toward the bombed-out barracks, Ice.”

“Move in and take out the tangos. I’ll find the woman.”

“Copy that. Ah, don’t let her shoot you. I don’t feel like patching you up.” GQ and Kodiak chuckled as they headed toward the headquarters while he made a beeline for the barracks. He rushed out into the open, hunching as he ran, then moving alongside walls shattered by bombs. Sidestepping rubble. The building loomed.

It was dark inside, and he heard several pops of gunfire. His guys doing their job. He moved forward.

“Stop right there,” a female voice ordered.

“US military, ma’am,” he said. “We’re here to rescue you.”

Someone moved in the shadows in slow movements. The woman sounded like she was on her last leg. “You’re safe,” he said into the gloom. He saw the muzzle of a pistol materialize in the sunlight from the large hole in the roof.

“Name?” she asked, the muzzle wobbling.

“Kit Snow…Iceman.”

“Tangos down, boss. Where you at?” Preacher asked.

He keyed his mic and said, “Barracks. I’ve found her, but she’s currently not trusting me.”

“Want us there?”

“No, do a perimeter check. You’ll only spook her.”

She came into the light, her brow furrowed. “Did you call me a spook?” Her unique whiskey-brown eyes were unfocused, but she kept them on him, blinking slowly with very thick lashes.

She was a mess, but even the grime and blood on her face couldn’t mask the delicate features. His gaze traveled over her dark coffee brown hair, choppy and wildly layered, matted with blood at her temple. She was tall and lithe, her shirt torn, bloody and dirty, her jeans filthy. She’d been through hell. The visible gashes on her temple and cheek told him she probably had a severe concussion.

He softened his voice. “No…why don’t you give me the gun, and we’ll get you some medical attention?”

“How can I be sure you’re not some Bosnian who’s good with an American accent?”

Bosnian? Geezus, what the hell was going on in this godforsaken country?

“Christopher Snow, ma’am. US military. My friends call me Kit.”

“I’m not about to trust any handsome bastard who walks in here and claims he’s an American.”

“Now don’t get all flirty on me, Rose.” Her expression remained unchanged as he studied her, admiring her beauty, the lethal edge of it.

She stiffened, then a wry smile slipped across her face. She was scared, but she covered it up well, except for the way the skin around her eyes stretched. “You could have gotten that intel. I’ve been in this country for months.”

He keyed his mic. “Fast Lane, you got anything personal on this woman. She’s currently holding me at gunpoint.”

“She’s from California. Eats fish tacos by the truckloads and prefers beer. That help?”

“Fast Lane says you eat a lot of fish tacos, California girl. I’ll buy you a beer when this is over.”

Her shoulders slumped and she lowered the pistol. “God, do you have any water?” Then she started to collapse.

He ran to her, caught her before she hit the ground, her body soft and warm in his arms. “Gotcha, California girl.”