Saint by Zoe Dawson

15

Sittingup with her arms wrapped around her legs, her chin on her knees, Aella watched Saint sleep, not really amazed at how contented she was to do just that. Being near him shaved away doubt and fear. Well. Almost. She couldn’t get ahead of herself here. This whole commando thing was so sexy, the way he was so competent and low key. Her lips curved, and she tucked the blanket a little higher on his chest. He looked so relaxed, the lines between his eyes that always showed when he was in deep thought were gone, yet there was nothing boyish or innocent about him, even asleep. Late twenties, a few scars and new bruises, Saint was effortlessly a man—strong, skilled, and sexy—and he made her more aware of herself as a woman. But then, that was the reason she had been so attracted to him.

She was caught between a rock and a hard place with both her need to bring Darko to justice and the confirmation she had denied when Saint had walked out of Walter Reed without a problem.

She was a realist. It was a lot of messiness to sort out. Maybe it couldn’t be fixed, and she felt like she had years ago…breakable.

Getting to the root of her evil would mean she would have to think about things she didn’t want to think about, had totally eradicated from her reality so that she could be her own person without the mindset that had been ingrained in her. Stay for a while, then move on. Don’t let anything matter too much because you’ll just be leaving it behind.

So, maybe it was true, going home again was impossible, but she hadn’t had a home, permanent roots. Even DC, to her, was nothing but a layover. Everything was disposable, except her ambitions—material things, living space, boyfriends. It had all been effortless until…Saint.

She had to sort it out because she couldn’t go back to her job with ghosts. There was a comfort in being reborn, in starting fresh, just as there were supreme drawbacks.

Not to mention, she hadn’t said a word about David. She closed her eyes, realizing that David had also been a layover. It wasn’t fair to him, not by a long shot, but she consoled herself with the notion that sometimes denial was a way to stave off change. They were just dating, not even exclusive, but there was no contest between the two men. Even if David was easy, uncomplicated, Aella preferred a tougher time with Saint. The man wouldn’t be easy, but God, he would be worth it.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Saint asked.

She had thought about it on and off for six months. What if he had brought up a future with them? How would she have reacted? “Why did you leave me at Walter Reed with just a goodbye?” He’d made no reference to that non-conversation, and it made her feel even more vulnerable.

He pushed up on one elbow, sliding his hand down her shin beneath the blanket. “There would have been nothing but heartache, Aella.”

“There was nothing but heartache…anyway.”

“We have different ideas of what our separate futures held for us. I left that can of worms unopened.”

“I see. So, you thought I wouldn’t be open to a conversation? It would be unproductive, so you let it go.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He glanced at her for a moment, then looked away, his expression suddenly strained and unreadable. A peculiar hesitancy hung between them as he took her hand, the muscle in his jaw tensing as he stroked her knuckles with his thumb. The brush of touch only made tenderness curl around her heart. Had he been as miserable as she had been? “I thought we were on different wavelengths. We had to be realistic. We don’t have conventional lives, babe.”

“The distance—”

He was so solemn. He held her gaze for a moment longer, then he glanced down as he tightened his fingers around hers. “The distance was only part of it.”

As Aella watched him, the earlier feelings of uncertainty rose up in her, and she experienced an unaccustomed sense of insecurity. That by itself was very unsettling. During her life, insecurity had been as foreign to her as was loneliness. But ever since she’d met this man, she had bouts of uncertainty that left her feeling strangely exposed and…threatened.

She was almost afraid to ask. “What is the other part?”

Emotion darkened his eyes and his mouth compressed with regret. “You need a flexible partner. Operating isn’t accommodating. Uncle Sam owns me until I get out. Fact. He tells me where to go and what to do.”

She nodded. “I understand it wouldn’t be easy, but wouldn’t it be worth it?”

He smiled, his eyes locking on hers as he trailed a finger down her cheek, his touch tender and lingering. He hooked his knuckles under her chin and lifted her face. His breath feathered across her lips for an instant before his mouth touched hers with infinite gentleness. It was as though she was insulated from every other sensation except that, and she closed her eyes, letting go of every conscious thought. His warmth and strength surrounded her, his touch like silk against silk, yet for all the softness, there was an underlying strength, a depth of feeling. When he made love to her, he always made her feel that, above all else, he was silently reaffirming what she was now recognizing as his commitment to her, that he would always be there for her, no matter what. A fierce ache constricted her throat, and she tried to will it away, knowing that for now, she was safe and protected.

“What are you saying exactly?” he asked.

There was a knock on the door and Yasmiin called out. “Aella, come help me make breakfast.”

“I’ll be right there.” She smiled, then met his gaze. “We can talk more about this later. We have a walk to the military base ahead of us. Are you open to that?”

He slid his hand down her spine comforting and a reminder of last night when they meshed so well. Who was she kidding? They always meshed well, every single time. Though she didn’t need the tactile sensation. He was imprinted all over her body. In such a good way. For a breath, he met her gaze and understood where her mind just went.

He smiled, lifted himself up and brushed his mouth over hers. “I’m open to that,” he murmured, and she went soft inside.

When she emerged from the house, Yasmiin was waiting. She smiled at Aella.

“You slept well, or did you do much sleeping?”

“You’re a very cheeky young woman, Yasmiin.”

She chuckled and slipped her arm through Aella’s as they began to walk.

The clouds on the western horizon were still undercoated with slate gray, while the upper eastern layers were burnished with a scary red…like blood. She swallowed. The sun had barely cleared the horizon, but already the air hung heavy, as if one spark could set it on fire. There was no breeze to feather her hair, just an itch under her skin reacting to an unnatural stillness, even the animals were quiet as if a predator were nearby. Was there another approaching storm, and this was the uneasy calm?

As if feeling either the tension in the air or in Aella’s body, Yasmiin shook her gently as they walked. “There is no need to get defensive. Love should never be locked away, only shared.”

Aella turned to look at her young friend, her words crashing into her. Aella almost couldn’t breathe with the weight of how she felt about Saint compressing her chest. She wanted to break away and flee back to him, back to the shelter of his arms, back to his steady presence and solid strength.

Yasmiin reached their home and ducked inside. Her mom smiled and waved as she tended to Yasmiin’s younger brother.

Yasmiin walked over to the stove constructed of tin. She fed in several pieces of charcoal, then set a pot on the cooktop and dropped in cinnamon, cloves, and sliced open cardamon pods, then the tea leaves and set it to cooking.

Her mom was working on a flat bread called laxoo, and in another pan, liver.

Her mom murmured something to Yasmiin, then left the room.

Everything smelled so good, spicy and savory.

There was a whooshing sound and Yasmiin stiffened, turning. She let out a terrible, high-pitched scream. Aella whirled.

In the doorway were three men. One of them was the spitting image of the monster who had captured them both.

Warsame Omar.

* * *

Zasha stoodin the small trailer, her feet planted while Darko’s men held the extraction specialist by each arm. “Where is he, Dr. Kodro? He came down here to see you, and he never returned. I woke up and he was nowhere to be found. Speak!”

“I swear Ms. Vasiliev, he was here last night, late. I gave the update…which was a bit longer than I needed, the job is done.” He indicated a canister on the table with a biohazard symbol on it. She walked over to it and smiled.

“That is good work, but you were the last person to see Darko.”

She nodded to one of his men and he twisted. The expert cried out. “I swear, he left right afterwards.”

She moved to the small window and peered out, keeping her features schooled when she saw the marks on the ground. She rushed to the door. “Bring him.”

She jumped the three stairs to the dirt path and ran around to the back of the trailer to the place where she saw the chewed-up ground. She crouched down. Her breath caught. She reached out and swiped at the black substance on the grass. Bringing it back, she rubbed it between her fingers. Blood! Darko’s?

Before first light, which was just now peeking at the horizon, she’d told her people to disassemble the camp now that her goal was close. She trusted Darko’s men. Each of them had made a sacred vow to fulfill their mission to its end. They joined Darko eagerly and looked to him as more than a leader and boss. He maintained discipline, kept them focused. Just like he did that for her. She didn’t know what she would do without him. He was her drug, her lover and her mentor. She could not lose him…she would lose her sanity and she needed it to finish what she’d started.

She tried to push down the total mind-numbing fear lurking just below the surface. She needed Darko. Her heart pounded, the clarity of panic making her mouth dry. Her hand trembled as she rubbed her temple.

Adrenaline dropped into her system when she heard the faint, distinct sounds in the distance. She jerked her head up to the sky. As she stared, two black, sleek choppers came into view.

The ridge. She snapped her fingers for binoculars and one of her men handed her a pair. She put them to her eyes and her lips tightened. Losing control was a nasty problem, she thought, and instead of pushing her anger aside, she kept it close, reveling in the sheer outrage of that bastard getting her over a barrel. Fast Lane had tricked her into thinking his whole team was dead, but instead, he’d placed his people here and now they had Darko.

2-Stroke had him to be exact. Her beloved’s hands were cuffed behind his back. He stared at her, telling her that she had to come for him. There was no doubt she would. He knew it.

2-Stroke shoved him toward the chopper, the triumph in his eyes made her pull out her gun, but there was nothing she could do. They were too far away. She should have killed both him and Chrysanthe when she’d had the chance.

They pushed Darko toward one of the waiting choppers and shoved him inside. Fresh fear riddled her skin with heat, and she closed her eyes. She breathed slowly, the pain jolting up her chest. She clenched her teeth and smothered the urge to retaliate. All in good time. She would die if she went after him now. She had to be smart.

“Stall them,” she bit out, dropping the binoculars. One man got on a radio and gunfire erupted as men poured out of two of the trailers at the bottom of the hill father down to her left. She took off at a run for the trailer. Rushing inside, she grabbed the canister off the table and came back outside.

“Get rid of him.” The man holding the doctor’s right arm pulled out a gun and shot him in the head. He fell to the ground. “Warm up the chopper. We’re leaving.”

She ran in the opposite direction.

“Zasha?”

She stopped and motioned them to go. “I’ll be there in just a moment! Go!”

She ran to her predestined spot that she had mapped out when she found this place. Then when she was done, she ran full out for the chopper. Her men were falling as she knew they must. As hardened as they were, they were not SEALs.

She ducked into the chopper, and it took off as soon as she was seated. She pulled out her phone and called Omar. “They have Darko, and I need leverage! Where are you?”

“I am at the village retrieving my future wife.”

“What? You stupid, useless—”

“Enough. I have the woman. The ATF agent. Will that do for your leverage?” he said flatly, and she was sure he wanted to kill her. Screw him. He got paid well enough and got a leg up on his country’s coup with his Al-Shabab brothers getting what they wanted.

She closed her eyes, glee rushing through her. “Yes! Give me the coordinates.” As soon as he told her, she relayed them to her pilot. “How long?” she yelled.

“Ten minutes.”

Her smile split across her face when she sent the call.

* * *

Saint stiffenedas he left the house to go to breakfast. The scream rang across the village and people started to flow out of their homes. He ducked back inside, grabbing his vest, knife and sidearm. He buckled the vest over his chest and shouldered his semi-automatic, slipping out a window in the back. The noise of people shouting made him take a quick look at the side of the house.

Unaccustomed panic plowed through him as he saw three men moving to an open area where two choppers waited for them. There were what looked like nine thugs cooling their heels near the choppers. He had the sinking sensation that Omar was going to massacre this village for the death of his father, take the children, force the boys into becoming child soldiers, and the girls into forced marriages.

The lead man, Warsame Omar, shoved Aella ahead of him, pushing her so hard, she fell. He pistol-whipped her and then dragged her back to her feet by her hair, his fury in his features magnified.

One of the men, a large guy with bandoliers crisscrossing his chest had Yasmiin by the arm. She struggled, but he shook her into submission, slapping her hard across the face. The other man had a dingy white shirt and a black head scarf.

The air crackled with electricity, the sky darkening as clouds rolled in, boiling above them, dark and menacing.

Yasmiin’s mother was lying near her front door unmoving, her son pulling at her, tears streaking down his face.

The wind picked up and lightning cracked the sky. He had some time. They couldn’t take off in this weather, and he was sure one of them would have a radio. He needed to get in touch with Fast Lane.

If he didn’t…he felt a chill in his soul when he realized that Omar was going to rape and kill Aella. He wasn’t going to stand by while that happened. He’d throw her to his men afterwards and her fate would be sealed.

Saint’s best bet would be to get around to the back of them and grab one of the men. He didn’t look back. He headed straight for the river and waded in, ducking under. He held his breath and swam until he was forced to surface. The choppers were now to his left, and he emerged from the river as the skies opened up, thunder breaking overhead with such a crash, several of the thugs jerked.

He hid himself in the trees, creeping closer and closer, then went to his belly. One man was standing a few feet from the trees. He was watching Omar, Bandolier, and Black Head Scarf approach. His eyes watched Aella with hunger.

Saint gritted his teeth. He couldn’t lose his cool. Now was the time to channel that anger and protectiveness into quick, direct action. He rubbed mud all over his face as the rain continued to fall, a rushing roar like a huge beast.

The guy never heard him coming. Saint had him in the trees, his throat cut, the light draining from his eyes before he even knew he was dead. He snatched the radio, ammunition, and the semi from him and raced back the way he had come. Finding good, defensible cover, he set down the semi and changed the frequency of the radio. He keyed it. “Saint to Fast Lane. How do you copy?”

He waited, the rain pouring down on him as he heard a woman scream again. “Aella,” he whispered. “Hold on, babe.”

He tried another frequency and depressed the switch.

“Fast Lane here! Good copy! Where are you?”

He gave Fast Lane the coordinates.

“Stay put. Do not engage. We are heading your way.”

“But, sir, if he sees you coming, he will kill the whole village.” He waited for Fast Lane’s response, but there was nothing but static.

He swore and dropped the radio. Fast Lane didn’t have all the facts, there wasn’t enough time to give them to him. Fast Lane had made his command decision without all the information. Saint weighed his service, the love he had for operating, his duty to follow orders. He weighed Aella’s and Yasmiin’s deaths, the village’s massacre against everything he stood for and there was only one thing he could do.

He would give up everything.

* * *

Her face throbbed,her scalp on fire as Omar dragged her toward the choppers and his men.

“You will be dead in just a little while once I’ve seen justice for my father.”

“Your father was a pig and so are you!” Another cocky moment she might regret, but it was worth it to tell the man’s son exactly what she thought of him and his perverted father.

He gestured toward the man who had Yasmiin to take her into the chopper. Aella tried to stop him, but he backhanded her.

“She is mine now.”

She couldn’t help herself. She punched him, knocking his head to the side. When he only glared at her, Aella loaded her anger and let it loose in a fist to the nose. He went backward, stumbling and nearly falling, but kept his ground.

“After her, but do not kill her. I need her,” he shouted.

She was already running hard and headed south, listening for the river, but all she heard were footsteps behind her and coming closer. She veered into the trees, her breathing harsh.

Her pursuer threw his weight into her, hitting her from behind, and the impact snapped her head back before she fell hard. Then he was on her, crushing her into the wet ground. She tried shoving him off and they wrestled for a moment, his laughter infuriating her. She used her hips and bucked him off, smashed the heel of her hand into his nose, and he stumbled back.

Rage filled his eyes and he whipped out a knife and lunged for her as she backpedaled with her hands and feet.

Suddenly he stiffened, blood spattering her, then he fell to the side.

“Babe,” Saint whispered as he pulled her into a brief embrace.

“We’ve got to stop them. He’s going to kill everyone in the village for helping us.”

“I know. We’re going to stop him.”

She shook out her hand, her knuckles burning. If anyone could stop him it was Saint. One Navy SEAL against eleven men. She liked those odds.

* * *

“Saint? Saint!”Fast Lane released his mic and swore. “Dammit.” There was nothing but static, and he couldn’t get Saint back no matter how much he tried.

He watched impotently as Zasha ran away from the field of battle while they still engaged her men. Darko was in the chopper, having taken a bullet to his shoulder. Preacher was with him now.

While his and Iceman’s team continued to engage the enemy, Fast Lane walked to the chopper. “Preach?”

“Pneumothorax.” Plasma was attached to Darko’s arm. His eyes were closed, and his skin was ashen. Packaging, bloody bandages and other medical litter was strewn on the floor of the chopper. “He’s stable, but he needs medical attention now, sir, if you want him to survive,” Preach said as he listened to Darko’s breathing.

He didn’t want to lose the bastard. He needed to suffer for his crimes, not to mention the intel they could get from him about Mohammad Angar Said and tapping out wasn’t going to wash. “Board the choppers,” he shouted into his mic, then he called base. The brass had set up a temporary location at the bombed-out airport with a Commander Eli Thompson taking the lead. His name sounded familiar, but Fast Lane couldn’t place why.

“Fast Lane to base,” he had to shout over the whirring of the helo blades, ducking down slightly as he watched his men come in from the field.

“Go for Base,” Commander Thompson’s gravelly voice came over the comms.

“I have a man in trouble,” Fast Lane said, slapping 2-Stroke on the back as he and Dragon passed. “Good work, both of you.” 2-Stroke nodded, his eyes giving Darko a death stare.

“We heard,” Commander Thomson said. “Deploying Rock’s group to the area.”

“Affirmative. Sending a wounded prisoner to you for medevac. He’s critical.”

“Copy that. Hang on a moment, Fast Lane.”

There was silence on the other end. “Sir,” a voice came through his headset.

“What is it?” Fast Lane growled not recognizing the voice.

“There’s woman on the line who urgently needs to speak with you?”

Fast Lane frowned. He didn’t have time to talk to anyone right now. Saint was in trouble, and they needed to get to him. “Woman? What woman?”

“She says her name is Zasha Vasiliev, sir.” All of the SEALs froze in what they were doing, their attention snapping to Fast Lane.

“Put her through.” Fast lane scowled. She didn’t miss a beat, that bitch. What did she have up her sleeve? Whatever it was, he was sure he wouldn’t like it.

“Talk!”

“What, you don’t call, you don’t write? I’m beginning to think you don’t like me.”

“What do you want, Zasha!” Fast Lane cut in.

“Do you want everything on my wish list or just the highlights.” There was a cold, twisted smile in her voice.

“I’m hanging up,” he snapped.

She huffed an overblown breath, her voice light. She had something to bargain with and he was damn sure he wasn’t going to like it. “You are such a killjoy. Right at the top is your death and get Darko back. That’s a recent addition.”

Fast Lane snorted with disgust, his tone soft and deadly. “I don’t think so on either count. We’re coming for you.”

“I think you will.” Fast Lane felt her noose tighten. “I have Agent Aella Mikos, and if I don’t get Darko back in one piece, she’s dead.”

He set his hands on his hips and dropped his head. Anger washed through him, and he gripped his waist, his hands clenching. “I’ll get back to you.”