Azakistan
H EATHER FOUGHT TO BREATHE . Even with Jaceâs whispered instructions, she couldnât seem to drag enough air into her lungs. Anxiety pounded through her; fear, reduced somewhat since her rescuers started moving away from the Kurdish insurgents, roared back to life. She tried to emulate Jaceâs sinuous motions through the brush, but she could not manage his silence. It didnât seem to matter, though, because the soldiers above them shouted instructions to each other. Find them. Capture them.
She wanted to cut and run, race away as fast and as far as she could, but she knew the sudden movement would reveal their location. Even Jaceâs teammate had broken off and vanished. She and Jace flew solo now. Stress and strain and fear jacked all her senses into high gear. She thought she might crack wide open even as she forced herself to accept Jaceâs slow pace. The soldiers beat the brush, certain their quarry had gone to ground.
When the soldiersâ shouts could barely be heard, Jace increased their pace. Heatherâs legs, frozen into the half-Âcrouch theyâd been using, screamed in protest, and she hobbled. Jace stopped and turned, catching her as she staggered again. He wrapped a hard arm around her waist, holding her securely against him. Her legs trembled and shook. She gripped his shoulders helplessly, willing strength back into them. The days of near starvation, little water, and constant fear had taken their toll; their flight had drained her. With a silent sob, she dropped her forehead to his chest. Just for a moment. For strength. Just for a few seconds, wouldnât it be all right to lean on someone besides herself?
âItâs all right. Iâve got you.â
The brusque words so surprised her she jerked. His arm tightened, as it had in the cave when heâd looked like he wanted to kiss her. Heat rose in her cheeks. Her own response had astounded her. Rather than feel suffocated or threatened, something had sparked and leapt inside her. The scarf sheâd wrapped around her face puffed with her expelled breath. She tucked it back into place, then took a shaky inhale, confused. So who was Jace? Was he the sweet, gentle man whoâd cradled her while she broke down in tears back in the cave, who supported her now as though they had all the time in the world for her to get her strength back? Or was he the merciless warrior whoâd attacked the terrorist training site?
Heather had trained in small unit tactics during both Air Assault and Jungle Warfare Schools. These men were something different. They moved as one, thought as one, but their methods were like nothing sheâd ever seen. He and his team must be freelancers, she thought, not military. Civilians with military or paramilitary backgrounds employed by one of the hundreds of private security firms infesting this region of the world. Heather knew of the atrocities committed by Blackwater and other private security firms. Sanctioned thugs, nothing more. And now, they had been given even more rein, with the mission to locate and kill terrorists. Enemies of the West and whoever got in their way, no doubt.
She gave her head a quick shake, trying to dislodge the buzzing in her brain. Mercenaries could not be trusted. She did not dare put her faith in this one. Yet wasnât that exactly what she was doing?
Life slowly flowed back into her legs, evidenced by furious pins and needles. Heather pulled away, light-Âheaded again. Was it her imagination, or did he hesitate before letting her go? He turned away with a gruff, âLetâs go,â and the endless trek began again.
Jace led her steadily southwest. He stopped several times to let her rest and drink from his canteen. Each time they stopped, he tried to contact his teammates from both a throat mike and his satellite phone. Despite his failure, he kept trying, betraying no agitation or frustration. She didnât know why he
H EATHER FOUGHT TO BREATHE . Even with Jaceâs whispered instructions, she couldnât seem to drag enough air into her lungs. Anxiety pounded through her; fear, reduced somewhat since her rescuers started moving away from the Kurdish insurgents, roared back to life. She tried to emulate Jaceâs sinuous motions through the brush, but she could not manage his silence. It didnât seem to matter, though, because the soldiers above them shouted instructions to each other. Find them. Capture them.
She wanted to cut and run, race away as fast and as far as she could, but she knew the sudden movement would reveal their location. Even Jaceâs teammate had broken off and vanished. She and Jace flew solo now. Stress and strain and fear jacked all her senses into high gear. She thought she might crack wide open even as she forced herself to accept Jaceâs slow pace. The soldiers beat the brush, certain their quarry had gone to ground.
When the soldiersâ shouts could barely be heard, Jace increased their pace. Heatherâs legs, frozen into the half-Âcrouch theyâd been using, screamed in protest, and she hobbled. Jace stopped and turned, catching her as she staggered again. He wrapped a hard arm around her waist, holding her securely against him. Her legs trembled and shook. She gripped his shoulders helplessly, willing strength back into them. The days of near starvation, little water, and constant fear had taken their toll; their flight had drained her. With a silent sob, she dropped her forehead to his chest. Just for a moment. For strength. Just for a few seconds, wouldnât it be all right to lean on someone besides herself?
âItâs all right. Iâve got you.â
The brusque words so surprised her she jerked. His arm tightened, as it had in the cave when heâd looked like he wanted to kiss her. Heat rose in her cheeks. Her own response had astounded her. Rather than feel suffocated or threatened, something had sparked and leapt inside her. The scarf sheâd wrapped around her face puffed with her expelled breath. She tucked it back into place, then took a shaky inhale, confused. So who was Jace? Was he the sweet, gentle man whoâd cradled her while she broke down in tears back in the cave, who supported her now as though they had all the time in the world for her to get her strength back? Or was he the merciless warrior whoâd attacked the terrorist training site?
Heather had trained in small unit tactics during both Air Assault and Jungle Warfare Schools. These men were something different. They moved as one, thought as one, but their methods were like nothing sheâd ever seen. He and his team must be freelancers, she thought, not military. Civilians with military or paramilitary backgrounds employed by one of the hundreds of private security firms infesting this region of the world. Heather knew of the atrocities committed by Blackwater and other private security firms. Sanctioned thugs, nothing more. And now, they had been given even more rein, with the mission to locate and kill terrorists. Enemies of the West and whoever got in their way, no doubt.
She gave her head a quick shake, trying to dislodge the buzzing in her brain. Mercenaries could not be trusted. She did not dare put her faith in this one. Yet wasnât that exactly what she was doing?
Life slowly flowed back into her legs, evidenced by furious pins and needles. Heather pulled away, light-Âheaded again. Was it her imagination, or did he hesitate before letting her go? He turned away with a gruff, âLetâs go,â and the endless trek began again.
Jace led her steadily southwest. He stopped several times to let her rest and drink from his canteen. Each time they stopped, he tried to contact his teammates from both a throat mike and his satellite phone. Despite his failure, he kept trying, betraying no agitation or frustration. She didnât know why he
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