Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (Wingmen Warriors #6)

Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (Wingmen Warriors #6) Page 29

Ah, hell. Monica sighed long. Hard. "Yasmine."

Her sister turned.

"Come on and have a seat with us."

"Is that an order or a request?''

Ungrateful brat. "It's a request."

"Thank you." Yasmine moved with that spooky silent walk of hers and glided into the seat beside Monica. At least she had the sense not to talk.

Crusty tore into another roll, his third. "So, Tiara, what're you going to do after we get out of this shithole—" He paused, glanced at Yasmine. "No offense."

"None taken."

Monica tamped down the irritation over the Tiara comment and answered honestly, "Sleep. For two days straight."

Cancel the divorce proceedings.

Then what? She'd finally given Jack the green light and he hadn't said he loved her back. A man who'd said it so often in the past hadn't dredged up a single word now—much less those important three. Because of the upcoming battle. Had to be. Which still didn't make Jack's omission hurt one damned bit less.

Crusty chewed through his roll. "Hey, Max? You got plans?"

"Darcy and I are going to head out to the beach cabin for a while, get away from the world. We haven't been in the same country together for more than a week in two months. What about you?"

"Disney, dude, for five whole days."

Keagan tossed his napkin on his tray. "A blast for the boys. Take lots of pictures to show us."

"The boys? Sure. But I'm already dreaming about Space Mountain and the food. Oh, baby!"

Monica forced a laugh. The image sounded perfect. Normal. A couple enjoying alone time. A family going on vacation. Something she would have loved growing up and found she actually dared dream about having now.

"You should have a houseful of children, Crusty," interjected Yasmine.

What a time to try to be social.

Awkward silence settled like a toxic cloud while everyone looked anywhere but at Crusty whose wife couldn't have children. Of course, to be fair, Yasmine had no way of knowing that since she'd only heard Crusty didn't have other children yet. Not why.

"We will someday." Crusty snitched the cookie from Yasmine's tray. "No rush. My brothers can use some more time to settle in." He jammed the pilfered dessert into his mouth.

Before Crusty finished chewing, a staff sergeant from Keagan's force protection counterintelligence team entered the chow hall, stopping at their table.

Keagan shifted round in his seat. "Problem?"

"We've got a situation outside," the burly staff sergeant hurried to explain. "A worker from one of the NGOs that helped us pass out the supplies just arrived with a local. Apparently there's a medical emergency in one of the villages. Said she's gotten help from our military before."

"Yeah, that's true. American forces send out medics and docs to help treat locals, but we're tapped out now. Everyone's either been sent forward into the field or is heading for the medivac in an hour."

"All right, sir. I'll let them know."

Yasmine canted forward. "What is the problem?"

The sergeant glanced down at Keagan for permission to answer. Keagan nodded the go-ahead.

"A woman's having a difficult labor and their resident midwife is ill, doesn't want to risk infecting the mother and baby."

Monica shoved to her feet. "I'll write out instructions for the NGO worker to translate and pack up some supplies, things to keep the field sterile. We could send one of our SPs. Security police have some basic medic type training."

"Wait," Yasmine interrupted again.

Monica forced herself not to snap. Fighting wasted minutes. "Time's short, Yas."

"I can help her."

"Run that by me one more time?"

"I am a nurse. I can deliver her baby."

Shock glued her boots to the floor. "You're a nurse?"

"The woman is not going to let your military man—or any man—treat her. I am trained and speak her language. Send me."

Shock gave way to suspicion. "I thought you wanted to leave here? If you want to stay in Rubistan after all, you really don't need to be so elaborate in your escape."

"I have no wish to stay. Send your security man along to guard me."

Crusty leaned forward on his elbows. "She'll need a military escort, anyway, for safety. Max? Security's your call, dude."

Keagan studied her long and hard, then speared a hand through his blond-tipped hair. "There's no reason not to send her if she wants to go. Nothing she could do or say will change anything or harm anyone at this point."

They continued to bat plans and specifics back and forth while Monica stood with her feet stuck to the floor and worked to wrap her brain around the changing image of her sister. A nurse, not just a spoiled trust-fund girl. And if Yasmine was truly trying to leave Rubistan, stepping outside the compound was a brave thing to do.

She'd spent so long associating Yasmine with their mother, how many feelings had been unfairly transferred? And what else about her sister would she have to rethink?

How strange that Yasmine had never opened her mouth to say anything about her training. If positions were reversed and Yasmine had implied her older sister was a leech on society, Monica would have flashed that education like a neon sign under the offender's nose. So much for assumptions. Yasmine's cultural orientation gave her a different way of moving through the world, not necessarily wrong or bad. Just different.

Monica reassessed her proud baby sister perched like a princess beside her. And then the clock on the wall gave her no more time to mull anything over.

Crusty tapped his watch. "Max, good luck settling this one out and handling the home front. We gotta roll for preflight."

Ready to roll.

Blake crouched beneath the guard tower, below where the guard now lay crumpled and dead in his perch. Sweat burned salty trails into his eyes. Adrenaline kinked muscles tight, ready to spring into action.

C-17s circled five minutes out, waiting for the all-clear that the hostages had been secured so they could offload the Rangers. No more waiting.

"Go!"

The order through his headset unleashed him into action, noiseless, fast, lethal, like a bullet through his silencer. Under the stealth of night, he moved in. Not as dark or late as he would like. But hopefully confusion from the camp loading up to leave would give him a new edge.

They all fanned out in pairs. A movement flickered on his right. M-4 hip level, he popped the terrorist sentry, silencer hissing. Another hiss sounded behind him. Carlos shooting. Blake swallowed. Damn. What had he missed?

For the first time he questioned the wisdom in his being here. He would die to save Sydney. He would take a bullet for Carlos. No question. But what if he screwed up? Carlos would take a bullet for him, too.

Shit. Get it together.

He ducked, dodged, wove around parked vehicles. Three steps through the open, then behind the cover of a one-story building. Back flattened to cement, he sidled.

Almost there. The next barrack-style building. Blood thundered in his ears.

Six would go inside to secure hostages. Ten would guard outside the building through seizing the compound. One company of Rangers had been specifically tasked to sweep past this particular building first. Fast.

He scanned the UWB along the wall. One heat source. Two. And... Nothing.

There were only two people inside the cell.

Intensity upped the adrenaline. Rekinked his muscles. He prayed to a God he wasn't even sure existed anymore that Sydney would be inside that building.

Time to go in. No alert from the compound, so no need to set explosives and mousehole through for speed. Only seconds more and he would have her safe.

He made eye contact with the other five team buddies heading in with him. Go.

Adrenaline surged. Two shots, he double-tapped the guard outside the door.

By mutual consent, he was first in. No one questioned his right. Unhooking the key off the dead guard, Blake stepped over the lifeless body, opened the door...

A man. A woman. Both familiar faces from hostage profiles. Neither one Sydney. The hostages Kayla and Phillip stared up with shell-shocked surprise from a cot and card game.

Blake's brain sparked with miniexplosions. Embers flecked his vision.

Carlos spoke first. "U.S. Navy, we've secured the building. We'll be holding position until the rest of the compound is in our control."

Blake charged in. "Where's the other hostage? Where's Sydney?"

Kayla cowered closer to Phillip. "They took her for questioning during our walk this afternoon. She never came back."

No. His mind refused to accept it. He'd seen her walk earlier, could have sworn she looked right at him, but then she'd left, returning to her cell, he'd assumed. "Where?"

"Barracks next door."

He'd walked right past her.

Blake spun, charged around. Carlos clamped a hand on his arm. "Hold on."

"Get your goddamned hands off me. I'm going in."

Carlos's grip stayed firm. "I know. I'm going with you."

Blake nodded, the thanks understood between them. Leaving the two hostages with the other four team buddies, Blake swept past without a word. He retraced his steps. His feet hammered sand in time with his heart. He resisted the urge to blast in. Re-conned the perimeter instead. Found a window.

And there she was. Pale, but alive. Relief surged so strong he almost vomited.

He swallowed down bile, reined in emotions, scanned the UWB across. Found one other person in the room.

Blake held up his pointer finger to signify his find to Carlos. The bastard's mine. Carlos nodded.

It was almost too easy. The door was even cracked open. He could see Sydney just beyond the man even though she was still oblivious that help was on the way. She stood, unwavering, seemingly unharmed, wearing the dirty brown jumpsuit given to prisoners. Still alive and being questioned.

Blake shifted his attention to the target. Medium height. Dusty khakis and a stained linen shirt. Am-mar al-Khayr?

He hoped so. Burned for it to be true because in seconds this man would die.

How? A shot would be risky, could go through and hit Sydney. He never even considered missing.

He eased the door open farther. A garrote would be too messy and horrific for Sydney to see.

His fingers closed around his knife. There was no other way. And no way to shield her completely from watching the man die.

He allowed himself one second to look at her before he would have to spring into her line of sight to attack. He absorbed the image of her...just in case this went to shit and he died. And damn but she was something. Small signs showed her fear, the twitch of her pinky at her side. Her lips pressed slightly too tight. But overall she was standing as tall and brave as any warrior he'd ever seen. A warrior.

How many times had she told him she had battles to fight just as he did? She understood the risks but insisted she couldn't simply sit back and hope someone else would take care of problems.

Her work put her in the line of danger in hopes of erasing the danger for others. Just like his job, except he wasn't called in until all other options failed. Sydney tried to fix things before they went to shit. Before the military was left with no choice but to pull their knives and take out the enemy with force.

Why the hell hadn't he seen that before? His need for vengeance faded by a few degrees as blending Sydney's perspective with his own blew away enough of the cobwebs for him to see clearly again. He only needed an end to this camp and Sydney back in his arms. Not vengeance.

His haven wasn't a house and white picket fence. It was this woman. Yet he'd tried to make her deny the very things about herself that made him love her.

And in seconds he would kill a man in front of her. Blake accepted the inevitable. Once she saw the total darkness of where he existed, she would never come back to him. A price he had to pay to keep her alive.

He moved in. Fast. Silent.

Sydney's eyes widened for a flash. Long enough for the man to stiffen, but not long enough for him to turn before—

Blake clapped a hand over the man's mouth and slid a knife between his ribs. The man jerked. Blake shoved deeper. Twisted. Hot blood surged over his hands.

The body went limp.

Sydney's tear-filled eyes held Blake's over the dying man's shoulder while blood puddled on the floor.

Blake flung aside the corpse. Stepped forward and caught Sydney already flying into his arms. He pressed her face against his neck, shielding her from death at their feet.

Shielding himself from seeing death in her eyes.

Behind him, Carlos called in, "Hostages secure. Ready for the Rangers."

Chapter 18

"Five minutes," called the jumpmaster at the aft door.

"Five minutes," Drew repeated, passing the call to the next Ranger in line seated beside him in the cargo hold.

The echo telegraphed down. "Five minutes, five minutes..." Waking, rousing, readying. Soon this would be over, mission complete, Rubistan in his past.

Calls mixed with the roar of engines and tension filling the metal cavern along with the sound of shuffling bodies, some praying, others snoring. Yet his mind was blank. Training, right? Hell, yeah. Not because thoughts of Yasmine Halibiz pissed him off. Made him fighting mad. Spitting fire instead of...

Shit.

Yeah, he believed her. She wanted asylum. She'd probably even convinced herself she felt something for him to justify her actions. But how the hell could he trust her, forgive her? He'd lived in a world of clear-cut routines, precision, right and wrong for too long.

He was better off doing what he did best.

Drew focused on the two aft hatches. One directly beside him. As the colonel, the commander, he would be first out. In charge.

At least here, anyway.

"Stand up," the jumpmaster shouted, his order rippling back.

Focus. Routine. Clear-cut. Drew stood.

"Hook up."

Reaching up, he hooked his lanyard to the static line, which would trigger his chute to deploy on time. He checked the static line. Clean. Straight. Not looped around to rip off an arm when he jumped. He inspected for the man next to him, a routine that mirrored down the row just like the calls. By rote, his hands checked his Kevlar helmet, both buckles.

Focus settling. Hoo-uh.

"One minute."

Shifting, he made his way toward the open hatch, suited and geared up as he had a hundred times before. Eighty pounds of rucksack. Chute weighing thirty-five pounds. Reserve chute adding fifteen more. And he wasn't even carrying near as much as the medic behind him.

Sweat poured down him from the weight and adrenaline. Welcome familiarity. Nothing throwing his world off balance like...