Night Hush Read online

  “Roger that. We need to keep moving, though.”

  “I’ll carry her,” Jace decided.

  Mace returned to Heather’s side. “We’ll take turns. We’ll be able to make up time.” He offered Heather his hand.

  As she reached up to take it, they heard it. Voices. Lots of them. Then jingling. Lights, faint, moving toward them. As one, the team froze.

  And, just like that, their night went from bad to worse.

  Whoever they were, they came down the mountain Jace’s team was trying to go up. With only shallow gullies and ridges, and a few stubby trees, they had no real cover. Alone, his men could have melted into the night. With an injured Heather . . .

  Jace counted a dozen of them. Motioning his men sharply to the left and right, he did not wait to see them scatter. He signaled to their left thirty meters, where he thought he could see a rocky outcropping. The team surged upward, bent over to keep a low profile. A shade too late, they reached the outcropping and saw that the overlapping rocks made a shallow cave, of sorts. Jace heard shouting behind them, the sound of running, a few wild shots.

  Jace pushed Heather inside. She wriggled farther into the opening. It was little more than a low hole, longer than it was wide and angled down into the earth. Archangel made a hand signal. I’ll draw them off. Jace shook his head. He would lead this new band of insurgents away. Archangel leaned forward to speak directly into his ear.

  “You make too big a target, Godzilla. And anyway, you’re a pussy. My grandmother’s poodle is faster than you. I’ll lead them in circles for a while. When I get bored, I’ll come back and pick you up.” With that, he was gone.

  Not hesitating now, Jace pulled the quick-­release tabs on his ruck, set it in front of the overhang, and arranged shrubbery and rocks around it, creating a blind. Archangel—­Gabe Morgan—­would die rather than let any harm come to his teammates. Jace and Heather were as safe as it was possible to be under these circumstances. Unslinging his weapon, he went into their hidey-­hole feet first, sliding horizontally under the rock overhang. It was a tight squeeze. The overhang gave them a space maybe seven feet across but nine or ten feet deep. The hole sloped slightly; it was like sliding into a sleeping bag. Heather squirmed to one side, but stopped when he began to push in next to her.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, in Arabic. “I won’t let them near you.”

  She hesitated, and for a moment, he worried she was going to panic. Wouldn’t that be just perfect, if she turned out to be afraid of small spaces. But she moved aside, and he slid in beside her.

  They lay practically nose to nose, their bodies pressed together in the tight space. Outside, Archangel and the others led the insurgents away. He could hear the shouts, the weapons firing. His teammates yelling and returning fire, just to keep ’em coming. For a brief second, he wished he were out there with them. Then he touched a single finger to Heather’s shoulder. She startled and shrank in on herself, and he withdrew it, avoiding her gaze lest he give something away. His men could take care of themselves. But Heather . . . Heather was his to protect.

  Gradually, the sounds faded into the distance.

  HEATHER LAY STILL, squashed against Jace’s body. Maybe she’d die tonight, after all. It seemed impossible these few men would be able to elude the dozens she’d seen coming down the mountainside, no doubt hostile Kurdish guerrillas. If the rebels found them, they might all be killed, or she could be recaptured. And she would be right back where she’d started.

  These men, though. They kept her with them; they were protecting her, even now. Something inside her relaxed fractionally. They might not be heroes, but maybe she’d be rescued, after all.

  It all caught up with her in an instant. The ambush. Her dead comrades. The pain and fear she had endured while captured, her flight from the compound. Her narrow escape from death. Too much adrenaline, too many times. She began to tremble and couldn’t stop. Bringing her hands up to press over her mouth, she tried to stop, tried to regain control. It was impossible. She shook so hard she thought she might break apart. Tears welled up, spilling over so hard and fast she could no longer see. She pressed her face hard into his chest, knowing silence was paramount, that she could not allow any noise to give away their position. They had no idea who might still be out there.

  His arms came around her, pulling her in closer to his warmth. Surprisingly, he rubbed over her back in soothing circles. The gentle touch struck her as bizarrely at odds with the camouflage paint streaking his face, which made him look feral and primitive. One hand came up to stroke her hair. He seemed to understand. He put his lips right up to her ear, and whispered in Arabic, “Breathe. From your diaphragm. In through your nose, out through your mouth. That’s it. Again. It’s just stress. You’re all right. Breathe. In. Out. Again.”

  She latched onto the sound of his voice with thready desperation. She clutched at him. He tightened his hold, murmuring to her over and over again to breathe. He held her until the spasms started to ease.

  It seemed to take forever for the trembling to subside. Heather’s face suffused with humiliation. Way to be tough, Langstrom. Prove the assholes right about women being too soft for combat. Disgust dripped like bile in the back of her throat. And then exhaustion rolled over her like a tidal wave, carrying her under. Against all odds, she fell asleep.

  WASN’T THAT THE damnedest thing? Jace couldn’t be sure if she’d passed out or fallen asleep. Either way, it made it easier to listen to the night sounds, to make sure none of the little band of miscreants had circled back around to pick up a goat or something. Keeping Heather safe had become his number one priority.

  She hadn’t made a sound the entire time. Jesus! She was strong. Disciplined. He couldn’t help but be impressed that she understood how vital absolute silence was. She’d controlled herself, even in the midst of her meltdown. He rubbed a hand over his face. What the hell had she been through?

  He tried to remain professional. Tried not to notice how nicely she fit into his arms. And the fact he couldn’t ignore it pissed him off. Now that she slept, her body soft against his, his body came alive. All he could do was grit his teeth and think of his new mission objective. What the hell was he thinking, even having remotely sexual thoughts about this woman?

  Fuckers. He wished he could go back and kill them all over again.

  Mentally circling back to the compound, Jace tried to puzzle out her presence there. Now that he thought of it, he needed to question her. Something important had been planned, some sort of attack involving the SCUD. She might know something about it. But forcing her to relive God-­knew-­what could have a devastating impact on her mental stability. He let his head drop back, his helmet thumping against the dirt and stone of their hiding place. Sand trickled inside his collar as duty and compassion warred inside him. What should he do?

  As Heather slept, Jace found himself wishing he could see her face. She continued to keep the scarf covering all but her shuttered eyes. His fingers grazed the edge of the keffiyeh. Heather Langstrom. Her name sang softly through his head. Something about her flashing eyes and stubborn chin appealed to him. She had been the source of most of his fantasies since he first saw her at the Base Exchange. Having her nestled against him woke all sorts of protective instincts. Her fingers on his chest, her hair tangled on his cheek brought out the male in him.

  He turned his head and put her firmly out of his mind, concentrating instead on the problem of rendezvousing with their ride. It was four in the morning. The sandstorm supposedly would pass south of them, but luck had not been with them on this mission. Assuming it was possible to reschedule a bird to fly them home, could they still get out ahead of the sandstorm? Jace combed through his mental map of the area. If they ended up being stuck here, south toward the coast was the safest egress.

  Heather twitched, then began to shiver. Tiny mewls of distress churned from her throat as she slept. He
rubbed her back, hoping to calm her into silence. She arched away from his touch, which caused her breasts to press into his chest. As nice as that felt, he shook her awake, placing his hand across her mouth. The insurgents were gone, but screams would carry across the desert.

  She jerked awake, crying out beneath his hand, her eyes crazed. She began to flail, striking at his face and eyes with her nails.

  “Settle down,” he said. “It’s me.” He said it in English, although that might not reassure her considering he had almost killed her. He switched to Arabic, hoping to calm her. “You’re safe. They’re gone.” He banded his arms around hers and simply held on, ensuring she wouldn’t hurt herself or him.

  Her breath whooshed out and her body went limp, her head dropping forward onto his chest. He took his hand away. She used the edge of the scarf to wipe her face. All rational thought fled as she lifted her head from his chest. At the same moment, he looked down at her, and their noses bumped. Both froze. Jace’s brain short-­circuited. The sudden urge to kiss her was intense. What would she smell like fresh from her own shower? How soft would her skin feel against his?

  What the hell was he thinking?

  He saw his hands reach out to pull the keffiyeh away from her face, and, stunned, had to force his hands into stillness as they gripped the very edge of the scarf. No way was he doing this. His gaze locked with hers, and he knew he’d failed to conceal his sudden desire when her eyes widened. Expecting her to jerk away at any moment, he forced his fingers to release the coarse material. She continued to stare at him, neither moving forward nor back. They lay squashed together, frozen by the impossibility of it all.

  Jace raised a finger, gently touching a stray curl at her ear and tucking it back into her scarf. She trembled against him, and he immediately pulled back. He held himself still, afraid of frightening her. She had to know she was safe with him.

  His eyes drifted to half-­mast as he pressed back against the cave wall, giving her as much space as possible. However, in his imagination, when he leaned back, her hand grazed his chin, tracing his jaw and cheek. He imagined her welcoming his touch, enjoying the press of his lips against the inside of her wrist, then again at her mouth. Their tongues sliding together. His hands tangling in her mass of soft curls. Tracing down the delicate lines of her throat with open mouthed, hot kisses. Her back bowing, head thrown back in pleasure.

  A tiny rattle of stones outside their small cave jerked him out of his insane fantasy. Quick as a snake, he coiled onto his back, flipping his rifle up and training it on the opening.

  A soft chirring noise made him relax fractionally. He returned the call, only lowering his weapon when his pack was tugged aside and Tag’s unmistakable bulk filled the opening.

  “We’re clear. Let’s rock and roll,” he said.

  Jace took in a lot of air and let it out slowly, trying to get his racing pulse and inflamed body under control. Unable to see her clearly in the darkness, he reached out to touch Heather’s shoulder. She seemed to shrink in on herself.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Jace pulled himself out of their hidey-­hole and turned to help her. She ignored his offered hand, wriggling out and scrambling to her feet, turned completely away from him as she wrapped the scarf over her nose and mouth, shoulders hunched.

  Jace frowned. Was she scared? There was no time to reassure her. She was safe. And they had a chopper to catch.

  “We’re meeting at the landing zone. Sandman called in for a ride, but we have to hurry. The storm turned north. It’ll be here in less than an hour,” Tag said.

  Jace shouldered his rucksack, his heart still pounding double time. What bothered him more than his intense awareness of Heather Langstrom was his almost total lack of professionalism. He’d practically forgotten everything—­that he was in dangerous territory, surrounded by hostile Kurds, and, worst of all, that he was supposed to be protecting her. Jesus! If the sergeant major could see him now, he’d kick his sorry ass from one end of Fort Bragg to the other. And he’d deserve it.

  “Let’s go,” Jace said curtly. He turned to lead the way and marched several yards before he realized the other two lagged behind. He turned around. Tag guarded their six. Heather struggled over the rough ground, pain etched in her eyes and posture, though, once again, no sound passed her lips. His long strides took him back to her side.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The woman shook her head, speaking in Arabic. “Nothing. I can keep up.”

  “Well, you’re not,” he answered in the same language, more gruffly than he’d intended.

  She jerked her head up, eyes blazing. “I will,” she hissed. “Give me my socks.”

  And, just like that, he understood. She had grabbed her captor’s socks, but had stuffed her feet into the boots and run. Tag had taken her socks when they’d searched her. And then they had dragged her on a three-­mile hike over rocky terrain, in the dark, with her feet sliding around, unprotected, inside too-­large boots. Her feet must be raw hamburger.

  “I’ll carry you,” he said.

  She shook her head, backing away from him. “No.”

  He swore. Looked at Tag. “How long before we need to be at the LZ?”

  Tag checked his watch, unflappable as always. “Twenty-­eight minutes and counting.”

  Jace held out a hand, and Tag dug the socks out of his pocket and passed them over. He pulled the quick-­release tabs on his ruck, and Tag did the same. Quickly, efficiently, they sat her down and pulled off her boots. Tag broke open his first aid kit and pulled out a ­couple Kotex, and they covered her many bleeding blisters with antiseptic and the soft pads. Jace flipped open a knife and hacked a T-­shirt in half. Each took one half, grabbed a foot, wrapped it in the cloth, and covered it with two pairs of thick socks. They ignored her protests and laced her boots for her. Tag muttered a quick, “No offense, ma’am, but we can do it quicker.” In less than five minutes, they jumped up and continued down the trail.

  Heather still moved stiffly, but kept up with the slower pace. Jace did some quick calculations. If they could squeeze some more speed out of her, they would make it, just barely. She had guts, he had to admit. As he increased his pace, so did she, without complaint, though he knew her feet must be killing her. The padding would help, but he knew how painful open sores could be.

  They crept to the crest of a large hill, lying flat to scan the valley leading to their exit point. An unearthly hush covered the landscape. The hairs on the back of Jace’s neck stood on end. He laid a hand on Tag’s forearm. Wait, he signaled. Tag stopped immediately.

  Jace wasn’t sure what nagged at him. Every sense strained, but nothing seemed amiss. He trusted his gut, though, and his gut shrieked a warning.

  He heard the wind the same time Tag did. It rose from the eerie silence like the voice of God. They watched with a kind of fatalistic amusement as an enormous wall of sand crested the far mountains and began to swirl at the far end of the valley.

  Tag swore. Jace agreed with him, but he didn’t waste his breath. “Tell the team to find shelter,” he barked. “Go back to the damned Kongra-­Gel camp if you have to. We need . . .” He cut himself off as a group of men topped the ridgeline, not fifty feet from them. Weapons out, they swept from left to right, on the hunt. “Shit! They’re coming this way.” The two operators became part of the landscape. Jace cursed as he realized Heather hugged the ground, but didn’t seem to realize she was in the open and visible. He rolled to his feet and gripped her arm. Shouts from behind assured him they’d been spotted.

  Jace tugged her to her feet and they bolted, zigzagging across the hard-­packed earth until Jace realized this new group was not shooting at them. Instead, they maneuvered to cut them off. Capture them. Oh, no. No, no, no. Wasn’t going to happen, not if he had to kill a thousand of them.

  Never again.

  He increased his pace, dragging Heat
her behind him like the string on a kite. She matched him stride for stride, the urgency of the situation clear to her. He spared a moment to admire her for ignoring the pain in her feet to do what had to be done.

  Behind him, Tag opened up on the enemy, scattering them and giving Jace a precious few seconds. He plunged deeper into the shadows of the brush lining the lower parts of the hillside and pulled Heather to his side. Much more slowly now, they crept through the concealment. Behind him, he could hear her harsh breathing. He slid his hand under her hair to pull her close. She resisted for a moment, then leaned forward. He whispered into her ear, “Slow your breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth. From the diaphragm, just like before.” She nodded, gulping a few times before she got the rhythm.

  “What about your friend?” she whispered back. In English.

  “He can take care of himself.” Hey, now. Maybe her mental muzziness was clearing. Being able to communicate openly with her would be a huge help.

  He led her through the brush.

  Chapter Eight

  August 16. 4:50 A.M.

  Somewhere in Sari Daru Province, Azakistan

  HEATHER FOUGHT TO BREATHE. Even with Jace’s whispered instructions, she couldn’t 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 Jace’s sinuous motions through the brush, but she could not manage his silence. It didn’t 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 Jace’s 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 Jace’s slow pace. The soldiers beat the brush, certain their quarry had gone to ground.