Lethal Pursuit (Bagram Special Ops #3)

Ten

TEN

K HALID STEPPED INTO the room he’d used to interrogate the female prisoner with an uncomfortable stiffness in his muscles. He was not looking forward to the reprimand he sensed was coming.

Rahim entered next, followed by his most trusted man, Jihad, who dropped the heavy carpet back into place behind them. The small windowless room was immediately plunged into darkness, save the beam of the flashlight Rahim held. He swept it around the tiny space, lingering on the metal chair and the blood spatters marking the hard-packed floor.

Jihad stood back near the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, observing Rahim’s inspection. Reaching back, Rahim placed the flashlight on the small metal table with a quiet clang that seemed to echo in the stillness. The light washed across his face, and the livid expression in his eyes made Kahlid’s hands turn clammy.

“What were you thinking?” The low words sliced through the tense silence. He spoke in Pashto, no doubt so that Jihad would understand. That added humiliation only increased his resentment.

Khalid fought the urge to shift his stance under the power of that angry stare. “She is the weakest and the one with the least training,” he said defensively. “I can use her to make the others talk.”

“You can’t use her if she’s dead, can you?” Rahim snapped, his tone dripping with disgust. “As it is, she may be too badly injured to be of any further use to us.”

He bristled at the rebuke, especially in front of an audience. Jihad’s black stare was every bit as disgusted as Rahim’s. “I have to show them what I’m capable of.”

If possible, Rahim’s eyes turned even colder. “It’s only day one. You went too far.”

Kahlid’s immediate reaction was to argue, but the logical part of him knew it wouldn’t do any good. And he was walking a very perilous path now. Months before, he’d tricked an American soldier on the battlefield into calling in the airstrike that had killed Khalid’s former leader General Nasrallah, whom he had regarded with irritation and disdain. Not so with Rahim. He was a powerful and charismatic leader, battle tested, and he had a true vision of how this war needed to be waged.

Khalid had fought long and hard to have the freedom and opportunity to lead his own men in this fight. The last thing he wanted was to lose everything he’d finally won.

And if there was one man he feared crossing, it was Rahim.

Khalid cleared his throat and lowered his gaze in deference, forcing back the tide of anger rising inside him. “Shall I finish it then?”

“No. I’m going to let the PJ do what he can for her. It will be a show of mercy, and if she lives, it will help our cause with the others. If she dies, you’ve lost whatever advantage she brought us.”

She wasn’t going to die from what he’d done to her. “I didn’t beat her that badly,” Khalid protested. “I made sure of it.”

“You lost control,” Rahim accused flatly. “And I’ll bet you weren’t even aware of it until you saw her just now.”

Unease curled inside him. Had he lost control? At first he’d tempered the blows, trying to wear her down bit by bit. But once he’d started lashing her with his belt, his memory became fuzzy. “I had to break her will in order to use her against the others.”

“And in doing so, you’ve hardened their will against you. Now is the perfect time to show mercy.”

Strange how he’d just had a conversation about that with Mohammed this morning.

Rahim sighed and folded his arms across his chest, mimicking the same stance as Jihad. Individually they were very intimidating. Together, they made for an imposing display of power and authority. One that made Khalid’s heart rate accelerate. “This is about your past.”

Khalid stiffened in shock, unable to form a response. Mortification crawled through him. Just how much did Rahim know?

One side of the man’s mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. “You seem surprised. Don’t be. I know the secrets of every man in my circle, no matter how dark or distant. I was warned about your temper. Don’t make me regret my decision to overlook it.”

Khalid’s hands balled into fists. How dare anyone say such things about him. Who had done it? Nasrallah? One of Nasrallah’s men? “My past has nothing to do with this.”

Rahim raised one coppery brow in silent dispute. “I think it does. You still carry the anger and shame of your upbringing and have not yet learned how to control it. That is something you need to do immediately if you want to continue performing operations for me. I won’t risk failure because one of my men doesn’t know how to control himself.” His cool blue eyes seemed to look deep inside Khalid, finding the lonely and angry young boy he’d once been. “You’ve executed this operation extremely well up until this point, and I’m willing to give you another chance.”

Khalid exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, embarrassed that he’d been chastised this way, resentful of the way his cheeks flushed. What did Rahim know of that kind of shame? Of being an aberration, hated by the entire village because his mother had traded her body for food from some Russian soldiers to keep her starving family alive during one bitter winter? He was grateful for the semidarkness that hid his reaction. Finding his humility wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. “I understand. Thank you.”

Rahim picked up the flashlight and motioned for him to start moving. “Bring me what medical supplies you have. Jihad will take them to the prisoner and let the PJ do what he can. Then he’ll stay to observe your future interrogations with the other prisoners.”

More blood rushed to his face, pulsing in his ears in a dim roar. He did not require supervision. He wasn’t a misbehaving child. Clenching his hands into fists, he made himself nod. “If that is your will.”

“It is. I cannot risk you losing your temper again and killing the Secretary of Defense. I need his information and a recorded statement, Khalid. This sort of opportunity only happens once. I intend to capitalize on it.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Rahim to carry out the interrogations himself from now on then. Self-preservation made him choke the words down. “And how do you suggest I get that from him?” he demanded, an edge to his tone.

Rahim didn’t bother casting a glance at him as he walked back through the opening, where Jihad had pulled the carpet aside. “Any way you can, short of injuring him to the point that he can’t give the statement. And believe me, if you cross the line again, I’ll know.”

* * *

J ACKSON LIFTED HIS head when the men came back down the corridor. Only two this time, Rahim and that other guy, probably a bodyguard. He carried something in one hand—a large bag. No freaking way. They were actually bringing him medical supplies?

He remained where he was, not daring to believe it until Rahim hunkered down in front of the cell door once more. “I’ve brought you what we have. Jihad will take off those flex cuffs and give you fifteen minutes with her. After that, you and Secretary Haversham are going to have a little talk with Khalid.”

Jihad? Nice fucking name , asshole. Jackson made sure his expression gave nothing away, doing his best to ignore the cold knot of dread in his gut. He stared at the bridge of Rahim’s nose as he’d been trained, giving the impression he was making eye contact while decreasing the risk of displaying emotion.

“And don’t do anything stupid. Jihad is former ISI, partially trained by us—you,” he amended with pleasure. “If you try to escape he’ll kill you. Is that clear?”

Jackson nodded, knowing he wouldn’t be able to escape even if he did kill Jihad and Mohammed before they raised the alarm. A suicide mission would end his captivity but would make the others’ much worse. And part of him feared that Maya would give up if he died.

Rahim pushed to his feet and said something to Jihad in Pashto. The big man unlocked the cell door and motioned for Jackson to approach. Jackson’s muscles tensed, a surge of adrenaline whipping through his body. He stood, bending at the waist to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling. Following their commands went against every ingrained instinct, but what choice did he have? If it meant being able to help Maya, he’d do damn near anything they wanted. He just hoped he didn’t seem too eager.

The muscles in his arms bunched as Jihad took his bound wrists and cut the zip tie with a sharp knife. One snick, and his hands fell apart. He shook them, relieved when the burning pain seared his skin because it meant the blood was flowing again. Jihad motioned with his head for him to follow and Jackson did, shuffling awkwardly with his bound feet. He ducked through the low cell door and waited while the other man unlocked Maya’s cell. His heart was pounding when he at last stepped inside.

“Mohammed,” Rahim said, and the boy scrambled over from where he’d been sitting against the wall. He held the lantern up, providing more illumination as Rahim spoke. “Jihad has some medical training. He’ll help you if you need a hand.”

It was too bizarre to hear the most-wanted terrorist on the planet talking to him in perfect American English.

“Do what you can to make her comfortable. They’ll report to me on her injuries after I’m gone.” With that he walked away, his footsteps retreating into the darkness beyond the glow of the lantern.

Jackson clenched his jaw as he waited for Jihad to set the medical stuff down and shine the flashlight on Maya. Make her comfortable? Was that asshole serious?

Smothering the anger boiling up to the surface, Jackson kneeled beside Maya and set a hand on her right shoulder, careful to hide his feelings for her. “I’m going to help you.”

She nodded weakly, eyes open to slits, battered mouth pressed into a thin line. Taking the flashlight from his observer, he got his first good look at the damage. He barely stopped himself from swearing. Her left eye was swollen almost shut. From the size and color of the bruise along her cheekbone and the amount of swelling, he suspected she might have a facial fracture. His fingers were cold, but at least he had sensation back in them. He placed two beneath the angle of her jaw to check her carotid pulse. It was rapid but strong, and there was no fever that he could detect.

Her good eye was okay and the pupil responded properly to the light stimulus, telling him there was no significant head injury. He slid a hand beneath the back of her neck, applying gentle pressure before stroking his thumb across her skin, a hidden caress to comfort her and tell her how much he cared. “What’s hurting you the most right now?”

She swallowed, a jerky movement of her throat. “My wrist, ribs and face.”

The ribs worried him most. “In your back? Can you show me?”

Taking a shallow breath as though bracing herself, she shifted and froze with a gasp.

He reached out to steady her immediately, careful to place his hands on her hip and shoulder so he wouldn’t cause her any further pain. “I’ll turn you. Nice and slow, okay? Just lie still for me.”

She was motionless and rigid, breathing in shallow bursts. Though he didn’t want either of the captors touching her, he couldn’t hold her in position and do a thorough exam at the same time. He glanced over at Mohammed and gestured for him to come closer. The kid balked, looking scandalized by the thought of touching a woman, and Jackson was forced to give up and allow Jihad to support Maya. She flinched when he touched her, but at least the guy was being gentle and his hold was steady.

Jackson raised her T-shirt to get a better look, careful not to expose any more skin than necessary. This time, the sight that met his eyes had him uttering a low curse. An inch or two inside her right shoulder blade, a dark bruise showed where something had slammed into her ribs. The deep blue and purple spread out in an ugly blotch along her back. He tested the bones carefully one by one, easing up when she arched and bit her lip. The ribs had to be at least cracked, if not completely fractured. “Does it hurt when you breathe?”

“God, yeah.”

A lot, going by her shallow breathing and muffled sounds of pain. “Any sharp, poking sensations inside?”

“No. Just hurts outside.”

He continued palpating her ribs, following them around her side to her stomach. When he applied gentle pressure there, she grimaced. “Sore there?”

“der,” she corrected.

“What happened?” He forced himself to ask the question, fully aware he wasn’t going to like her answer.

“Just a few punches,” she managed, a light sheen of sweat covering her face, popping out across the skin of her belly.

He hated the mental image that evoked.

Determining she most likely did not have internal injuries, he let out a relieved breath and took a look at the wrist she had cradled protectively against her. She made a sound of protest when he took hold of her arm and hand, her body guarding against more pain. The light showed swelling and discoloration along the side of her wrist up to her thumb. Her hand was cold, her fingers trembling in his grip. “Can you move it?”

She shook her head, mouth pressed into a tight line, not even attempting to bend it. That told him everything he needed to know. From the position of the injury, it looked like she had a scaphoid fracture, and maybe the distal end of the radius was involved too. He set her arm down carefully against her body. “Where else?”

“My...feet.”

What had the bastard done to her there? Shifting down her body, he took her icy feet into his hands. Her toenails were intact and the bones were as well. The soles were mottled red and white, covered with livid welts.

Jackson bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from snarling. Goddammit, how had she endured all this? If they somehow escaped, she wouldn’t be able to walk for at least a few days. “Okay,” he said, keeping his voice calm and steady, despite the sick rage pulsing through him. “Anywhere else?”

“No. That’s it.”

It was more than anyone should ever have to fucking endure. Unable to rein in his anger completely, he shot a lethal glare at Jihad before reaching for the medical bag.

* * *

M AYA CONCENTRATED ON taking shallow breaths while Jackson looked her over. She was ashamed for him to see the evidence of what had been done to her because she knew it would eat him up inside, but having him next to her and feeling his touch were comforts she desperately wanted. She soaked it all up like a drought-stricken flower, desperate for a drop of rain.

The shivers that stole through her sent searing shocks of pain out from her damaged ribs. She hated that the other men were here, that the one named Jihad was touching her. He made her skin crawl. All of those bastards did. Since there was nothing she could do but endure, she allowed herself to drink in the sight of Jackson’s stubble-covered face as he bent over her. She wanted to reach out to him so badly, tell him how she regretted using him that night in Kandahar.

Hell, if she wasn’t going to make it out of here alive, she even wanted him to know she was falling for him. With his every touch, he made the ache in her heart grow worse until she had to close her eyes, lest she give herself away. She lay quietly while Jackson worked, gathering supplies from the bag they’d brought him.

“I’m gonna tape your ribs now. I can’t wrap right around your chest because the compression could cause positional asphyxiation, but the tape should help with the pain a bit.”

“Okay.” She trusted him and was grateful for his help. His manner was so calm and sure, it was a comfort in itself. In her mind she imagined the others leaving, and Jackson gently lifting her into his arms to hold her in the cradle of his body.

Large, gentle hands lifted her shirt higher, easing the bottom band of her sports bra up to expose her sternum. With practiced care, he began ripping lengths of tape and applied them from her sternum outward along the right side of her rib cage. Gasping when he reached the fracture site, she bit back a growl of pain.

“I know. Sorry. But it should be better after this.” He secured the last pieces and pulled her T-shirt down before moving on to her wrist. That too he wrapped up, using a piece of stiff cardboard from something in the bag as a splint. She bore the pain the best she could, swallowing back the nausea that welled up. Man, she was thirsty, and starving. Were they ever going to be fed? Or was this part of the plan—to beat and starve them into submission?

She opened her eyes to peer up at Jackson, trying to memorize every detail of his face. He leaned over her and set a hand behind her neck once more, checking her lip, which had started bleeding again from all the talking. He put a small butterfly bandage on it to help seal the edges. “Could probably use a stitch or two there, but it should heal as is if you keep your lips still.”

As in, keep her mouth shut? She might have laughed if she hadn’t been freezing and in a shitload of pain.

Something wet touched the corner of her mouth and she glanced down to see him cleaning her face with a moistened pad. She swallowed automatically, the touch of that cool, wet cloth triggering a powerful thirst.

“Want some water?”

She nodded. Mohammed handed the canteen to him, and she allowed Jackson to support her head while she took a tentative sip, almost moaning at the feel of the cool liquid sliding over her parched tongue. Jackson held her steady while she took several slow sips and held her good hand up to signal she’d had enough. He handed it back, and she shot him a pleading look. Wouldn’t he take any?

She shivered again, and this time Jihad said something to Mohammed, who left. Jackson gave her nape another covert caress as he finished checking his work, and she fought the sudden sting of tears. Right now she’d give anything for him to lie down beside her and hold her in his arms. Any pain it caused would be worth it to have him up close against her, feel his steady heartbeat beneath her cheek.

A minute later, Mohammed returned with a blanket and set her socks and boots next to Jackson. Jihad released her and positioned her on her left side with surprising care before stepping back and holding the flashlight so Jackson could see. He eased her socks on, then her boots, and she was grateful for the immediate increase in warmth they brought. The soles of her feet felt swollen and bruised, throbbing inside her boots.

Rummaging through the bag, Jackson came up with a syringe and two small vials. He squinted at them for a second before looking down at her. “You allergic to fentanyl?”

“No.”

He inserted the needle into the bottle, filled the syringe. “I’m going to give you enough to take the worst of the pain away, and some ketamine to knock you out for a bit. Your body could use the rest.”

He wasn’t telling her the whole truth. She’d heard what that American-turned-terrorist bastard had said about them having a “visit” with Khalid, the man who’d beaten her. Jackson might want to ease her pain, but she knew what he really wanted was to shield her from seeing whatever they did to him.

Her heart constricted in fear. She flung her good hand up toward him, grasping his wrist tight. “Don’t. I don’t need it.”

Regret and apology flashed through his eyes but he went back to preparing the syringe, adding the ketamine. “I’m putting you out, Maya.”

She tightened her grip. “Please don’t.”

He didn’t answer, his face an implacable mask as he pushed the plunger up to rid the syringe of air. He wasn’t going to listen. A single tear escaped, rolling down her temple.

Jackson stilled for a moment, then murmured, “It’s gonna be okay.”

Please , she begged with her one functioning eye, please don’t. She couldn’t bear the thought of him enduring what she had, or worse. It made her want to throw up.

Something cool and wet swabbed over the side of her hip, and then the brief sting of the needle registered. He covered her with the blanket and tucked it around her, watching her face. She shook her head, afraid to let go, her fingers digging into his arm like talons.

Reading her distress, he took her hand in his and set his other against her unhurt cheek, gazing straight into her eyes. “Don’t fight it. It’s okay, I’m right here.”

A sob built in her throat. Already she could feel the drug stealing through her veins, weighing her eyelid down and making her limbs heavy. The pain receded and she began to float away on a warm sea. She struggled to keep her eye open, afraid she’d never see him again.

The last thing she heard was his low voice washing over her. “I’m here.”

But she knew that the next time she opened her eyes, he wouldn’t be.