Lethal Pursuit (Bagram Special Ops #3)

Eleven

ELEVEN

J ACKSON KNEW THE moment Maya checked out. Her head lolled to the side and her breathing evened out. Deepened. The ketamine would black out everything that happened between now and when it wore off.

The guard, Jihad, said something to him. Jackson braced himself, knowing what was coming even though he didn’t understand the words. He was thankful Maya wouldn’t remember what happened next. For a second he almost fought when his arms were roughly yanked behind his back and another zip tie tightened around his wrists. His muscles corded, ready to spring. He had to consciously relax them as Jihad jerked him to his feet and shoved him through the cell door.

He stumbled, barely catching his balance before he fell. The dark corridor yawned before him. He might not have a choice in going down there, but he sure as hell wasn’t going easily. Jihad propelled him forward with one hand wrapped around his upper arm and the other shoved between his shoulder blades. Jackson resisted, forcing the man to muscle him with every shuffling step.

At the end of the corridor, someone pulled away a rug covering a doorway. Jihad shoved him through the opening. The tiny space was lit only by a single lantern on a low table opposite a metal chair. It was something right out of a SERE school scenario, but there were no built-in safety nets here.

He dug his feet in, refusing to move another step. The militant kicked the back of Jackson’s knees, making them buckle. He fell into the chair with a jarring thud. They were on him instantly, binding his feet and hands to the chair frame. Jackson’s heart slammed. He could see the spatters of blood on the floor and knew they were Maya’s. The sight of them, combined with the foreign feeling of being powerless, filled him with a dizzying rage.

He stared straight ahead as Khalid stepped forward from where he’d been standing against the far wall. Jihad and the other man who’d tied him to the chair retreated into the shadows, where they remained, watching. Jackson was more than ready for a fight. He’d gladly take them all on if the cowardly bastards would untie him and let him defend himself.

Khalid walked up until he was close enough for Jackson to see his yellow eyes and read the fury burning in them. He met that eerie gaze head on, refusing to be cowed. Khalid’s lips thinned. “Who are you?”

“Staff Sergeant Jackson Thatcher,” he responded in a flat voice and started to give his serial number when Khalid interrupted with another demand.

“What were you doing with the Secretary of Defense yesterday?”

So they’d only been captive for a day? It felt like longer. “I can’t answer that question.”

Khalid circled him, staying close enough that Jackson could smell his body odor. “You’re not his bodyguard, you’re a medic. What were you doing in that village?” His voice dropped to a sneer. “Did you think you could win the hearts and minds of my people by giving out medicine and stuffed toys?”

Beats the hell out of terrorizing them like you assholes do.

“You were on a specialized operation. You must know about others. What are they?”

“I can’t answer that question.” Even if he knew the details of other ongoing operations, he’d never sell out his SPEC OPS brothers by divulging them.

“What are they?” he snapped behind him. Jackson could feel the impatience in the man, the seething anger below the surface. He could already tell this guy had serious control issues.

“Answer me!” A hand flashed out and cuffed him across the side of his head.

“Jackson Thatcher, staff sergeant,” he answered, and gave his serial number. He was ready for the blows, but even so he grunted when a fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head back. Stars danced before his eyes for a moment until his vision cleared. Khalid was back in front of him. He refused to meet that hostile glare, staring at the wall beyond him instead. Maya had withstood her beating. He could do no less.

Another punch to the face, this one slicing open his lower lip against his teeth. He closed his eyes and tensed, his only protection for the blows. Another to the side of the head. A vicious kick to his shins that hurt like hell, and one square in the chest that knocked the chair back with a metallic shriek against the floor. He bent over, struggling for breath.

“Where are they attacking next?”

Gritting his teeth, swallowing blood from his cut lip, he remained silent. Name, rank and serial number were all he was required to say. Talking would do him no good and he sure as hell wasn’t telling this asshole anything he wanted to know.

A hard hand gripped his hair and yanked his head back. Jackson instinctively resisted the motion, the muscles in his neck screaming with the effort. That seething, accented voice rolled over him once more. “You saw what I did to the woman. I will do far worse to you, and then I will bring her back in here and kill her, slowly, while you watch. Is that what you want?”

His mind screamed in protest at the threat. He couldn’t give in. Not even to save Maya. If he survived and she didn’t, he’d have to live with that somehow.

“Does her suffering not matter to you?” Khalid sneered. “You could save her if you wanted to. Tell me what you know, and I’ll let her live.”

The offer tempted him, though he could never trust it. He clamped his teeth together to hold back a snarl. His only comfort was knowing that Maya would understand his decision to stay silent. She would realize that he didn’t have a choice. She’d stayed strong for them. Jackson would do the same for her and Haversham. His honor and protection of his fellow POWs were all he had left to fight for.

Khalid released his hair with a rough yank. A second later his booted foot caught Jackson in the stomach, despite the way he was hunched over, driving the air from his lungs. Pain tore through his torso. When he opened his eyes, his captor was holding a knife in his hand. The wickedly sharp blade glinted in the lantern light.

Even with his training, Jackson’s insides withered at the sight of it. This was about to get ugly and he wasn’t going out quietly. If he died, it would be fighting every step of the way, bucking and struggling against his bonds. He might even get lucky and free an arm or leg to protect himself. His nostrils flared as he drew in a deep, fortifying breath, praying for strength, trying not to think of all the things that knife could do to him.

Khalid raised the blade. Jackson tensed, a guttural snarl building in his throat, his body preparing for the worst.

Shouting suddenly erupted outside the room. Khalid’s head snapped around.

The kid, Mohammed, burst through the carpet-covered doorway, breathing hard, his eyes wide. He babbled something to Khalid, who seemed to pale, his posture rigid with shock.

Khalid barked a few words at Mohammed then snapped an order at the other men in the room. The knife in his fist lowered. Before Jackson could breathe a sigh of relief, Jihad stalked across the room and yanked a hood over his head, engulfing him in darkness. Someone untied him from the chair and began shoving him forward, he assumed toward the door.

What the hell was happening?

Men raced past him, some already ahead of him. He could hear the groan and scrape of metal as they unlocked the cell doors, more angry shouts and the noise of scuffling while they hauled the Sec Def out. His yelled protests rang through the corridor. Were they getting Maya too?

He couldn’t slow his heart down. Though he resisted, whoever was pushing him kept forcing him onward. Disoriented, hampered by the bonds at his ankles, he fell to his knees. Impatient hands hauled him roughly upward and another man came over to help, the two of them picking him up and carrying him. The temperature warmed suddenly, and he knew they’d taken him outside into the sunshine. Was it morning or afternoon?

An engine started off to the right. The men carrying him rushed toward it and dumped him into the bed of what had to be a pickup. Someone else was thrown in beside him, and from the masculine grunt he knew it was Haversham. Another body landed half on top of him a second later. Maya. She was completely limp and he hoped still unconscious. He doubted the bastards had thought to place her on her uninjured ribs or worry about her fractures.

Someone climbed into the back with them, and the tailgate slammed shut. More shouting, more running feet. Men rushed past to the cab and climbed inside, jostling the truck. The front doors shut and the driver gunned the engine, spinning the tires.

“What’s going on?” Haversham shouted above the noise.

“Dunno, but I’m hoping it’s because one of ours had a lock on our position.” It was the only thing that made sense. They bumped and bounced along the road, tossing Jackson and the others around the truck bed. Cursing, he shouted to Haversham, “Help me brace Maya. She’s unconscious.” And she’s got enough broken bones already.

The hood blocked out all the light and made him feel claustrophobic. He battled with the feeling of suffocation, focused on slowing his breathing. Feeling their way to Maya, together he and Haversham wiggled toward her and pinned her between them, doing what they could to keep her from slamming into the metal bed every time the truck bounced. She was out cold, her face pressed against his chest as best he could tell. She seemed so small and fragile up against him like this, unable to defend herself.

They drove for a long time, well over an hour, the steep upward pitch of the truck and the cooling temperature telling him they were going uphill. They had to be in the mountains somewhere. The hood was too opaque for him to see even a glimmer of light, so he had no way to tell where the sun was or what direction they were traveling in. Were they still in Afghanistan? The MEDCAP had been in a village only a few hours’ drive from the Pakistani border. They could’ve crossed over while they were still out from whatever they’d been injected with.

“Can you see anything?” Haversham asked.

“Nothing through this hood.”

“Me neither. Any idea where they’re taking us?”

“No.”

The guard in the truck bed with them kicked Jackson’s thigh in an order for silence.

He and Haversham did their best to cushion Maya’s body for the duration of the journey. His arms, hips and back were bruised all to hell by the time they arrived at their destination. They had only a few seconds to rest before the tailgate dropped and men started dragging them out.

Shouting and shoving, the captors herded them into someplace cold and quiet. A rattling of keys, the squeak of metal hinges and rough hands shoved Jackson forward into his new home. He pitched forward and landed flat on his face on some metal wiring. When he rolled to his side, he came up against more metal. Struggling on to his hip, he tried to get to his feet but his head hit more metal. The hood was snatched off him, and he got his first look around as his cell door slammed shut.

He was in a fucking cage now. He couldn’t see Maya—it was too dark to see any farther than beyond the perimeter of his cage. Curses and struggles came to the left in the darkness, and he recognized Haversham’s voice as they hauled him away, presumably for his turn in the hot seat.

Jackson scurried backward until his shoulders hit the back of the small enclosure, straining to see in the darkness. He was alone. Nobody was guarding him now, and he still didn’t know what they’d done with Maya.

Giving vent to the adrenaline racing through him, he lashed out with his bound feet, slamming the soles of his boots into the lock mechanism. The captors had moved them because they’d feared the U.S. military had found their location. Soldiers had to be in the vicinity. The men holding them captive would be twitchy, anxious and prone to acting without thinking. That made them ten times as dangerous.

Focused on his goal, he kicked repeatedly at the lock, not caring about the amount of noise he was making. He was determined to get out of this fucking cage and fight for their freedom.

* * *

K HALID WAITED IMPATIENTLY for Jihad to finish tying the Secretary to the wooden chair someone had dragged in for that purpose. Fear was a living thing inside him, writhing in his veins. He hadn’t taken a full breath from the moment Mohammed had burst in, saying that Rahim had been alerted and their hideout’s location had been leaked.

The mole Rahim had spoken of aiding the Americans was real. Khalid was suspicious by nature and had mentally reviewed each of his men during the drive to this new location. He’d come up blank. None of his men had the education or contacts necessary to pull off such a thing. They were all ignorant villagers and farmers. That left only Rahim’s men, but the three he’d left behind with Khalid had been present the entire time and there was no way they’d have been able to alert the Americans without one of his men overhearing.

Jihad removed the Secretary’s hood and stepped back to observe the interrogation. Khalid hated that he had someone monitoring his work, but there was nothing to be done about it. And if the Americans truly were in the area, Khalid was running out of time to get the information he needed. He might have only hours left before the Americans found them and staged a hostage rescue attempt. And Khalid would never be taken alive.

“No one knows where you are now,” he taunted his prisoner, towering over him. “I am growing short of both patience and time.” It was possible they might have to move the captives again soon. Urgency gnawed at him. “You have many things to tell us, but you will give us that recorded statement before the rest of it. You will tell your people that this war is unjust, and why. You will tell them that you and your military have no right to be in our country and that they should put pressure on their politicians to withdraw from the area. If you do not, you will suffer for your defiance.”

Khalid stepped aside enough to allow the man to see the sharpened knife on the table, as well as the electrical box waiting there. “Whether you say it of your own free will or because you merely want the pain to stop is irrelevant to me. I only care that I get what I need.”

He paused for effect, not expecting a response, and he didn’t get one. The dark-skinned man’s deep brown eyes glittered with hatred as he stared back at Khalid.

“I don’t plan on killing you yet,” he added. “You are no good to me dead. But if you somehow withstand what I do to you, I have others I can kill in your place. Remember that. The woman has already had a taste of what I can do, and I am prepared to do far worse to her and the PJ with you for an audience. So. Will you make a simple recording to save them? Or will you sacrifice them to keep lying to your people about the truth of this war you wage against my homeland—against Islam ?” The thought of it sent a fresh bolt of fury through his body until his hands shook. This man and others like him were responsible for this war and all the blood and suffering it brought. For that alone, Khalid wanted to kill him.

“There is no oil here,” he spat, riding the edge of his temper, barely holding it in check. “Your military is here waging a continuation of the Crusades of old, to try to rid the world of Islam. You unbelievers will never rid the world of Islam, the only true religion. And you will never rid the world of Allah’s soldiers who are about to carry out attacks on their rightful targets—on your soil.” It gave him tremendous satisfaction to know what was about to happen in America. That it would happen regardless of the outcome of this operation. The Secretary’s video statement would make it that much more terrifying for their enemy.

Spreading his feet apart, Khalid curled his fingers into a fist, ready to strike. He already knew the answer he’d receive and welcomed the coming beating he would inflict. His blood pumped hot and fast through his veins. “Well? Will you make the statement?”

The Secretary remained silent, looking through him rather than at him. Staring into that determined face, the elation faded. Instead of a surge of power, Khalid was suddenly filled with a hollow fear that he would not be able to get what he needed from this man. And if he didn’t, his usefulness to Rahim was over. Then it would only be a matter of time before Rahim had him killed.

He was not afraid of death, only of dying the worthless half-Russian bastard everyone had viewed him as his entire life.

Tamping down the rage and fear inside him, Khalid raised his fist and hurled it toward the prisoner’s face.