Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
For what felt like the first time in days, Gunnar flopped onto his bed. He grabbed the pillow next to his and brought it to his nose. He sniffed at the scent which lingered, squeezed his eyes shut, and silently prayed they’d catch a damn break.
Remi had finally thrown him out of the war-room for interfering and questioning every move he made.
Logically, Gunnar couldn’t blame him for it, but another side of him silently raged that it was his fucking war-room, and he could stay if he wished.
Instead, he was here in his house, banished as if his input wasn’t required.
After indulging himself in a couple of minutes of self-pity, he forced himself to put the pillow down and get to his feet. Remi was right, he did need a shower, and he needed food. Food was fuel for the battle to come. He’d choke it down past the ever-present lump in his throat if he had to.
He went to look for sandwich stuff in the fridge.
A sandwich counted as food. With the fridge door open, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.
The plate he had in his hand slipped through his fingers as he turned fully and realized what it was.
He grabbed it and bolted for the door. He didn’t dare check it himself; if he did and broke something, he’d kick his own ass.
“Remi!” He bellowed for his brother the second he hit the courtyard. “Jorja’s phone.” He thrust it toward him as they met at the war-room door. “Check it.”
“You didn’t look?”
He shook his head, not that Remi could see as he was focused on attaching Jorja’s phone to his computer.
Please let there be something.
They needed to catch a freaking break.
“There’s a fucking message.” Remi worked on the phone, then the computer, and the phone again.
YES!
“What’s it say?”
“Gimme a minute, these things take time.”
Every minute counts.
But he didn’t say it, except in his head.
They all knew every minute counted. Hell, every second fucking counted.
But until they had a lead, there was nothing any of them could do.
Every favor he had, he’d started calling in.
He’d hit up everyone from the President of the United States to fucking Interpol, and nobody knew a damn thing. At least nothing they were telling him.
“I’m in.”
He spun around and leaned over Remi’s shoulder to look at the screen, his eyes darting from the phone to the computer.
“I’ve got it on the main screen.” Remi’s shrug hit him in the stomach, silently telling him to back off.
“Thanks.” He read the message twice, and still it didn’t make sense. “Who the fuck is that from?”
The JB you are looking for is in Shaharah, Yemen.
“I have no fucking clue.” Remi pulled up the satellite program and zeroed in on the location. “I’ll run a back trace on the number, but I’m telling you now, that’s probably a throwaway or some shit.”
“I don’t care. Find them.” He had a starting point. That was something. Better than what he’d had two minutes ago. He’d take it. “I want every scrap of intel we have on that location.”
“You know it…”
“Shit changes over the years,” he snapped. Yes, he knew the fucking location. It was where that fucking mission he’d been on had taken place. The one which had earned him a place on the fucking list which put the wheels of this shitshow in motion. “I want current data.”
“On it,” Remi answered. “I’m calling the guys in.”
The images on screen looked almost identical to the place he’d been.
Gunnar could see the memory of that job in his head.
You never, ever forgot the men you lost, no matter how hard you tried to forget how they died.
When it happened on your watch, it was part of you for the rest of your days.
“Thanks.” Mission planning—this he could do.
This was his jam. He’d give the guys five minutes to get their butts to the war-table, because it was time to go to work.
I’m coming, baby.
I hope the asshole who has you is ready, because I’m coming for that fucker too. Only difference is you live… he dies.
Nothing else was ever going to be acceptable to him. Ever.
* * *
“She’s been out a long time.”
The words filtered into the blackness which resided in her head.
Jorja squeezed her eyes against the throbbing headache which pounded against the inside of her right temple between her eye and her ear.
The pain was even worse than the time she’d needed a root canal at the same time as the worst ear infection she’d ever had.
“Ow.” She rubbed at the spot, trying to find relief.
“She heard you,” another voice said.
The first voice came again. “Hello, Ms. Buchanan. Are you awake?”
“She’s talking, she’s awake.”
“Unless you have headache pills and water, leave me alone.” She had no idea who these people were, but if they were in her dreams or even her house, then they could make themselves useful and bring her something for her headache.
“Ah, you are awake.”
Something she thought was a foot nudged at her back and she smacked at it. “Stop that.”
This dream sucks.
Sender of dreams… you’re fired.
“Get her up,” the second voice ordered.
Hands grabbed her and she was lifted. Jorja struggled to open her eyes.
Why can’t I wake up?
This is ridiculous.
She shook, both trying to snap out of what was rapidly becoming a nightmare and shake the imaginary hands off her body.
“Go away.” She tried to smack at the hands, but with the hold they had on her arms, she couldn’t quite reach.
When she finally woke up, she was writing a letter of freaking complaint to whoever organized this dream.
There had to be a dream department somewhere.
She’d hack the freaking pope or something and make him give her an email address.
“Ms. Buchanan, there is no point in struggling,” the second voice said. “You cannot escape, so you might as well open your eyes. It is rude to pretend you are asleep when someone is talking to you.”
“I am asleep. And this is a ridiculous dream.”
The evil laugh in response to her muttering sent ice down her neck. She much preferred the shivers Gunnar gave her, thank you… these ones she did not recommend. Zero stars, return to sender.
“I told you not to give her the third shot.” The first voice sounded so close to her ear that she yelped. “She’s still out of it. You’ll have to wait until the drugs leave her system.”
Drugs?
I don’t take drugs.
Am I sick?
What is happening?
“Boss, give it twenty-four hours and she’ll be better able to talk.”
“I don’t want to wait twenty-four hours.”
“You’ll have to,” the first man said flatly. “She’s still out of it. Anything you ask her now, you can’t trust the answers.”
Jorja felt pressure against her neck, and everything faded again. She had a distant sensation of being lowered to the floor again.
This is all so confusing.
Stupid dreams.