Chapter 5 #2
“You were right about the Taliban. They would execute anyone they found working with us. But so many of the locals hated the fear and oppression they lived under...” He drew in a breath, swallowed. Let it out. “We had informants all over the Hindu Kush area.”
He removed his hand from hers, gripping the railing.
“Our COP was located in the eastern part of the region, very strategic. We had mountains on all sides for surveillance. Just down the road, maybe five clicks, was the village of Kushan Deh. They supplied us with fresh produce, and in return, we protected them. We had a translator who lived in the village. His name was Samiullah Rahimi, and I made friends with his son, Farid. Cute kid—about eight years old at the time. Big brown eyes, a crazy smile. He’d come to the base with his dad sometimes, delivering food or information, and we’d kick around a soccer ball. ”
He swallowed again.
“Hunter and his MSOB group got word of a potential Taliban visit to the village and knew that some high-level Taliban leader would be with them, so he and his team deployed to capture the HVT—high value target. We were tasked with backup and possible engagement.”
He shook his head. “It went south almost immediately. It was dark out and the villagers had fled to their homes, but a few of the local men had stayed to fight the Taliban, so it was a mess. We didn’t know who was from the village and who was Taliban.
Sami was trying to get to us to help identify the insurgents, but. ..”
Declan closed his eyes. “It was... chaos. And in that chaos, Sami was killed.”
She wanted to put her hand on his then, but he pressed his hand to his mouth as if reliving that moment.
He gripped the railing. “Friendly fire.” He looked at her. “Me. I didn’t recognize him in the darkness, and I panicked. I thought he was Taliban.”
Now she did touch his hand, wrapped her fingers around his on the railing. “How could you know?”
He nodded. “That’s what the inquiry decided too.” He glanced at her then, and even in the fading sunlight, his expression betrayed an inner haunting. “I destroyed their lives.”
She had nothing.
“And the Taliban took the village. So there was nothing I could do. They executed the men and did terrible things to the women—even killed a few of them too. It wasn’t long after that that the brass shut down the COP and moved us to a larger FOB.
” He glanced at her. “I lost track of Farid, although I kept asking about him even after my tour ended.”
He turned his back to the sea, leaned against the rail, crossing his arms over his chest. “He finally landed on the radar with a refugee group that fled the area. His mother had died a few years earlier, and he ended up at an NGO in Kabul. In a fluke of fate, which I’d call providence, one of our translators reached out to me after Farid asked for me. ”
“When was this?”
“About ten years ago. I had just sold MapGrid Solutions and was looking at where else I wanted to go. I ended up heading back to Afghanistan and wrangling through the legal work to sponsor him and bring him to America as an orphan refugee. One of my former Marine buddies took him in as a foster child.”
“Wow.”
“I just... I couldn’t live with my mistake.” He glanced at her. “He’s now in college at MIT. So smart. Has a girlfriend.” He offered a grim smile. “But I’ll never get out of my head that moment when I realized I’d shattered his world.”
Oh, Dec.
Guilt. That was his terrible secret. She stepped in front of him and reached for his hands. Met his gaze. “It was a mistake. And you made it right. You need to forgive yourself.”
One side of his mouth tweaked up. “Trying.”
“Maybe you need to swim with the sharks.” She winked. “The potential of being eaten sort of shakes away the voices.”
He laughed, something small, warm. Then his blue eyes met hers.
Oh. His gaze heated through her. “You’re good for me, Austen,” he said softly. “I wanted to tell you before, but...”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Hiring you made it complicated.”
She swallowed, studying his face. “I don’t... I don’t work for you anymore.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, let his hand rest there, cradling her face. “No. No, you don’t.”
He took a step toward her, and she didn’t move, just lifted her head.
His eyes searched hers, landing on her lips.
And this time Stein wasn’t here to stop her. “Yes,” she whispered.
He bent to kiss her?—
A scream erupted into the air, and then?—
Gunshots?
Staccato pinged the air, a succession of shots.
More screaming.
Declan had already jerked away from her, turned, and pushed her behind him.
Then he froze as a man appeared around the side of the boat. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a dark T-shirt and held a handgun.
And just like that, she was in a movie, pirates taking over their ship.
“Down! Get down!” An accented voice, a snarl at the end.
Declan put up his hands, knelt on one knee. “What’s going on?”
Then another man appeared, also holding a gun, this one on a strap that hung over his shoulder. He walked right over to Declan.
Cuffed him with his fist.
Declan didn’t go down. Just put his hand out to correct his balance.
The next punch, Declan stopped with his hand. And he might have jumped to his feet and punched back if Pirate One hadn’t shot into the air and shouted, “Stop!”
Then he walked over and grabbed Austen by the arm, yanked her away from Declan. Put the gun to her head, the barrel grinding into her scalp.
“Don’t move or I kill her.”
Okay, she took it back. She very, very much wanted off this yacht and back to her normal, boring life.
* * *
Just breathe.
Think.
He could solve this.
Declan kneeled in front of his hot tub, his hands zip-tied in front of him, his jaw throbbing even as he gritted it, watching the pirates—yes, that’s what he was calling them—handcuff not only his guests but his staff too.
Captain Teresa, Chef Camille, Jermaine, Ivek, Raphael, Tyrone—the deckhand, who couldn’t be more than eighteen and was scared to death, given the look on his face.
Hunter sat next to Elise on the lounger, sporting a darkening bruised eye. Apparently he’d received the same welcome as Declan.
Austen sat beside him, near the hot tub, her hands also secured, wearing her bathrobe, her expression fierce, almost angry.
A vast difference from the look in her eyes earlier, after he’d told her about Farid. Compassion. Maybe even desire? He’d definitely heard a yes whisper out of her.
He couldn’t catch a break.
“What do they want?” Austen asked, her voice low.
“I don’t know,” Declan said. “Money? Ransom?”
“You think they’re pirates?”
He’d spent some time studying them. There were five total, so it seemed that maybe he, Hunter, Ivek, Tyrone, and even Jermaine might have overpowered them en masse, except they weren’t the ones with guns. So probably not.
The guys were thugs, really, more than pirates, with faded jeans, T-shirts, and grimy ball hats, and built like men who threw their weight around.
Maybe miners?
And then it clicked. The Petrov Bratva. They’d figured out his shell game.
Aw. These weren’t just any thugs. They were Russian Mafia .
Declan met eyes with Hunter and then Ivek.
Someone had to get free and get to the weapons locker.
The one with the handgun, who’d threatened Austen—Declan would call him Sergei—came up to him, grabbed his shirt, and hauled him to his feet. Pushed him against the hot tub. “Where is she?”
He swallowed. “Where is who ?”
The man hit him, and he jerked, off-balance, rounded back. Declan might have kicked him, but the man pointed his gun at Austen. Blood burned Declan’s mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sergei motioned to one of his comrades, the big one—Declan mentally dubbed him Igor—who walked over to Declan and grabbed him by the throat, his meaty hand squeezing off Declan’s air.
He grabbed the man’s wrists, fighting him despite his tethered hands.
“Stop! Stop!” Austen, who’d gotten to her feet, kicked at the man. “Stop!”
Declan finally tore the man’s grip from his neck. “I. Don’t. Know!”
Sergei gestured to another man—equally as big (Boris)—who came over and grabbed Declan’s arms. Turned him to face the hot tub.
Oh boy. Declan took a deep breath.
A hand viced his neck and plunged him face-first into the tub.
Don’t struggle.
He’d learned a few things about controlling his fear during Marine boot camp. And after, in Afghanistan. Panic set in when fear took hold, kept a man from thinking clearly. Struggling would only sap his breath.
He waited, refused to struggle.
The man yanked him out long before his lungs begged for air. Declan shook off the water, screams from Austen and Elise rising around him.
“Tell us where she is!”
Water trekked down his face into his shirt. “I don’t know.”
“Fine,” Sergei said, walked over and hauled young Tyrone up.
“What are you doing?” This from Elise. She’d jumped up, which made Hunter rise beside her. He stepped in front of his wife when Boris came at her.
“Leave me alone!” Tyrone struggled in Sergei’s grip as Sergei hauled him to the side of the boat.
Igor joined them.
“Stop! Stop! ” Austen, and Elise, and even Camille.
Sergei looked at Declan, held a gun to Tyrone’s spine.
Cold flushed through him. “I don’t know—but I can find out! Let me call?—”
Igor picked up Tyrone’s feet and, as if he weighed nothing, pitched the boy out over the edge of the boat.
Sergei stepped up behind him and fired.
Elise’s knees buckled, and Declan wanted to retch.
Then Sergei turned. “Who’s next?”
Declan held up his hands. “I swear I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know who you’re talking about—but I can find her—I just need to make a call?—”
Sergei strode toward him, handgun up. Set it against Declan’s forehead.
And Declan heard his gunnery sergeant yelling in his brain. “First to fight! Engage and persist.”
A.k.a., grab the gun.