20. Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Pony
Things have finally calmed down. At least for now. We’re in a building with no front windows and no back entrance. Still, we remain alert. We’re all concerned about Ricochet’s leg. An injury like this could end his SEAL career. Doc’s currently checking on it again.
With our vehicle destroyed, both Remi and Ricochet injured, and the inability to move quickly, Warlock contacted command and requested QRF.
QRF, or Quick Reaction Force, is an armed military unit sent in to assist when shit goes sideways. This clusterfuck of an op certainly qualifies. All we can do now is hope the enemy doesn’t find us while we shelter in place for the few hours it’ll take QRF to arrive.
We’re all disappointed we couldn’t rescue the other hostages. When had they moved them? And where had they been taken?
I’m still reeling that Remi is here. When I first saw her in that cell, I was pissed someone would treat another human being like that. But when I pulled the hood off her head, I was shocked I recognized the beaten face.
I didn’t have much time, but I drank her in. I’d thought about her so often since our night together that, for a split second, I wondered if I was imagining her.
My mind drifts, thinking about the strange forces that brought us back together this way. It has to mean something, doesn’t it? But why now, when the timing couldn’t be worse?
She’s been beaten almost to the point of being unidentifiable.
She’s thinner than she was, and the way she’s been guzzling water suggests she’s been deprived of food and water during her captivity.
She’s filthy. Her hair’s matted and dirty, and until I washed it off, crusted blood covered her soft skin.
Beneath the grime, twin tear tracks streaked down her face.
Her left eye is so swollen, it hardly opens.
The white of her other eye is spotted with blood from burst blood vessels.
Bruises cover her body, some older and some fresh.
Deep ligature marks surround her wrists.
Her throat has clear finger bruises from being choked.
Her nose looks broken and there’s a gash across the bridge.
She has a variety of cuts and scrapes. Her bottom lip is split open in several places.
Her left arm is broken—it’s bruised, abnormally swollen, and must hurt like hell.
Thinking about the way she’s been dehumanized turns my stomach and rage bubbles under my skin. Her captors didn’t just beat the shit out of her, they tortured her. I want to storm out of here and hunt down every single one of the fuckers that did this to her.
Even while trying to hide her pain and fear, she’s been courageous and tough. She let Ricochet have the morphine instead of taking it for herself. She even called out during the gunfight, alerting us to the tango while trapped upside down in the SUV.
She has a long road ahead, but she’s shown battle-hardened nerves of steel. It’s impossible not to admire her moxie. Remington James is a fighter. Her inner strength is evident. The proof is in everything she’s survived, and I’m damn impressed by her.
“Where’s RJ?” Doc wonders, jerking me out of my morose thoughts.
“Exhaustion caught up with her.” I tilt my head toward the nearby office where she’s sleeping.
Ricochet’s still on the couch in the lobby. His wound has been sewn, bandaged, and is being kept elevated on the coffee table. The rest of us have gathered around him.
“What’s going on with you two?” Hawk probes.
“Remington is the woman who ghosted me after our one-night stand.”
Ricochet can’t hide his surprise. “That’s her?” His eyes go wide. “Oh fuck. Maybe she didn’t ghost you. Do you think whatever happened to her is why she never answered your calls or texts?”
Warlock lightly cuffs Ricochet on the back of the head. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Sorry, boss. It’s probably the morphine,” he supplies as an excuse, even though he’s grinning.
“Why did those tangos offer to let us go if we handed her over?” Nitro asks. “Who the hell is she, Pony?”
“Yeah, what the hell is she doing here?” Hawk wonders.
“The night we met, she told me she was a freelance photographer leaving for a job the next morning. She never said what type of photographer she was or where she was going. I figured she was headed to L.A. or somewhere else nearby to photograph a wedding, birthday, or Bar Mitzvah. I thought she’d be back in a few days.
I had no idea she’d leave the country and get involved in…
” I wave my hand in an I-have-no-idea-what’s-going-on gesture. “Whatever it is she’s involved in.”
Warlock frowns. “Why would they send ten men to recapture one woman? That doesn’t make sense.”
“None of this makes sense,” I mumble.
“Not only did they want her back, they were careful not to shoot at her. They want her alive,” Ricochet points out.
“Unless she isn’t who she claims to be,” Nitro muses. “You think maybe she’s CIA working undercover as a photographer?”
“She somehow managed to survive what most people wouldn’t,” Hawk accurately concludes. “Look at her. She endured days, maybe weeks of torture. Who survives something like that without training? There are experienced operators who would have broken after suffering that kind of abuse.”
“She told Ricochet and me she wasn’t military but has spent time in the Middle East and other war-torn countries,” Doc interjects. He gives us a thoughtful look. “Although, she didn’t say why.”
That’s interesting.
“That doesn’t sound like a typical photographer.” Warlock pulls out his phone and Googles her.
“Whatever you find could be fake. If she is CIA or with some other intelligence agency, that could be her backstopped cover identity,” Hawk suggests.
“I found her website,” Warlock comments, scrolling through her site.
“That’s the sandbox,” Nitro says, looking over Warlock’s shoulder like the rest of us to gaze down at the tiny screen.
Her photos aren’t what I expected. Honestly, I don’t think they’re what any of us were expecting. What we see is gritty, provocative, and raw. Graphic. Her pictures expose the ravages of war in vivid detail, capturing carnage like time stopped for her lens.
“I’ve seen some of these pictures. They’re famous,” Nitro informs us.
With my SEAL background, I understand the danger she faced to get these shots. I know what life is like in those war-torn countries.
We voluntarily put ourselves in the middle of danger. Running into the chaos instead of away from it. But we go in armed and well-trained. Remington exposes herself to danger to document the action so the world can see it, feel it, and understand it. And she does it armed only with her camera.
Her photographs are magnetic. Extraordinary. Breathtaking in a heartbreaking way.
She’s a warrior. Her camera is her weapon. A different sort of weapon, but wielded with her gifted eye, a weapon all the same.
Not all of her portfolio is catastrophic and tragic.
Her website is also packed with stunning pictures of the aurora borealis, closeup photos of brightly colored fish, sea turtles, and whales breaching the surface.
There’s octopi, dolphins, and even sharks.
She’s photographed wildlife in Africa. Penguins and polar bears surrounded by snow and ice.
Silverbacks posturing for dominance in the rainforest.
She’s traveled the world from snowy mountain tops to burning desert sands. Regardless of the subject, the images she captures through the lens of her camera are vibrant and potent. She’s an adventurer. A storyteller without words. Insanely talented and, according to the internet, award-winning.
Ricochet has also taken out his phone. “Check it out. Someone did a story on her being the youngest photojournalist embedded in the Middle East,” he tells us, turning his phone to show us the pictures included in the article.
In the first one, she’s wearing an Army green t-shirt, camo cargo pants, heavy boots, and a Kevlar vest. Her braided hair hangs down her back from under a helmet. She holds her camera as if it’s an extension of herself, squatting in the aftermath of combat to snap a picture.
“Damn. Whatever or whoever she is, you have to admit the woman is a badass,” Doc says in admiration.
Another photo shows her on the roof of a Humvee down on one knee, unfazed by the bombs exploding and the firefight raging around her.
But my favorite is a candid shot of Remi smiling while she knocks back beers with a group of soldiers. She’s illuminated by the flickering glow of a firepit, hot embers floating in the air around her like fireflies.
A stark difference from the way she currently looks.
“That’s J-Bad,” Nitro comments.
Hawk is leaning over the back of the couch, looking over Ricochet’s shoulder. He glances from Remi sleeping in the other room to the photographs on Ricochet’s phone and grins. “Wow. She’s a knockout when she’s clean and not beat to shit.”
I’m hit with irrational jealousy. The last thing I want is the infamous Horndog Hawk sniffing around, trying to make Remington another notch on his bedpost. I spear my friend with an angry glare. “You stay the fuck away from her.”
Hawk straightens to his full height and wings up an eyebrow, looking amused. “Why? You don’t have any claim on her. And correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re not single. Seems to me whoever she wants to be with is her choice, not yours.”
“This isn’t up for discussion. I mean it, Hawk. Stay away from Remi if you don’t want your ass kicked.”
Hawk laughs, which only pisses me off more.
When I take a step toward him, Nitro grabs my arm in a firm grip. “Not a good idea. You know Hawk can and will lay you out if you take a swing at him.”
That’s an accurate statement. Hawk’s our best hand-to-hand fighter, and he fights dirty.
I’ve seen him knock out men much bigger than him with one punch from his powerful fists.
Still, I don’t like the idea of him spending time with Remi.
I despise the thought of him, or anyone else, putting their hands on her.
I love Hawk like a brother, but we call him Horndog Hawk for a reason. I don’t want Remi subjected to that any more than I would my own sister.
That’s all this is.
Warlock sighs, used to our outbursts. “Hawk’s fucking with you, Pony. You know he wouldn’t go after a woman any of us have claimed as our own.”
“What? No. I don’t have a claim on her,” I scoff. “She’s already been through enough. I’m only looking out for her.”
Warlock puts his phone away, his brow furrowed in thought. “If she is a photographer, she must’ve photographed something, or someone, she shouldn’t have,” he concludes.
I glance at Remi’s battered body. “And whoever or whatever it is, these assholes really want it.”