Course of Action: Crossfire (14 page)

“What is it?” Riley hissed. “What do you hear?”

He sliced a hand through the air to silence her and kept his ear pressed to the crack. Straining, she picked up a muffled shout, then what sounded like a dull thud.

Pete muttered a vicious curse and rolled into a crouch. Reaching out, he wrapped his hands around her upper arms.

“Listen to me, Slim. Don't try to pass any signals. Don't act anything but natural. Do whatever they say, when they say it.”

“Why? What did you just hear?”

He didn't want to give details. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in his hard, bruising grip.

“Tell me! What just happened out there?”

“Scarface and one of his pals were talking to...” He stopped, shook his head, made a quick correction. “Were arguing with Prince Malik. I couldn't understand their words, but I recognized their voices.”

“And?”

“And whatever Scarface wanted the prince to do, I'm guessing he refused to play ball.”

“Why? You said you couldn't understand their words.”

His jaw worked. “I heard a whack—”

“I heard it, too. Sort of a dull thud.”

“Yeah,” he said grimly. “Like the sound a knife blade makes when it slams into wood. Followed by a long, low groan.”

“Oh, God!”

“So if they want to take your picture or have you read a script, just do it. Straight. No code words. No hidden signals. Got that?”

A chaotic mental kaleidoscope of knife blades, chopping blocks and a groaning prince pinwheeled through her mind. For the first time in more years than she could remember, she actually wished she was home with her mother. Or at the barre, sweating off the three pounds her sadistic trainer insisted she had to lose. Or even in Milan, where she'd been so nervous before her La Scala debut she'd thrown up in her dressing room. Twice.

“Riley!” Pete gave her a hard shake. “Listen to me. No heroics. Understand?”

“Yes.”

She broke off, gulping as she heard the same scrape of wood on wood that had heralded the kidnappers' entry earlier. She and Pete were on their feet when the door opened. They stood well back, him with his arm around her shoulders, her with her heart jackhammering against her ribs.

The light that burst through the opening was brighter than before, the room beyond bathed in the fierce wash of the desert sun. Riley threw up an arm to shield her eyes from the sudden glare, lowering it only when Scarface hooked a finger.

“You. Woman. Come with me.”

“Why?” Pete took a step sideways and put himself between her and the man framed in the open door. “What do you want with her?”

The kidnapper studied him for long moments, as if trying to decide whether to respond with a bullet.

“She will speak into a camera,” he said finally. “If she says what we tell her to, she'll come to no harm.”

Pete's outstretched arm kept her behind him. “I'm the money man in the family. I know how much we have in which accounts. Tell me what you want and I'll tell you how to get it.”

“Yes, you will. But first the woman will speak into the camera. They must know how we will use her blood money.”

“They who? And what the hell is this about blood money? In case you don't know it, my wife is donating the entire proceeds of this tour to—”

“Enough!” Scarface's eyes flashed. “Al Said just tested my patience. A mistake I'm sure he now regrets. Don't make the same one.”

Riley's stomach rolled. She knew she had to act in the next two or three seconds or she'd pull another La Scala.

“I can talk into a camera.” She gave a brittle laugh and ducked under Pete's arm. “God knows I've done it hundreds of times before.”

“Riley, wait.”

“No, I can do this.”

“Then I go with you. I go with her,” he repeated stubbornly to the gunman silhouetted against the bright sunlight.

Scarface was done with being nice. “You move,” he spit out, “and you die.”

“Pete! Darling! Please, please don't be stupid! Let me do this.”

“Your woman is wiser than you are,” the kidnapper sneered. “Come.”

Her insides iced over with fear, Riley edged past him. As soon as she'd cleared the door, he kicked it shut and nodded. His cohort hefted a thick wooden bar and wedged it into two rusted iron slots on either side of the door. The bar fell into place with a now-familiar scrape of wood against wood. Like the dungeon in some medieval fortress, Riley thought on a note of near hysteria.

A quick glance around the room she now stood in suggested it had once served as the main living area. It smelled of old burlap and dead ashes. Dust motes floated thick and heavy on the air. A wide sleeping platform topped with a tattered blanket hugged the back wall. A charcoal brazier lay tipped on its side in one corner. A brass lamp, its colored glass face broken and coated with dust, hung suspended from a brass hook. Thick shutters were open to let in the morning light, but the tall shaft of another wind-catcher funneled down a breeze that kept the heat at bay.

The digital camcorder mounted on a tripod introduced the only modern note into a setting right out of
One Thousand and One Nights
. It was positioned a few feet from a low, square table that...

Riley's quick inventory came to a full stop. Choking, she stared at the glistening red stain on both the surface of the table and the worn carpet below it.

“Is that...? Is that...?”

Scarface hesitated a few beats, then obviously decided brutal honesty would ensure more cooperation than lies. “Yes, it is blood. As I told you, al Said tried my patience. You will not be so stupid, will you?”

Terror ripped at her throat with razor claws. “No.”

“I thought not. Sit there, facing the camera, and read the document on the table.”

She stumbled across the room and sank onto the stacked cushions. Her stomach heaved again when she saw bright red splotches on the single sheet of paper. Swallowing hard, she picked it up and skimmed the double-spaced paragraph.

Disbelief fought its way through her incipient nausea. “You've got to be kidding! You want fifty million dollars? For me?”

“And...” he prompted, his eyes flat and cold.

She wrenched her attention back to the paragraph. “And the release of Abdul Haddad.” The paper shook in her hands. “Who's Abdul Haddad?”

“Such ignorance.” Scarface gave a disgusted snort and said something to his cohort. “But then,” he added with his ugly sneer, “you are a woman, and a Westerner. It is to be expected.”

A thread of anger wormed its way past Riley's fear. Slow and reedy at first, but steady enough to spark a sizzle. She nursed the heat like an ancient vestal virgin tending the sacred flame while the second kidnapper moved into position behind the video camera and fiddled with the settings. When he looked up and nodded, Scarface issued a curt command.

“Read the words written on the paper. Only those words.”

She obeyed, her voice wooden. “My name is Riley Fairchild. The men holding me hostage demand fifty million dollars for my safe return. They also demand the release of Abdul Haddad. If these demands are not met within the next forty-eight hours, they will do to me what was done to Haddad's wife. You will receive instructions for delivery of the money and...ugh!”

She jerked back, swatting at the brown specks drifting on the breeze generated by the wind-catcher. “Bugs! A dozen tiny, stinging bugs. I
saw
them,” she insisted when Scarface growled at her from off camera. “
Saw
at least a dozen of them!”

She swatted the air again, turned her head and hacked, as if spitting something out. When she faced the camera again, tears flooded her eyes.

“Please! Whoever's listening! Give these men whatever they want and get me out of here.”

 

Chapter 5

“A
bdul Haddad!”

The name hit Pete with the percussive impact of an IED. He rocked back on his heels, knowing their situation had just gone from dangerous to deadly.

“Dammit all to hell.”

Riley had returned to the storeroom, the kidnappers apparently satisfied with her performance in front of the camera. Pete's reaction to her recital of the kidnapper's demands promptly shredded her relief at putting that ordeal behind her.

“Who's Haddad?”

“A third-rate thug masquerading as a tribal chieftain in Yemen. The bastard lets his troops murder and rape at will. Or did, until he made the mistake of slipping across the border to raid an Omani village a few months back. Massacred the men and carried off most of the women to sell into slavery. Prince Malik led the Special Ops assault that took him down.”

“Do you think that's where we are now? In Yemen?”

Pete pulled up an area map in his head, picturing the wide swath of desert that constituted Yemen at the bottom of the Arabian Peninsula, with Saudi Arabia to its north and Oman to its east.

“No, Muscat is too far from the border with Yemen for the kidnappers to have driven us there in just a few hours. My guess is we're either still in Oman or we crossed into Rub' al Khali—the Empty Quarter of Saudi Arabia. In either case,” he added grimly, “we can't hang around and wait for the Sultan of Oman to order Haddad's release. He ain't gonna do it.”

“Even if Prince Malik begs him to?”

“Which the prince ain't gonna do, either. He saw firsthand the carnage Haddad left behind in that village.”

Pete paced the small room, his steps short, his muscles taut. It took a lot to turn the stomachs of Special Forces troops. The Omani PJs he'd trained with for the past two weeks were as tough as any of the breed, but reports of Haddad's brutality had sickened even them.

Pete spun on his heel. Started back across the small cell. Stopped dead center. Angling his head back, he stared up the funnel that provided both light and a cooling breeze.

“Dammit,” he muttered. “I shouldn't have waited to see what their agenda was. I should've hauled us up and out of here last night.”

Riley crowded next to him and craned her neck. “Pete, it's too narrow! You won't get your shoulders halfway up.”

“It'll be a tight fit,” he admitted.

“You'll get stuck.”

“Then I'll just have to hack free.”

“With what?”

“Well, we've got the brass knuckles. And...”

His eyes swept the room, zeroed in on the wooden bucket in the far corner. He'd already decided the rope handle was too short to use as anything other than a garrote. The rusted metal bands ringing the wood offered considerably more potential.

“Sorry, kid. We'll have to sacrifice our honey bucket.”

She followed his gaze and wrinkled her nose but didn't protest any further. “Okay, tell me what to do.”

“First, we make a rope. We'll start by tearing the remnants of your gown into strips and braiding them together. We'll do the same with the lining from my tux jacket. We'll save the rest of the jacket and our pants for later, when Scarface and company think we're settled for the night.”

“And the bucket?”

“That will have to wait, too, until after they bring us more food and water.”

“
If
they bring more food and water.”

“They will,” Pete predicted confidently. “You're too valuable to lose to dehydration.”

He settled on the dirt floor, his back to the wall, his legs outstretched. Riley plopped down beside him and worried her lower lip while he stripped the lining from the jacket. He kept the denuded black shell close in case they needed to use it to cover their rope-in-progress, then set to work reducing the skirt of Riley's gown to long, usable strips.

Tearing the red silk took more muscle power than Pete had anticipated, which was good. Braided together, the strips of tensile fabric should do the trick. It had to. Hauling Riley up behind him was the main weakness in this escape plan. It was also the primary reason he waited this long to attempt it. Even with him taking most of her weight, there was no way she could have shimmied up the wind tower last night. Not after those agonizing hours in the Range Rover.

The odds weren't all that great they'd make it tonight, either. They couldn't risk another delay, though. Riley's account of the bloodstained table showed Scarface was every bit as ruthless as Haddad. Pete didn't know if they'd killed or just maimed Prince Malik, but he didn't intend to wait around for them to start on Riley.

And he knew damned well Scarface or his pals had someone—or several someones—monitoring news coverage of the raid and the kidnappings. The Special Ops unit at Thumrait would try to keep Pete's real identity under wraps but some enterprising newshound would dig it out, probably sooner rather than later. When it became known, Pete would lose the advantage he had now with Scarface and friends being ignorant of his background and training.

They'd woven and knotted together a good four feet of rope when Pete picked up the sounds signaling the kidnappers' return. He draped the tux shell over the coiled rope, then rolled to his feet and moved far enough away from the seemingly careless pile of discarded clothing so as not to draw Scarface's attention to it.

Riley fit herself readily within the circle of his arm. He could feel the tension in her rigid spine, the taut muscles, but she kept her chin high and barely flinched when the door opened.

As before, the two kidnappers remained outside the room. One was the younger man from earlier this morning. The second Pete recognized from the dressing room at the opera house. Barely more than a girl, she refused to look at either of the hostages as she tossed another sack into the room.

“Wait!” Riley stretched out a hand to the girl, trying to make contact, establish at least a tenuous rapport. “Are these your clothes? This tunic and the pants? If they are, thank you for the kindness.”

The girl threw a nervous look over her shoulder and didn't respond. She scuttled back a step and barely cleared the door before her companion slammed it shut. The thud of the bar dropping into place echoed like dull thunder.

Pete broke the silence that followed with a small grunt. “Scarface must have gone to deliver the ransom video to someplace that has cell towers and/or internet access. With any luck, he'll be away for the rest of the night.”

* * *

The sack contained more water, flatbread, cheese and dates. Pete cautioned Riley to eat and drink sparingly, though, as he intended to take what was left with them. She tried her damnedest to share his confidence that they would escape, but her nerves stretched thinner and tighter as the light funneling down through the wind-catcher slowly faded. After what seemed like several lifetimes, all that was left was a dim glow of moonlight.

Still they waited, until Pete finally decided it was safe to proceed. His first task was to scrape a shallow hole in the corner and empty the bucket. He scoured it with dirt and sand, then went to work on the rusty iron bands. Several bruised knuckles and the same number of muttered oaths later he pried off the upper band. Riley watched in mingled suspense and admiration as he twisted the metal into a sharp point. When he did the same with the second band, she had to ask.

“What do you plan to do with those?” she asked, keeping her voice soft and low.

“First we'll use 'em to gouge hand-and toe-holds. Then as cams. Pitons. Anchors,” he said in answer to her blank look. “Haven't done much mountain climbing, have you?”

“Have you?”

“Remind me to tell you sometime about the Special Forces Advanced Mountain Operations School at Fort Carson. You complete that course, you could give a mountain goat lessons in scrambling up a sheer precipice.”

That reassured her. Some.

“Okay,” he said as he tested the point he'd made of the second band, “that's the best I can do. Time to strip off and add to our rope.”

He had Riley sacrifice her baggy pants but not the thigh-length tunic. Pete, however, donated both shirt and trousers to their cause. She tried her best not to goggle at the acre or so of sculpted chest that came into view when he peeled off the blood-stained white shirt. Or the muscled thighs and the trim, tight butt displayed to perfection by a pair of thigh-hugging briefs.

“Didn't have time to buy shorts to go with my spiffy new tux,” he said with a quick grin when he caught her sneaking a peek. “We call these Ranger panties. They're the latest in tactical hot weather gear. Moisture-wicking and heat-signature-reducing.”

“If you say so.”

The grin widened. “They're functional, but sure not as enticing as that scrap of red lace you're wearing under that tunic.”

“Ha! I should have known you wouldn't keep your face to the wall.”

“I tried. I really did.”

She was about to give that another “Ha!” when he angled toward her and she caught sight of the tattoo banding his right bicep.

“Is that a snake?”

“Sure is. A sidewinder. Fastest, meanest rattler west of the Pecos.”

He flexed his arm, and the snake's mouth widened to display a nasty set of fangs. Riley grimaced, but Pete gazed down at the vicious reptile with the same fondness a dog lover might display for his pet schnauzer.

“We all have the same tat,” he told her. “Travis, Duke, Jack, Josh, Dan and me. Like our mascot here, we were fast and mean. Best football players ever to come out of Rush Springs, if I do say so myself.”

“I'll take your word for that.”

“It's a fact,” he assured her as he set to work tearing his shirt and their trousers into useable strips. Riley settled beside him, helping to weave the pieces together and add them to what they'd done earlier.

“Looks like about fifteen feet,” Pete murmured some time later, snaking out the long braid. “Not as much as I'd hoped but we'll have to go with it.”

He coiled the rope, then wrapped a leftover piece of cloth around one of the pieces of bent metal. He kept his voice easy, but his eyes were dark rounds of utter seriousness as he passed Riley the makeshift tool.

“Here's the drill. I'm going to put you on my shoulders so you can reach inside the tower. You'll have to dig two handholds. Three, if you can stretch a little higher. Then I'll set you down, jump up and take it from there.”

Disbelieving, Riley looked from the shaft to his shoulders and back again. The drill, as he called it, would never work. Despite that boast about being able to teach mountain goats to climb, Riley didn't see how he could leap up, get a grip on whatever shallow indentations she could hack out, and shimmy up that narrow tunnel.

“Ready?”

Swallowing her doubts, she stepped onto his bent knee. The sidewinder seemed to hiss at her, its fangs wide, as Pete's muscles bunched and he guided her into a kneeling position on his shoulders. She tottered dangerously, sure she was going to fall on her face, but he pinned her in place with a bruising grip on her thighs and slowly straightened. Just as slowly, Riley pushed upright. The shaft was within reach!

Anchored on his shoulders, she hacked at the inside of the tower. Adobe flaked off in small chunks. The hard-baked mud brick underneath proved tougher to crack until Pete told her to chink at the mortar between the bricks. Following his instructions, she dug out a shallow opening.

Dust swirled in the confined space. Sweat dripped from her forehead. Her nostrils were clogged and her eyes stung when she reached higher and started on a second cut. By the time she hacked out a third, her arms were on fire and she was wobbling dangerously on Pete's shoulders.

“That's good enough,” he said.

Lowering her slowly, he supported her until her legs stopped shaking and feeling had returned to her arms. Then he looped the braided rope over her head and settled it under her arms.

“I'll give it a tug when I'm ready to pull you up.” His intent gaze raked her dust-caked face. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

Then it was his turn. As agile as the mountain goat he'd referenced, he leaped straight up and caught the lowest handhold on his first try. Reached for the second. Hauled himself up to the third. His taut, corded thighs dangled in midair while he used the tool he'd reclaimed from Riley to carve a fourth handhold. Then a fifth. When he pulled himself high enough up to wedge his back against one wall of the tower and get his foot in the first step, her heart was hammering so hard and fast it hurt.

He worked his way up the shaft inch by steady inch. The rough adobe had to be murder on his bare back and shoulders, but he kept going. All the while, Riley's glance darted from the tower to the door and back again. She'd almost forgotten how to breathe when the loop around her upper chest suddenly went taut. She grabbed the rope above her head with both hands to keep it from slicing into her armpits while Pete hauled her up slowly, steadily.

The tower walls closed in on her. Cloying, choking claustrophobia filled her throat. She held onto the rope with desperate hands, scrabbling for a toehold, scraping both knees against the rough surface. She almost panicked when she heard a slow, agonized creak above her. Like the sound of old wood pulling free of rusty nails.

Oh, God! The tower was coming apart around them!

She cranked her head back as far as she could and gasped in relief when she realized it was just Pete shimmying through one of the openings between the tower and its wooden roof. When he disappeared over the rim, the rope she dangled from sawed up, down, up again. Riley jerked around like a puppet, panic clawing at her again, until the pull steadied and brought her up to the top.

Any other time the symphony that greeted her eager eyes would have called to the artist in her. A treble clef of black sky spangled with a thousand twinkling notes. A bass clef of dark, undulating desert stretching to infinity. And there, far off on the horizon, the faint glow of lights that just might signal civilization!