Raptor 6 (43 page)

Zmaray entered. Aimed a gun at Dean. Fired.

By the time Zahrah’s scream reached her vocal cords, it’d registered that the gun didn’t have the normal
crack
. She looked at Dean, one leg tucked under him, a hand propping him up as he leaned heavily to the right. Swayed. Yanked a silver vial from his chest.

Dart gun?

She looked to Zmaray.

“Bring her.” He started out. “And teach the captain a lesson.”

Dean threw a hard right.

Met nothing. Sailed wildly. His feet tangled.

Everything hurt. Burned. Ached. A blinding blow cracked against the back of his head. Teeth rattled. Something warm and metallic squirted through his mouth. He pitched forward. On all fours, he spit the blood from his mouth. Coughed—and seized as pain racked his body.

In a split second, he saw the boot flying. Braced himself. Not enough. The room tilted. Spun. Went black. Another cough as the air whooshed from his lungs. He shook his head, the stones spinning crazily. Still, he wasn’t going down without a fight. But when he pushed up, agony tore through his arm. He crashed against the wall, groaning.

“Do not think you will be the hero this time, Captain.”

Vision blurred, hearing partially blocked, Dean squinted up at the man towering over him, his tunic spotted with Dean’s blood.

“She will cooperate.” Kamran squatted in front of him, the guards standing over Dean with the business end of their weapons hovering over Kamran’s shoulders and aimed right at Dean. “And I have the great pleasure of making sure you are in pain to force her hand.”

Dean spit at him.

With flared nostrils, he used his sleeve to wipe the spittle. “And I will take great pleasure—more than I do in beating you—in breaking her.”

White-hot rage shot through Dean. He threw himself, agony and broken body, at Kamran.

The guy went backward. Fists. Feet. Shouts.

Crack!

Flying sideways, Dean howled through the fire that seared his back. His body convulsed, the pinpricks of a Taser throttling him full of electricity. The squawk and thud of the door shutting allowed Dean to relax. He visually cleared the room then let his head drop back. He stared up at the cement ceiling and stared at the light. Let that blur his realities. The past, the present, the fantasy.

Zahrah. Beautiful and free. Laughing, surrounded by children. Teaching them.

Ellen, at the base, playing basketball like one of the guys. Laughing. Alive.

Mom. He couldn’t remember her laughing. But smiling, at some of his antics. Chewing him out—man, what he wouldn’t do to hear her chew him out again. Because that’d mean she was alive.

Rolling onto his side took every morsel of strength he had left. But he did. And scooted so that he could see the door. Slowly, he surrendered the fight. His body needed rest. His mind needed it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t find a way out of here. It was all up to him now that they’d fried the transmitter.

He couldn’t cling to any false hopes. Zahrah’s life, the entire military establishment depended on them getting out of here alive. Hoping the transmitter had emitted a signal before it’d been killed was a fool’s dream. They would escape.

“Escape from what?”

Zahrah’s innocent question rocked the vault he’d stored those answers in years ago. Her hand felt so small, so delicate yet strong in his. He had to convince these goons that she meant as much to him as he did to her. That’s what their captors wanted. But he hated himself for it. Hated the way she hung on his every word. Hated the way she looked at him with those beautiful brown eyes. Hated how she’d responded when he took her hand. She had expectation filled with an unwritten promise of more.

But there couldn’t be more. Not when he was faking it.

But she didn’t know that. And he couldn’t let her know that. Because under duress, she might tell them it wasn’t real. He had to convince her it was real. He just wasn’t sure how to do that.

Let it be real
.

No. No, can’t do that
. Heaviness pulled and tugged at him, dragging him into a black abyss.

Voices thudded against his throbbing head. Holding his side, Dean opened his eyes. Couldn’t see the door. But heard the keys rattling on the other side. Gritting through the fire and pinching in his side and chest, he hauled himself up.

The door shrieked open, the hinges badly in need of some lubricant.

Two guards dragged in a waif of a teen boy.

What was this?

They released him.

The boy dropped to his knees and stayed by the opening, head down, shoulders sagging. Short hair chopped at weird angles and angry red welts along his neck and arms.

“What is this?” Dean clambered to his feet, unsteady but determined. “Where’s Zahrah. What have you done with her?”

Sniggers trailed the guards as they stepped out.

Clang! Thud!

The teen jumped at the noise of the locks reengaging, his head coming up just briefly. Brown eyes—

Dean’s breath hitched. He pushed himself forward. “Zahrah?” Steeling himself against the pain, he squatted in front of her.
This is my fault
. He’d mentioned her hair. Psychological warfare. Break their minds and spirits. More than ever, Dean knew they were listening. Watching. Very closely. To find the straw that would break their will.

God, help us
.

Her brown eyes rose to his. Morose. Disheartened.

Dean cupped her face. “This changes nothing. Hair is a dressing, like clothes.”

A tear trickled down her cheek.

He was reminded of their conversation earlier. “You’re still beautiful.”

She sniffled. “But not beautiful enough for you.”

Smothered by her words, Dean stilled. “You’re the most beautiful woman I know.”

Her eyes widened. She drew in a breath that she didn’t release.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Her chin quivered. “They said you’d say that.”

Dean inched closer. “Z, don’t let them get in your head, okay?”

“But they know … they know everything I’m thinking.”

“They want you to think that.”

“No, they
know
. They know how I feel about you, know what I’ll say—what you say.” She held his arm, his hands still bracing her face, as she looked up at him. Watery brown eyes, like liquid chocolate, seeped through his defenses. “I’m so scared.” Her lids slid shut, squeezing out more tears. “So scared of what they’re going to make me do.”

Dread poured through Dean as her words echoed through him. “No.” He wanted to curse. She’d already surrendered her will. Expected them to win. “They can’t make us do anything we don’t want to do. Everything we say or do is a choice.”

“But—”

“No.” Dean pressed his forehead to hers. “Be resolute, Z. No matter what they do to me, or to you, you have to determine there is no line in the sand. Nothing that will make you stand in front of a thousand American soldiers and pull the trigger.”

Zahrah pulled away from him. Pushed to her feet and stuffed herself in the corner. “That’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not. But that is exactly what you’re doing if you give them what they want. Think of the men on my team. Think of your father and his friends. All those upper echelon that you’ve had in your home. Friends. The men and women on the base who took care of Rashid.”

She whimpered and slid down the wall, shaking her head.

Dean went to her and knelt again. “Z,” he said, his breathing heavy. His conviction so raw, so vigorous, he could hardly breathe.

“I believe in you. It’s why I came after you.”

Her brows tugged together. “Came after me?”

“I knew when I walked into the president’s home, that I would be captured.”

She shook her head.

He tugged off his shirt, swiveled around in his hunched position, and showed her his bare back.

Zahrah gasped. “What—?”

Dean tensed at her touch. “That’s what happened to me ten years ago. Scars from torture, from beatings, electric shock.” Threading his hands through his shirt again, he turned back. “I knew what they could do to me. What they could do to you. I came here because I knew … I knew if you had something you cared about, you’d remember why you’re fighting.”

Head back against the bulging rocks, hair looking like something out of a zombie flick, she eyed him. “I can’t figure you out, Dean. And I’m tired.”

He dropped his gaze. Losing this fight with her now meant it was over.

“When you first arrived, you acted like I was just an American you came to rescue. Nothing more. Then you held my hand, as if I meant something.” She shuddered. “Now, we’re back to this—you came here because you knew
I
cared for
you
.”

This was sliding downhill with a rocket-propelled assist.

“Am I just a mission to you, Dean?”

12 July

S
creaming hard-rock music punched Dean’s answer out of the air. The walls shook with the booming bass and the shriek of a death metal lead singer’s voice. Zahrah covered her ears, hunching against the deafening noise. “What are they doing?”

“More psychological warfare,” Dean shouted just as the light popped off.

Fear coiled in Zahrah’s stomach. Darkness. Thundering, shrieking music.

Something touched her hand. She jerked away.

In the blaring insanity, she heard, “Hold my hand!”

Reticent but desperate for a lifeline, she relaxed. Dean’s strong hand enfolded around hers. Then a little tug. He wanted her to move. She followed in the darkness, walking … He led her around the perimeter of the room in a steady pace. She felt the vibration of the music against her breastbone, tickling her feet. How long they walked, she didn’t know. Only that her legs and feet hurt. Her back ached.

She tugged back and eased along the wall, but Dean refused her the break she wanted. To just sit down. Vanish into the black, deafening void that roared for her submission. Her legs buckled. Dean tugged her onward. “Just let me go.” But her voice couldn’t compete with the music.

Then out of nowhere, Dean swung her around—right into his chest. His arm slipped around her waist and held her close. His feet shuffled around hers. They turned.
What is he—dancing!

Zahrah resisted. Dance? When they were torturing her?

Words, mangled by the screaming of the metal music, brushed against her ear. “Let go … make own … fight back.”

Laugh or cry, she couldn’t decide. Brain signals blitzing—she was in his arms, he was holding her close, they were being tortured with darkness and loud music, but he was close, touching her—she struggled to know what to do.

“One-two-three,” came his words against her ear, faint, and yet she felt his chest puff as he’d shouted them.

Insane! The dance he was trying to lead her in was a waltz. To metal music? Instead, she focused on the waltz he led her in. Swirling around the small room, turning. She laughed, but the din of the music swallowed it. But she had laughed. And it felt good. Though she wasn’t a good dancer, it didn’t matter.

And he twirled her. Round … round … round, back into his arms. Her head butted his. She stopped. “Sorry!” She’d spoken but couldn’t be heard.

Dean pulled her back into his arms. His chest bounced against hers, and she realized he was laughing as they started another waltz. This time, she envisioned something from the animated movie
Anastasia
.

When he twirled her the last time, their grip broke. Hysterical laughter shot through her. She fell against the wall, laughing, holding her side.

A gust of air next to her told her of Dean’s presence. Instinctively, she reached out. Touched—oh. His face. Stubble. His cheek bulged slightly—a smile. She could see him perfectly. The buzz cut, the sun-bronzed complexion. His strong brow that sometimes had that terse, intense, tugged-together look. The strong nose. Angled features. His green-flecked eyes.

He placed his hand over hers, a reassuring gesture. When his hand fell away, she felt the emptiness of it. The cold air. Yet she felt he was still near, so she leaned her head against his shoulder. Closed her eyes. Whispered a prayer of thanks that God had Dean here to keep her sane. Keep her laughing. Keep her hoping.