Raptor 6 (45 page)

“Sorry,” came the deep, raspy voice as he was cuffed and dragged to his feet. “Not going to happen.”

“You take pleasure in pain?” Drying his hands with a towel, Nianzu faced the American soldier, who struggled to hold himself upright.

“Yeah.” Teeth mottled with blood, he grinned. “It means I’m still alive.”

Kamran growled. “We can change that.”

“Bring it.”

“What about Zahrah’s pain?” Nianzu slid his hands in his silk-blend pant pockets as he considered the operator. “Do you take pleasure in her pain?”

His arrogance faltered. “If it means she’s alive—”

“Come, Captain. You and I both know you would do anything to protect her, including drawing our attention, anger, and”—Nianzu looked around the large room with chains strung from the rafters, water hoses, metal bed frames, a tray of tools, leather straps—“efforts. Perhaps you are far too caught up in being the hero that you do not realize how far you have fallen.”

His jaw lifted.

“I do not mean failed.”

Confusion now.

“I mean, you have fallen prey to your own feelings, your own protective instincts. I cannot help but wonder what you would do, should”—he slid his gaze to Kamran—“someone hurt her.”

A dark shadow filled the captain’s face and eyes. “As you said, you and I both know what would happen.”

Lethal venom dripped from those few words. The soldier all but promised to exact vengeance if the girl was hurt. So, the captain’s heart had become engaged in the situation.

“But tell me, what are you, a known assassin, doing here? Doing someone’s dirty work? Aren’t you”—the captain sneered—“better than this?”

Impressive. Trying to draw out anger. But no. There would be no shift of his focus in his mission. Tedious, dull work, this torture. But it served a greater purpose. “Until next time, Captain.” With a jut of his jaw, Nianzu ordered the guards to return the prisoner.

Years had gone into this effort, but nothing in that elaborate planning had prepared Nianzu to have things go so perfectly, so supremely on plan. Nor had he ever expected to find such sublime pawns as these two. He returned to the makeshift office, changed shirts, and slipped into a tie and jacket.

“Your plan is not working.”

Nianzu stared at the six-foot-four Afghan towering over him. The Muslim might have brute strength, but he did not have speed. Or cunning.

“I say we separate them. The soldier is a danger to my men and this mission.”

“He is key to breaking the girl.”

“No.” Kamran took a step forward, his meaty fist balled. “Look at the tapes, watch the cameras. She draws courage from him.”

He’d seen it, too.

“Let me teach her a lesson.” The man leered. “Or two. I will break her.”

“She must come to this decision on her own, or her help will not be trustworthy.”

A well-muscled shoulder lifted. “I will help her see it’s in her best interest.”

Nianzu returned to the window that held no glass. To the view that held no inspiration. His mind traveled the distance, both in miles back to his home country and the past to the night he dispatched General Zhang Guiern. It had been so easy. Manipulating pieces on the chessboard. Maneuvering the wills of those who believed they had a choice. Believed they could outdo him.

Just like the American Special Forces operator who believed that in coming here, he could either rescue or protect Zahrah Zarrick.

It was simple. So very simple. So much that even he could not believe how easily it had worked.

“Captain Watters has grown stronger because he knows their time is short.”

“All the more reason we not give him another day to consider the outcome.”

“No.” Nianzu jerked to Kamran. “You will
not
kill him. Kill him, we lose her completely.”

“Or maybe she will feel she has nothing to lose.”

Nianzu sneered. “She is much stronger, both in mind and heart, than any of your warriors, Kamran. Do not underestimate her.” He went to the desk and lifted his briefcase. “I must return to China for a few days.”

Already the greedy glint appeared in the man’s eyes.

“You know how far my reach goes. Do not force my hand against you.” With that, Nianzu strode out of the complex and slipped into the sleek black Mercedes. He lifted his phone from his pocket as the car pulled away from the complex. As the road smoothed out, the call connected.

“Boss Man!”

“Send me a link to the live feed of the prison.”

“Feed from the—I have no idea …”

“Ah, you thought I was ignorant of your devices. Perhaps this will teach you, Boris, not to tempt my patience.” He breathed in heavily. Then out. “The feed. Now. Or you will need a speech-to-text to finish your contract.”

“I … coming your way.”

Nianzu ended the call and checked his e-mail. The link slid into his inbox. He accessed it. Scanned through a few cameras until he found the right one.

He almost laughed. It had been too easy. It paid to know your friends, but it paid even more to know your enemies. Through the dark shadows of the passage that led to the cell holding Zahrah Zarrick and Captain Dean Watters, Kamran stalked with sick, malicious intent.

Somewhere in Afghanistan
20 July

T
hey’re escalating,” Dean ground out through bloodied lips.

They’d beaten him to a pulp … again. But still he hadn’t bent his knee, his will. When would enough be enough for him? The question scared Zahrah because she realized “enough” would’ve come much sooner for her without Dean.

Stomach roiling, she knelt beside him, hand on his shoulder—one of the few spots not splattered in his blood. Even with the brutality, she couldn’t ignore the tattooed wings spreading across his back. A dagger thrust upward along his spine. She had to drag her thoughts from the inked design. “Wh–what do you mean?”

“Our time is short.” He held his side, his jaw muscle bouncing. “We have to find a way out. Now.”

Her gaze flitted between his pulverized back, the tattooed wings and up-pointed dagger marred, to the door. Locked. Bolted. Guarded. “Why, what’s happened?”

He shook his head, staring at the wall. “Just trust me on this. The first chance we get—we take it.”

Uncertainty darted through her, along with a hefty dose of adrenaline.

Dean met her gaze, sweat and blood trickling down the sides of his face. His eye had swollen shut again. His other was bloodshot. He could convince her to scale a hundred-foot cliff. But she was still terrified.

“You can do it, Z. Have to.”

He’d read her thoughts. Which unleashed all the fears swirling around them. “I … I can’t fight like you.”

He smirked. “Fight like you. Don’t need brawn.” He grimaced and arched his back slightly. “You need brain.”

If he’d just give her a sign, an indication that she meant something other than “the strongest woman….”

“Hey.” His dirty, blood-crusted hand cupped her face. “Promise me. Promise you’ll fight. And this won’t be a nice, clean fight, Z. We fight hard till we get what we want.”

“What’s that?” A stupid question but she needed to hear him say it.

“Freedom.” Conflict traced his brow. “I know you’re not trained, but we have to hit them hard. It’ll be ‘kill or be killed.’ ”

She wilted. She’d do anything for him. But what if she fell short? What if he died because of something she did? “I’m scared.”

He grinned through bloodied teeth. “You and me both. But I’m not going to let them win.” Fierce determination tugged together his brow and tightened his jaw. “Not this time. Not with you.”

Those three words pounded against her heart. “Dean …” Everything in her ached for him to say he cared about her. That she was more than a friend. Three weeks in this prison, all day every day with him. She’d known the first time she met him that he was special. That he stood head and shoulders above the rest. This time of captivity cemented that.

But those thoughts were foolish. They were faced with death. “I want to see my father again. My cousin.”

He nodded.

“What about you? Do you want to see your family?”

Misery crowded his face. He tried to smile. “Raptor’s the only family I have.”

“What about your parents?”

“Dead.” He lowered himself against the wall, grimacing as his raw back rested against the stones. “My brother killed them.”

Zahrah blinked. The surprise she felt couldn’t have been more pronounced.
“Dean,”
she breathed, “I’m so sorry.”

Eyes closing, he gave a slight nod. “They weren’t the best parents, but they didn’t deserve that.” He stilled, his face going pale.

“What happened?” She traced his obvious injuries then tore a swatch off the hem of her tunic. Kneeling over him, she dabbed the mess from around his eyes.

“Donny was always in trouble. Came home from a party, drunk and ticked. Desi said Dad tried to punish him with the belt.” Dean’s expression grew distant as the past once more took hold of him. “Donny was as big and meaner than Dad. Their yelling woke me up. Scared me, both of them in a rage. When I heard the gunshots, I climbed into the dirty clothes pantry—it was one of those built-ins that had a small swinging part.” He snorted. “I stayed in there with smelly socks and dirty underwear till the cops came. Even then, I was too scared to come out.”

“Who’s Desi?”

He blinked. Lifted his head a little higher, as if he’d just emerged from a pool of bad memories. “What?” He focused on her. And his skin seemed to go green.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” Zahrah dropped the question as she tended him, unable to
not
admire his handsome features, despite the cuts, bruising, and swelling. Because there was so much more and more beautiful to Dean Watters than his looks.

“Nah, it’s okay. I just … I’ve never told anyone about them.”

When he looked into her eyes, in that moment she saw his meaning.
Felt
the meaning—he’d given her a gift in that deeply held secret. “So, you were young?”

“Eight.” He winced as she tried to wipe clean his brow. “We got put in the foster system.”

Zahrah stilled. “We?”

He smirked.

Always with the mysteries. “Is that—the tattoo on your back. Is that why you did that?”

“Nah.” Head propped back, he closed his eyes. “Got the scars ten years ago. My first deployment. We were on a supply run, our caravan, when we got ambushed.” A long sigh seemed to end the story and forced quiet into their cell. “She didn’t make it.”

“Who?”

“Private First Class Ellen Green. Prettiest thing in camos I’d ever seen. Sweet …”

Greedy green talons dug into Zahrah’s heart. She’d never heard him talk about anyone like that. Ellen must’ve been something special to him.
Be a friend, Zahrah, not a jealous snit
. “What happened to her?”

“They raped her to death.” Once more, Dean’s face had gone stone hard. “Right in front of me.”

Zahrah inhaled the terrible words and froze. Tears sprang to her eyes. So much made sense about him now. About his need to control. To protect her.

“I should’ve died a dozen times, but”—he shook his head, looking to the ceiling—“for whatever sick reason, God wanted me alive. Everyone told me I had an angel watching my back.”

Her mind snagged on the mental image snapped of the tattoo. “Angel’s wings.”

His lips twitched. “And a dagger. When I came back, I was ready to drive that dagger through the heart of any enemy.” Dean let out another grunt, holding his side.

“Smart man to realize where your help came from.”

“You’re too smart for my own good.”

“Yeah, someone tried to tell me that before, and I ignored his advice.”

“Hey.” Dean touched her face. “You had a purpose, remember?”

Zahrah stilled as his fingers traced her hacked-off hair, the side of her face. As she looked into his bloodshot right eye, she felt a dart of exhilaration and attraction. But also … the answer. The answer to the elusive sense of purpose that existed just below her awareness. “You.”

Dean frowned a bit, his hand trailing down her arm. “What?”

Out of habit, as she’d always done when nervous, she tucked hair she didn’t have behind her ear. “Remember, I told you there was another reason I was here, one I couldn’t quite figure out?”

He hesitated as if anticipating her answer.

“It’s you. You’re the reason I’m here.”

“No.” He scowled. “No!” He punched to his feet.

Zahrah stood, holding the bloodied rag. “Why … why does that make you mad?”

He jerked toward her. “Have you seen me? Do you
know
me?”

“I … I think I do.”

“Wrong!” Fury reddened his face. “Did you not hear what I just said about my family? I don’t do relationships. I don’t have a need or desire for one. Never have. My team—Raptor is what I live for.”

“Dean—”

“No, no platitudes. Just get it out of your head. I’m not made for relationships. I’m not worth saving.”

“That is not true!” She strode the half-dozen paces to the other side of the cell, where he stood by the door. “You’re the best man I’ve ever met.”

“Wrong. Get over your attraction because it won’t happen. I’m not dating. I’m married to the Army. I won’t marry anyone.” He shook his head and shuffled around, his hand on the back of his neck. “I won’t do that to anyone. I won’t … let that happen.”