Raptor 6 (48 page)

“See? I knew you were not calloused the way Kamran said.” Zmaray again returned to the front, where he sat beside the monitor. “This man who held you with such tenderness after you were brutalized—you see him in pain and already you’re crying.”

Zahrah’s hand went to her cheek, startled to discover he was right.

“How much can you stand, Miss Zarrick? All you have to do is help us unlock the network. Just a few hours’ work to buy his freedom, your freedom.” He folded his arms. “I think you know the time is drawing near to find a compromise, yes?”

He stood and crossed the room to her. Stood before her, almost eye to eye. His spiced cologne tickled her nose. Or maybe it was the hair gel that smoothed back his hair. “In the cell, you saw that Captain Watters has lost his focus. He is in a rage. He does not think clearly. Your hope for escape, which solely depended on him”—he lifted her hand and unfurled her fingers—“now rests solely in your delicate fingers, Miss Zarrick.”

It sounded like he was offering her a way out, a way to save Dean. “That’s what evil men say—’do what we want and you can go free.’ ” She tried to keep her voice steady. “But then they kill you anyway.”

“You are far more valuable to me alive.”

What he didn’t say was more alarming that what he did say. “What about Dean?”

He studied her face, intense and fierce. Muddy-brown eyes drilling holes through her crumbling strength and already glinting with victory he’d ripped from her hands. From Dean’s.

He lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “He is becoming a problem.”

“You’ve tortured us, deprived us of nutrition—”

“And yet you’re killing guards who are merely doing their job.”

“Merely doing—”

“It does not look good for the captain, Miss Zarrick. I cannot guarantee his safety when he so willingly incites violence.” Terse words belied his calm expression. “But we are here to discuss you.” He motioned to her hands. “You hold the power.”

“To what?”

“To change … everything. To save yourself. To save the man you love.”

Somewhere in Afghanistan
28 July

P
ain pushed Dean in and out of consciousness. Broken fingers throbbed against his need for sleep—anything to mute the agony. Braced by two walls in a corner, he tried to stay awake. Tried to fight the fog of deprivation and his body’s need to shut down so it could preserve and heal.

But Zahrah …

Noise outside the doors drew Dean straight. Forearm up, he braced it against his chest. Steeled himself as the door swung open.

Two guards rushed in, weapons aimed at him. They shouted in Pashto, “Get down! Down. On your knees.”

The urge to fight filled him. No way would he bow any more knees to them.

Nostrils flared, Dean flattened his lips and felt the pinch of torn flesh. Trained to fight ambidextrously, he was stronger, faster, more accurate with his right. But he could still incapacitate with his left. And if that’s what it took—

“Down!”

Dean stood.

A shout from outside tangled with the guards inside, the ones afraid of Dean. The ones demanding submission.

Zahrah stepped into view.

Dean stilled. Swayed as the guards backed out, changing places with Zahrah. The door shut. Even as the locks were engaging, Zahrah came to him. “Are you okay?” She flew right into his arms. No hesitation.

It felt good. Very good. He crushed her to himself and breathed deeply of her, relieved she wasn’t hurt more. Relieved she was back. “Fine. You?”

Zahrah’s gaze hit his arm and widened. “Your hand!”

Dean cupped her face. “Hey.” But her attention was still glued to his swollen and shattered limb. He crouched so she’d look him in the eyes. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll be okay. We’ll get out of here.”

The words seemed to tug more grief out of her.

“We will. I’ll make sure.”

After a faint nod, one in which she didn’t look at him, she motioned to their corner, the spot they’d occupied together for many days and weeks. “Sit. You’re hurt.”

“I think we’re beyond that.” But he relented. Spine to the stone wall, he slid down, using his left hand as a guide. Zahrah’s light touch never left his back and upper arm. Strange, how much comfort he drew from that simple gesture.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder, as had become their habit, Zahrah tore off a length of her tunic. And another.

“Keep doing that, you won’t have much left.”

“Is that a smile I hear in your voice?”

The laugh barely made it across his windpipe.

She worked the two ends into a knot. “Here.” She scooted around to face him, legs bent underneath her. Motioning him closer, she said, “Lean forward.”

Ah. A sling. A smile cracked his dark mood. Now who was taking care of whom?

Zahrah pushed up on her knees, leaning in to look behind him. Her cool, soft hands touched and teased the back of his neck. Dean closed his eyes as she worked. This wasn’t something to enjoy.

She sat once more. “Not the best, but it’ll do for now.”

Floored at the way she tended him, worried over him, Dean adjusted the knot so it didn’t rub the back of his neck. “It’s great. Thanks.” The trembling from holding his arm in place so movement didn’t jar it eased.

It was weird—a good weird—to have her doting over him. Felt like … he wasn’t sure what. Other than good. He hadn’t had anyone take care of him since Sergeant Elliott’s wife.

She shifted back into place, leaning against him. Dean drew up his legs and let his left arm dangle over them. Blood and scabs marred his knuckles. But at least he could feel his fingers. He’d need his right digits set or they’d heal wrong.

Quiet draped over them like a wool blanket. When would the lights go out again? Or the blaring music? Or blinding floodlights erupt? Meant to force him to remain vigilant and tense, the psychological torture had nothing on remembering when Kamran took Zahrah.

“He made me watch them breaking your fingers.”

Dean snapped his gaze to hers. Even with the hacksaw hair job, she was beautiful. Strong. More than he could’ve imagined for a softhearted person like her. She loved people, cared for them, sacrificed for them.

Staring at the ground in front of them, she didn’t move.

The toll of the last few weeks had spit and scratched her face, leaving indelible marks. Her olive complexion now seemed pale, sallow. A weight darkened her eyes. In his gut, something churned. A fear, one he’d known far too well. “Z.” He gave his shoulder a bounce, gently lifting her head. “You okay?”

She bobbed her head lightly. “Do you know the story of Corrie ten Boom?”

Blinking, Dean tried to switch gears with her topic change. “Yeah. Sure. Who doesn’t? Sergeant Elliott showed us the movie at the rec center.”

Brown eyes peered up at him. “Sergeant Elliott?”

Dean sniffed. “Yeah. He’s the reason I wanted to be in Special Forces. He’d served in Vietnam, then became a cop when he got back. The night my brother killed my parents, Sergeant Elliott was the first responder on the scene. He pulled me out of the hamper.” Dean shook off the heaviness of that memory. “He became my mentor, even in the foster system.”

“So, he was strong.”

With a snort, Dean nodded. “You could say that.”

“Like the ten Booms. They were so strong.” She sighed. “So grounded in their faith. Was Sergeant Elliott a man of faith?”

He grinned. “Beat me with the Bible every chance he got.” Dean laughed. “Seriously—he is the reason I’m not a total screwup now. I gave him grief and heartache. But he saw something in me.”

“I see it, too—and I’m so thankful God put that man in your life. And Casper ten Boom, Corrie’s father, saw something in the Jews worth saving—that God loved them. He wore the Jewish star band even though he wasn’t Jewish. He once said he’d count it a high honor to die saving God’s ancient people.”

Her obsession with the ten Booms both worried and amused him. Worried because most of the ten Booms didn’t have a happy ending. Amused because her tenacity wouldn’t let her stop talking about it until she made her point. And she must have one because she wasn’t letting go.

“They saved about eight hundred lives in the course of their efforts. Every day, knowing it could be their last. And for three of the four ten Booms, it would be.” She tilted her head, chopped hair cute in a rebellious-girl kind of way like Desi had done as soon as she entered the foster system.

But rebellious wasn’t Zahrah. She had too much sense for that. Dean pushed his mind around the pain in his arm and focused on Zahrah. Something was different. Wrong.

She peered up at him. “Did you know it was a clerical mistake that caused Corrie to survive? A mistake? No, it was a miracle from God.”

He agreed, but something … “Z, what’s this about?”

She slipped her hand beneath his arm and hooked it with her own. “It hurt me—really hurt—to watch you being tortured.” Her words sounded distant. Stiff, as if hard to say. “It ripped my heart out.”

Dean slid his arm around her shoulder, and she burrowed into his side. He cringed, a newly cracked bruise screeching against her weight. Dean gritted his teeth, not caring. Something was happening here. Something … not right. “I’m sorry. I know that feeling.”

“I’m not sure I can handle it again.” A warm, wet tear hit his upper arm. “Japan.”

“What?”

“You know, some theorize that had Japan not bombed Pearl Harbor, America might not have entered the war in time to save England.” She shook her head and sighed. “Can you imagine if Britain had fallen?”

“Z, you lost me. A lot of people lost their lives in that attack. Why are we talking about Japan?”

“I know. It was awful.” She tugged her arm free. Sat there for agonizing minutes, staring down at her lap. But her eyes were on a race to some unseen finish line. “If …” She lifted her chin and looked right into his eyes. Those brown orbs of her so rich, so creamy like his favorite Toblerone chocolate. But melted. “If we got separated—”

“We won’t.”

“But if they do separate us,” she said, angling toward him. She was on that race again—this time the course was his face.

Dean’s pulse skipped a beat. “I won’t let them.”

She touched his cheek as her gaze roamed his features. “If we got separated, if somehow they took one of us …”

This was wrong. “Z, what—what did he say to you? What happened? Did he threaten you?”

“Would you find me, Dean?”

“I’d die trying!” He caught her waist, holding her close, his own heart thundering at the dark and dizzying conversation.

“Please—don’t die.” She placed her cold fingers on either side of his face, a tear slipping free from glossy eyes. Her lower lip trembled. “I don’t have poppies.”

He couldn’t laugh. Something about this strangled his mind and his breathing. “Z—”

“I love you, Dean.”

“Stop. Stop talking like this.”

Zahrah smiled through her tears, her chin puckering with the grief that ripped through her beautiful face. “I saw strength in you that first day. Something so similar to what my father has, to the courage that enabled him to command thousands. You have that same strength. I knew it then. I think I even loved you that first day at the school when you took Rashid in your arms.”

Dean shook his head. “Zahrah, listen to me—”

Instead, she leaned in, her eyes trained on his mouth, and kissed him.

Panic detonated in his chest. But—oh man. She tasted good. Sweet. Soft. Dean’s heart crashed—
wrong! Something’s wrong!
“Zahrah.” He eased back.

“Find me,” she whispered. Then stood.

Dean caught her hands. “Zahrah, what’s going on? What’s this about?” He couldn’t let himself believe they’d broken her. Not now.

She touched his fingers. Turned and walked to the door. Rapped three times. “I’m ready.”

Oh crap!
Dean jumped to his feet. Stumbled. Pain in his side shoved him into the wall. His broken hand hit the cement. He cried out.

The door opened and Zahrah stepped out.

“Zahrah!” He lunged. “Don’t do this! It’s wrong—they’ll kill everyone.”

Steel slammed in his face.

“Zahrah!”
His pulse jackknifed through the realization.
She’s sacrificing herself!