Forbidden Captor. Julie Miller
two of the men grabbed him beneath his arms and dragged him toward a long black limousine adorned with two flags bearing the Lukinburg coat of arms.
Mostek jerked her arm in its socket, drawing her up against his chest. He moved his thin, shapeless lips against her ear. “In exchange for allowing your father to live, you are going to take a small journey for me.”
Tasiya swallowed hard to keep the bile from scorching her throat. “Where am I going?”
“To America.”
“America?” So big. So far away. The country that had given Crown Prince Nikolai asylum after speaking out against King Aleksandr at the United Nations. America—the country Aleksandr had called an empire-building bully. The country that would join the international movement to overthrow the Lukinburg government.
“My superior…” He seemed to find the word distasteful. Any man Dimitri Mostek feared and reviled must be very dangerous and powerful, indeed. “…believes you can be useful to our cause.”
“I don’t believe in your cause. There has to be a better way to find peace and prosperity for our people.”
He smiled. She hated that loathsome sneer. “Your beliefs are irrelevant. I’m putting you on a plane to America where you will be delivered as a gift to some friends.” Tasiya shriveled inside at the implication. “They will be warned not to touch you. That—” he kissed her temple, making her skin crawl “—will be my reward.”
Tasiya pulled back as far as his unrelenting grip allowed. What else did she have of value, if not her body? “Then what am I to do in America?”
“What you do so well. Cook. Clean. Serve my friends as you have served me.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a squarish device that looked like a miniature version of his own phone. He pressed the ultramodern gadget into her palm and curled her fingers around it. “And call me every day on this secure line to let me know exactly what they’re doing.”
“You’re asking me to spy on the Americans?”
“I’m telling you what you must do to save your father’s life.”
Chapter One
Devil’s Fork Island, U.S.A., November 7
12:00 a.m.
“Alpha-Bravo-Tango—Abort! Abort! Abort!”
“Negative!”
Sergeant Bryce Martin defied the command crackling over his vest radio and slipped a large safety pin into the land-mine housing, holding it in place while he dismantled the trigger assembly. The charge was still there, but it could no longer be detonated by simple pressure.
Taking deep, steady breaths to counteract the racing fury of his pulse, he spared a moment to glance up at the women, children and old men huddled like live bait in the center of the rows of cultivated coca plants turned minefield.
Only three more to go and they could lead the hostages out through a safe zone. He had the mechanics down now. Though the jungle of San Ysidro was laced with these deadly contraptions, their design wasn’t any more complicated than a hand grenade. After diagnosing and learning the procedure on the first one, he could neutralize each mine in just over a minute. He’d come this far, he’d finish the job. “I need three minutes, sir.”
“I don’t have three minutes to give you, Sarge.” Colonel Murphy’s signal was breaking up. His soldiers were on the move. “The damn setup’s an ambush. You gave it your best shot, but you need to get the hell out of there. Cordero’s men are lining up mortars. They’re going to blow your position. I order you to abort. Powell’s hijacked an evac chopper. We’re buggin’ out. Now!”
Bryce moved on to the next mine and dropped to his knees, his big hands surprisingly agile as he opened the trigger housing and slipped in another safety pin. He couldn’t leave these innocent people behind at the mercy of a greedy dictator and his drug-funded army.
Not when he’d been so close to finding something meaningful in his life. Not when he’d been so close to caring.
He jimmied the housing apart and snipped the wire before risking a glance up at Maria. Some of the men in his Special Forces unit saw her as the village madam—older, plumper, past her prime. But he saw her as something special. A kind soul who looked beyond his scarred-up face and truck-size body to offer him comfort and friendship in a decidedly unfriendly country.
Her world-weary eyes had tears in them now as she shook her head.
Two minutes.
“Dammit, Martin—get your ass out of there. You’ve got incoming.”
Bryce averted his ears to the telltale thump of mortar fire. Their fiery trails lit up the sky.
He couldn’t tell the civilians to run.
He gripped his assault rifle and rose to his feet.
He couldn’t save them. He couldn’t save Maria.
“I’m sorry.” He barely mouthed the words. He was already backing up.
“Sarge!”
He shouldn’t have cared. Dammit. Why the hell did he have to care?
“Gracias.” She blew him a kiss. “Be happy.”
Bryce turned, ran. The mortars hit. The mines exploded. Smoke billowed in the air behind him and rushed upon his heels.
White-hot pain ripped through his legs and back, cutting through scars and skin and muscle and bone.
He flew through the air, knowing he’d been toasted long before he hit the ground.
Campbell and Blackhaw charged from their cover. He felt their hands on him, dragging him out of the fire and smoke and death.
Bryce twisted in his scratchy, lumpy bed, reliving the torturous pain, inside and out. Replaying the months of recovery that had tested even his considerable patience, unable to find a comfortable position that didn’t make something itch or burn or ache.
A gunshot cracked through the night air. The sound jerked through him before Bryce went still. His eyes snapped open to hazy darkness. Not a remembered firefight. The real thing.
Dread made his body rigid, suffused him in sweat. God, no. He swung his legs off the cot and ran barefoot across the slimy cold stones of his cell. Over the rattle of his chains, he heard the hoots of laughter and triumph from outside in the courtyard.
Grasping the vertical bars of his cage, he hoisted himself up to look out. “Son of a bitch.”
He dropped to his feet, turned his back to the wall and sank down on his haunches. He knew the wall was as cold and damp from the night air as the floor beneath his feet. But he barely felt it. He couldn’t feel much of anything beyond rage at his captors.
This was worse than his nightmares.
The bastards had just executed an innocent man.
Devil’s Fork Island, U.S.A., November 8
2:13 a.m.
Bryce stared at the soldier’s bloody chest. “Kid?” God, had he ever been that young?
Cruel hands dragged him away from the dead man he’d scrambled into the slick underbrush with. Despite a flying tackle, he’d been too late to save him. Hell. He and his comrades from Big Sky Bounty Hunters had unknowingly brought the enemy with them in the first place.
Tailed. Like a bunch of amateurs. When they’d been trying to help. To warn their old unit of a terrorist attack.
Only, these were no terrorists. Not the foreign kind, at any rate.
The fight was on.
“Grab the big guy! Take him down!”
How many times had he heard that kind of threat?
Three