Navy Seal Rescue. Susan Cliff
organization, and he wasn’t proud of that distinction. He’d ruined a perfect record. Although he’d been unconscious when he’d fallen into enemy hands, it was still his fault. He’d been too eager to reach the target. His comm wasn’t working, and his teammates had been delayed. He’d moved in anyway, assuming they were seconds behind him. They weren’t.
Inside the compound was enough ordnance to blow up the entire block, and a fleeing terrorist with a remote trigger. Hud had chased the man into an escape tunnel. There was a huge explosion, and everything went black.
If any other SEAL had entered the building, they were dead now, and he was responsible.
The possibility haunted him. He’d started to torture himself with dark thoughts. He had too many deaths on his hands. Too much time spent in Iraq. Too much blood spilled into dust. The solitude was driving him crazy. He’d worn a path in his cell from pacing. He practiced martial arts for hours, which calmed his mind and boosted his morale. He did constant reps of low-impact strength exercises. He couldn’t afford to sweat out his electrolytes with cardio, but he was still in good shape. He was lean and hard and ready to fight.
He just needed an opportunity.
Unfortunately, he had very little contact with the men outside. They came for him with Kalashnikovs and alert eyes. There was always an armed guard, even when they delivered water. He’d played sick once, lying facedown in the dirt for several meal cycles. No one bothered to check on him. It had been so long since his last interrogation, he suspected the terrorists had left him here to rot.
He had to get out now, before he was executed or became too weak to run. Because escaping this cell was just the first challenge. He also had to reach a base or safe zone. His team had been air-dropped into this place, a small town north of Mosul. It was a contested area between Iraqi Kurdistan and IF strongholds. The Islamic Front, known as “Da’esh” by the locals, was an extremist group that had been rapidly gaining territory. US forces had been working with local allies to push back against them, with mixed results. It was what the brass called a “liquid situation.” Grunts like him called it something less polite.
Today was water day—he hoped. When the guards opened the door with a fresh gallon, he was going to fake a seizure and create some chaos. He believed in making his own opportunities.
He crouched in the shadows, conserving his energy. No one came with a gallon of water. He was about to give up and go to sleep when an explosion tore through the space above him. The impact knocked him off his feet. Dust rained down in a choking cloud and the ground shook beneath him.
Hud brushed off the dirt and scrambled upright, his pulse racing. Had his team arrived to rescue him? He waited for all hell to break loose, but it didn’t. There was no gunfire, no secondary artillery. He didn’t hear any voices.
He rushed to the door, which was still intact, and banged on the iron surface with his fist. “Hey! Down here!”
No one answered, but he kept shouting until someone arrived. Hud couldn’t see who it was because the slot was closed. The only sound was the clink of metal as a couple different keys were tried. An ally would have announced his presence, so this wasn’t a good sign. Hud swallowed hard, uncertain if the man on the other side was a friend or foe. After a tense moment, the door opened.
Hud gaped at his liberator in surprise. It wasn’t a man at all. It was a boy. An Iraqi boy like any other, dressed in dusty Western clothes.
He stared back at Hud with a defiant expression. There was nothing friendly about him. He was about twelve, and brimming with antagonism. Maybe he’d come to loot the building, or to spill more blood in the name of jihad. Hud had seen younger boys with suicide bombs, so he couldn’t dismiss this one as a threat.
He hardened his heart and braced himself for violence. He didn’t want to hurt a kid, but he would. He’d do anything to get out of here alive. He’d worry about the emotional toll when this ordeal was over.
The boy narrowed his eyes at Hud’s fighting stance. Then he said something in Arabic and motioned for Hud to come with him. After a short hesitation, Hud went. Why not? He’d have gone through the door with the devil at this point.
They crept up a narrow stairwell before entering the main floor. Hud’s eyes were sensitive to light, so the dusty haze almost blinded him. It was a mess of broken tiles and bricks, but most of the damage was limited to one wall. The explosive device appeared to have been deployed to gain entry, not to cause widespread destruction. There was a man in the corner that Hud recognized as a guard. He was dead or unconscious.
Hud squinted at the mayhem, eyes burning. The boy strode through the rubble with a reckless swagger. In the next instant, a second guard burst into the room holding a rifle. He took aim at the kid, who wasn’t even armed. Hud didn’t hesitate. He dived toward the guard and tackled him around the waist. Bullets peppered the ceiling as they rolled across the ground together. Plaster rained down on them and sharp bits of tile sliced into Hud’s back. He ignored the pain, trying to gain control of the weapon. The guard didn’t relent, so Hud climbed on top of him and held the rifle across his throat. He applied brutal pressure until the man’s grip loosened. Then he yanked the weapon away and shoved the muzzle under his chin. He squeezed the trigger. The result wasn’t pretty.
Hud leaped to his feet, brushing off shards of broken tile and bits of gore. He’d seen worse. The boy didn’t seem fazed, either. He nodded his approval. Then he gestured toward the hole in the wall.
Hud followed him into the harsh sunlight. Two armed men came out of the shadows. They started arguing with the boy in a language Hud couldn’t identify. They might have been Kurds. Or Turks. There were a lot of different ethnic groups in the area. It didn’t matter to Hud. Whoever they were, he was going with them.
He stumbled forward on unsteady legs. He had cuts on his feet and blood dripping down his back. He was weak with hunger, shaking from dehydration. Maybe it was the stress of the situation, or the lack of proper nutrition, but he felt dizzy. When he careened sideways, the other men supported him. They dragged him across a cobblestone street and into a quiet alleyway, where a woman was waiting with a donkey cart.
She scolded the boy the same way the men did, adding a hard tug on his ear. The boy scowled and pulled away from her. Then she turned her attention to Hud, and a strange sensation hit him. It was like a red alert, or a premonition. This woman was important. She was central. He zeroed in on her as if they were the last two people on earth.
She was stunning, with intense dark eyes in an oval-shaped face. Her hair was covered with a simple blue hijab, her body draped in a shapeless robe. She had an elegant nose and finely arched brows. She looked like a desert princess in peasant garb.
Maybe any attractive female would have dazzled him into a stupor, after what he’d been through. This one was top-class, even swathed in fabric from head to toe. One glance at her brought him to his knees. She was that beautiful.
“This is him?” she said in accented English. She didn’t sound impressed.
His vision went dark at the edges. He swayed forward, tumbling into oblivion.
The locals must have exaggerated.
Layah Anwar had heard stories about Navy SEALs. Wild tales about death and daring. SEALs were the Da’esh’s worst nightmare. They were mythical beasts that descended in the dark of night. They struck by sea, air or land, with an arsenal of weapons. They were rumored to have freakish strength. She’d pictured a genetic mutant in heavy chains. A thick-necked brute, hulking and indestructible.
This man wasn’t indestructible. He was unconscious.
To be fair, he’d been held captive for months. He’d been tortured and beaten and deprived of basic necessities. He was covered in dust and blood. He appeared adequately muscled. But he was just a man, like any other. She’d seen larger specimens among her own people.
“Are