hand, somehow pulling her forward and pushing from behind.
She gasped for a breath and swiped at the sweat rolling from her forehead into her eyes as their pursuers sent out an endless spray of bullets, peppering several nearby buildings in the process. Lights flicked on in the houses, the bright windows spotlighting their position on the streets.
The taller man dropped back, returning fire and telling the curious to get back in their homes.
“We’re almost there,” L.T. assured her.
How could he still talk? Her mouth felt like she was breathing through sand, her feet heavy and aching. As he pulled her around another corner, her foot caught in the hem of her robe, and she flew to the ground, landing hard on her hands and knees.
L.T. didn’t bother telling her to get up, instead lifting her to her feet. As soon as the soles of her shoes hit the ground, something screamed past her, setting her arm on fire. She grunted at the impact, stumbling three steps.
She waited for the feel of the ground against her side, preparing for the impact of another fall. But it never came. Instead, she was suddenly weightless, bouncing on L.T.’s shoulder, one of his arms wrapped around her legs.
“Try to hold still.”
“All right.” Easier said than done. It was quite possibly the most uncomfortable position in the world, each step jabbing her in the stomach. But at least she wasn’t on her own feet anymore.
She let her arms hang down his back, trying to figure out what to do with her hands. Finally she grabbed his belt to give her something to hang on to, but her left arm was useless. She couldn’t make her hand grasp anything.
What was dripping from her fingertips?
She rubbed her left thumb over her fingertips, which were slick and sticky.
It wasn’t sweat.
She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat, refusing to wonder if it was from the awkward position or the blood dripping down her arm.
“ETA thirty seconds.”
It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t speaking to her, but relief washed through her as they rounded one last building, greeted by the gentle crashing of waves against the sandy shore. She couldn’t see or hear them, but somehow she knew there were more soldiers waiting for them. More men like L.T.
L.T.’s steps slowed down as he splashed into the water. It was nearly to his knees by the time he stopped.
“We’ve got company,” he said to one of the others as he swung her to his front, holding her back and under her knees and lifting her into what looked like a black inflated lifeboat. “She’s been hit in the arm, but she hasn’t lost consciousness.”
He set her down on her back, but didn’t let go of her hand. “You’ll be fine now, Ms. Hayes.” The boat floated toward open water, and he walked alongside it.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears at the thought of not having her mysterious hero by her side. There hadn’t been a chance before, but she’d thought that once they got away, she could tell him about what she’d seen, what she’d heard while she’d been held captive. Maybe he could help her.
“Not until you’re safely out of range. Then we’ll get out of here.” He bobbed in time with the waves that must have been at least to his waist.
“Please.” Her voice broke, but she pressed on. There wasn’t much time. “Can you help me?” The crashing waves covered her words, but her grip never loosened, even as he relaxed his fingers.
“You’re going to be okay.” He pulled his hand away, his words assuaging none of her fears. “They’ll take good care of you.”
“Please.” Her cry pierced the silent night. Her heart still raced, despite his words of comfort. She might be safe in the moment, but what about when she returned home? “He’ll know that I know.”
She tried to shout the words, but they barely came out as a whisper. The fear, the blood loss and the crashing adrenaline drained her last ounce of energy. Even though she was still in danger, she couldn’t help but give in to exhaustion. Closing her eyes, everything went black.
TWO
Two weeks later
Staci ran her hand over the side of her face in a vain attempt to cover the still-red scar in front of her ear—left by a particularly unpleasant guard the day before her rescue. Forcing her hands back to her lap, she smoothed out the wrinkled lines of her skirt, tugging on the hem. After two years of following Lybanian laws and covering every inch of her body except her face, the skirt that hit below her knees felt too short.
She pulled the sleeves of her cardigan sweater down to her wrists in turn. Anything to keep her mind off the man she was waiting to see.
But he didn’t know she was coming for a visit.
And she didn’t even know his name.
The walls of the brightly lit office were devoid of windows, like the cell she’d endured for weeks. But this wasn’t Lybania. It wasn’t a cell.
She was free to leave.
Except she had to see him. The man who had rescued her. The only one who might agree to help her. She’d tried to talk to the public affairs officer assigned to the mission, a local policeman and even her congressman.
No one would take her seriously.
The public affairs officers hadn’t even listened to her—too busy briefing her about the next interview.
The desk officer at her local precinct had agreed to take her statement but then had stared at her evidence with clear disinterest. To be sure, the foreign words on it probably looked like nothing more than scribbles to him, but she had hoped the map itself would make him take her seriously. It hadn’t. The drawing had been too vague, too imprecise. Too easy to write off. He’d made a dismissive offer to pass the scrap of paper to a detective for review, but she wasn’t about to leave the only evidence of the upcoming danger with a man who seemed more concerned with jaywalkers than terrorists.
As for her congressman... Well, his secretary had expressed appropriate concern for Staci’s recent ordeal, but had made it clear that the congressman’s calendar was full. The unspoken message was that the congressman had no time to deal with delusional constituents.
“It’s normal for rescued hostages to deal with post-traumatic stress disorder,” the PAO had said. “I can recommend a few very good counselors to help you deal with the stress of your ordeal and the ensuing media firestorm.”
It wasn’t stress. She wasn’t hallucinating.
Her last chance was the lieutenant who had carried her to safety. Maybe he’d believe her. Maybe he could help her.
A woman at the commissary on base had told her that some of the SEALs of Team FIFTEEN had offices in this building.
She’d wait until she saw someone familiar. Or until someone realized she’d skipped out on the interview training she was supposed to be attending with the PAO and kick her out.
At the far end of a long hallway lined with offices, a metal door clanged open, rattling the walls of the trailer. A swarm of men entered, laughing and pounding each other on the back, each in matching tan T-shirts and brown camouflage pants.
How could she possibly recognize her rescuer if they all looked alike?
What if he wasn’t as handsome as she remembered? What if his eyes weren’t as blue or his hair as boyishly tousled? Or his smile as kind and his features as perfectly put together as they had seemed to be under that black paint? After all, he’d ridden in like a knight on a white horse at a time when she was almost too afraid to think. He couldn’t possibly be as attractive as her hazy memories of that night recalled.
The