Читать книгу Take No Prisoners - Gayle Wilson - Страница 12

“Better?”

Mike Mitchell opened fever-bright eyes to look up into hers. His cracked lips lifted in a ghastly semblance of a smile. “Thanks,” he whispered.

Grace set down the cup of tepid water from which she’d just helped the pilot drink. She put her hand on his chest, wishing there was something else she could do to ease his suffering. Not that any complaints had crossed his lips in the weeks of their captivity.

Every day, however, she had watched a little more life slip out of those blue eyes. And every night she had listened to his labored breathing until she fell asleep, praying that she would still be able to hear it when she awoke.

“Try to get some rest,” she said inanely.

The grin widened before it became a grimace. Mitchell closed his eyes against the wave of pain, but when he opened them, he smiled at her again.

“I didn’t have anything much on my agenda for today.”

“That’s good,” she said, returning the smile, despite her fury at their captors.

Although she and Colonel Stern had begged for a doctor to see the pilot or for some kind of exchange to be made that would put him in the hands of either the coalition forces or the International Red Cross, their entreaties had been met with stony-eyed indifference. And with each day of their captivity, Mitchell had lost ground.

The infection that could have, at one time at least, been easily treated with antibiotics now ran rampant throughout his wasted body. If something didn’t change soon…

She turned away, trying to pretend that she’d been distracted by a noise outside the cave. In reality she needed a moment to regain control of her emotions. And she didn’t intend for Mike to see her tears.

Actually, she didn’t intend to shed any, she decided, fighting the burn at the back of her eyes. She had always despised crying women.

She hadn’t broken down when the Agency had “disciplined” her. Or in those first few terrifying hours after the crash. She wasn’t going to do it now. Not in front of a man who had kept his sense of humor and his will to live intact, despite the battle of survival he had been fighting—and was now losing.

She recognized that the causes of her emotional vulnerability ran even deeper than her anger over Mike Mitchell’s treatment. There was also the gnawing uncertainty about what was going to happen to them, as well as the frustration of having no control over whatever did.

Despite Stern’s insistence that they be afforded the same protections given prisoners of war—an insistence that had earned him the butt of a rifle in his stomach the last time he’d made it—the conditions under which they were kept had been both primitive and deliberately intimidating. Her immediate fear that she might be subject to sexual assault had thankfully not proven true.

Of course, neither had her hope that the men who held them would ransom them to some of the friendly forces in the area come to fruition. And again, frustratingly, she knew that those forces were very close.

For one thing, they had been moved three times in as many weeks. In the distance behind them they had heard both small-arms fire and the sounds of heavy bombardment. Not surprisingly, considering what she knew about the reliability of U.S. humint in the region, their captors seemed to have better information than whoever was searching for them.

Please God, let them still be searching for us…

Mitchell’s hand, almost skeletal now, closed over hers. She turned back, looking down at him.

He was lying on a rough pallet of rugs and blankets, which were all they’d been provided in the way of bedding. Despite the cold mountain nights, she and the colonel had given most of their share of those to keep Mitchell as warm and comfortable as possible, even as the relentless infection spread from the bullet hole in his thigh throughout his body.

She should have known what kind of treatment they were in for when one of the horsemen who had surrounded the downed chopper shot the pilot as he’d climbed out of the cockpit, his hands in the air. Stern’s aide had reacted by going for the weapon he’d already thrown down. He had died in the attempt.

“It’s going to be okay,” Mike said.

She smiled at him in response, refusing to comment on that ridiculous promise.

“You got somebody, Grace?”

“What?”

“Somebody who’s waiting for you back home.”

Mitchell had already shown her pictures of his wife and two children, a little girl almost three and a six-month-old baby boy. She couldn’t begin to imagine what these weeks must have been like for them. And for Mike, of course, thinking about what their life would be without him.

“Not really,” she said.

“You should have.”

“I guess I’ve been too busy with other things,” she said, a trace of defensiveness creeping into her voice.

“Lying here like this… Thinking about it all…” He attempted a laugh, which turned into a cough. “I guess this sounds stupid, but lying here, I’ve been thinking about life. You know?”

Life and death. How well she knew.

“And what earth-shattering conclusions have you come to?”

She dipped the piece of cloth she’d torn from one of the blankets into the bucket of water at the head of his pallet. She used the rag to bathe his face, although by this late in the day, the temperature of the water she’d been allowed to bring inside the cave was almost as hot as the surrounding air. Still, it was cooler than the brow of the man who was literally burning up before her eyes.

“That it’s all that matters.”

“I’m sorry?”

Her attention had been momentarily distracted by the dry heat of his skin. It seemed hotter this afternoon than she had ever felt it before.

And she realized belatedly that it had been more than twelve hours since Mike had asked Stern to help him urinate. She wasn’t sure what that meant medically, but obviously it wasn’t anything good.

“Having somebody to love you. Somebody you love in return. It’s the only thing that matters.”

With her heart breaking for the young wife and children who had loved this good, strong man, she smiled at him, once more fighting the sting of tears.

“I need to work on that,” she said, squeezing the water out of the cloth and preparing to lay it over his forehead.

His hand lifted, grasping her wrist before she could. “I mean it.”

“I know. I know you do. It’s just that… Not all of us are as lucky as you and Karen. Some of us…” She hesitated, trying to find words to describe the long-ago decision that had left her so alone. “Either we don’t find the right person to share our lives with or they don’t feel the same way about us that we feel about them.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

Her immediate instinct was to lie. To cover up the heartbreak she’d never forgotten. The one she’d tried to bury in hard work and furthering her career.

Mike Mitchell deserved better than that from her. Besides, what in the world could it matter what she told him? They were never going to get out of here.

At least…he wasn’t.

“Yeah,” she said, turning her wrist gently to break his fragile hold. “That’s what happened to me.”

She laid the cloth on his forehead and then leaned back to meet his eyes. Despite the situation, his were filled with compassion.

“How long ago?”

“Too long. Way too long.”

“And there hasn’t been anyone else?”

“He was a pretty tough act to follow,” she said, smiling at him with lips that felt numb.

What the hell was she doing sitting in a cave in Afghanistan discussing Landon James with a dying man? Was this what her life had come down to?

“You ever try to contact him? Reconnect? I mean… People change. Maybe…”

Mike’s shoulders moved in an approximation of a shrug, which was followed by a pained twisting of his face. This time a small expression of discomfort emerged from between the cracked lips.

“I don’t think he would have, but no, I never contacted him.”

“Maybe when you get out of here, I mean…maybe you ought to try to get in touch with him.”

“Yeah. I think I’ll do that. When pigs fly,” she added, laughing a little at her stupid joke.

“What could it hurt?”

My pride. My self-image. My hard-earned sense of the completeness of my life as it is now.

Or my life as it was, she amended. Before we ended up here.

Yeah, things were damn good before you ended up here. That’s why you came home every night with a stack of research material. Highly entertaining. Better than a lover any day of the week.

Better than a lover who had wanted to be nothing more.

And you always had to have it all. The brass ring. The whole nine yards. All those other clichés. You couldn’t be satisfied with what Landon had to offer. All he had to offer.

“…just wish I’d said everything I felt.”

She came out of her reverie to catch the last part of what Mike was saying. It was enough, however, to let her know exactly what he was thinking.

“You will.” This time she acknowledged, to herself at least, the terrible lie that was. “Besides, even without the words, I think the people we love know how we feel about them.”

But that wasn’t good enough for you, was it? You had to have the words.

“God, I hope so,” the pilot whispered.

She nodded, unwilling to trust her voice. For a long time neither of them said anything. The light faded from the entrance to the cave and with it the daytime warmth.

Night would fall quickly now. A cold, black eternity during which she would lie on the clammy rock floor, listening to the breathing of the man who, in these short weeks, had become a friend.

Listening also to the measured pace of the guard outside. To the noises of the encampment. The restless movement of the horses. The occasional unrestrained laughter of their captors.

Listening until it all faded like a familiar soundtrack behind the images that would parade through her mind for hours as she slept. Landon’s hands on her body. His mouth lowering to claim hers. His laughter, rare and far more precious for its rarity.

What would it hurt to try? Mike Mitchell had asked her.

Maybe it wouldn’t, but she knew she couldn’t take the chance. All she had to measure that risk by was how very much it had hurt before.

“They’re planning to move us again,” Stern announced from the doorway where he’d been watching the activity outside.

She glanced down at Mike to gauge his reaction and found his eyes closed, his breathing shallow but regular. It was just as well he hadn’t heard, she decided as she got carefully to her feet, leaving the damp cloth lying across his brow. She didn’t want to think what it would cost him to make another relocation. He had been measurably worse after the last.

“How do you know?” she whispered to Stern as she crossed to the entrance.

“They’re packing. They aren’t hurrying with it, and the cooking utensils are still out, so it won’t be tonight. Probably tomorrow before dawn.”

That had been the timing of the first two moves. The third had occurred shortly after midnight, a hurried scramble that had obviously been the result of some last-minute decision or threat.

“Do you think that means someone’s located us?”

Without lifting his eyes from their contemplation of the camp, Stern said, “If we’re lucky. Except that every time they do…”

She knew what he meant. Every time the people searching for them got close, they were moved. It was like a game of chess. Or like the children’s game of hide-and-seek, with their captors knowing all the best hiding places.

Neither she nor Stern could figure out why they were still dragging the three of them around. The best-case scenario was that the men holding them were in the process of negotiating an exchange. The fact that they didn’t appear to care if Mitchell died, however, seemed to counter that hopeful theory.

The worst case was probably that she and Stern were being offered for sale to someone, maybe Al-Qaeda, for whom they would have value as sources of information. In that situation, Mike would clearly be expendable.

“Maybe this time they’ll find us.”

And maybe pigs really will fly, she thought, negating her own comment.

After all, she was here because she had conveyed this exact reality to Congress: Human intelligence gathering in this region had been virtually nonexistent for years, and it was impossible to identify from satellite images what the people hiding in these caves were doing.

“I don’t understand why they haven’t mounted a larger-scale campaign to get us back,” Stern said.

Maybe because you had the misfortune to get captured with me.

Grace had never expressed that feeling aloud, but her conviction—that the people in charge of “special activities” here had just as soon she never be found—had grown with each passing day. It would be a shame if Stern and Mike were to be sacrificed because of her supposed sins, but there was very little she could do about it if that were the case. Not here. And not now.

“How is he?” Stern finally looked up, pulling his attention briefly from the flurry of activity outside.

“I think he’s dying,” Grace said softly.

“Then I hope to God he does it before morning.”

GRACE HAD NO IDEA how long it had been since she’d lain down. Long enough that she was deeply asleep when the hand on her shoulder roughly shook her awake and short enough that it felt as if she’d had no rest at all.

She opened her eyes to find a man she’d never seen before stooping beside her. Although his mustache was coal black, it wasn’t very full, almost as if he might recently have been clean shaven.

A patch covered his right eye. Glittering in the light from the dying fire, the remaining one seemed as cold and as black as the night.

He had said nothing, simply crouching beside her. Of course, he didn’t need to issue instructions. By this time she knew the drill.

She shrugged her shoulder away, freeing it from the touch of his hand, and began to rise. He grabbed her arm, turning her toward him again.

She looked up in shock and found that he had one finger across his lips, the universal sign for silence. She nodded her understanding and immediately he released her.

As she began to roll up her blanket, he stood, the move accomplished in one smoothly athletic motion, and walked over to where Stern was wrapped in his own blanket, his back to the fire. Grace was surprised that the colonel, usually a light sleeper, hadn’t already awakened, but then, the man moved virtually without sound across the floor of the cave.

He bent, touching Stern on the shoulder, just as he had her. The colonel rolled over, looking up at him in the dim firelight. Again the man put his finger over his lips.

He said something, his tone so low that Grace was unable to distinguish the words, although she had managed to pick up a little of their captors’ dialect since the crash. In response to the man’s comment, Stern pointed toward the heavily shadowed interior portion of the cave where Mitchell slept.

They had moved him there themselves that afternoon in an attempt to get him into a cooler area during the fierce heat of midday. Tonight they hadn’t had the heart to try to move him back nearer the fire. They had simply piled the remaining blankets around him, despite the heat that emanated from his ravaged body.

Before the man who had awakened them went back to the pilot’s pallet, he said something else to the colonel, who nodded. Grace watched as he walked by her, headed, she assumed, to arouse Mitchell.

“Come on. We have to get ready to go.”

She turned to find Stern standing beside her, close enough that she had understood his whisper. She nodded, reaching down for the blanket she’d already rolled up.

“Leave it,” the colonel said, taking her arm.

“But—”

“Shh…” he cautioned, drawing her across the cave to the entrance where he crouched, pulling her down beside him.

It took Grace a second or two to realize why it seemed so eerily silent outside. The tread of the guard stationed at the entrance to the cave, so familiar it had become like the noise of her own heartbeat, was missing.

“Where’s the—”

“Shh…” Stern whispered again.

She closed her mouth, considering the possible implications of his repeated warnings and the absence of the guard. The only logical conclusion for both—

“Let’s go.”

The man with the eye patch was back, standing behind them. That was her first realization. The second was that he had just whispered instructions to them in English.

English that had been spoken with an American accent.

“What about Mike?” she asked, looking up into a lean face that, partially lit by the dying fire, seemed as sinister as that of any of their captors.

“He’s dead.” The intonation of those two words had been flat. And final.

And they had not provided nearly enough information. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“It won’t take but a minute—”

As she rose and attempted to move past him, the stranger grasped her arm, pulling her around so that he could grip shoulders. Although he never raised his voice above a whisper, each word he spoke was clear and distinct.

“You never did know to shut up and do what you’re told, did you, Gracie? That’s why I had to come halfway around the world to find you. Mitchell’s dead. Believe me, I’ve seen enough dead men to know. And if you don’t stop asking questions, we’re all going to be joining him. I don’t know about you, of course, but personally, that’s something I’d prefer to avoid.”