Javier held out his hand, the lump in his throat making it hard to speak. “Damn, brother, you look good!”
Nate grinned. “It’s good to see you, too, man.”
They clasped hands—one hand dark, the other scarred—and drew together, slapping each other hard on the back while they embraced.
Nate was the reason Javier had come. Javier had wanted to see for himself that his brother in arms had recovered and was doing as well as his e-mails said he was. He’d gotten married this past summer to some sweet
mami
, but Javier had been downrange and had missed the wedding. He hoped to make up for that now.
They drew apart, both of them grinning, neither able to speak just yet.
Nate broke the silence. “I heard you got hit pretty bad.”
“Yeah.” There was no denying it. “I pulled through.”
Not all of his men had been as lucky.
“Thank God for that.” Nate studied him for a moment, a frown on his face, then gave a nod. “How long can you stay?”
Javier had spent three weeks of his two extra months of leave with his family, and had a little over four weeks left. “Trying to get rid of me already?”
Nate laughed, pointed at Javier’s guitar case. “If you play that thing, Megan might just throw you out.”
“Hey, I’ve gotten better, man.” But Nate’s ribbing didn’t bother him.
The smile on his buddy’s face lifted a weight from Javier’s shoulders that he’d carried for three long years. He’d been the first to reach the burning wreck of the transport truck, had pulled Nate out of the wreckage, held his uninjured hand, waiting with him for what seemed an eternity for evac. It had crushed Javier to see him in such agony, his body charred and shaking, his eyes wild with pain and shock.
Nate West had been a natural leader, one hell of a warrior, and a true friend. Now he was Javier’s hero.
“Let’s load your shit in the truck and get you up to the ranch.” Nate reached for Javier’s duffel, but something on the television caught his eye.
Javier followed his gaze.
The recycled news footage of Laura again.
“I wish the media would leave her the hell alone,” Nate grumbled, slinging the duffel over his shoulder. “She’s been through enough.”
“You got that right.” Javier wanted to say more but couldn’t.
No one who wasn’t part of that op would ever know that Javier had been the one to find and recover her. OPSEC—operational security—was just a part of his job. He didn’t talk about his missions with anyone who hadn’t also been a part of them.
“She works at the
Denver Independent
with Megan’s sister-in-law, Sophie. We’re having a barbecue this weekend to introduce you to some of our friends, and we’ve invited her. She mostly keeps to herself, but we’re hoping she’ll show.”
Laura Nilsson? At Nate’s ranch?
¡Anda pal carajo!
Holy shit!
Javier stared after Nate for a moment, then grabbed his guitar and, ignoring the ache in his thigh, followed him out into the chilly morning.
* * *
HANDS CLASPED IN
her lap to stop them from shaking, Laura did her best to hold herself together. No matter that the queasiness in her stomach had become a sharp ache or that she’d dissolved into tears twice or that she couldn’t stop shaking. She’d come here to bear witness to Al-Nassar’s crimes against her, to stand up to his cruelty, to make certain that he went to prison for the rest of his life.
She’d made it through two hours of grueling testimony so far, her secret still intact, her composure less so. She’d tried to prepare herself emotionally to see Al-Nassar’s face again, to feel his gaze on her, to hear his voice. But what she hadn’t prepared for—what she hadn’t even
known
to prepare for—was her
body’s
response. She could almost feel his hands on her, smell his breath, hear his heavy breathing as he used her, violated her, hurt her. It left her feeling sick.
“When the special operator opened the door to your room and began speaking American English, you did not reveal yourself to him and tell him you were a prisoner. Instead, you remained covered with the burka and kept silent. Why is that?”
Laura had struggled to understand this herself. How could she explain to anyone who hadn’t endured captivity what it was like to lose one’s identity?
“When I recognized that the language they were speaking was American English, I felt terrified. I didn’t know why I was afraid. But I think now that hearing their words made me aware again that I was a captive. It was like waking up to discover that what you thought was only a bad dream was actually real. It took time for me to understand what was happening and find the words to speak out.”
“So after months of wanting desperately to escape, you waited till the last possible second to reveal yourself?”
Marie had warned her the defense might take the position that Laura had actually wanted to stay in the compound and had told Laura not to let it rattle her. It was nothing more than a bid to undermine the jury’s sympathy for her.
“I didn’t
wait
. It just took time for me to comprehend what was happening.”
“I see.” The defense attorney shrugged. “Is it possible that you delayed revealing yourself for so long because you took your marriage to the defendant seriously and wanted to remain with—what did you call his other wives?—your ‘sisters’?”
U.S. Attorney Robert Black stood as if to object, but Laura cut him off.
“No! Absolutely not. I was never that man’s
wife
! He kidnapped me, raped me, brutalized me. You want to know why I didn’t run straight to the SEALs and beg them to rescue me? I’d been living in terror for so long that I barely knew my own name!”
The courtroom was silent.
Throat tight, tears pricking her eyes, Laura fought to rein in her emotion.
The defense attorney seemed to study her for a moment, what might have been regret in his eyes, then turned to the magistrate. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
“You may step down, Ms. Nilsson.”
It was over. Finally, it was over.
Thank God!
Laura had just gotten to her feet when Al-Nassar began to shout at her in English.
“I am in chains, but I shall be free in Paradise, while
you
will always live in fear. You will never be safe, nor will anyone you love. I curse you and call upon the Faithful, all who walk the righteous path, to seek to kill you and all—”
The magistrate cut him off. “Counsel, silence your client before I hold him in contempt! Bailiff, remove this man from the courtroom!”
Bailiffs rushed forward, took Al-Nassar, and began to drag him from the room.
But something inside Laura snapped.
She shouted Al-Nassar down, her fury incandescent. “You are evil, nothing but a murderer, an animal who abused me and tried to steal my life! The moment I walk from this room, I’ll be free. Before the door to your prison cell has closed behind you, I’ll have forgotten your name.”
It was only later, after she’d spent ten minutes throwing up in the bathroom, that it struck her.
Al-Nassar had commanded his followers to hunt her down—and kill her.
CHAPTER
2
Cimarron Ranch
In the mountains west of Denver
JAVIER SAT BACK
on a plush leather sofa, a glass of single malt in his hand, his gaze fixed on an enormous flat-screen TV where news anchor Gary Chapin cut away to a brunette in a gray trench coat who was giving a live update from New York on Al-Nassar’s trial.
“As he was being led out of the courtroom at the conclusion of the day’s gripping testimony, Al-Nassar repeated threats he’d made earlier in the day, calling out for ‘all who are on the faithful path to seek to kill the infidel Laura Nilsson.’”
¡Puñeta!
Fuck!
“Why the hell does she have to repeat Al-Nassar’s threats, make them public?” Javier wanted to punch something. “They’ve told every jihadist in the world that Laura is a target. Don’t they care what happens to her?”
The problem with a free press as far as Javier could see was that some reporters didn’t know when to shut the fuck up.
Nate shrugged. “I guess they care more about breaking news.”
“It’ll be
big
news when some asshole catches up with her and puts a knife in her back.” Javier stood and took a few steps, too restless, too damned angry to sit.
Nate pointed toward the television. “Isn’t this her old network? Chapin was her anchor, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah.” Javier glanced up at the middle-aged man on the screen. “He was broadcasting the night of her abduction, covered the whole thing, stayed on the air all night, got all choked up. He won an Emmy, I think. I was impressed then, thought he was all right. Now I want to kick his ass.”
“You’re really caught up in this.” There was a tone in Nate’s voice that demanded an explanation.
Javier couldn’t tell him the whole truth, so he told him part of it. “She and I met in Dubai City, spent a wild weekend together. That was about two months before she was abducted.”
Nate’s eyebrows rose, and he grinned. “You . . . and the Baghdad Babe?”
Javier turned on Nate. “Don’t call her that. I fucking
hate
that.”
“Ooh-kay.” There was a note of amusement in Nate’s voice. “If I weren’t married to the most beautiful woman in the world, I’d be jealous. How did you manage to keep that to yourself?”
“Hey, this brother doesn’t kiss and tell, all right?”
“I respect that.” Nate grabbed the remote and turned off the television, then stood and walked to the fireplace to toss a few pieces of oak on the blaze. “I think this is about more than Laura Nilsson and the state of the media.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been wound up tight since you got here.” Nate poured himself more scotch and sat across from Javier. “Want to talk about it?”
“Ah, hell.” Javier sat and took another sip. What was there to talk about? “Not really, man.”
Why did everyone from the psych team to his parents to Nate think he needed to talk? Life wasn’t an episode of
Dr. Phil
. He didn’t want anyone’s pity. He didn’t need to talk. What he needed was to get strong again and rejoin his team.
Nate tossed back his drink. “I remember when the truck got hit. I’d have burned to death if you hadn’t pulled me out of there. Then I was lying there in the sand, wishing I would just die. But you took my hand, and you got me through it. You helped me stay strong. If you need me—”
“I’m
fine
. I got shot a few times, lost a man, watched a helo full of medics crash. It’s a hazard of the job. I knew that before I put on the uniform, and so did every man who died that day.”
Nate’s gaze shifted to the top of the stairs, where his wife had appeared. Javier didn’t miss the way his buddy watched Megan as she made her way toward them. With long auburn hair and big green eyes, she
was
pretty, though not in Javier’s opinion the most beautiful woman in the world. Then again, all that mattered to him was that she’d brought happiness back into Nate’s life, accepting him scars and all. That alone made her one hell of a woman.
“Am I intruding?” Wearing a fluffy white bathrobe over purple silk pajamas, her hair hanging loose, she shuffled across the wood floor and crawled into Nate’s lap. “Grandpa Jack is reading Emily a story, but she wants her daddy to tuck her in.”
Nate kissed Megan’s forehead. “I’ll be right up.”
Megan looked over at Javier. “Can I get you anything?”
Javier shook his head. “I’m good.”
With a smile, she hopped up and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Look at you. You’re a family man.” Javier grinned. “You’ve got a wife, a sweet little girl, your old man, the ranch. Things turned out all right for you.”
The Cimarron was like nothing Javier had ever seen. Whenever Nate had spoken of “the ranch,” Javier had imagined something rustic, like the log house in
Bonanza
. How wrong he’d been! Oh, there were logs, all right, but they were polished and stood like columns, welcoming visitors through a portico that led to a massive three-story house, complete with a library, a home theater, a gym with a sauna, a wine cellar, a five-car heated garage, and enough bedrooms to house Javier’s entire family. Outside there were barns where Nate bred prized quarter horses, an indoor riding arena, and bunkhouses for the ranch hands—not to mention mile after mile of open mountain valley and a view of the Rockies that had blown Javier away.
As for Nate’s old man . . . Well, he was something else.
Jack West, a decorated veteran and former Army Ranger, had welcomed Javier to the ranch as if he were a long-lost son, crushing him in a bear hug. “Thank you for being there for Nate. You saved my boy’s life, stood by him. As far as I’m concerned, you’re family—a son of this house. What’s ours is yours.”
Strange to think that Nate, the son of a wealthy Colorado rancher, and Javier, a kid from a poor inner-city Puerto Rican family, had become close buddies. But that was what happened when men put on a uniform and served together. Their differences faded in the face of shared duties—and dangers.
“I’m happy for you, man. I really am.”
“I’m a lucky man.” Nate smiled, not an ounce of self-pity on his scarred face.
It was humbling.
Megan reappeared, a glass of water in her hand. “Days start pretty early around here, so I’m headed to bed. Let us know if you need anything.”
Javier gave her a nod. “Will do. Good night.”
Nate got to his feet. “Daddy duty calls. I’ll be back in a few.”
Javier settled back on the sofa, his thoughts turning once again to Laura.
* * *
LAURA WRITHED ON
the floor in agony, pain wrapping itself around her until she couldn’t help but cry out. “Zainab has poisoned me!”
“She is crazy!” Zainab forced her onto her back, her hand pressing against Laura’s belly where it hurt the worst. “Be still!”
But she couldn’t be still. The pain was unbearable. “I’m going to be sick!”
Zainab motioned to Safiya, who pushed the wooden bowl closer.
Laura pushed herself up with one arm and vomited, her entire abdomen knotted against whatever Zainab had put in her food to kill her.
Why had they done this? Hadn’t she made them all promise to shoot her if a time came when they chose at last to kill her? What had she done to anger them, to make them break that promise?
The nausea passed, but another wave of agony had begun. Moaning, she wiped her mouth on the wet cloth Safiya handed her. She met Safiya’s gaze. “Please, sister, help me! I am dying!”
“We
are
helping you, you stupid woman!” Zainab hissed.
Then Zainab and Safiya stood and left the room, leaving her alone, her pain suddenly gone, her body weak and shaking.
But they had taken something from her. What had they taken? She didn’t know, and it terrified her.
Too weak to stand, she screamed after them. “No!”
Laura sat upright, a cry trapped in her throat. In a panic, she glanced around to find that she was home in Denver in her own bedroom, the light she’d left on in the kitchen casting its glow in the hallway outside her door. Shaking, nauseated, and covered in cold sweat, she closed her eyes again, drew deep steadying breaths.
A nightmare. It was only a nightmare.
She glanced at her alarm clock.
Two in the morning.
She’d been asleep for all of an hour.
She ought to have expected this. It had been much harder than she’d imagined to testify, to dredge up old memories and emotions, to see
him
once more. But she’d do it again in a heartbeat just for the chance to confront him.
She wasn’t sure what had come over her there at the end, but it had felt . . . good. Rage had surged from her belly, words she’d wanted to shout in his face for years spilling out of her, fury making her feel stronger than she’d felt in a long time.
And seeing shock on Al-Nassar’s face . . .
It had felt like a victory.
It
was
a victory. She’d stood up to him, denounced him to the world. The trial was behind her now, her precious secret still intact. Al-Nassar would almost certainly be going to prison for the rest of his life. And she was
free
, the rest of her life ahead of her.
She’d meant what she’d said. She’d flown back to Denver determined to forget Al-Nassar, to reclaim her happiness, to live life to the fullest. Certainly no nightmare, no matter how frightening it might be, would stop her.
And what about Klara? What about Al-Nassar’s death threats?
The DUSMs who’d watched over her yesterday had dismissed his threats as mere posturing, the words of a pathetic man who was about to lose everything. They’d urged her not to lose sleep over it, assuring her that the CIA and FBI had everyone believed to be associated with Al-Nassar under surveillance.
Laura wished she could share their apparent confidence.
As for Klara . . .
There was nothing Laura could do but hope and pray.
Knowing she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again soon, she climbed out of bed, slipped into her white chenille bathrobe, and made her way through her three-bedroom loft toward the kitchen, turning on lights as she went, her gaze compulsively drawn to the two dead bolts on the front door.
Locked.
She poured milk into a mug, stirred in a teaspoon of honey—her grandmother’s remedy for sleeplessness—and then set the mug in the microwave to heat. While she waited, her gaze came to rest on the postcard. Stuck to her refrigerator with a magnet, it featured colorful photos of the sites that had made Dubai City famous—Sheikh Zayed Road, the Atlantis Hotel, Jumeirah Beach, and, of course, Burj Al Arab.
Javier Corbray.
The nights she’d spent with him in Dubai had left her feeling alive in a way she hadn’t felt before—or since. He’d charged to her rescue when a couple of drunk Russian gas moguls had come on to her, and she’d ended up in bed with him. By the end of the weekend, she had known his body intimately—where and how he liked to be touched, what pleased him most—and he’d known hers. But she’d never found out where he lived or what he did for a living. She’d guessed he was military—the man was ripped, more than six feet of lean muscle—but he’d refused to answer.
In his rush to get to the airport that last morning, he’d left the postcard in Laura’s hotel room. He’d written a message in Spanish on the back of the postcard, intending to mail it to his Puerto Rican grandmother, who collected postcards from his travels. Laura had tucked it in her handbag, thinking she might use it as an excuse to connect with him again. There it had remained until after her abduction, when the U.S. State Department had shipped her belongings from Pakistan to her mother. Although her mother had given most of Laura’s belongings to charity, she’d kept the postcard, a memento of the daughter she thought she’d lost.
Now it belonged to Laura again—one of the few possessions she owned from the time before her abduction, a reminder of the life that had been hers, of an exciting weekend, of a man she wished she’d gotten to know better.
Did Javier remember her? Did he ever think of her? Never in the past two years had he tried to contact her. Surely he knew she was alive and back in the U.S. Maybe what had happened to her was too much for him. Then again, she hadn’t tried to find him either. They’d promised each other no strings, and she had honored that.
She carried her mug of warm milk into her office, sat at her desk, and reached for the phone, dialing the number from memory. As a dual Swedish-U.S. citizen, she had access to help from both the U.S. State Department and the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs, but she’d opted to go through the Swedish government, believing that its more cordial relationship with Islamabad—and its more stringent privacy laws—would serve her better. It was just after eleven in the morning in Stockholm, early enough for her to catch Erik at his desk. Her call was answered on the second ring by a woman whose Swedish carried an unpleasant Skåne accent.
“Foreign Affairs.”
“Erik Berg, please.”
Her call was put through, Erik’s deep voice answering.
Laura set her mug aside, sat up straighter. “Good day, Erik. It is Laura Nilsson. How are you? How are Heidi and the girls?”
Erik loved to talk about his twin daughters, Stella and Anette. He and Heidi had tried for years to have children before turning to in vitro. Now four years old, the girls were his life, and he and Heidi were talking about trying in vitro again or adopting. “We are all doing well. What are you doing calling at this hour? It must be two in the morning.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“I understand. We’ve been following the story. I’m glad testifying is behind you. When is the trial expected to conclude?”
“I was the last witness. They’re making closing arguments today.” Then they’d have to wait for the jury’s verdict. After that, only the sentencing hearing would remain. “I just wanted to check in. Have you heard anything?”
“It so happens that I have good news. I’d planned to call you later today.”
Laura’s pulse skipped.