Course of Action: Crossfire (12 page)

He had no answer for that. Nor could Riley articulate exactly why she fell, shaking from head to toe, into his arms. She'd long ago mastered the art of shielding every thought, every emotion. Yet the moment Winborne's arms closed around her, the mask she'd so painfully constructed over the years started to fall apart.

She wanted to cling to him. Hang on and never let go. The urge was so strong, and so unfamiliar. Her father had died while she was just a baby and from earliest memory her mother had rigidly controlled every aspect of her life. Her clothes, her schools, her friends. Meredith Fairchild had never permitted her daughter to socialize with boys her own age. Never allowed her to date until faced with an all-out rebellion and a threat to boycott all vocal training classes.

Riley had found a measure of excitement in the arms of her few dates. Sexual satisfaction with the one man she'd foolishly thought she'd spend the rest of her life with. But she'd never experience such raw emotion. Such a desperate need to shelter in a man's arms.

Those arms shouldn't have felt so strong. So absurdly comforting. Not with two dead bodies just feet away. They did, though. Without rhyme or reason or cognitive rationale, Sergeant Pete Winborne seemed to represent a safe haven in a world gone suddenly, inexplicably mad.

“Come!” The prince cut through her chaotic thoughts and swooped to snatch the gun out of his dead attacker's hands. “We must leave here.”

The sergeant was already snatching up the other man's weapon. Riley recovered her tattered courage and raced past him into the corridor.

“Follow me. There's an emergency exit behind the backdrop.”

* * *

For a heart-stopping two minutes, she actually thought they would make it. Throwing frightened glances over her shoulder, she darted through a maze of electrically operated acoustical curtains, hydraulic stage lifts and storage rooms. Shouts and the sound of hysterical weeping from the main auditorium pounded in her ears. A loud, tinny clatter, as though someone had kicked or stumbled over an instrument, made her jump. Then she ducked around the rear curtain and gave a sob of pure relief when she spotted the illuminated, bright red sign for the emergency exit. She shoved the crash bar and the alarm went off. The shrill scream of the Klaxon barely registered on Riley's consciousness.

When she slammed through the door, her relief turned to a strangled moan of dismay. The two black-robed figures guarding the back alley spun around and dropped into an instinctive crouch. Even in the deepening twilight, Riley could see their fingers tighten on the triggers of their automatic weapons.

She stumbled to a halt, and was thrust behind Sergeant Winborne. The ensuing scene was like something out of a movie, she thought on another bubble of hysteria. Some B-grade Western, with the good guys and bad guys facing each other in a dusty street, their hands hovering over their holsters.

She thought then she was going to die. Was sure that one of the four men would initiate a barrage of deadly fire. They exchanged shouts, frantic words, then the prince raised his arms in a slow, careful gesture of surrender. After another terse exchange, he stooped and let his weapon clatter to the ground. A moment later Sergeant Winborne did the same.

Her entire body quivering, Riley listened helplessly while Prince Malik spoke in measured tones obviously intended to calm the two masked gunmen. They weren't in the mood for calm. One swept his weapon from side to side, his movements jerky as he kept them covered. The other whipped out a cell phone and stabbed a button. He barked something into the phone, listened a moment, uttered what sounded very much like a curse.

Eyes blazing through the slits of his ski mask, he shoved the phone in his pocket. The prince said something in that same cool, reasoning tone, then grunted in pain as a rifle stock slammed against his temple. Al Said staggered, and Sergeant Winborne caught him as his knees folded.

Riley could see the tendons in Winborne's neck cord. See his jacket stretch taut at the shoulder seams. Oh, God! He couldn't be planning to launch another attack! Not with the prince limp and half-conscious in his arms!

A sudden screech of brakes preempted whatever desperate measure Winborne had been contemplating. He and Riley both spun around as tires whined and a truck careened around the corner. Its headlights stabbed through the purple dusk. Seconds later the mud-covered, canvas-topped Range Rover squealed to a halt just feet away. The gunmen who'd been guarding the emergency exit shouted orders and gestured with their weapons.

The prince translated, his voice heavy with pain. “They want us to get in the back.” His eyes locked with Riley's. “Just you and me.”

Winborne snorted. “No way that's gonna happen.”

The taller of the two gunmen reinforced the order in heavily accented English and a threatening jab of his weapon. “The woman, she comes with us.”

“Yeah?” Winborne faced him, feet spread, shoulders squared. “Then I go, too.”

Why was he doing this? Riley wondered wildly. Why put himself at risk?

“I'm her husband,” he added, showing no sign that he was winging it as he went. “She's my duty, my responsibility...under your law and mine.”

The gunman looked ready to settle the matter with a bullet when a third man jumped out of the truck's cab. Plastic ties dangled from his fist and his voice held an unmistakable note of command.

“Take him, too, and be done with it. Bind them, and quickly.”

The plastic strip was pulled so tight it cut into Riley's wrists. Rough hands shoved her up the steps into the Range Rover's rear compartment. The sudden darkness blinded her, and the stink of hot, dusty canvas clogged her nostrils. A gunman scrambled in behind her and pushed her down onto a side-facing bench. Yanking up her bound wrists, he used another plastic tie to anchor them to one of metal struts supporting the canvas cover.

With her arms stretched above her head, she watched helplessly as Prince al Said and Sergeant Winborne were similarly secured. When the man who'd issued the orders jumped back in the cab, the driver gunned the engine. Riley clung to the metal strut with both hands as the truck sped down the alley, careened around a turn and suddenly accelerated.

When she heard the distant shriek of sirens, hope and fear clawed at her throat. Someone must have seen them being hustled aboard this truck. The police were already giving chase. The possibility that their heavily armed captors might opt to shoot it out rather than surrender sent the nauseating taste of bile into her throat.

So real was that possibility, so terrifying the consequences, that Riley sagged against her arms when the sirens seemed to move in another direction. Her heart hammered as she listened to their wail fade in the distance. They were converging on the Royal Opera House, she guessed. Rushing to the scene of the horrific chaos.

She tried to remember the drive in from the airport earlier this morning. As best she could recall, the opera house was located in the new part of the city. Just off the modern highway that cut through Muscat. The same highway that led east to the sea. And west, through the mountains ringing the city.

Into the desert beyond.

 

Chapter 3

P
ete had completed a nine-week PJ indoctrination course at Lackland AFB, in Texas. Learned parachuting skills at the US Army Airborne School at Fort Benning in Georgia, and advanced free-fall techniques at Fort Bragg in North Carolina. He'd earned his underwater operations badge after combat-diver training in Panama City and US Navy Underwater Egress Training at Pensacola Naval Air Station.

At that point the going got really rough. He'd strained every muscle and sinew in his body during the twenty-week paramedic course and follow-up twenty-four-week pararescue recovery specialist course at Kirtland AFB in New Mexico. In between, he'd made it through the brutal USAF Survival School at Fairchild AFB in Washington State, learning to live off the land and survive regardless of climatic conditions or hostile environments.

Those months of training and his hard years of experience in uniform had honed his mind and body to a combat edge. Yet even he felt the jolt when the Range Rover turned off the paved road onto a rough desert track. He gripped the strut with white-knuckled fists as the vehicle jounced up and slammed down. Despite his tight hold, the plastic restraints cut deeper with every jarring thud. He could only imagine the agony Riley had to be experiencing with her shorter reach and less conditioned muscles. He angled toward her and focused on the pale blur of her face in the sweltering darkness. Her eyes were shut, her mouth twisted into a rictus of pain.

“Hang on,” he said with as much encouragement as he could muster.

Her lids lifted, and her lips pulled back in a travesty of a smile. “Do I have a choice?”

Jesus! The woman had grit. Pete would give her that. Not many females—or males, for that matter—could take this kind of punishment without a whimper. And damned few would have risked a bullet by letting loose with that screech back at the Royal Opera House. Her shriek had distracted two gunmen just long enough for Pete and Prince Malik to take them down.

Not that the takedown had gained them much more than a fleeting—although admittedly savage—moment of satisfaction. Pete should have anticipated the attackers would post guards at the theater's rear entrance, dammit. Should have stashed Riley in a hidden alcove and held off all comers until the Omani authorities regained control of the theater.

He was still kicking himself for that screwup when the Range Rover slowed to a halt. The driver kept the engine idling and threw some instructions over his shoulder. One of the men in the back loosened the flap and climbed out. A low hiss and the sudden tilt to the vehicle told Pete that he was letting air out of the tires. Which meant they were leaving the track, as rough as it was, and taking to the dunes.

Dune bashing was a favorite sport at some of the more touristy spots in Oman and the UAE. Whole caravans of air-conditioned four-wheel-drives would set out from Muscat or Dubai or Abu Dhabi to give thrill-seekers a taste of the desert before ending up at a Bedouin camp complete with camel rides and belly dancers. Pete suspected, however, that this would be no tourist outing.

Sure enough, the Range Rover hit the windswept mountains of sand with a vengeance. The front end shot up, then slammed down. Several times the whole vehicle slid sideways down slopes so steep Pete braced for a rollover. With all the twists and turns required to follow the contours of the dunes, he gave up trying to gauge speed or distance or direction. He could see the illuminated face of the watch strapped to his wrist, however, and knew exactly how long they bounced around in the back of the damned truck before it finally stopped after two miserable, kidney-jarring hours, twenty minutes and a few seconds.

The gunman nearest the rear untied the canvas flap and rolled it aside to let in a pale wash of moonlight. Pete saw nothing but shadowy dunes beyond the truck bed, but in the sudden stillness when the engine shut off he was sure he heard a faint tinkle of bells. Goats, he thought, or camels. They had to be near some kind of a camp or desert outpost.

One of the gunmen climbed out and stood with his weapon at the ready while his pal untethered the hostages. Pete's arms had long since gone numb. When the gunman cut the plastic tie binding them to the overhead strut, they dropped like lead pipes. He knew the blood would rush back, but being prepared for the fiery rush didn't mitigate the pain. Hurting like a son of a bitch, he locked his jaw and reached for Riley as her plastic restraints were cut.

Her elbows hit her thighs. Barely conscious, she slumped sideways. Pete kept her from sliding off the bench in a boneless heap while the prince was cut free. Blood from the blow to al Said's temple had left a rusty streak on his cheek and his ceremonial headdress was tipped to one side. Gritting his teeth, Malik took time to right it before pointing to Riley and issuing what sounded like a curt command.

The thug closest to them fired back in a tone that said clearly the prince was in no position to be giving orders. He and his pal had abandoned their ski masks soon after leaving the lights of Muscat behind. Their faces had been nothing but dim blurs in the darkness inside the truck, but moonlight now illuminated the utter implacability in the men's expression. The prince shrugged and shuffled toward the truck's rear gate.

“They say you can help her,” he told Pete grimly as he edged by. “Since you're her husband.”

It took some doing but Pete managed to get Riley out of the truck. She was pretty well comatose by this time. Enough blood had returned to his arms for him to heft her against his chest. She made a small sound that ripped right into his heart. Not a moan or a sob. More like the mewl of an injured kitten. Vowing swift and extremely painful vengeance on their captors, Pete fell into step with the others and made for the shadowy outline of a desert fort just visible against the moonlit dunes.

* * *

Riley fought her way through the gray mist slowly, reluctantly. She'd never hurt in so many places. Her arms, her shoulders, her neck, her back, her throbbing wrists. Even her butt, which had slammed against that damned truck bench more times than she wanted to remember. All that kept her from dissolving into a weepy puddle was the sure, steady kneading that was working on her kinks. The magic fingers moved up her forearms. Cupped her sore elbows. Massaged her screaming shoulders.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

The voice that came at her out of the darkness was calm. Deep. Irritatingly insistent.

“Tell me your name.”

She did her best to ignore the annoying voice. It wouldn't go away.

“Say your name, Slim. Say it. Riii-ley.”

“Oh, for...!” Irritated, she blinked awake. “Riii-ley. There. Are you satisfied?”

“Pretty much.” The gruff reply resonated with relief and what sounded suspiciously like a hint of laughter. “You okay?”

Who was this guy? What universe did he inhabit? Certainly not the same, pain-racked solar system she was currently occupying.

“I'm about as far from okay as I can ever remember being.”

She levered up a few inches, frowned at the strips of shiny satin knotted around her aching wrists and skimmed a glance around what looked like a small, square, dimly lit cell. She was stretched out on the dirt floor, half in and half out of Sergeant Winborne's lap while he leaned back against a rough adobe wall.

“Where are we?”

“Best I can tell, this is a small storeroom in a crumbling desert fort somewhere along one of the old spice trade routes.”

“Somewhere?”

“My mental gyroscope crapped out five minutes after we hit the dunes.”

A shudder rippled down her spine. “I was hoping I'd dreamed that roller-coaster ride.”

She sagged against the wall of his chest. It was warm and solid and unbelievably comforting. Riley tried to remember the last time she'd gleaned such pleasure from simple human contact. Was it months? More like years. Not since her brief and ultimately humiliating engagement, at any rate.

Even now she squirmed at the memory of that fiasco. Of her mother's triumphant expression when she'd presented evidence that Riley's fiancé had traded on her name to float some questionable business loans. Of the fact that he'd talked to Riley's agent about a North American tour without so much as consulting her. That awful mess, she reminded herself, was only one of the reasons why a thick layer of ice would coat Hell—or in present circumstances, the Arabian Desert—before she trusted another smooth, handsome operator.

Speaking of which...

She angled her head back a few more inches and studied the shadowy planes and angles of the face so close to her own. It was more rugged than handsome, and one most women would not soon forget. Riley certainly hadn't. That square jaw... The nose that looked as though it had taken a fist or two... The white squint lines carved deep into the corners of those electric blue eyes... The combination made for one
very
potent package of masculinity.

Although she hadn't been able to put a name to the face when she'd spotted it in the royal box, Riley had known instantly she'd met this man before. The white tie and tails had thrown her, though.

His sophisticated civilian attire was certainly looking worse for the wear now. The tortuous drive through the desert had done a number on his black cutaway jacket. One shoulder seam was split, the other showed serious signs of giving way any moment. His white bow tie, she now realized, had been torn in half to bandage her wrists. His pleated shirt, open at the neck, carried several dark splotches. Blood, she realized with a quick gulp.

She probably didn't look much better. She'd lost her jeweled combs when she'd dived for the stage floor. Her hair felt like a sweaty, tangled mess. One strap of her flame-red gown had torn free during the drive through the desert. The other was hanging by a thread. If she wasn't careful, she'd end up naked to the waist, her breasts crushed against this man's chest.

And why the
hell
would that thought cause her to quiver? This was without doubt the most terrifying situation of her life. That liquid pull low in her belly had to be pure nerves. A delayed reaction to being shot at, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey and bounced across endless miles of desert.

Except the sensation wouldn't go away. If anything, the urge to hook her arms around Winborne's muscled shoulders and hang on for dear life grew more urgent by the moment.

The need was frightening and totally foreign. One Riley had never felt. Not with her cool, manipulative mother. Not during her short-lived engagement. She'd learned self-discipline at the same tender young age she'd learned to disguise her private thoughts. She'd never shared them with anyone but Aly, and then only when they were giddy schoolgirls. Since then she'd schooled herself to bury her feelings and show an outer calm to the world.

She pulled on that invisible cloak now but curiosity made her ask. “Why did you vault onto the stage back there at the opera house? You jumped right into the line of fire.”

“That's pretty much what PJs do, Slim.”

She didn't buy the nonchalant reply. “Sure. They just go around charging to the rescue of damsels in distress.”

Okay, that sounded as ungrateful and idiotic to her ears as it must have sounded to his. Wincing, she abandoned her lofty perch.

“Sorry. What I meant to say was thank you.”

“Yeah,” he returned with a hint of laughter. “I figured that's what you meant.”

“Still,” she said with dogged persistence, “you didn't have to let them take you along with me and Prince Malik. Or,” she added after a pregnant pause, “tell them you're my husband.”

“We-e-ll...”

Pete stretched the single syllable, rolling it out as slow and lazy as an armadillo ambling across a backcountry road. He guessed the prickly diva sitting with her legs folded under her tattered gown and her chin tilted to a stubborn angle wouldn't take kindly to an honest answer. The truth was the primitive instinct to protect the female of the species went bone-deep in him.

Maybe that came from the old-fashioned, down-home values he'd absorbed through his pores with the dust and heat of West Texas. Or growing up the oldest in a family of six kids, four of them girls. Or...

Oh, hell! Who was he kidding? He hadn't thought about anything or anyone except Riley Fairchild when he'd leaped onto the stage and covered her body with his.

“You're right,” he agreed with a shrug. “I didn't have to tell them I was your husband. But that was the only angle I could come up with at the time to stay close to you...and to Malik al Said. The prince and I go way back,” Pete explained. “He's the reason I'm in Oman right now. And why I was at the Royal Opera House for your concert. No way was I going to tuck tail and abandon a comrade in arms.”

“Oh. Well. I understand.”

Mostly, Riley amended silently.

Although she didn't doubt his band-of-brothers rationale, she suspected there was something more basic behind his jumping into the role of husband and protector. She'd gotten a glimpse of his machismo at Aly's wedding. It had been right there, in his swagger and cocky grin. Ironically, he'd turned her off completely then. Now...

Now Riley was secretly, fervently grateful for his protective instincts. And more than a little humbled. She'd never been exposed to that brand of selflessness. Despite the opera world's pretensions to a high art form, it was as cutthroat and competitive as any other field of entertainment. She hadn't gained the coveted title of
diva
without climbing over a number of other talented performers. In her defense, though, she'd never exercised the same degree of ruthlessness as her mother. No one could lay a shattered career or broken dreams at Riley's feet. But still...

To cover the confused emotions Winborne's seemingly selfless act stirred, she yanked at the twisted skirt of her gown and freed it enough for her to sit fully upright. She was more accustomed to the gloom now, but a second glance at their surroundings wasn't any more encouraging than the first.