Fight Fire With Fire. Page 2

  Her boss produced a bottle of water, sweating condensation. She broke it open and drank deeply, and as the van pulled away, she shifted to look out the rear window at her prison growing smaller by the moment.

  The rush of water she’d heard was the narrow waterfall that fell into a small pool shaped by stones. On the whole, it was supposed to look natural. She didn’t get that feeling. Aside from the citadel behind it, it was too beautiful, artfully overgrown and perfectly concealed. She wondered what else had happened in a place like that.

  “So . . . I’m guessing the Philippines, maybe? Not Okinawa, too many American eyes.” Her gaze sailed over the grounds, picking out plants and trees. It reminded her of a canyon in the monkey forest. “Indonesia?” Only her gaze shifted to her boss, waiting for confirmation.

  “Very good.”

  She doubted he’d give her the truth anyway. How many places like this were located around the world? Who was using them? Was her phantom just waiting for his next victim? It made her sick. She’d no intention of letting her superior forget this perverse test of honor, and decided she’d watch her own back from now on.

  When the van rolled onto even ground, she settled gingerly into the seat, feeling the scrape of wet fabric against the welts swelling on her spine. The woman was already on satellite communications, her world quickly changing. She took a long drink of water, a salute to herself.

  Well, I guess it’s official then.

  I’m a spy.

  2 years later, Serbia,

  4 miles from the Kosovo border

  Riley recognized the shrill whine of an incoming missile and rushed toward the crumbling building. Each step was a struggle, Captain Sam Wyatt’s weight bearing down on him. The missile hit, throwing them forward and obliterating half the street. Riley’s knees hit the ground, driving pain up his thighs. Debris struck him in the back, his burden threatening collapse. The enemy wasn’t done with them and a trail of bullets chased toward his heels as he pushed to his feet, dragging the wounded pilot along. Thirty feet, twenty . . . Riley fell behind the remains of a wall, the rest of the building destroyed by Russian missiles to keep the border uncrossable. It was working—but it was where he needed to go.

  He lifted Wyatt’s arm from around his neck, then leaned him against the wall before easing him to the ground. The morphine deadened the pain, but Riley worried the splint he’d made wouldn’t hold. The leg was already at an odd angle. Sam needed better medical care and soon. He was bleeding again.

  Snaps of gunfire struck the ground, the wall, and Riley considered how to get his ass out of this one. The air moved slowly, thick with smoke and dust and covering the sun. No place was safe. Smart people fled to the countryside. The city was deserted except for scatters of rebel resistance trying to protect themselves from Serb soldiers bent on genocide. Oh yeah, that wee bit of U.N. cease-fire negotiations worked splendidly. He took his bearings, then surveyed his immediate surroundings for better cover.

  He had maybe a half hour before the patrol caught up with them, and they had trucks. Time to eat crow and call in the cavalry, he decided, and reached for his radio. He found a smoldering jumble of wires and melted plastic. “Bugger me. So. Fighting it is then.” He checked his supplies, but he knew exactly how much ammunition he had left. Not enough to keep renegade Serb soldiers off his back for long.

  Jagged cinder block shattered above his head in a spray of chalky rocks. A chunk hit Wyatt’s cheek as Riley pushed him further to the ground. He howled, and Riley let him, but held him down to keep him from thrashing. Bullets chunked away at their position, intermittent, taunting. Northeast, he thought, and hovering over Wyatt, he aimed. He didn’t get off a shot.

  A line of bullets sliced across his position and he felt each hit vibrate the wall, chip near his boot. Jesus Mary. Two directions. It wouldn’t be long before the barrier was gone. He looked at Sam, thinking he’d made it worse for him, dragging him all this way. Now the fractured bone threatened to come through the torn skin. He couldn’t pull the tourniquet any tighter or risk Wyatt losing his leg. Riley glanced behind them. The border was less than four miles away. The closer he got to it, the better his chances of friendlies.

  Three successive shots hit the ground twenty yards to his right and made a chunk of rock dance. Immediately, a second shot knocked it over. Excellent shooting, he had to admit, and followed the trajectory, his gaze climbing. A three-story building lay about forty yards south. The lower outer walls were scarred by fire, marked with soot and shattered windows. The upper-floor windows were blown out, the interior a blackened skeleton.

  That’s the target.

  He searched each floor, moving right to see the south side. Gunshots peppered around him, keeping him pinned, but he peered just enough to focus his binoculars. From the top floor of the building just beyond it, he spotted a rifle barrel before it slid out of sight. A second later, a hand appeared, held up two fingers, then a fist, then pointed. Riley felt a chill at the familiar military signals.

  The disembodied hand repeated the gesture. Wait two minutes, then go.

  If this wasn’t a fine one, he thought, aware he risked a trap. Yet the sniper had several chances to kill them already, and didn’t. But there were other shooters out there.

  A mortar round hit fifty yards away, the impact throwing cars, street benches and toppling a statue. “Shoulda worn the smart shirt, Donovan,” he muttered as he quickly knelt beside Wyatt, checking his wounds before he worked off his Kevlar vest and strapped it on the pilot. He hoisted him on his back and prayed his legs were strong enough to make the distance. Testing the field, he raised his hand and nearly got it shot off.

  Instantly, the sniper returned automatic fire to the north, covering him as he rushed out into the open, crossing the street like a hunchback, then moving alongside walls shattered by bombs. Sidestepping rubble challenged each step. The building loomed. The sniper laid down constant cover fire, and he glimpsed a shooter drop from a window, another from a balcony. Riley pushed on, the burden of Sam’s weight pounding his hips. Safety loomed in the shell of steel and concrete.

  Bullets chewed the ground at his heels, and he felt a muscle pull in his thigh as he rounded the charred edge. He stumbled into the safety of darkness, Wyatt’s weight slamming him to his knees. He rolled Wyatt off his back, then crawled to his head, gripped his flight suit at the shoulders and dragged him from the opening. He returned to aim out the doorway blown wider by missiles. Smoke twisted on the air. The tat-tat of gun fire spun closer.

  Where was the sniper?

  His gaze ripped over the streets once more before he turned to Wyatt, taking him deeper into the remnants of a restaurant, a yawning hole in the ceiling exposing three floors above. At least it was defensible. He dragged the six-foot-tall man onto a fallen piece of drywall, then inspected his wounds. Blood saturated his pant leg, and although the wood splint held, the fractured bones threatened to cut an artery.

  Wyatt’s head lolled on his neck and his eyes opened. “Donovan.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’re a brave man to do this.” Sam reached to offer his hand and flinched. Riley had tied his arm to his waist. His ribs were broken.

  “I bet the C.O. has a different opinion.”

  Wyatt tried to laugh, but only coughed. “I’ll put in a good word.” He breathed in short gasps.

  “After you just crashed one of his jets? Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re on his shit list too.” It didn’t matter. A court-martial was in his future, he knew.

  “Call me Sam, will you?”

  “Certainly.” Riley grinned. “But command’s going to call us both dead if we don’t get out of here.”

  Riley offered him water, then made him comfortable in the rear of the building. From his position, he could see anything coming, and had solid wall at his back, but he knew time was ticking by before the patrol found them. Armed, he scoured for anything useful, stuffing it in the bag he’d stolen from the medic’s
supply. He used the painkillers sparingly. Whatever was left in the kit had to do. He hoped it was enough.

  Then he focused on Sam’s wounds. Resetting the fracture was going to hurt like hell. He broke open the morphine capsule and injected Sam’s thigh, then inspected the break. He felt the jagged crack of bone under Sam’s skin and formed a plan to reset it. They couldn’t travel another four miles with it tearing inside his body.

  “You don’t have time for that.”

  Instantly Riley scooped up the pistol and spun on his knees, aiming.

  A figure stood near the blown out entrance. Shit. He hadn’t heard a thing.

  Still as glass, the man’s head and shoulders were wrapped in dark scarves over a green military jacket, now a dull gray like the weather. The only skin exposed was his eyes. Around his waist, a utility belt sagged, and the sniper rifle was slung on his shoulder, the weapon held across his body, ready to sight and fire. Yet he stood casually, without threat.

  “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have wasted bullets to see you two safe and alive.”

  The sniper, Riley realized with a wee shock, was a woman.

  She advanced with easy grace, stepping over piles of rubble to hop down at his level. Her rifle looked all too familiar.

  “Yes, it’s American,” she said, noticing his attention. He lowered his weapon. She stood a couple feet away, staring down at Sam. “He doesn’t look good.” She unwound her head scarf and a braided rope of shiny dark hair spilled down one shoulder. She met his gaze. Beneath arched brows, whiskey colored eyes stared back at him.

  “Sweet mother a’ Jaasus.” She was younger than him.

  “I get that a lot.” She gestured at Sam. “What do you need to do?”

  “Set his leg again and get a tighter splint on it.”

  She nodded as her gaze bounced around the interior. “Let’s get busy. I don’t know how much time we have.”

  Though the pop of gunfire was lazier now, Riley wasn’t ignoring the help, or the danger of staying put too long. He instructed, glad Sam was unconscious or he’d be screaming to the heavens. After unbuckling her utility belt, she got behind Sam, her legs and arms wrapping his torso and hips as Riley grasped his calf and ankle. On a count, he pulled. Even drugged, Sam arched with silent agony. Riley ripped the flight suit more and pushed the bone down, forcing it to align closely. Blood oozed from the gash. He met her gaze and nodded.

  “It’s set. Well . . . better than it was.”

  She eased from Sam and unclipped her canteen, offering it.

  He cleaned his hands and the wound, then Riley worked against the cold. With the needle poised over Sam’s flesh, he shook too much to stitch. “For the love of Mike.” He dropped the needle, sanding his hands, blowing on them. She quickly grasped them both, wrapping her scarf around them, then brought his fists to her lips. She breathed hotly against the fabric, and Riley felt the warmth sting his icy skin. She rubbed and breathed, her gaze flashing up. He felt struck, her soulful eyes hiding so much.

  “Better?”

  He nodded, unwound the scarf. “The rest of me is a bit chilly still.”

  It took a second for that to sink in and she made a face. He chuckled, then said, “Get yourself on the other side, woman, and let’s make some quick work here.”

  She snickered to herself, yet obeyed, holding Sam’s skin closed as he stitched. She still wore gloves and though she was dressed warmly, he noticed everything was cinched down, nothing to catch, and her rifle would collapse. It was a weapon he’d seen in spec, a prototype of the MP5. Not in production, yet she had one. And if the bodies outside indicated, she knew how to use it. It was at her right, by her knee with a bullet chambered.

  “You’re Company.” CIA. Probably attached to NATO.

  He had to give her credit, she didn’t look up or make even a single nuance. If she was any good, she wouldn’t give anything away.

  “Tell me how an Irishman got to be in the Marines.”

  Okay, he could go that direction. “I was a runner for the IRA and my older sister caught me. Dragged me home by my ear, she did.” His lips curved with the memory as he took another stitch. “My parents, fearing for my immortal soul, sent me to America to live with relatives.” He shrugged.

  “So dodging bullets comes easy, huh?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Then he went and chose a career in it. He glanced at Sam, knowing this would cost him what he held dear. His Marine enlistment. But he couldn’t let the one man who treated him like a friend instead of his superior die in the frigid Serbian forests.

  “I saw the jet go down.”

  His gaze briefly slid to hers.

  “He was doing some amazing flying before the missile hit. I’ve been behind you for a day.”

  “So you’re the reason the patrol didn’t catch up to us?”

  Bless her, that blank expression didn’t change a fraction.

  “Thank you for our lives.” He clipped the thread. “I’m Riley.” He held out his hand. She bit off her glove and shook it. Her skin was warm, her palm smooth and dry.

  “Safia,” was all she offered with her disarming smile.

  He wondered why someone so young was in the field alone. She helped him work the inflatable air cast over Sam’s upper thigh, then wrapped him in rags and curtains Riley’d found to keep him warm. Sam’s fever would spike and he had to get him some antibiotics. He’d used his last just now.

  The woman unwound from the floor, strapped her belt back on, then dug in her pack like a purse and blindly reloaded her magazines. He recognized C4 packs and some gadgets he didn’t. She was a little fire team all by herself, he thought, smiling. Armed, she went to each opening. He reached for his gun when she disappeared out a gap in the wall. He waited, chambering a bullet and aiming.

  Tell me I can’t be that much of a sucker. Icy wind spun through the building. Seconds ticked by. She reappeared and stopped short, then cocked her head. She smiled almost appreciatively, and he lowered his weapon. She moved to him with an elegance that defied her crude surroundings and the two pistols in her belt. Her exotic features and tanned skin puzzled him. Without head scarves, she looked completely out of place.

  Then the radio hooked on her belt buzzed and she brought it to her ear, listening. The language sounded Albanian. She didn’t make contact, only listened, then said, “We need to go. I’ll help you to the border.”

  Riley opened his mouth to say he didn’t need her to risk her life again.

  “Don’t argue. The Serbian patrol after you have already murdered seventy women and children along their way. Brutally.” Her accented voice snapped with anger as she wrapped her scarves. “Those soldiers don’t care about life or freedom. They wanted him.” Her voice softened a notch. “To display for the press . . . preferably dead and bloodied.”

  He agreed. The reports out of this region were an abomination to humanity, and while nobody was happy about not going after one of their own because of some negotiations going on, Riley just couldn’t live with it. But a one-man rescue wasn’t the smartest move he’d ever made.

  Sam stirred, moaning, and Riley grabbed the preloaded syringe.

  “No. No more drugs. We need him mobile. It’s now or never.” Waving him to hurry, she crossed to the opening, weapon at her shoulder. She aimed up the street and sighted, then suddenly said, “Get him up, now!” then vaulted over debris to get to him. “They found us!”

  Riley tried. “Come on, cowboy, time to run.”

  She helped him get two hundred pounds of man off the ground, and he shouldered Sam, then drew his weapon. Out the rear of their haven, she led them to the alley behind.

  Sam focused on her, then gave him a sluggish smile. “Trust you to find the only woman within miles, Donovan.”

  “It’s the accent.” Riley grinned and winked at Safia. “Gives them all sorts of wily thoughts.”

  She rolled her eyes, a smile coasting her lips. “Everyone has an accent. We go that
way.” She nodded left and advanced. “And stay in the alleys—”

  A blast struck the building across the street, fiery debris rocketing into their hideout and knocking out remaining windows. The supports gone, the building listed as they hurried away. Another rocket finished it off and before the wave of smoke and fire reached them, Riley dragged Sam out of the path. Shielded by a building, dust and debris shot past them and he turned his face away.

  “That’s mortar fire,” he said. “They’re trying to get a lock on this location.”

  Her gaze jerked to his, suspicious.

  “I’m clean, and the beacon is in the ejected seat fifty miles north.”

  She eyed him a second, then turned away. “Then it’s thermal and someone’s close enough to give them coordinates.”

  “Well shit,” Sam said.

  “That’s what we’ll be if we stay.” She agilely stepped over rubbish, and they kept up, but it was costing Sam. His breathing was fast and hard through gritted teeth. Safia slowed in the alley littered with debris and ahead, she stopped briefly, her shoulders sagging before she continued. When he passed, he saw the pair of legs, thin and small, the rest covered in trash and broken windows. Aw hell. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen children discarded as collateral damage, but as he left the alley, the image haunted. Three blocks and two turns from the last hit, Riley stopped her.

  “This isn’t working. We need a ride.” He moved up behind her, and Sam fell against the wall, exhausted and shaky. He looked a little gray.

  “I don’t think a cab will come to this neighborhood.”

  Riley passed her, pistol drawn, then edged the building. “There’s a truck about two blocks up.”

  She shifted to see, then shook her head. “It’ll never run or it’d be gone.”

  “So negative,” he chided, studying the terrain. “We don’t have another option. He can’t walk to the border, and we need to get the hell out of here.”