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“Ah, Greta. ” He stroked her cheek again, but she had distracted him. He was no longer stroking the abused flesh between her thighs, no longer threatening to open her again, to destroy her with a helplessness she couldn’t accept.
“Why?” Shudders were working through her, and she knew she was finally going into shock.
Or perhaps they had meant to kill her slowly like this.
“Kill her. ” She felt him rise to his feet. “Use her however you please first, but when you leave this cell, she is to be dead. ”
“No. Nassar,” she cried out his name weakly. “We trusted you. We trusted you. ”
“No, you trusted me. Fool that you were. ” She heard the shrug in his voice. “Enjoy your last minutes, Greta. I doubt they will spend much time enjoying your broken body. But, with these four, you never know. ”
The cell door clanged shut. Her fingers tightened around the makeshift knife she had managed to sharpen against the stones earlier. It was gripped in her hand, tucked along her wrist and hidden beneath her body as they dragged her from the pallet.
Reality was, she was going to die here and she knew it.
Pop. She heard the sound, but it didn’t make sense. She heard someone grunt, heard something fall.
Several more of the hollow, wet pops and more shuffling.
She knew that sound. Bullets. She couldn’t see, but she knew the guards were dead. Frantically, she scrabbled at the floor, found one of them, and raced to tear his shirt off his torso. Buttons. God she hated buttons. She worked them loose with stiff, swollen fingers as she heard shouts, screams, and grunts outside the cell door.
The shirt came free, and she dragged it off his body before shoving her arms into it and wrapping it around her. There wasn’t a chance she could rebutton it. Pants. She needed pants.
She was frantic. She worked fast, struggling, panting, trying to ignore the pain searing her body as she worked boots and pants off the guard.
She belted the pants on, feeling their length and filth around her. But they covered her. She would have to do without shoes.
Gun. She had the gun in her hand, and she couldn’t fu
cking see. She was crying, her tears burning the cuts on her face, burning her eyes as she crept to the cell door.
It swung open, sunlight piercing her eyes for too long, shadows enveloping her as she brought the gun up while trying to strike out with the small wooden stake she had managed to hone.
“Chill!” The voice was American, harsh as strong hands gripped her wrists, tore the gun and the stake from her hands and moved quickly behind her. “Extraction in progress,” he hissed.
Backup. He was reporting in. Extraction. SEALs? Were they SEALs?
“You got me, Faisal?”
Hands were roving over her quickly.
“SEALs?” She gasped out.
“I only wish,” he snarled in her ear, his voice deep, like aged whiskey and soothing to her shattered senses. “Try one lone fucking sniper and a teenage kid with more guts than good sense. Can you run?”
His arm was around her, holding her against him. He was warm and protective. Was he protective or did she just need to convince herself that he was? Did she need this to survive the events of the past twenty-four hours?
“I can’t see. ” And she wanted to see him. Wanted her senses in order, her thoughts clinical, as sharp as they had been yesterday.
“I’ll lead, you run?” The suggestion was almost a croon, his voice almost tempting.
“I’ll run. ”
He had her on her feet. Her bare feet. But she would be okay. She would run, anything to escape this cell, the hands touching her body, the voice at her ear, sinking into her head.
“Small cell here. ” He rushed her into the heat and blinding light. “I think we got them all, but I’m not betting on it. We have bogeys heading in a few miles out and tight quarters to hide in. ”
He was talking to her as he ran. Ran hard and fast, holding her against his side and taking most of her weight as she forced herself to keep up with him.
