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He hoped to hell Kramer spoke Arabic, but odds were he wouldn’t know what was being said until they debriefed and viewed Chris’s bodycam.
The knife at her throat lowered a half an inch, no longer pressing to her skin.
Chris breathed a little easier, but there was still a gun pointed at him, and she was no closer to joining team SEAL over team terrorist.
Voice steady, she said in English, “We’re going now. Do not follow.”
As if he could without a vehicle and no radio, phone, or satellite communication. They’d have to crawl back through the tunnel or find the signal jammer on this side and destroy it.
“Don’t do this Doctor—Diana.” Maybe using her first name would trigger something for her. His gaze flicked to the man at her back and the second man in the shadows by the truck with the high beams. “They’re no match for SEALs.”
She held his gaze.
What had the analyst said? Something about being unusually calm during her SERE training.
He could believe that now.
In the middle of the dry desert, this woman was an ice sculpture.
“We’re not leaving without you, Diana.”
The knife pressed to her skin again, and the man barked something in Arabic.
The eerie, steely calm faded from her eyes. “Please. It’s the only way. Let us go.” Again her hand did the frantic four-finger thing, then her thumb slipped between ring and middle finger.
What did the gesture mean?
“Please,” she said again.
Was this a game to give Chris a better shot?
No. No way. He had no shot and didn’t see how this could improve that situation.
Trust me.
He knew that was what she’d said. She wanted to leave with these men.
Why?
Before he’d entered the tunnel, four tangos had been killed. Two were here. He didn’t know the status of the last one, but that man wasn’t here in this canyon.
He and Kramer could take out these assholes, but Edwards was in the way.
“Don’t do this,” Chris said again.
“I have to.”
“Why?”
Again with the frantic fingers. Again with the mouthed Trust me.
Dammit all to motherfucking hell. Couldn’t he just once have a normal, fucking, clean hostage rescue?
He glared at the woman. The scar that bisected the right side of her bottom lip and trailed down her chin offered undeniable proof that this was Dr. Diana Edwards, the archaeologist he and his team had been sent to rescue.
She stood before him, coldly beautiful as she stared back, her regal calm returned even as the knife pressed to her throat.
He said nothing as she was slowly dragged backward and pushed into the truck.
