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And that meant inserting himself into the story long before anyone realized it.
Which was how he and Fraser, garbed in the standard blue uniform as prisoner guards, after a raiding of their hosts’ son’s closet, fur hats, and gloves, along with Russian boots, joined the security forces at the Petrov gas pipeline project.
Only Fraser’s hand on his arm—and yes, a big picture view of the op—kept him from jumping in when Vikka hit Shae.
He watched Shae go down, and every cell in his body ached.
Then, as expected, or hoped, or maybe planned, Judah jumped in, and in the chaos, Fraser and Ned slipped into the crowd, freshly shaved, wearing the fur caps of the guards, faces solemn, eyes down.
They picked up a bleeding and damaged Judah and brought him to the infirmary truck. Climbed inside, and as the truck carried them back to the gulag ship, Fraser tried to staunch his head wound.
“You’re the Americans,” Judah had whispered, so quietly Ned had to put his head down to the man’s ear. “You’re here for Shae?”
Ned nodded. “I’m her fiancé, Ned,” he said, and Judah smiled.
“She said you would come for her.”
That heated him through, filled his veins and kept him from jumping off the truck and running full sprint to Shae, being held captive in another truck.
Stay on the plan.
Judah then closed his eyes, and Ned suffered a moment of panic thinking the man had expired. But when he shook him, Judah opened one eye. Smiled. “At least someone cares.”
Huh. Who was this guy? But he’d taken a beating to free Shae, and frankly, seemed the answer to Ned’s prayers, so he kept his finger on the pulse at Judah’s neck, jostling him awake now and then as they transported back to the boat, then onto the ship, and deposited him in the infirmary.
They walked out to questions by the medic, an air of aloofness to cover their lack of language, then headed upstairs to the weapons locker using the card Sasha had given them.
“Now I can breathe,” Ned said, checking, then chambering the AK-47. He hung it combat-style across his chest. “Let’s take a tour.”
They used their card to stroll the ship, taking in the layout, starting with the superstructure, then down to the main deck, the stern of the boat, including what looked like a makeshift helicopter pad with containers bolted together and a metal platform created on top with stairs down to the deck.
They checked out the lifeboat and rescue boat. Ned pointed out a rusty hole in the bottom of the rescue boat.
They finally went down to the lower cargo hold. The odor of unwashed bodies, rust, and metal, the scent of desperation, could almost knock him over. And he’d lived with himself for six weeks in BUD/s, so that was saying something.
He walked by container twenty-three, the door open, and stood there.
Hang on, Shae.
“Let’s take position,” Fraser said, and he and Ned headed back to the deck and climbed up to the bow, hid in plain sight. Front sentries, just minding their own business.
He didn’t like being this exposed, but according to Sasha, no one would notice them up here, and yet, if they did, their attention would wander right past. Then they waited as the sun set over the water.
“How bad do you think she was hurt?” Ned finally said, quietly.
“The better question is…did you see the look on her face when Vikka hit her friend? For a second, I thought she’d jump her.”
He’d only seen her get on the ground, pick up Judah’s hat—as if that mattered—then plead for his life. If Ned didn’t know her better, he might be jealous.
But he did know her.
“Hopefully she doesn’t do something stupid.”
“What, like try and escape?” Fraser looked at him. “We’ll get to her first.”
As the sun sank in the west, casting a fiery glow over the deep platinum sky, Ned spotted the boat returning. Then he watched from his sentry position as the prisoners returned. Shae walked in line, looking unhurt, her face solemn, no blood or cuts, and that settled his gut a little.
Then they’d eaten, a full fifteen minutes for dinner, and assembled on the deck as the last of the sunlight winked out.
