Page 32 of Hazard

He cupped her breast and squeezed so hard, the pain excruciating. “That’s too bad.” He turned to Conde. “Do what you want with her, then take care that you don’t make a mistake and fuck up the recording of her death. When you have it, send it to me.”

Terror spiked through her, but she bolstered herself with what may be her last words. “You won’t get away with this. But I can promise you that you will be looking out on a sea of faces from a glassed booth while they insert that needle in your vein and rid this world of you. Killing a federal prosecutor comes with the death penalty.”

Without an ounce of concern on his face, he slapped her hard, the pain of his palm against her flesh stinging her cheek. Through her half-closed eyes, she watched him walk away.

When the door closed, Conde moved suddenly to face her, pressing his body against hers. There was no mocking glitter in his eyes this time. Just stone-cold violence. Panic clawed up her spine at the feel of him hard against her thigh. Revulsion and self-preservation gripped her. She started to fight, lifting her knee to hit him where it would hurt most. But he twisted his hips as if he was an expert at rape. “It’s going to be a pleasure to break you, bitch.”

“No,” she shouted with everything inside her twisting with loathing. Never. She gouged at his face, her nails digging deep.

He howled, his jaw clenching tight, and rage flashed in his eyes. He backhanded her, then shoved her against the wall so hard that her head hit the tin surface, dazing her. When her vision came back into focus, he’d braced his hands on either side of her shoulders and wedged his thigh between hers to keep her trapped against the wall and his body. His face was right in hers, and he was so sickly turned on, she gasped with revulsion.

He grabbed her hair, dragging her head back ruthlessly, and brought his mouth down on hers. She fought the kiss, the invasion of his tongue, refusing to give even a small part of herself to him. She bit down hard on his lip, and he pulled away, only infuriating him.

He grabbed her blouse and ripped open the buttons, then tore at her bra, knocking her down to the ground and beneath him. She tried to fight again, but he pinned her wrists in one hand and reached for his fly. When she struggled, he punched her hard, then ripped at her pants.

She screamed in rage and defiance.

Then the weight was gone, and another man was there, but she was so caught up in the horror, she fought the gentle hands, not understanding.

“Leigh,” the voice penetrated her terror. “It’s me.”

“Hazard?” she cried, opening her eyes to his gorgeous face. He was helping her to sit up as she pulled the blouse together to cover her nakedness, so thankful he had come before Conde had been able to violate her. A sob of relief wedged in her throat, and she swallowed hard against it, refusing to allow herself the luxury of falling apart. They had found her, and she was safe, and that was all that mattered.

Then she looked at his face. It was as if he had gone somewhere else, the expression so full of a lethal rage. Her eyes darted to Conde who was out cold.

“Hazard,” she whispered. “No.”

Seeing her with her clothes torn, her upper body exposed, the dark and savage bruises on her face and arms, her terrified eyes, and the way she had fought him made something snap. She was so traumatized, she hadn’t realized it had been him trying to save her.

He had always had the ability to maintain a calm state of mind in any crisis. Hands down, he was the epitome of cool and in charge. His mind was always on solving problems, not allowing his emotions to take over. To him the threat to her was still real, still ongoing. He looked around for the animal who had attacked her. His body sizzled with rage, his hands burning with the need to do something to protect her. It was a pure knee-jerk, instinct.

He would ghost this guy for her.

He was on the guy in a heartbeat, slapping him awake, looming over him. The man took one look at Hazard’s face and started to propel his body backward, but in two strides Hazard was on him. His teammates came through the door as he pressed the muzzle of his sidearm against the man’s forehead. He was unarmed, and the rules of engagement mattered even here in this lawless hellhole, maybe mattered even more. He pressed it hard, wanting with all his might to pull the trigger, his intellect warring with his protective instincts to end this low-life’s existence so he would never haunt Leigh ever again.

“Hazard,” Iceman said, his voice strong and calm, his words clipped, delivering information in a steady stream—holding Hazard to a line of ethics that they had vowed not to cross, ever. Every man in that sweltering prison was on edge, tense muscles, edgy eyes, and the same thoughts he had running through his head.

Half a dozen heartbeats passed during their standoff. The rules of engagement were extremely strict: Do not fire unless fired upon. There was no way to get around that one hard, cold fact. The man wasn’t firing on him. He wasn’t even armed. He had been here to violate Leigh, and he couldn’t afford her getting a hold of his weapon.

But Hazard didn’t move a muscle. He was looking at Iceman and all the unseen things he was talking about. Honor, integrity, the SEAL Creed. Iceman was clear. This wouldn’t just reflect badly on Hazard but would earn him a court-martial, dishonorable discharge, and the loss of things that were as important to him as breathing: his job, his freedom. They may have been designed to be killing machines, but they weren’t just good at that task. They were flesh and blood, thinking and calculating, feeling and passionate men.

He took a breath, the pressure on the hair-trigger of his sidearm needed just ounces of pull. “Hazard, don’t, please,” she whispered.

Leigh’s voice. Hazard knew she wasn’t pleading for this man’s life. She was pleading for his life, for him to elevate himself above this scum, and that penetrated hard and fast, like a bullet. If he pulled the trigger, he would lose more than just his freedom. He would lose who he was. Combat was easy compared to this moral dilemma.

He used every ounce of his willpower to release the trigger, to get off the guy and holster his weapon, to let this bastard live, not only for the intel he could provide but so Hazard could continue to be the man he was.

He turned to look at Leigh, who was wrapped up in Anna’s arms. He was aching to have her in his own arms, but now was not the time. “He was here,” she said. “Angel Alzate.”

“When?” Iceman asked harshly.

“Minutes. If you run you might be able to?—”

Men were filing out the door. In the distance they heard the whop, whop of a chopper’s rotor. Asking for more speed from already overworked, overused, almost depleted muscles, they broke out into a clearing as a helicopter lifted off, and banked left, its engines roaring. Shooting off toward the mountains, Hazard took aim at the bird and pulled off a burst of shots. But they were out of range and, finally, the speck disappeared into the distance.

They all stood there for a few seconds, disappointed down to a man. If they had gotten Alzate, that would have been the end of this op. So close.

Maybe then, Leigh wouldn’t have to go back to Bogotá empty-handed, traumatized, and devastated. He winced when he saw her stumble out of that tin prison. He dropped his pack, ripped off his vest, and unbuttoned his shirt. Striding to her, his hands as gentle as he could make them, he helped her into his uniform top.

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