Page 17 of Trapped With the Secret Agent

Chapter Four

In-Charge shoved herface against the floor at Peter’s feet then walked angrily away.

Peter glanced down at Georgia. She wept quietly, touching her neck with shaking hands. He could clearly see red marks on her fair skin.

Peter’s hands shook with the desire to strangle the terrorist, but he swallowed his anger and settled a mask of calm over himself instead. Georgia needed him alive and able to protect her, not dead on the floor.

In-Charge turned around and gave some orders to his men. One grabbed Georgia by the hair, dragging her across the floor as she tried to scramble to her feet, throwing her violently into the ambassador’s private inner office.

Peter moved in an automatic response to go to her, help her, but the goons held him back.

There was movement on his right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man unplug the destroyed phone and replace it with another one. The terrorists moved him toward it like he was some kind of giant action figure.

“Call,” In-Charge ordered.

“I don’t know the number.”

In-Charge glared at him for a moment then barked a few words and led the way into the private office.

Ambassador Mitchell lay partially curled up on the floor, both hands wrapped around his left thigh. Blood seeped through his fingers and trickled steadily onto the carpet. A large circle of the red stuff had already soaked in.

Georgia knelt next to him, her hands hanging uselessly at her sides with a terrorist standing over her, his AK-47 pointed at her head.

Peter turned to In-Charge. “You want him to die slow? Let her bandage up that leg. At the rate he’s bleeding he’ll be dead in a few hours, not days.”

In-Charge stared at Peter for a couple of seconds before bursting into laughter. “Fine, she may help him,” he said still grinning like a hyena. “I might need him later.”

Georgia looked up at Peter and he nodded. She moved cautiously closer to Ambassador Mitchell, trying to get a look at the wound.

“It went all the way through,” Mitchell hissed through his teeth.

Georgia glanced around, obviously looking for something to use as a bandage, but there was nothing. After a second’s hesitation she unbuttoned her suit jacket, took it off, rolled it up, then wrapped it around his leg, tying the ends together as tight as she could.

She was left wearing a sleeveless cream-colored silk tank top that showed off every jiggle and sway of her full breasts.

Peter wasn’t the only one whose gaze was momentarily caught by the shimmering fabric and the treasures it poorly concealed. He glanced up to see the man holding his rifle on her flare his nostrils, his jaw hanging open. In-Charge stared unabashed at her chest.

Heart beating hard, heavy, and fast, Peter prepared to move. This didn’t look good, and he wouldn’t stand by and watch them rape her, one after the other. Hecouldn’t.

Georgia sat back on her heels and stared with wide eyes at her blood-covered hands.

In-Charge stepped forward, grabbed her by the wrist, and roughly pulled her to her feet.

“Wipe them on him,” he ordered, indicating Peter, speaking to her directly for the first time.

Surprised, she looked into his eyes and flinched, jerking her gaze to the floor.

In-Charge threw her arm in Peter’s direction and she followed the momentum to stand in front of him, her eyes rising no farther than the middle button of his shirt. Lifting her hands slowly, she wiped her palms on his chest, then turned her hands over and repeated the process. Peter’s once wheat-colored cotton shirt was now smeared with blood. Georgia stared at the stain, her body shaking then glanced up at him.

The expression in her eyes told him she was close to flying apart.

“Ambassador, who were you talking to last?” Peter asked without breaking the visual link between himself and Georgia.

“Secretary of State Madison.”

“His number?”

“Dial eight, then twenty forty-six.”

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