Page 2 of Damned
By the time he’d finished, Kruze was on his belly and face-to-face with Mizz Brianna Banks, breathing the same air. She whimpered when his full weight mashed her into the dirt. Well, too damned bad.
“Shut it, Princess. I’m only here to get you out of the country alive, not marry you.”
“Th-thanks for helping me.” Banks almost sounded sincere.
That should’ve altered his opinion, but it didn’t. Journalists just like her had made his brother Chance’s life a living Hell for too damned long and in too many ways. They’d known nothing about the details of his covert op in South America, less about Kruze and Chance’s mother’s death, which had happened during the same time. So, what’d they do? They’d invented, hypothesized, and outright lied. Created sensational, twisted tales full of so much crap, that Chance had come damned close to committing suicide. He’d lost most of his SEAL team on that op and had nearly lost his own life. America’s press corps thought they could say whatever they wanted under their first amendment rights? Well, Kruze had news for them, this woman in particular, and it started with a vehement effing F-off!
By the time he was through recalling why he detested journalists, Kruze was flaming pissed all over again. Gawddamnit, yes, he was the emotional middle brother of Scarlett Sinclair’s three boys, and he’d struggled with his temper all his life.
But like his friend Julio had taught him to do, Kruze forced his mind and soul back to zero. Breathed in. Breathed out. Tried like hell to let the past go, to forgive and forget and—
Yeah, not happening. Not only no, but hell no. He’d never forgive the press for their lies nor his mom for not telling him and her sons that she was dying of cancer. Or Chance for wanting to kill himself after he came to in the hospital and found out he’d lost everything. What a fucked-up month that was! How was anyone supposed to get over all that?
Didn’t matter how much Kruze had tried, he plain didn’t know how to let those sorrows and grudges go. He’d adored his mom, still did, and he would always idolize his older brother. Losing her had been gut-wrenching, but losing Chance at the same time? That would’ve been the cruelest blow. Kruze didn’t know how to get back to the man he’d been before Chance had almost pissed his life away. Pagan, the youngest Sinclair, seemed to have found a way to deal with those betrayals, but Kruze didn’t know where to begin.
In the stillness of his mighty struggle to zero his anger, Kruze’s mind settled on the sensation of the much smaller heart pounding against his belly. The journalist’s heart. Odd that the steady thump of this foolish, selfish woman’s blood flowing through those chambers grounded him in the middle of a nightmare situation that could still get them killed. Yet it did. There was something familiar to this moment, something tugging at the back of his memories. He almost felt—better.
No, gawddamnit, no! Kruze shrugged that notion aside. Miss Brianna Banks was nothing to him. She wasn’t brave, surely wasn’t any kind of patriot. She was a user, a prima donna of the highest magnitude, some rich man’s privileged daughter. All she’d wanted when she’d sneaked into Turkey was a sensational story. She wanted to be rich and famous.
He might block his thoughts and opinions, but Kruze could still smell the sweet, musky scent of her body, the perfumed oil in her straggly hair. And her fear. Red scarf or not, arrogant or just plain stupid, Banks was awash with panic. She was breathing hard, scared for her life. She damned well ought to be. She’d brought this shitstorm down on herself. His job was just to get her dumb ass safely back to America. He didn’t have to like her to do that.
The Earth quaked. Then roared.What now?Kruze ducked his face into Banks and lifted his arms over her head, shielding her from the furious cloud of rocks and dirt suddenly pummeling the convoy. The landslide those idiots had kicked loose was there. Thick dust and all sizes of rocks battered everything in its way like a dry ocean wave. Make that a tsunami. Kruze could barely breathe. The landslide’s throaty roar turned into bouncing thunder that grew closer and closer until—
BANG! BOOM!
You have got to be kidding me!Shock waves shook the ground. Kruze worked his jaw to keep his eardrums from blowing out, even as he stiffened his body and enclosed Banks in as much safety as he had to give. A boulder as big as a gawddamned house—an American house, not the hovels these poor mountain people lived in—landed square behind the convoy, behind the very jeep he and Banks were hiding under. Holy shit! Talk about one helluva close call. A yard nearer and it would’ve crushed the jeep and them with it.
When the vibrating thunder ceased, so did the shooting. Smaller rocks continued to rain down on the convoy. Kruze guessed the rag-tag army was hiding beneath the other vehicles if they were smart. At last, the rockslide slowed to a trickle of bangs, thuds, and hisses, then stopped.
With his entire body still wrapped protectively around Banks, Kruze cocked his head to better hear beyond what had proven to be the perfect hiding place. More yelling. More bellowing. But the noises sounded crazy-happy instead of pissed, angry, or hurt. Shooting recommenced—until some guy with a voice as deep as that growling landslide, started singing a somber, respectful song. The yelling and shooting ceased as quickly as it began. Given the diversity of dialects, Kruze didn’t understand every word being sung, just‘Pesnê,’their word for praise.
Well, I’ll be damned.These simple mountain people, as rude and cruel as they could be, were praising Allah. They must’ve killed the assassin. The reverent song lasted until the rebels circled the massive rock that could’ve crushed Kruze and Banks to death.
“They’re back. I’m scared,” Mizz Brianna Banks whispered, her breath a soft warm feather that didn’t feel half bad when she huffed into the hollow of his sweaty neck.
Kruze retracted his arms and hands from her face. “Deal with it,” he growled quietly, his elbows now tucked to his side and his hands flat to the dirt. He was ready to push up and away. Any minute now…
“They stopped shooting. Why don’t we make a break for it?”
“Because here is safe, but out there is certain death. Keep quiet.” These guys expected them to run. Kruze didn’t intend to be that kind of stupid. He wasn’t moving until he was sure he and Banks could get away without being seen or shot in the back.
Kruze was all male. As a Navy SEAL, he’d seen combat in some of the world’s worst places. He was bigger boned, thicker muscled, and a helluva lot heavier than the dainty, entitled celebrity mashed beneath him. He was one of America’s baddest badassed warriors, by hell, and he could be a mean son of a bitch. He’d faced death too many times to count, and he’d ended every HVT he’d ever been ordered to hunt. He’d survived the harshest weather, in the worst places, and the worst disasters known to man. He wasn’t made to fail.
But he wasn’t immune to the soft, feminine curves against his belly and thighs, or the tender brush of this woman’s breasts against his much harder chest muscles. Or the quivering terror in her voice, and that heart, its beat so loud he was fairly certain it was climbing up her throat. He’d seen terror before, in the eyes of men, women, and little kids without hope. Brianna Banks was them, her pride and ego stripped away, willing to do anything to survive.
If she’d been alone, she’d probably think she stood a chance running from those men out there. She’d bolt. Which proved yet again, she had no business being this deep inside Turkey’s Eastern Anatolia Region. Do-gooders like her should stay home where they belonged. Because, when they didn’t, once they’d overstayed their welcomes—if they’d ever been welcome in the first place—some unfortunate SEAL team received orders to retrieve the idiots. And sometimes those men died. For what? The life of a journalist who’d turn on them as soon as there was money to be made? Kee-rist! When would people learn?
Growling, Kruze forced his focus back on the endgame of getting Banks out of his life and himself back to the States. He’d been down this road before, and because this woman was who she was and did what she did for a living, he didn’t care if she was scared. She should be.
Inhaling a quiet breath, he wondered how long their reprieve would last.
He’d no more than exhaled, when one of the rebels yelled, “Americans!” Every fighter around that rock scrambled to find him and Banks. More bellowing. More gunfire.
Ouch. Damn it.A ricochet caught Kruze’s left biceps. High. Just skimmed the meaty muscle near his shoulder joint; nothing to worry about. He’d treat it later.
But the boots pounding past their location concerned him now. He and Banks were literally hiding in plain sight. It’d only take one sharp-eyed man or woman to spot them and raise an alarm, maybe kill them both where they were hiding. Yet Kruze knew the jittery nerves of an army under attack, especially after a boulder the size of Rhode Island had landed where it had. These guys were hyped-up on adrenaline and fueled by religious zeal. They fanned out in all directions and up both sides of the canyon. Again, not a good time to make a break for it.
Fortunately, enough rocks and dirt blocked one side of the Jeep to provide a quantum of cover. Kruze shifted his hips, aware that his thigh holster might be digging into the trembling body beneath him, but not caring one bit if it were. He knew he was being an ass, but he refused to baby Banks. She’d asked for this, well,hello Karma. Banks was going to get precisely what she’d had coming to her.
Turkey was off-limits to United States civilians due to its high level of terrorism, arbitrary detentions, and, oh, guess what? Increased risk to Americans. Wanna bet Banks hadn’t even checked with the US State Department before she’d trotted her ass across whatever border she’d breached to get here? Journalists! The bane of every active-duty soldier, airman, sailor, and Marine. Probably Coasties, too.
Planning how to get her out of this country alive, Kruze watched from beneath the jeep’s undercarriage as far as he could see. By the time the ragged rebel army returned from their futile search, they were still agitated but also hungry and tired. The few women in the convoy had set up camp, and delicious aromas wafted from the side of the road.
Most of the dust from the landslide had settled, the sun was gone, and night had fallen. In developing countries like Turkey, electricity was not readily available everywhere or to everyone. The farther away a man traveled from the cities, the fewer amenities. In mountainous altitudes and narrow canyons like this one, the sun went down extra early. Nights were a helluva lot darker and would only get colder.
Not that Princess Banks was cold yet. She couldn’t be, not wedged under him and into the rut like she was, not with his massive body providing enough heat to melt the puddles of ice. But they couldn’t stay where they were much longer. Hiding in plain sight was only good in small doses. Plus, the miracle of the boulder still attracted plenty of attention. Too soon, these wild men would start drinking and dancing around that big rock, praising Allah with gunfire and song. Therein lay the real problem, how to get the hell out of Dodge before this op turned into a bigger clusterfuck than it already was.
