Page 30 of Indirect Attack
A bullet hit the side of a building beside me, and I ducked out of instinct as I tried to stay low. My mind had stopped working; the only awareness I had was of the bullets raining around me, terror pounding through my veins, and my heartbeat hammering in my chest. I knew I had to get away, to get to safety.
Something heavy jammed into my back, forcing me down into the dirt and the air out of my lungs. I managed to get to my feet, gasping for air back, only to see Greg running away.
Had he really just pushed me down out of the way? The thought spun around my head, incredulity warring with the terror for a moment. But as I watched, Greg suddenly stiffened and collapsed. I thought he was dead for a heart-stopping moment, but then he rolled over, grasping for his leg. His khakis were suddenly red around his thigh, and he was screaming in pain as he tried to hold his leg and flail to get to safety at the same time—he’d been shot.
He was never going to make it, either.
Growling low in my throat, incredulous that I had to save the asshole, I got to my feet and started to run for him. If I could get him on his feet, we could hopefully go together to the building—it wasn’t like Greg was heavy. We just had to get to safety.
No sooner had the thought flashed across my mind than something caught me from behind. It happened so fast thatthe world became a blur of noise and sound. My mind hadn’t entirely caught on to the fact that someone had grabbed me, even as a hand clamped over my mouth to cut off the scream that erupted from my throat. Then something started dragging me backward.
Terror goaded me into struggling, kicking out, clawing, and screaming, even with the hand over my mouth. I knew if they got me wherever we were going, I wasn’t going to survive, and I didn’t want to die.
Harsh words in my ear were unintelligible through the rushing of blood in my ears, my mind too stuck in an animalistic need to get away to comprehend. Someone jerked me around roughly, and I fought back, clawing and striking out wildly at the masked face swimming in front of me.
A backhanded strike knocked me off my feet, a hand clamped to my throbbing cheek, too stunned to move. But a shadow loomed over me, and I looked up just in time to see the butt of a rifle coming down, and it was too late to duck away.
There was a sharp pain in my head, and then everything went black.
Chapter 15
Ben
MY PHONE PULSING INmy pocket pulled me out of my spiraling thoughts.
The squad I was supposed to head had gone off at my order without me but with strict instructions. They’d checked in once, secretly, but since then, only radio silence. And the wait was killing me. My commanding officer had been too busy to see me, despite my waiting outside his office for at least two hours. I’d even finally called the UN messenger—twice—after digging through the trash to find his card I’d crumpled up before throwing away.
He hadn’t answered both times, probably ignoring my calls.
Finally, with no recourse left, I’d given up. I had been in the same chair since, bent over, head in my hands. Self-recrimination and the worst-case scenarios bounced around my head until I had a headache.
At the buzz of the phone, I jumped, the sensation a physical jolt of electricity shooting through me. I nearly dropped the slim slip of metal and glass as I pulled it out of my pocket to see the name on the screen was one of my men from the dig site. I pushed the talk button and lifted the phone to my ear, my hand shaking.
“Rusev.”
“Sergeant, it’s Peterson.”
I heard shouts in the background of the call, but I couldn’t hear words, and I didn’t know whether it was my men or the archeologists. But I didn’t hear gunfire.
At the thought, my shoulders relaxed slightly. But my anxiety shot back up at the following words.
“It’s nuts here, sir. I know I’m not supposed to be talking to you, but they came out of nowhere on the attack. They came out of nowhere. Here and gone in about fifteen minutes.”
“The terrorists?” My voice sounded odd to my ears, soft and strangled.
A heartbeat, and then a softer, “Yes.”
Cold crawled over my chest, so frozen I had difficulty drawing in a breath.
“I know I’m not supposed to be calling you, but I think you need to be here,” Peterson said. “There are a few wounded, one dead, one of ours, and one missing. Someone saw one of the terrorists throwing her on a truck.”
Panic, sharp and pounding, shattered the shards of ice, but I still couldn’t breathe. It took me a moment to even be able to get my next words out, and I wasn’t sure Peterson would even hear them.
“Her?”
The silence on the other end of the line stretched interminably. I could hear muffled words in the background, shuffling on the phone, and more hushed conversation.
Then, finally, “Jasmine Davis.”
