Page 31 of Indirect Attack
The sound of her name snapped me into motion, burning anger replacing the ice that had kept me immobile.
“Where is she now? Have they located her?”
“No, sir. She’s still missing.”
My hand came down on the metal table, the impact sending painful shockwaves up my arm.
I should have been there to protect the dig, to protect Jasmine. But instead, some asshole with a grudge and a complex had gotten in the way and drawn the UN into it. Instead of being at the site to protect Jasmine, I’d been here in this room, hobbled and entirely unable to do anything.
“I’m coming now,” I bit out and ended the call.
The terrorists had Jasmine. How was it possible I’d finally found her again, only to lose her?
“Not if I can help it,” I growled to the silence, my fist closing around the phone.
Despite my orders to stay put, I’d still geared up to be ready for anything, a fact of which I was entirely glad as I jogged to the motor pool. On the way, I called the UN rep, but the guy still didn’t pick up. I left him a scathing message telling him the investigators could go to hell, just where he could put his investigation, and that I would hunt him down if his interference meant anyone else was killed, especially Jasmine.
A Humvee waited for me, and I jumped in, speeding toward the dig site with my heart in my throat.
The area was still in chaos when I arrived. I could see the signs of the encounter with the terrorists—terrified people huddled in small groups, armed reinforcement sent by my CO patrolling the area, vehicles, and temporary buildings riddled with machinegun fire. I could even see a few stains in the dirt and a blanket covered a still figure over which a solemn-faced Marine stood watch.
I knew my fellow Marines understood I wasn’t supposed to be there, but though their eyes followed me, none tried to get in my way. Instead, they looked away, gazes on the horizon, searching for further threats. No doubt, Mitchell had informed them about the bogus charges against me, and they all knew I should have been here. None of us took kindly to interference,especially when serious threats were involved. Especially when it had gotten one of ours killed and someone kidnapped.
Mitchell intercepted me before I could go into the main tent to look for whoever was in charge, his eyes narrowed and his expression grim.
“In here.” He jerked his head toward a separate structure, hands gripping his gun with white knuckles that spoke to me of anger, not anxiety.
Inside, a medic and a nurse worked on the wounded. It was, amazingly, just a handful, as Peterson had said. Several looked minorly injured, one worse, and another unconscious.
“They’re sending a chopper to med-evac him,” Mitchell murmured.
But one of the wounded across the room stuck out to me, moaning and groaning on the makeshift table-turned-bed like he was dying.
“Is he going to live?” I asked.
I had come to rest standing beside the medic, who looked up at me, then at Greg, her mouth compressing into a thin line. Apparent dislike colored her eyes.
“From the sound of it, no, but yes. He took a bullet to the thigh, but it missed anything vital. He’ll be fine.”
Another archeologist was standing beside the nurse bandaging Greg’s thigh, face creased in angry lines.
“I can’t believe you would do that,” the man hissed to Greg. Despite the latter’s loudly declared agony, the man took no pains to lower his voice as he berated his colleague.
“What was I supposed to do?” Greg groaned, clutching at his leg. “They were coming for us. We were all running—you included.”
“Yes, but I didn’t knock someone over and leave her in the dust to be kidnapped,” came the angry response.
Greg’s eyes opened in a glare at the other archaeologist. “I’m so sure you would have stopped to help her up before saving yourself.”
“You’re damn right I would have, and I wouldn’t have knocked her over in the first place. And if she had fallen, I would have picked her up so we could both run,” the other man shot back. He had a baseball hat in his hand and was waving it around, the fabric snapping from the jerky movements. “But I wasn’t close enough—you were. You’re a fucking coward, Greg, and now she’s missing.”
“Easy enough for you to say after the fact” was the dismissive response.
“You know what’s also easy for me to say? Good luck getting on another dig.”
The man turned and stalked away, his cheeks red with the angry snarl contorting his face.
Greg didn’t respond and didn’t give any indication he’d heard the threat from the other archeologist. Did he think he was going to get away scot-free from this scheme of his? And after, apparently, the man had left Jasmine at the mercy of the terrorists. Had she been wounded, and he’d left her there? Screaming for help?
