Page 33 of Indirect Attack
Those had been the words I’d been waiting to hear. I left without another word, Greg’s pleas and cries following me out but falling on deaf ears.
It was time to go after Jasmine.
Before I could go much further, though, someone stepped into my path. It was the archeologist from before, his hat on his head. I hadn’t noticed the dirt smudged on his face or the blood smeared on his arm and shirt.
“Just so you know, she wasn’t hurt. At least not before”—he stopped, seeming to choke on his words—“before they took her. She was fighting back pretty hard.”
The words were little comfort, but they offered a spark of hope. That was my Jasmine. I just hoped the spark sustained her until I could find her and rescue her.
“You’ll bring her back, right? She’s a good kid. Was glad to have her on the team.”
The man’s eyes were dark with worry and emotion.
“I’ll bring her back,” I promised.
I was going to bring Jasmine back alive or die trying. And if I died, I was going to take out a whole hell of a lot of terrorists with me.
Chapter 16
Jasmine
THE FIRST THING I WASaware of was a pounding in my head, a throbbing that came in waves and sent nausea coursing through me. Someone was groaning, and it took me time to realize it was me. I swallowed the next groan over a raw, dry throat.
For a moment, I thought maybe I’d had one too many drinks with Ben in the hotel restaurant. Was I hungover?
“Ben?”
My raspy voice echoed oddly in the silence, and he didn’t answer. And as my senses returned to life, I realized nothing about what I was feeling was my hotel room. The ground under me was hard and cold, and I could smell damp and something sour, like milk gone bad. More than that, my hands were bound.
When my eyes flew open, the world spun around me, and I had to close them again. But I got a glimpse of my surroundings—dark, empty, dirty.
Memories slipped back to me in bits and pieces, memories of fear, bullets, and shouting. The memory of hitting the ground, panicking, running, Greg going down with a shot in his leg. Hands around me, dragging me back, fear and panic sharp and acidic in my mouth. Then pain in my head and nothing.
My back still hurt from where Greg had pushed me down, my knees stung from where I’d stumbled in the dirt, and my head throbbed abominably. I’d never had a concussion, but from the way the world swam, even with my eyes closed, I was pretty sure I had one.
I managed to get my face close enough to my hands I could gently prod the tender place where the butt of the terrorist’s gun had hit me. The whole side of my face was sticky with blood, the coppery tang on my lips, and I could tell from the odd way my face moved and felt it was swelling.
A third try, and I could crack my eyes open without too much pain. Just as my nose had sensed, it was a dark, dirty, nearly bare room save for some old, damaged furniture. There were no windows, and it was chillingly silent.
A wave of terror washed over me—I had no idea where I was, except somewhere with terrorists and alone. Did Ben even know where I was? Did anyone know where I was?
And another thought followed the others: How long did I have to live?
Movement sent another wave of nausea through me, but I rattled the handcuffs binding my hands to a rusty old pipe, pulling and jerking until I was out of breath and retching with nausea.
Was there a way to escape? I was an archeologist, not one of the Rusevs with all their military training. If Ben were here, he would know what to do.
But he wasn’t, and I was all alone.
Tears of terror clouded the view of my prison. Tears whipped away in fear as the door suddenly opened, spilling harsh, artificial light into the room for a moment before it closed again. The bang sent spikes of pain through my head.
A man stood before me, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light. He started shouting at me in another language, and ittook my fuzzy mind a moment to realize what language he was speaking—Russian. I’d heard the Rusevs speak it occasionally at home when we were growing up. Ben had even taught me a little bit, so we had a secret language in school none of the other kids knew.
I remembered very little of it, though, and my fear made my tongue stiff as I tumbled over what little I knew. I wasn’t even sure what came out, though I was trying to communicate that I didn’t know anything, that I just wanted to go home. That I wasn’t anyone important. That no one would come looking for me. Anything that came to my frantically searching mind to get me out of here, to keep me safe and alive.
My words sputtered to a halt as the man stopped yelling and came closer, close enough to kneel in front of me. I leaned as far away as possible, though the handcuffs kept me from going too far.
The man's eyes glittered with malice, and I knew without a doubt he meant me harm. I wasn’t even sure what it was about him, but his presence and expression sent waves of alarm and panic through me until my body and mind were screaming one simple thing: to get away, to run, to run as far and fast as I could.
