Page 41 of Indirect Attack
“I want the people responsible put away.”
“It looks like you already killed the guy in charge,” my CO said, then nodded to the UN rep.
“The man in the basement where you found Jasmine Davis seems to have been the mastermind behind everything, and he is extremely dead. We raided the rest of the base and the town, but there was no indication that anyone else was left. Anyone who managed to escape must have fled. We are hopeful that with the terrorist in charge dead and their numbers decimated over the past few years, there is a good chance that this is it for them. At least for now. Hopefully, for good.”
I wasn’t sure how much I could believe in that small mercy, but I only shrugged and asked to be dismissed. But I turned just before I reached the door, my hand on the knob.
“What about Greg?”
“The archaeology group has a plan for him.” A smirk replaced the UN rep’s dour expression, and even though I didn’t know what it was, I felt instantly better.
“Probably better than any plan I would come up with,” I said as I walked out the door.
My plan would have involved pain and probably some war crimes. It was better for the archaeology team to deal with the issue internally because I might end up in prison if I ever saw Greg again.
Released from duty, I took a shower and collapsed into bed.
But I couldn’t sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I could see the way Jasmine had looked at me with the barrel of the terrorist’s gun pressed against her head.
She hadn’t begged, she hadn’t cried out, she hadn’t said a word, just stared at me with those beautiful, jade-green eyes full of terror and pain and sadness. Every time the image flashed in my head, it broke my heart all over again, shattered it into a million pieces finer than the moment Greg had told me he wasJasmine’s boyfriend. My chest would tighten, my throat would burn, and I had to take long, slow, deep breaths to ease the feeling.
Jasmine should never have been in that situation in the first place. She had nothing to do with the military or the terrorists—she’d simply been doing her job. Instead, she’d been kidnapped by terrorists and had nearly lost her life. If Mitchell or I had been a fraction of a second slower pulling our triggers, she would be dead.
Then Mitchell’s words slipped back into my mind. I’d been too caught up in worry over Jasmine to think about them then, but now I heard them with startling clarity:I don’t think he was aiming at her, man. I think he was moving it at the last second.
What did that mean?
My memories of that moment were hazy, almost non-existent. My only thought had been to save Jasmine by any means. I couldn’t even clearly recall what the terrorist had looked like, just that his gun had been aimed at the woman I loved. At that moment, words had ceased to be words, time had slowed until it was at a standstill, and my body had reacted on instinct and muscle memory.
If the terrorist’s goal hadn’t been to kill Jasmine at that moment, if his gun had been coming up like Mitchell had seen at that last second, what had been his goal?
Something kept tugging at my memory—the words the terrorist had growled when we’d reached the basement. They’d been only sound in my ears when the terrorist had said them, but they began to form in my head as actual words.
Benjamin Rusev, welcome to your death.
The terrorist had known my name. Not just that I was an American or a Marine or that I was one of Miro Rusev’s sons—he’d known my name specifically.
I sat up in bed with a jerk, the realization of the full implications of those six words swelling until they were overwhelming and horrifying.
The terrorist had known exactly who I was. Each of my brothers had had a run-in with this terrorist cell. Had Jasmine’s kidnapping had something to do with that? Had they targeted her specifically, taken her because of me?
The thought was nearly more terrifying than the idea that the terrorists knew precisely who I was. It meant they knew intimate details about me, my brothers, and our families. It meant that Jasmine had been in danger not only because of the dig but because of her connection to me.
I leaned forward, burying my head in my hands.
When I’d been nineteen, my only thought had been for the pain of separation I thought I was saving Jasmine from, which meant the pain I was saving myself from. But what hadn’t occurred to my still-immature mind was the actual danger Jasmine would face in loving me.
When I picked up my phone, the screen flared to life—it was the drawing I’d made of Jasmine and me curled up in bed after our night together. I stared at it for a long time, touching the screen every so often to keep it lit.
I hadn’t heard anything from the hospital yet, and it was starting to drive me crazy. All I could see was Jasmine’s unconscious face, the bruise on her swollen cheek, which began to spiral to images of the worst outcomes until I couldn’t take it anymore.
It was still dark when I left the base, but a ribbon of lighter blue sat on the horizon. I walked the short distance to Florin, winding my way through the still-sleeping city. But as I passed, I could see lights on in some houses, and I could hear boats motoring in the bay.
The air was cool, the breeze still gentle, and the walk helped me draw in as much calm as I could. But I was still agitated when I reached the nurse’s desk. The woman looked up from her computer at me, her gaze moving over my uniform.
“Can I help you?” Her English was heavily accented.
