PROLOGUE I

Iraq

Five Years Ago

“Little American whore.” The kick was harder this time, aimed at the tender flesh of Chaya’s stomach, driving the breath out of her and causing her to send a tortured cry through the small cell she had been tossed into.

Her cry. She knew it was her scream, strangled and agonized, but it no longer sounded familiar to her. Reality had receded the day before, and it hadn’t yet returned.

She had been dragged from her car just outside Baghdad, blindfolded, and shoved into a van. And that had been a walk in the park compared to the hours since.

“How much easier would it be, whore, to simply give us what we need?” The muzzle of a handgun caressed her cheek. “You could die then. Quickly. There would be no more pain. Wouldn’t that be nice? No more clamps attached to tender parts of your body. No more electricity. No more kicks. All you need to do is tell us who contacted you. Tell us the information they have.”

The voice was an insidious whisper inside her head as she felt herself crying. Curled in on herself, shuddering with sobs.

Oh God, please don’t let them hurt her anymore. She could feel the bruises along her body now, the swollen tenderness of her nipples, the fragility of bones that couldn’t take much more abuse without breaking.

They hadn’t broken her yet. Had she managed to convince them she didn’t know? That she was unaware of the illegal weapons pipeline they were buying their guns and explosives through? That she knew nothing of the information she had been sent to retrieve about the spy within Army Intelligence providing access to those weapons?

And what did she do with the information that only one person had known where she was headed and why?

“So easy,” a voice crooned, and she focused on the accent. It wasn’t Iraqi, she knew Iraqi. It wasn’t Afghani. There were tonal differences in the voices, even when speaking the same language. She knew the difference. This voice was a whisper of something else. Someone else. She knew this voice.

Another blow landed and a scream tore from her as the toe of the boot connected with her ribs. Terror washed through her like an oily, dark wave of suffocating heat. They would break them next. If her ribs broke she wouldn’t have a chance of escape. Naked, bruised, and hurting, hell yeah. She could escape given half a chance. But if they broke her ribs? If they caused internal bleeding? She would never make it.

“Maybe we will get to keep this one awhile,” the voice mused, laughter filling the tone. “I think maybe she enjoys our caresses, yes?”

No. No. She shook her head, dry heaves shaking through her, torturing her as the spasms ripped through her body.

“You do not like our touch?” False sympathy filled the voice as he bent to her again. “Maybe we use you and fill your belly with seed. We take your brat then and place it in a pretty stroller filled with explosives and park it in front of your White House. Who can resist a baby’s cries, eh?”

She fought to breathe.

Reality. Reality was birth control that had been administered before this mission. Reality was backup, somewhere. Her team didn’t want to lose her or the information she had, but they could only rescue her if they knew she was missing. If the officer she had discussed the trip with had reported that she hadn’t returned.

Reality was, she was beginning to suspect that officer may well be the leak they had been searching for in Army Intelligence.

Reality. She had to hold on, just a little bit longer. She had to find a way to escape, a way to get that information back to her superiors despite the disillusionment and the betrayal that seared her soul.

She felt a hand on her thigh, moving along the back of her leg, fingers touching her, probing.

Rage and terror blazed through her mind. Kicking out she fought to avoid the touch, tried to hurt or to maim, to piss him off enough to keep him away from her. She would prefer to be kicked. She would prefer the broken bones.

“Tell us, Greta.” The voice sighed then, resignation in his tone as she heard the shuffling around her. “Raping you would not be a pleasant experience for some reason. And raping you broken and unable to fight holds even less appeal. But if you do not give me what I need, I will spread you out here and I will let these guards use you. They will use you over and over again, until your body is so defiled that even your own people will know nothing but disgust for you. Is this what you want?”

The false gentleness in his tone built the fear inside her. He was going to do it. She knew he was. She had known all along that he would take this step. What better way to torture a woman? When the electrical clamps to her nipples and clitoris hadn’t worked, he had gotten more inventive. His men hadn’t raped her, but the painful device he used had.

She couldn’t bear more pain.

“Such a beautiful woman.” He sighed.

Saudi. The accent was Saudi. She couldn’t see him, her eyes were so swollen now she doubted she could see daylight if she was in it. But the accent, the voice.

“Nassar,” she whispered, dazed, sobbing. “You betrayed us, Nassar?”

And it only supported the fact that the man she suspected of betraying the Army was a traitor. Her husband. Nassar was his friend. His contact. And so, obviously, his coconspirator.

Silence filled the void for long moments. Nassar Mallah. She remembered him now. He was a contract agent for the CIA and one of their most trusted moles. Handsome, charming, his black eyes always twinkled with humor and a smile always curved his lips. She had never guessed, never known he was a traitor.

“Ah, Greta.” He stroked her cheek again, but she had distracted him. He was no longer stroking the abused flesh between her thighs, no longer threatening to open her again, to destroy her with a helplessness she couldn’t accept.

“Why?” Shudders were working through her, and she knew she was finally going into shock.

Or perhaps they had meant to kill her slowly like this.

“Kill her.” She felt him rise to his feet. “Use her however you please first, but when you leave this cell, she is to be dead.”

“No. Nassar,” she cried out his name weakly. “We trusted you. We trusted you.”

“No, you trusted me. Fool that you were.” She heard the shrug in his voice. “Enjoy your last minutes, Greta. I doubt they will spend much time enjoying your broken body. But, with these four, you never know.”

The cell door clanged shut. Her fingers tightened around the makeshift knife she had managed to sharpen against the stones earlier. It was gripped in her hand, tucked along her wrist and hidden beneath her body as they dragged her from the pallet.

Reality was, she was going to die here and she knew it.

Pop. She heard the sound, but it didn’t make sense. She heard someone grunt, heard something fall.

Several more of the hollow, wet pops and more shuffling.

She knew that sound. Bullets. She couldn’t see, but she knew the guards were dead. Frantically, she scrabbled at the floor, found one of them, and raced to tear his shirt off his torso. Buttons. God she hated buttons. She worked them loose with stiff, swollen fingers as she heard shouts, screams, and grunts outside the cell door.

The shirt came free, and she dragged it off his body before shoving her arms into it and wrapping it around her. There wasn’t a chance she could rebutton it. Pants. She needed pants.

She was frantic. She worked fast, struggling, panting, trying to ignore the pain searing her body as she worked boots and pants off the guard.

She belted the pants on, feeling their length and filth around her. But they covered her. She would have to do without shoes.

Gun. She had the gun in her hand, and she couldn’t fucking see. She was crying, her tears burning the cuts on her face, burning her eyes as she crept to the cell door.

It swung open, sunlight piercing her eyes for too long, shadows enveloping her as she brought the gun up while trying to strike out with the small wooden stake she had managed to hone.

“Chill!” The voice was American, harsh as strong hands gripped her wrists, tore the gun and the stake from her hands and moved quickly behind her. “Extraction in progress,” he hissed.

Backup. He was reporting in. Extraction. SEALs? Were they SEALs?

“You got me, Faisal?”

Hands were roving over her quickly.

“SEALs?” She gasped out.

“I only wish,” he snarled in her ear, his voice deep, like aged whiskey and soothing to her shattered senses. “Try one lone fucking sniper and a teenage kid with more guts than good sense. Can you run?”

His arm was around her, holding her against him. He was warm and protective. Was he protective or did she just need to convince herself that he was? Did she need this to survive the events of the past twenty-four hours?

“I can’t see.” And she wanted to see him. Wanted her senses in order, her thoughts clinical, as sharp as they had been yesterday.

“I’ll lead, you run?” The suggestion was almost a croon, his voice almost tempting.

“I’ll run.”

He had her on her feet. Her bare feet. But she would be okay. She would run, anything to escape this cell, the hands touching her body, the voice at her ear, sinking into her head.

“Small cell here.” He rushed her into the heat and blinding light. “I think we got them all, but I’m not betting on it. We have bogeys heading in a few miles out and tight quarters to hide in.”

He was talking to her as he ran. Ran hard and fast, holding her against his side and taking most of her weight as she forced herself to keep up with him.

“Nassar?” she questioned roughly. She hoped the bastard was dead.

“Rode out in the only gun jeep,” he informed her. “Gave us our chance.”

Nassar got away. But she had the information, had what she needed to fry his and her husband’s asses, and she would do just that.

“I need a radio,” she gasped. “I have to report in before he gets away.”

“Fuck that.” Hard, scathing, the voice was nonetheless comforting. It was American. Southern drawl, Kentucky if she wasn’t mistaken. “Look, little girl. I’m on a short leash here and ammo is tight. I’m a Marine sniper with no backup or comm until closer to extraction, or until the extraction team comes searching for me. I wouldn’t even be here if your friend Faisal hadn’t sent out a Mayday on shortwave and connected with my only comm. We gotta boogie and boogie hard, or both our asses are grass. Those bad boys back there are sure to make fine lawn mowers, too.”

They were running uphill. He was barking commands. Gathering his guns, his pack. Getting ready to run again.

“Where are we?” She was fighting to breathe, to keep up.

“Bum-fucked nowhere.” He was running full out and wasn’t close to being winded. “I have a hole a mile out. You’re gonna have to hang on for the ride, sugar, ’cause we don’t get there, we’re all dead. And dead and me don’t get along.”

“She live? She live?” Young, Iraqi, the boy’s voice was frantic as the man paused for just a second. She knew the voice. Faisal was one of her informants. The young boy’s courage was incredible.

“She lives, now boogie your ass, boy.”

“Boogie my ass, Natchie,” the boy claimed. “Boogie boogie.”

“Damned kid.” But there was affection in his voice. That affection, that sense of protectiveness that seemed to surround her, dug into her, made her chest ache from more than the run.

How long had it been since she had felt protected? Had she ever? But she did now. With this stranger’s arm tight around her waist, half pulling her, half carrying her. Rescuing her. And Chaya had never been rescued in her life.

They were running full tilt. She couldn’t see, her feet were bleeding, and her bruised ribs were in agony. But she was free. Reality was, she was free, and with just a little tiny miracle, she could stay free. But she knew those arms wouldn’t always be there. That strength wouldn’t always surround her, and she spared just a moment to regret that.