Personal Assistance (Entangled Ignite) (16 page)

“I love you, Tom,” she cried, as the second guy got in beside her and closed the door.

Tom held his ground. It killed him having to do so, but moving was out of the question. He watched as the car sped off, taking the woman he cared about most in the whole world with it.

Chapter Thirteen

“Drop the weapon,” ordered the ringleader as soon as the car carrying Hannah had vanished.

Tom looked him directly in the eye. “Make me,” he spat.

He knew what was coming next. They planned to kill him right here behind the diner. He’d be damned if he’d make it easy for them. It wasn’t his style.

The man shrugged and slid his finger to the trigger, but Tom was faster. He opened fire, taking out the ringleader.

Eliminate the biggest threat first.

As the man fell, Tom dove sideways to escape the hail of bullets from the other three. Luckily their hesitation after their boss was shot gave him precious seconds in which to react. He hit the ground hard behind a couple of trash cans, the wind knocked out of him. Recovering quickly, he backed into a short alley that ran alongside the diner, firing relentlessly. Two more men fell.

That left one remaining.

Turning, Tom sprinted down the alley. He rounded the diner and approached from the other side, catching the fourth man off guard. It took all off ten seconds to disarm him and turn him around so his back was up against the pickup and Tom’s elbow at his throat. Then Tom pointed his revolver at the guy’s head. “Where are they taking her?”

The man hesitated. Tom didn’t. He shot the guy in the leg. The man screamed and fell to the ground.

“I asked you a question,” he said. “Where did they take her?” There was no time to play games. Hannah’s life was at stake.

“To the warehouse,” the man jabbered, in broken English.

“Which warehouse? Where?”

The man shook his head, clutching his bleeding thigh. It didn’t look good.

“Show me,” he ordered, pulling the thug to his feet. The man yelped in agony. The truck was unlocked with the keys still in the ignition. Predictable.

He drove out of town with the injured man giving him directions. Ten minutes later they came to a stop outside a gated complex. They were on the outskirts of town, in a semi-industrial area dotted by warehouses, presumably where the fisheries kept their stock.

He pulled over and killed the engine. There was the white Toyota. It was parked outside the entrance to the warehouse. It was empty.

Tom turned to the guy next to him, whose face was ashen. A pool of sticky blood had accumulated under the dashboard. The man was bleeding out. The bullet must have nicked a large vein. He didn’t have long.

Tom didn’t feel any remorse. This was war, and he wasn’t taking any prisoners. Not when there were thousands of lives at stake, including the life of the woman he loved.

He gazed at the warehouse, assessing the situation. It was heavily guarded. They weren’t taking any chances. The extra firepower would make a single-handed rescue extremely difficult, if not impossible.

Tom envisioned what would happen next.

Anwar Abdul was presumably on his way. Or perhaps they were going to take her to him and were waiting for air transport. Either way, he figured he had two, possibly three hours at the most to attempt a recovery. After that he’d lose track of her. If he was going to attempt a rescue, it had to be now, before she was moved to a more secure location.

He checked his watch. Five hours to the deadline. Was he cutting it too close?

As he stood here, contemplating what to do, the Allies would be preparing for air strikes. Deployment would have already taken place to the nearest Allied Air Force base on the Mediterranean island of Sicily. Tornado jet fighters were being fueled and prepared for takeoff. Allied frigates would be hovering in international waters, waiting to send teams of special forces ashore via boat.

If he failed in his attempt to rescue Hannah, the strikes would go ahead. The regime would retaliate, and thousands of innocent people would lose their lives.

He wrestled with his conscience—and his conscience won. It was too great a risk. The warehouse was too heavily guarded. His chances at success were ten, twenty percent at best.

He had to get that intel back to headquarters before he attempted to rescue Hannah. Her face flashed before him, and his insides twisted painfully. He was gambling with her life, but he had no choice. His duty to his country and to the Symanian people must come first.

He remembered the last conversation they’d had. She understood that.

There was a small sigh next to him as the wounded man took his last breath. Tom didn’t move him. Leaving a body behind would indicate he’d been here, and when he returned, he needed the element of surprise.

I’ll come back for you. I promise.

Feeling sick, Tom took one last look at the warehouse before he spun the truck around in a tight U-turn and took off back toward town.

There was no reason to be polite. He’d force, by gunpoint if necessary, the fastest boat in the marina to take him to the mainland and back. His heart sank. In six hours, Hannah would have been taken somewhere secure to await her public execution. He could fool himself into thinking she might still be at the warehouse, but deep down he knew better. By deserting her, he’d effectively signed her death warrant.

Then a thought struck him. What if he didn’t have to go all the way to the mainland to relay the intel?

Sure, all the telephone frequencies were down, and the firewall was blocking all internet communication, but that didn’t mean the marine frequencies were out. They used a different band than the normal telephone frequencies. Presumably the harbormaster still had contact with ocean-going vessels? He stared at the container ships waiting out in the bay. How else could they know when to come in and dock?

Adrenaline shot through his veins. It was worth a shot.

He parked the truck a few roads back from the marina in a deserted side street where it wouldn’t immediately be noticed. The dead guy merely looked asleep in the passenger seat.

Before he got out, Tom appropriated the man’s rifle and slung it over his shoulder with his other one. In his army uniform, he looked like a Symanian officer on official business. Hopefully it would be enough to fool the harbormaster into letting him into the control center.

The harbormaster building didn’t take long to find. It was located at the entrance to the docks. A sign over the front door confirmed he was in the right place. Tom waited around the corner until a harbor worker came out. Then he grabbed the door and ducked inside.

The young man sitting at the reception desk looked up in surprise as a bulky Symanian army officer in an ill-fitting uniform stalked in.

Tom gave the man a hard look that said, “don’t mess with me” and pointed up the stairs. The receptionist nodded mutely, deciding not to ask questions.

He went straight to the top, figuring that was most likely to be where the control tower was located.

He was right. The entire top floor was one big control center. Floor-to-ceiling windows covered the seaward side of the room, while computer screens and overhead monitors flashed with images of the bay and the docks below.

There were three men in the room. They all turned as Tom walked in. He motioned to the two on the computers to get out. They didn’t need asking twice. Confronted with the business end of the soldier’s AK-47, they rapidly disappeared down the stairs, closing the door behind them.

The harbormaster studied him suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“I need to use the ship-to-shore radio,” Tom said, coming closer. By the signals emanated from the various channels, the radio was transmitting just fine.

“Under whose authority?” The harbormaster wasn’t a fool. He could tell by Tom’s accent that he wasn’t Symanian.

“Mine,” said Tom, punching the man full in the face. The harbormaster fell to the floor. Tom finished him off with a bump to the head, then turned his attention to the radio transmitter.

All he had to do was signal the British frigate that would be waiting in international waters. He didn’t bother to change the frequency, as he knew the Navy would be monitoring them all.

It took several attempts before he got a response from the British assault ship, HMS Aylesbury, situated thirty kilometers offshore. At first the captain was wary, given that he was transmitting on a local Symanian frequency, and wouldn’t say much. But once Tom had identified himself and gave his official number, the captain was all ears.

On the captain’s advice, they switched to a more secure frequency. Finally, Tom relayed the coordinates of the safe houses to the captain of the warship. He didn’t say what they were for, just to relay them to Commander Lottie at SAS Headquarters immediately. It was a matter of extreme urgency and would affect the outcome of the war.

“Do you need assistance?” inquired the captain, after he had done as requested.

Tom didn’t hesitate. “A British national has been captured and is currently being held outside Hamesh. I’m going to attempt a rescue operation, but I’m acting alone. Backup would be appreciated.”

More than they knew.

The captain said he’d send a team of eight Special Boat Service soldiers to assist.

Relief flooded through Tom’s body, making him feel weak. The Special Boat Service, or SBS, was an elite special forces group in the British Navy, mostly recruited from the Royal Marines. They’d have training and experience with hostage rescue and special ops.

The captain asked for a secure landing site, and Tom gave him a location farther up the beach, away from the marina and out of site of the main port.

Their estimated time of arrival was forty-five minutes.

Tom was ecstatic. Now he had the backup to launch an effective recovery and, fingers crossed, get Hannah back safely. Forty-five minutes should be enough time. It was doubtful her captors would be able to move her in under an hour.

He signed off and exited the building just as a police car screeched up the road. Tom ducked between containers and sprinted across the platform before making his way back down to the beach.

In the background, he heard more sirens approaching. The intel had been relayed. The Allied strikes would be halted, and soon Western special forces would go in and capture Prince Hakeem and his parliament. Nothing could be done to prevent that.

The militia were too late.

Chapter Fourteen

Hannah was ushered into the empty warehouse by three armed men in army fatigues and made to sit on the cold concrete floor. One of the men spat at her, while the other seemed to take delight in fastening her hands together in front of her and up against a railing attached to the wall. The railing was too high to sit comfortably, so she was forced into a half-kneeling, half-sitting position.

They’d snatched her from the diner seconds before Tom had gotten back. How ironic that they’d made it this far, only for her to be caught now.

Who’d given them away? The fisherman? Someone at the diner? It was all so confusing.

She slumped against the wall, the ties cutting into her wrists. What did it matter? She had finally been captured, and this time it was for good. Tom only had hours to go before the deadline, and she knew him too well. He wouldn’t abandon his duty to come for her. And he shouldn’t.

Not that he even knew where she was. He was still at the diner, surrounded by four brutal men with guns.

Please let him survive.

He had to get back to the mainland. At least then he’d be safe and would have fulfilled his mission and put an end to the civil war. He’d be a hero. He already was a hero. Her hero.

She stifled a sob. One of the men guarding her shouted at her to shut up, then when she didn’t, came over and kicked her in the stomach. She spluttered and coughed, gasping for air, but couldn’t double over because her hands were tied to the railing.

“Keep your mouth shut, pig woman,” he spat. She was in too much pain to respond. She whimpered in silence, praying for a swift end to the pain she knew was coming. They didn’t treat prisoners lightly in this country, especially not ones who’d betrayed the prince.

Through her haze of pain, she noticed one of the guards watching her from the door. He had a lusty leer on his face. The man edged closer, and she didn’t kid herself about what would happen next. In fact, they’d all have a turn until she couldn’t stand it anymore, and then they’d shoot her. She realized there would be no Tom to come to her rescue.

She tried to sit up straight. Well, they wouldn’t take her without a fight. With a bit of luck she’d die fending them off, without experiencing the horror of rape.

She thought of Tom’s gentle hands and the passion they’d shared, and hot tears fell down her cheeks. Never again would she feel his hands on her body or his lips on hers.

The worst part was she’d die without telling him how she felt. The SAS soldier would never know how much she loved him.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” came an Arabic voice from behind. She jumped as the guard who’d been watching her put his hand on her shoulder.

“Leave me alone,” she hissed, using his native tongue. If he seemed surprised she spoke Arabic, he didn’t show it.

“No. I want to have some fun.” He laughed. “Nobody will care what I do to you.”

In the distance, she heard a faint throb of a helicopter. She glared at the guard. “Come near me, and I’ll fight you.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “You can try, bitch.” He grabbed a handful of shirt and ripped it viciously off her shoulder. She cried out in surprise. Buttons went flying, and she watched with dismay as they bounced across the concrete floor. He reached out and squeezed a breast, painfully.

She twisted to get away from him, but that only spurred him on. He gripped the other breast and pulled at her bra until that snapped, leaving a raw angry welt under her arms. She screamed and kicked her feet out, connecting with his shin.

“Bitch!” He struck her across the face, causing her head to swing back and hit the wall. The knock stunned her, and she hung limply by her wrists until the spinning stopped.

The
whop-whop
of rotor blades got louder, or was that the pain in her head? She heard a male voice shout, “Leave her alone. Anwar Abdul said not to touch her. He wants to take her back to Syman for a public execution.”

Anwar Abdul? Was he coming, too? She glanced up, waiting for her vision to clear. The guard backed off, a worried frown on his face. She leered at him. Serves him right for messing with her. She hoped he got shot for his efforts.

The helicopter landed in the yard outside, and she waited for her old friend, Anwar Abdul, to enter the warehouse. When he did, it was with an egotistical swagger that made her want to puke. Finally, after six months of hating her, and days searching for her, he was getting his revenge.

“Ah, Hannah Evans,” he said in a silky voice. “How nice to see you again. I’m so sorry it had to come to this.”

Her head still pounded on the side where she’d hit the wall, and she was sure her left eye was swelling from the guard’s smack.

She saw anger flash across the chief of security’s face. “Who did this?” he barked, looking around at the three guards standing in the warehouse. “I gave strict orders that she wasn’t to be touched.”

He bent down and stared at her face tenderly. “That is my job.” He smirked.

She cringed. She’d always known Anwar was a sadist, and now he was revealing his true colors.

“Get out,” he ordered the other men. They shuffled out in silence.

“Finally, we are alone,” murmured Anwar. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve looked forward to this moment.”

She glared at him. “What are you going to do with me?”

He laughed, a low, evil sound that made her skin crawl. “Well, I can’t let you live, can I, Hannah? Please, be sensible.” His face grew serious. “You haven’t given any of our secrets away yet, have you?”

She smirked. Of course she had. If it was the only revenge she was going to get, she’d make it count.

“Have you?” he shouted, pulling her to her feet by her hair.

She scrambled to stand. She stared defiantly at her tormentor. “Yes, and I hope you burn in hell for your sins.”

He backhanded her with surprising force, and her cheek exploded in agony. She stumbled against the wall, her hands gripping the railing for support.

“Who have you told?” he asked, smoothing out his jacket. When she didn’t reply he said, “You will talk to me, Hannah. You will learn you can’t ignore me. There is no escape.”

She began to cry again. Anwar Abdul looked disappointed. “Ah, so you are not so brave without Prince Hakeem here to support you.”

“What do you have against me?” she asked, terrified. “I was just doing my job.”

“You were doing a man’s job,” he sneered. “The royal compound is no place for a woman, especially not an infidel.”

He walked around her and kicked her legs out from under her. She fell to the floor, landing at an awkward angle, buckling her knee. She yelped. The ties ripped her skin, and blood began to leak from her wrists.

“Especially one that turned out to be a British spy. I knew you couldn’t be trusted. I told Hakeem as much, but he refused to listen.”

“Please,” she whispered. “Just kill me.”

“Yes. I like it when you beg.” He stood watching her, a manic glimmer in his eyes. He was enjoying this. “And no, I won’t kill you yet. You’ll be begging me for mercy by the time I’m through with you. Then I’ll execute you in public, in front of millions. The Western nations will see how we deal with traitors.”

He grabbed a handful of her hair and made her look at him. “This is only the beginning.”

…

Three quarters of an hour later, Tom was waiting with the pickup when the boat carrying the eight special forces soldiers swished silently into shore. They drove to the warehouse where Hannah was being held.

The white Toyota was still there, but more noticeably, a big black helicopter sat on the foreground. Tom’s gut clenched. Anwar Abdul was here. He forced himself to think logically. That meant Hannah was still here, too.

He briefed the SBS team who had performed this type of hostage rescue operation many times before. They divided into two teams. One would take out the guards and any external threats. The other would go inside and offer support while Tom rescued Hannah.

Within seconds, they were ready to go.

The sturdy pickup truck smashed straight through the flimsy entrance gate, sending mangled wire and steel flying in all directions. Sparks from the electric fence spat at the darkening sky. The two guards manning the gate were dead before they could even reach for their weapons. Other soldiers came running, but they too were mowed down by British soldiers. Within minutes, those who weren’t dead or bleeding surrendered by throwing down their weapons.

Tom stormed into the warehouse, accompanied by the second evacuation team, his rifle ready to take on anyone who objected. The first person he saw was Prince Hakeem’s Chief of Security, standing near a crumpled body attached to a railing in the far corner. His heart nearly stopped.

Hannah!

He rushed forward just as Anwar Abdul reached for his gun.

No you don’t
, thought Tom, filled with an unidentifiable rage. With clear, concise aim, he pulled the trigger. The shot was deadly accurate. Abdul fell over, a perfectly positioned bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. It was quicker than the bastard deserved.

The other four soldiers, directly behind him, didn’t waste time securing the building.

Tom ran over to Hannah. He used his knife to cut her free from the railing. She crumpled into his arms, barely conscious.

Her blouse was ripped open, exposing her bare breasts, red with welts. Dark bruises were beginning to appear on her shins, and the torn skin on her wrists was leaking blood. Her hair was matted, she was developing a black eye, and there was a deep cut on her cheekbone that definitely required stitches.

A strangled sob caught in his throat.

“Hannah?”

He knelt down and gathered her up in his arms. “Hannah, can you hear me?”

Her eyelids flickered briefly, before closing again. At least she was alive. Gently, he picked her up and cradled her in his arms.

“I’m taking you home,” he said, and carried her out of the building.

…

Hannah flung her hands out and touched something smooth and leathery.
Where am I
? She felt like she was floating. There was a loud screech.
I’m in a car
. She tried to move, but everything hurt.

A voice said, “Keep still, Hannah. You’re going to be fine. I’ve got you now. We’re getting you out of here.” It was Tom’s voice.
Her Tom.
He’d come for her. Or perhaps he’d come to kill her? She didn’t want to die.

“I didn’t tell them anything,” she tried to say, but she couldn’t get the words out. How had Tom found her? Her ribs ached, and it hurt to breathe.

Then she remembered. Tom had shot Anwar Abdul. Hannah had a vision of him falling at her feet. She wanted to applaud, to tell Tom how grateful she was that he’d come for her, but she couldn’t speak. There was a dull throbbing in her cheek, and she couldn’t see out of one eye.

Then he was next to her. A reassuring arm around her shoulders. He smelled so good. She let her head drop against his shoulder.

I like it when you beg.

She could still hear Anwar’s voice in her head. But he’d been shot. He wasn’t a threat to her anymore.

“You got him,” she whispered, and a warm hand smoothed her hair. Tom’s hand.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured. She relaxed. If she just had a little nap, things would be clearer when she woke up. She reached for Tom’s hand and clung to it. The gentle rocking motion was making her drowsy.

She remembered swaying to the left as the car turned a corner, and then everything faded to black.