he chewed, he unlaced his boots and kicked them off. By the time he had finished the sketchy meal and chugged a bottle of tepid water, he had undressed and was on his way to the shower.
He wasnât sleepy and there was no TV. He pulledout the dossier on Ahmad along with a sheaf of other reports, and spent an hour or so going over them. They werenât exactly bedtime stories. The Taliban were a piece of work, like some hyperreligious motorcycle gang drunk on power and testosterone, getting off on their reign of terror. That they targeted women was typical of that kind of gang-bang mentality, Wade thought, but still enough to turn the stomach of a Southern good old boy brought up to revere the opposite sex. By the time he turned out the light, he had an even clearer understanding of the anger that drove Chloe Madison, since a savage need to punch out something or somebody thrummed in his own veins. If there had ever been a prayer in hell that heâd leave her behind to live out her life with these misogynistic psychopaths, there was one no longer.
The dream began as if always did, with a dance.
It was a lavish embassy function on a pleasantly cool night, as most nights were in Middle Eastern desert countries. A band played the kind of music that made a decent background for chitchat covering anything from casual flirtation and political arguments to megabuck business ventures and high-level diplomatic initiatives. The room smelled of flowers, American liquor and food, and though relatively few women were present other than embassy staff, the glittering jewelry rivaled the sparkle of the chandeliers overhead. Wade was officially off duty from his job of protecting the ambassador and his family and other embassy personnel, but attending such formalevents as backup was always encouraged. Fading into the woodwork, holding up the wall at strategic posts was his specialty, so it was a surprise when the trophy wife of one of the middle-aged Texas oilmen in town snagged his elbow and pulled him out onto the dance floor. Sheâd had a bit too much champagne, maybe to drown whatever pain it was that hovered behind her strained smile. When she locked her arms around his neck and draped herself over him like some drooping lily, Wade didnât have the heart to push her away. A large part of that reluctance had been because he could feel the difficult breaths she took as she tried to control tears. Then, as he turned with her in the dance, he noticed that the husband was watching and he wasnât happy.
Abruptly he was transported to a mud hut on the edge of some small town. The place was an extremist stronghold where the vice consul was being held after being abducted from his car on a lonely road where he shouldnât have been in the first place. The oilmanâs wife, who definitely shouldnât have been there, either, was also in the dark hut.
Wade had just infiltrated the place, taking out the guard posted at the rear entrance and another one in the hallway. He could hear the rest of the terrorist cell in a front room chowing down, since it was Ramadan and theyâd been fasting all day. He had exactly three minutes, an eternity of time, to get the kidnapped pair on their feet and out the back door. Then all hell was going to break loose as the DiplomaticSecurity Service, under command of security chief Nat Hedley, swept out the snakeâs nest.
Wade moved soundlessly into the windowless cubicle of a room where the vice consul and the woman were laid out back to back on the floor. The embassy second-in-command was his first responsibility. A Yale man with a lanky build and perpetually arrogant expression, he was smart enough to wait for instructions after he was freed. Then Wade turned to the oilmanâs wife.
Her face was a ghastly mask of ruined makeup overlaying pain and terror. She was tied up like a bulldogged steer, her body bent backward in a bow. No way was she going to be able to walk out on
He wasnât sleepy and there was no TV. He pulledout the dossier on Ahmad along with a sheaf of other reports, and spent an hour or so going over them. They werenât exactly bedtime stories. The Taliban were a piece of work, like some hyperreligious motorcycle gang drunk on power and testosterone, getting off on their reign of terror. That they targeted women was typical of that kind of gang-bang mentality, Wade thought, but still enough to turn the stomach of a Southern good old boy brought up to revere the opposite sex. By the time he turned out the light, he had an even clearer understanding of the anger that drove Chloe Madison, since a savage need to punch out something or somebody thrummed in his own veins. If there had ever been a prayer in hell that heâd leave her behind to live out her life with these misogynistic psychopaths, there was one no longer.
The dream began as if always did, with a dance.
It was a lavish embassy function on a pleasantly cool night, as most nights were in Middle Eastern desert countries. A band played the kind of music that made a decent background for chitchat covering anything from casual flirtation and political arguments to megabuck business ventures and high-level diplomatic initiatives. The room smelled of flowers, American liquor and food, and though relatively few women were present other than embassy staff, the glittering jewelry rivaled the sparkle of the chandeliers overhead. Wade was officially off duty from his job of protecting the ambassador and his family and other embassy personnel, but attending such formalevents as backup was always encouraged. Fading into the woodwork, holding up the wall at strategic posts was his specialty, so it was a surprise when the trophy wife of one of the middle-aged Texas oilmen in town snagged his elbow and pulled him out onto the dance floor. Sheâd had a bit too much champagne, maybe to drown whatever pain it was that hovered behind her strained smile. When she locked her arms around his neck and draped herself over him like some drooping lily, Wade didnât have the heart to push her away. A large part of that reluctance had been because he could feel the difficult breaths she took as she tried to control tears. Then, as he turned with her in the dance, he noticed that the husband was watching and he wasnât happy.
Abruptly he was transported to a mud hut on the edge of some small town. The place was an extremist stronghold where the vice consul was being held after being abducted from his car on a lonely road where he shouldnât have been in the first place. The oilmanâs wife, who definitely shouldnât have been there, either, was also in the dark hut.
Wade had just infiltrated the place, taking out the guard posted at the rear entrance and another one in the hallway. He could hear the rest of the terrorist cell in a front room chowing down, since it was Ramadan and theyâd been fasting all day. He had exactly three minutes, an eternity of time, to get the kidnapped pair on their feet and out the back door. Then all hell was going to break loose as the DiplomaticSecurity Service, under command of security chief Nat Hedley, swept out the snakeâs nest.
Wade moved soundlessly into the windowless cubicle of a room where the vice consul and the woman were laid out back to back on the floor. The embassy second-in-command was his first responsibility. A Yale man with a lanky build and perpetually arrogant expression, he was smart enough to wait for instructions after he was freed. Then Wade turned to the oilmanâs wife.
Her face was a ghastly mask of ruined makeup overlaying pain and terror. She was tied up like a bulldogged steer, her body bent backward in a bow. No way was she going to be able to walk out on
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