Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

On the flight from Germany to Incirlik Air Base, Asher used whatever time he wasn't napping to study the files he'd saved on his tablet. He purposely avoided thinking of Marlowe. She'd be pissed when he got back, if she was still in America. He couldn't blame her. He'd be pissed if he'd been left behind, too. But it'd sure be nice if she was happy to see him for a change. If she'd run to him and throw her arms around him like she cared.

He liked the feel of her in his arms, and he was dying to kiss her. Yes, his feelings for her were most likely leftover trauma from the horrific scene of finding her in that cave. Transference, that was all it was. The instantaneous emotional connection between female victims and male rescuers, and vice versa. Between female nurses and male patients, too. Some called it rescue romance. Sometimes it led to short-term relationships and one-night stands.

Asher ran a hand over his face. He didn't do one-night stands, but if that was all Marlowe wanted, he might consider it. Just this once. She was a mixed-up mess, one minute pushing him away, then sending signals she was drawn to him. Would shacking up for one night be enough? He hoped not. One-night stands were dead-ends. They went nowhere, and he'd already been there. Was still there. Guess there was always Walter, the deaf pup that was afraid of his shadow. Maybe Walter would be the distraction Asher needed to stay sane when he went home and discovered Marlowe'd left him.

Asher turned toward the dark window across the way. He'd had a few girlfriends in high school, a couple more in college. None of them amounted to anything, but Marlowe was different. She was driven, and she stood for something. She should be proud of what she'd singlehandedly accomplished. And she was. Hell, he was proud of her. She'd rescued a total of twenty-one women in a matter of months. That equated to twenty-one happy families and dozens of rescued children who would never witness another bloody Taliban execution.

But could Marlowe ever give that up to be with him? Was he a big enough asshole to ask her to? Hell, no. Marlowe was perfect just the way she was, and maybe it was time he got used to the idea of letting her go. Of not wishing for things he had no right to want. Like the most beautiful woman in the world…

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Maps. He needed to study maps. Okay then. Tapping his tablet screen to wake it up, Asher got back to work. Sucking in a deep breath of forgetfulness, the first thing he noticed was the hostile, rugged terrain between al-Tanf and Ibrahim ah-Jamah's mansion east of Damascus. Mostly desert with little arable land, it would've made better sense if he'd chosen a spot along the Mediterranean coast to lie low. He could afford it. Why hadn't he?

Only a hundred and ten miles long, Syria's coastline lay between Turkey to the north and Lebanon to the south. Surely Jamah was powerful enough and feared enough to access a more defensible position than a century-old mansion in the desert. Unless that mansion had strategic value. Did he know something Alex didn't? As much as Asher studied his future trek through the desert, he couldn't come up with a logical reason for Jamah's suspected current location. There was no sense worrying. Eventually, time would tell.

Asher stowed his tablet and slept the rest of the way to Incirlik. There, they boarded an equally uncomfortable C-130 and flew onto Al-Asad Air Base in Iraq. Due to weather, the thirty-six-hour flight was now a forty-eight-hour endurance test. By the time they arrived in al-Tanf, Asher was sick of C-rations, bottled water, sitting on his ass, and still wondering about Marlowe. Was she healing? Was she staying? Would she leave without that little golden pup, the one she'd named Darling? Cute name. Beautiful owner. Better question: Would she leave without saying goodbye? He deserved it if she did. He'd done that to her and she was a titch vindictive.

Damn, he was screwed. Asher couldn't do it. Forgetting Marlowe wasn't in the cards. If he did nothing else when he got back to Virginia, he'd find her and he'd kiss her. Then, he'd know. He was sure of it. There was chemistry between them. He'd felt it and so had she. He had to try. God, he hoped she was waiting for him.

Once on the ground, the current commander of al-Tanf, USMC Sergeant Rodney Calhoun, met Alex as he deplaned. Words were exchanged, and of all things, Calhoun saluted Alex and Alex returned the salute. What was that about?

Alex waved for them to follow, and they spent the rest of the day showering, eating actual food, and just plain recovering. Asher made sure everyone, including his boss, took a pair of the sunglasses he'd brought with him. "Keep them with you. They'll come in handy later," he warned.

The good times ended at twenty-three hundred hours, when Alex sent a terse group text. "Gear up. Meet me in the mess tent. We depart at zero-dark-thirty."

"Finally," Tripp McClane grouched as he ran to catch up with Asher on their way to the meeting. They were both wearing midnight black jumpsuits, not the extensive gear HALO jumps required, which was fine by Asher. He preferred low altitude, low opening insertions. There was still a significant risk factor, but tethered to a slow dropping chute over any LZ made him an easier target. He wasn't here to view the scenery midnight drops offered. The less time a man spent hanging helpless overhead, the better.

The mess tent was a plywood, two-by-four, canvas structure, with mess tables in rows down the center and a self-serve buffet area of now empty warming trays along one side. Alex sat at a corner table with Sergeant Calhoun, his back to the wall and watching. Asher and Tripp stowed their bags under the same table and took the opposite seats.

One by one the others arrived. When at last Cord sank into the last empty chair, late as usual, Alex lifted to his feet and made quick introductions. "TEAM, this is Sergeant Calhoun, 3 rd Battalion, 7 th Marine Regiment. The rifles he procured for this mission are already aboard the plane that'll take us into the desert. Once we drop, we'll head to these coordinates." He stabbed a finger at a black X on the map, southwest of Damascus. "This is Jamah's last known location. We don't know if he's still there. If he is, we will end him with extreme prejudice. If not, we'll burn whatever's there to the ground and regroup."

"How far? How long?" Mark asked.

"Approximately one-hundred-fifty miles northeast of this station," Calhoun replied. "Less than an hour by air."

"What kind of rifles?" That was Cord.

"Nothing but the best," Calhoun answered caustically. Yup. Marine.

"M27-IARs then?" Cord, also a Marine, shot back. The M27 Infantry Automatic Rifle was a gas-operated, short-stroke piston, rotating bolt action, select-fire assault rifle, designed by Heckler the net was that low. Wyatt took the rear, protecting their rearward as they followed the yellow dots that led to the mansion wall straight ahead. Once there, they ducked under the net and stopped, their backs to the cool stone.

"How do you want to do this, Boss?" Wyatt asked. "Sneak in the back door like servants or march in the front like the conquering heroes we are?"

Alex grunted. "Waiting on Mark to—"

No sooner said when rapid fire sounded from the silencer attached to an M27 in the distance. Quiet shots, not silent, but loud enough to sound an alarm. At nearly the same time, Tripp reported, "Rear entrance secure." So much for those guards sounding alarms.

Mark followed with, "Heston located movement upstairs in the room with a view. Be careful. If it's Jamah, there are shadows moving up there with him. Smells like a trap to me."

"Copy that," Alex answered, shifting his rifle strap to his left shoulder, freeing both hands for his SIG pistols. Both military issue and both sporting high-capacity, double-stack magazines, he nodded toward the front of the mansion. "Follow me."

Like Asher would do anything else? With Wyatt at his side, he activated his helmet cam and light and followed his boss. Proficiently and without hesitation, Alex kicked in the front door and immediately shot the armed guard running at him. The guard behind the first screamed something about dying for Allah, so Asher obliged him, and sent him straight into the land of milk and honey. Or, in that bastard's case, back into hell. Satan's accomplices, all of them.

Alex roared into the massive entryway, where the first guard he'd killed was now sprawled on the floor. Wyatt took the hall to their right. Asher took the left. Only two doors, both on the same side of the hall. With extreme caution, he kicked in the first and encountered two armed guards looking up in surprise. The place stunk of foul body odor and something rank he didn't want to identify. They hesitated. He didn't. When they fell, their weapons went wild and lead sprayed the ceiling.

Onto door number two. When it yielded nothing and no one, he advised the sniper buddies covering his ass from somewhere outside, "Exiting right hall on the south side. Please don't shoot me." Friendly fire was real. He needed Heston and Mark to know precisely where he was.

"Yup, gotcha in my sights," Heston replied. "Wyatt's in deep shit though. Four against one. You might want to—"

Gunshots roared from the opposite hallway. Asher rammed a new magazine home and ran to assist. Wyatt was on his back behind a heavy metal desk in the second open doorway, taking some serious heat from four assailants in the crowded room. Asher took two out without blinking, giving Wyatt breathing room to finish the last two.

He swiped the back of his hand over his forehead as he climbed to his feet. "Thanks for the assist."

Asher shrugged it off. "Thank Heston. I just go where I'm sent."

"Nothing like having snipers on overwatch in a firefight," Wyatt huffed, obviously stressed.

"Later," Asher answered, nodding toward the barrage of gunfire coming from Alex's last known position.

Together they caught up with their boss, but what a sight. Asher lifted his pistol to intercede, but Alex didn't need help. He'd danced these steps before. Swiftly and without missing a step. Direct hit every time. It was uncanny how easily and quickly he switched from firing with his right hand, to firing with his left, sometimes firing both SIGs at the same time. The man seemed to know where his targets were without looking for them or at them. His reaction time was incredible—for an older guy.

Asher took out the lone shooter who dashed out of a closet, firing wildly. Then nailed the robed behemoth who came out of nowhere with a freaking sword. Honestly, what kind of idiot brought a knife to a gunfight? Wyatt wasted two morons who charged through the open front door, guns blazing. The noise was horrendous, making Asher wish he'd worn ear protection. An oxygen mask would've been nice, too. The air inside was damned rank.

There was no longer any need to worry whether Alex could keep up or see clearly. He proved himself with every shot fired. Asher had never seen such finesse in battle before. Alex was a master craftsman in the delicate but brutal art of war, a whirling devil. Asher was nothing but a clumsy first-year student by comparison. Cautiously, he moved closer, in case his boss might need him. It could happen. When the last guard fell, he tapped Alex's shoulder to let him know he had his back. Which felt a lot like Sponge Bob asking Gandalf the Gray if he needed a hand fighting that army of Orcs.

"Tripp and Cord, you've got seven coming your way," Mark advised through their shared link.

Gunfire erupted from the direction of the kitchen exit as Tripp and Cord engaged the enemy. It was a long two minutes until Cord came back with, "Thanks for the intel, brother. All seven down and we're still up." He sounded winded. "Both of us. Tripp's a damned quick draw."

"Boss," Asher growled, "that was a coordinated attack. Jamah's got to have hidden cameras in this place." Not that those cameras were keeping Jamah's men alive, but Asher had no doubt the rat bastard had been watching the whole time. The question was—from where?

Alex backtracked to the staircase. Stretching a hand to Wyatt, he ordered, "You're up."

Wyatt tugged two palm-sized devices from his padded bag and removed the protective strips covering their backsides. "You do realize these'll kill everyone in their line of sight."

Impatiently, Alex growled. "The only innocents in this hellhole are chained in the cellar, and we'll take care of them later. Asher, start climbing. I'm right behind you."

Along with Alex, Asher stopped several steps above Wyatt. They watched while he placed one device in the center of the second riser up from the floor. The other device went on the riser two steps up from the first. Stepping over the second device, he jerked his chin for Alex and Asher to continue ahead of him. Cautiously they climbed the elegant, curved staircase.

Jamah's mansion was a bizarre mix of the most inhospitable hospitality Asher had ever seen. Thick, plush, scarlet Persian rugs covered cold, black marble floors. Magnificently arranged bouquets of dead flowers in gold vases accented the lacquered tables under each shuttered window. Even the carved sandstone shutters were works of gory art, each depicting ancient battles. Robed Arabic warriors on small horses battling armored knights. Helmeted European skulls mounted on spikes. Mounds of bodies burning. Mosques and churches on fire. Dragons with human body parts—legs, arms, and torsos—dangling between their teeth.

At last, the stairway ended at a wide landing showcasing the carved, closed wooden door ahead. There they stopped.

"You guys have anything in those bags that'll let us see inside?" Alex asked quietly.

Asher pulled a miniature under-door camera stick out of the side pocket of his bag and extended it to its maximum length. "This'll work."

Crouching to the floor, he slipped the stick under the door and activated the cell-phone-sized screen on the opposite end. Things got a little dicey when what sounded like an army of Jamah's men stormed the stairs behind them, cursing all infidels. Flexing his jaw to alleviate the pressure of the upcoming explosion, Asher held his position until—

BOOM! BOOM! The building shook like a son of a bitch when the two laser-activated explosive charges below took care of the incoming problem. By then, Asher knew the layout of the room behind the door and precisely who was in there.

"Boss," was all he had to say to get Alex's attention.

Alex dropped to his knees alongside Asher as debris rattled below. With an impatient flick, he pulled his readers out of his chest pocket. Leaning into the screen, he finally saw what Asher needed him to see. "Son of a gawddamned bitch."

Asher sat back on his haunches. "Yeah. That."