Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Asher holstered his pistol before he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the middle of Marlowe's forehead. "Sleep tight," he whispered. She'd fallen asleep as quickly as she'd come to, and that was best.

There was an undeniable effervescence to this young woman, a brave confidence that defied her weakened condition. Asher guessed her age around thirty, mostly because of how she'd handled herself when she'd attacked him at first sight. How she'd positioned her bloody feet and her weight, as if she'd totally believed she could take him. She'd been angry, true, and hyped-up on adrenaline. But she'd also been prepared to fight—him, an obviously larger, armed male, in tactical armor—to the death. Girls fresh out of college didn't do that unless they were ROTC. Most women at that age were optimistic dreamers who still believed they could change the world, just because they were young and pretty.

Marlowe was the exact opposite. She was no starry-eyed flower child, and only hardened, experienced women, who'd gone through their own version of hell, fought like she had. It took years to develop that depth of rage, so, yeah. She had to be at least 30, maybe 35, to have already had those kinds of life experiences. The hard lines barely visible across her forehead declared it, as did the furrows etched at the corner of her one good eye. Most people had laugh lines. Hers were more like ‘touch me and die' lines. Asher wondered what her personal hell had been, what made her so hard. He respected her nerve and her courage. He'd served with enough strong, capable women. He recognized a leader when he saw one. Marlowe was that and more.

The Afghan women and children his team rescued three days ago were already safe in America. They'd been flown out the same day his team arrived at the American Embassy in Pakistan. But there was something wrong with that nurse, Ms. Veronica Makowski, according to her name tag. Asher placed another call, this one to his boss.

"How's our girl?" Murph asked without preamble.

"Alive and kicking, considering she's got a concussion and a fractured left occipital bone. The surgeon repaired two brain bleeds and called in a local ophthalmologist to repair the retinal hemorrhage. Her kidneys are both badly bruised, but not shattered, which is a miracle given the condition of her lower back. He can't stitch damage like that so, for now, she's bandaged and has a wound pump installed. He put her on a painkiller, I don't know which one. She was alert enough to talk for a few minutes, but she's out again."

"Did you get a chance to discuss the arrangement we came up with?"

"If you mean our fake marriage, I mentioned it, but she's too doped up to understand enough to ask the right questions. Need you to run down everything you can find on the nurse here, though. Veronica Makowski. I got a funny vibe from her. I'm sending the picture I took and I don't believe she's a nurse, Murph. We need to move Marlowe today."

"Let me get that intel for you first. Beau?" Murphy's voice muted as he asked Beau to run facial recognition on the photo. Murphy came back with, "What vibe?"

"For starters, she paid more attention to me than she did Marlowe. Never checked her patient, didn't ask once how she felt, what her pain level was, or if she needed something more for that pain."

"Hang on, Beau found… Are you kidding me?" Murphy exclaimed. "Dagnab it. You aren't going to believe this. Veronica Makowski is actually Veronica Tippetts, the American teenager who traveled to Syria to marry that ISIS fighter a couple years back. She's been fighting for ISIL since then. Hell, she's recruited vulnerable women, her girlfriends, for those dirtbags."

That was all Asher needed to hear. Tippetts was a threat. It didn't surprise him that Murphy disconnected, or when his cell phone rang and Beau's caller ID showed. "Hey."

"Man, you pissed Murphy off. Never seen him this mad."

Asher shrugged, his eyes on Marlowe, watching her chest rise and fall while taking stock of the equipment he needed to take with her. "He'll get over it. What'd you find on Tippetts?"

"First of all, Veronica Tippetts wasn't a teenager when she traveled to Syria to marry the ISIS fighter she met online. She was twenty-four. She knew exactly what she was doing."

A car horn honked over the connection. "Are you driving?"

"Hell, yeah. Murphy stormed out of here like hell on wheels. He's on his way to you with Renner and Heston, and I'm talking while I drive to you. Anyway, her loser husband was killed shortly afterward, and she's been pregnant twice since then, lost both babies in childbirth. She's not a sweet little thing. There are photos online of her posing with the decapitated heads of the two Americans her second hubby beheaded, while she was holding a fucking Kalashnikov rifle. I can send photos if you don't believe me."

"Nope." Asher had seen enough of that shit during his deployments. "And…?"

"And the State Department has solid evidence she's human trafficking for ISIS."

Asher blew out a breath. "Marlowe's her target. Get Deck in the air.'"

"He's already in transit. ETA in five."

"Appreciate it, brother." Asher stowed his cell and headed to the door with his pistol drawn. There was no lock on the door and no window in the room. Whoever betrayed Marlowe's current location to the Taliban must've known that. Which led him straight back to Tippetts. It didn't make sense that a woman who'd signed on with ISIS would now be involved with Taliban fighters. The Taliban had been at war with ISIS, the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria, since February 2015. While ISIS now went by ISIL, the Islamic State of the Levant, they'd become mortal enemies after an ISIS fighter killed a senior Taliban commander.

Historically, the Levant that ISIL now claimed had once covered the entire Mediterranean Basin, including what was now modern-day Cyprus, Israel, Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, and all adjacent regions. Basically the entire Middle East. If Tippetts was involved in human trafficking, and if Marlowe was her target, were the Taliban and ISIS working together again? Wouldn't surprise Asher if they were. A terrorist was a terrorist was a terrorist. Didn't matter what names they went by.

He rang the desk in the small embassy clinic to get a feel for where Tippetts was. No answer. He rang the ambassador's office next. Someone always answered there. Not this time.

Pissed that he was the only one between Marlowe and the shitstorm he suspected was headed his way, Asher jammed his chair under the doorknob, unhooked Marlowe from her monitoring devices, and prepped her for evacuation. He wouldn't be carrying her this time, not with all the equipment that had to go with her.

But how had the Taliban known where she was? Hell, even Asher hadn't known his boss had cleared the way for them to land in Pakistan until they were in the air. Last-minute emergencies still took time to coordinate and authorize. Ambassador Clark would've had to clear any landing with Pakistani authorities after he'd cleared their change of plans with the United States Secretary of State. Director McCormack must've run his ass off to make sure The TEAM helos got that clearance. Jed McCormack was now Secretary of State. It was good to have friends in high places.

Had the Taliban tracked the TEAM helicopters over the Khyber Pass and all the way to Islamabad? Asher wouldn't be surprised if they did. The Taliban had come up in the world since the war began. They were smarter, tech savvy, and used social media to their benefit. But why Tippetts, and where was Ambassador Clark? For that matter, was Marlowe their target or was something else going on? That was possible. Embassies were protected sanctuaries and U.S. ambassadors served at the pleasure of the president. Clark should've been in-house when they arrived, but he hadn't been. Instead, his chief of staff had met them on the rooftop landing pad, and Mr. Dixon hadn't given any explanation as to where Clark was or that there were any problems.

Asher's cell phone vibrated in his hand. "We're almost there," Murphy advised, over the roar of helicopter rotors. "Have our girl ready to go."

"I'll need help getting her to the roof. Are the Marines still guarding the embassy?"

"Yes. Mr. Dixon called and advised me that Ambassador Clark came down with pneumonia yesterday. That's why he's been out of sight. Dixon wasn't at liberty to tell us earlier."

Asher breathed easier at that news, but it made him wonder who Dixon hadn't wanted overhearing that information. "Watch out for Tippetts."

"Already informed Dixon who she is and spoke with Alex, too. He's advised President Adams, and Adams has ordered more Marines into Pakistan to secure the embassy. Also spoke with the USMC commander here. He's put his people on alert."

"It doesn't feel right leaving them." Asher remembered Benghazi, how those men had been betrayed by their country, left to fight and die alone on foreign soil.

"Listen to me, guldarn it. They have their job; we have ours, and there's more of them stationed here than there is us."

"You're right."

"I'm always right."

No sooner did Murphy disconnect than someone pounded at the door. Asher's phone chimed an incoming text. Thank goodness. Renner Graves and Heston Contreras were in the hall, not Tippetts. Okay then. Time to go. He let them in. He'd already strapped Marlowe onto her backboard, making sure her sling was wrapped snug against her body and under her blanket. Between him and Renner, they lifted her and her bed, along with the medical equipment she needed and proceeded into the hall, while Heston guarded their rear. As expected, Tippetts wasn't at the desk she'd called the nurses' station. Nobody was. Foreboding edged up Asher's spine. So where was she?

The stairs were straight forward but going was slow. It took all three men to wrangle Marlowe up the narrow staircase and onto the roof without hurting or waking her. Once at the helo, it didn't take long to load her, thanks to Decker's astute preplanning.

"Where'd you find a hydraulic lift?" Asher asked. Hydraulic lift carts easily loaded heavy military equipment from ground level into helos and transports.

"I have friends in low places," Decker growled. He was one of those older, grumpier, Vietnam vets. "Give me that crap." Without skipping a beat, he grabbed the monitor and IV from Marlowe's side, handling the wires and tubes as if he'd had plenty of experience evacuating injured people. Which he no doubt did. Next, Heston passed him the portable oxygen canister. All Asher and Renner had to do was ride the hydraulic lift up to the level of the helo door and Marlowe was inside.

"This everything?" Murphy asked as he helped Asher transfer Marlowe to the narrow bed attached to the far inside wall.

"Yup," Asher replied. Decker had already secured her oxygen tank to a nearby bracket and the IV bag overhead. After he covered her with warmed blankets, Asher strapped her in as gently as he could. He'd just fastened the harness over her chest when she woke up and touched his cheek. She said something. He leaned in closer and said, "Say again."

So she did. But this time, she took a deep breath and belted out, "Dimple. You've got a dimple, Asher. It's cute."

Well, damn. Now he'd made sure everyone heard and sure enough…

"Step on it, Dimples. You're so-o-o cute," Beau announced in an ultra-girly voice.

"Shut it, Villanueva," Asher snapped.

Murphy clamped protective earphones over her head. "Poor little thing," he murmured when she didn't move or speak again. "I meant her, Dimples, not you."

"Copy that and knock it off," Asher replied, still watching his back and now wishing his team was deaf and dumb. Renner and Heston hadn't heard. They'd been busy shoving the lift and hospital bed away from the helo. Climbing back inside, they strapped into the two forward-facing seats without poking fun at Asher, while Murphy strapped into the copilot's seat. Everyone put headphones on. Asher stayed standing between Marlowe and the still open door. He'd had enough surprises, and Tippetts was just another one in a long line of ugly.

It wasn't until Decker had the bird hovering over the rooftop that the blonde nurse dashed out of the stairwell. She wasn't armed, but she was obviously angry, yelling and gesturing at the dark-haired man in a suit with her. The moment she pointed up at the helo, Asher harnessed himself into firing position behind the GPMG installed at the doorway. Air-cooled and belt-fed, the general-purpose machine gun was lethal at close range, and Ms. Tippetts needed to see it.

Asher aimed the weapon directly at her, openly declaring his intention to defend the helo. His fingers weren't itching to fire. He wasn't an impulsive sniper or a stone-cold killer. Asher needed facts and evidence, not just suspicions, before he unleashed death. Bonafide-trained snipers weren't assassins. They didn't take life without just cause, and revenge was no reason to take Tippetts out. She might be a traitor and an avowed terrorist, but she posed no threat at the moment. But she did need to understand that he would ensure swift retaliation if she made a move. He would take her out, and he wouldn't blink an eye while he did it.

Heston joined Asher at the door, hanging onto one of many suicide straps attached to the ceiling. "She's a piece of work," he said, disgust in his voice.

Not taking his eyes off the duo on the roof, Asher nodded. The Marines might still be on guard at the gate to this embassy, but something was dead damned wrong in this far-off piece of America.

"Don't shoot, Deck," Murphy growled.

"Don't intend to," Decker replied gruffly. "Not until I see the whites of her lying eyes."

The Black Hawk banked left and, once again, they were on the move.