Anything, Anywhere, Anytime

"Damn it, Control," Gardner's words grated through, "do you read me? Update needed. Now! Over."



Jack clicked computer keys, typing a chat room message over to the Colonel that wouldn't be overheard by Gardner. Your call as the senior officer in charge, sir. But Gardner's gonna go ballistic.



Something they all knew would happen, anyway.



Meanwhile their only hope of containing him came through reason, the truth, and the hope that his partner Carlos could restrain him.



Colonel Cullen nodded, slowly replaced his mug beside him, steady, rock-solid in spite of the tight cut of his clenched jaw, and keyed up his mike. "People, this is Alpha. Everyone settle. It appears they're about to hold a public execution."



Chapter 10



Execution?



The response popped through Blake's earpiece. Landed in his stomach like a cold stone as he lay flat on his belly in a shallow desert trench.



Stone.



Damn poor word choice. Shut down emotions. Quitting was not an option.



"Man or woman?" Blake grunted into the small boom mike at the corner of his mouth even though he already knew the answer because of that dump truck full of rocks.



"Female," Colonel Cullen answered.



The confirmation burned hotter than the setting sun.



Gaze jerky, Blake scanned the desert to the chain-link fence with concertina wire barbs spiraling the top. About two football fields away, he could discern the crowd. Barely, but he was mostly at the mercy of visuals supplied by command post with his team buddy sweating beside him in his desert tan ghiilie suit until his streaked face paint slicked.



"Is it one of ours?" Blake forced the question out, refusing to let his mind create the image of Sydney dropped into a stoning pit in the center of some godforsaken backwoods town square.



The moment's hesitation from the stalwart colonel scared the shit out of him.



Finally the headset crackled. "We can't tell. She's completely covered."



He swallowed down grit-laden dread and the memory of Sydney's pretty smile the day they'd met. It wasn't her. He wouldn't let it be.



His parabolic dish picked up sound, threw it to the satellite and bounced it back through transmitters into his earpiece. The roar of the crowd. A declaration in Arabic.



He tried to tell himself they wouldn't carry out the barbaric punishment. Many governments in the region had outlawed the practice.



This wasn't a government.



The need to charge ahead built. Surged. Pressed. He could all but feel her presence somewhere in



that crowd. So damned close. Not close enough. "Plan of action?"



"Hold steady," the Colonel commanded quietly. "Direct action is not called for."



Like hell. Quitting was not an option. Blake exploded from his low pit and scrambled forward before he finished forming the intent.



Weight tackled his back. Two hundred and thirty pounds of Carlos sandwiched him against the hard-caked sand.



"Oof." Blake reached behind him, twisted a fistful of ghillie suit. "Get the hell off me!"



Voices bombarded through his headset from around him.



"Pin him."



"Contain him. Now."



"Gardner, no direct action. That is an order."



"Screw your goddamn orders!" The hoarse response ripped through Blake's throat. "I'm going in."



"Gardner?" Korba's voice cut through the chaos. "Man, I know where you are right now but don't blow this. Think! It's probably not her. And there's nothing you can do. Nothing."



Nothing? Then he'd die trying before he risked anything happening to Sydney. He punched, bucked, adrenaline giving him the edge to reverse position to his back, staring up at Carlos.



His swim buddy's forearm slammed down against his throat. "Don't make me knock you out. Listen to the Major."



Sweat trickled along the streaked face above, dripped down. Splatted on him.



"No matter who that is," Korba continued, "there's not a damned thing you can do. You're too far out. You'll just get yourself killed. Your buddy, too. Do you hear me? And if it's not her, you'll have killed her by going in. If it is her, there's nothing you can do. The other hostages will die and no one will pay because with advance warning, they'll scatter before we can get there. We gotta make them pay and keep them from doing this to anyone else."



Slowly, reason trickled through his rage one drop at a time like the sweat streaming off Carlos's face. Blake forced his tensed muscles to ease. Even as his breathing regulated, his vision narrowed, returning him to the caves of Afghanistan. The bowels of Baghdad. No light at the end of the tunnel. Just cobwebs and a goal.



Make them pay. His rules. His game. Quitting was not an option.



Time to quit for the day, except Monica couldn't shake nerves enough to sleep.



Walking the halls likely wouldn't help, but at least she might eventually exhaust herself. She would rather talk to Jack, sink into one of his foot rubs while she tried to figure out what set him so on edge. They hadn't shared a moment alone since his flight last night, and now he was finishing up his shift in the command center.



Her feet carried her down the stairs to the first floor. Given the low hum of music swelling from the end of the corridor, apparently someone else couldn't sleep, either. Their schedules were all turned around with the time change compounded by night flights.



She followed the music, rock songs, tunes about fifteen years younger than her thirty-four years, but a welcome slice of America so far from home. Maybe that was the reason portable CD players seemed to be standard issue for soldiers these days with more time spent overseas on cots than in their own beds.



Rounding a corner, she moved closer to the luggage return terminal housing the Rangers. The music increased until it boomed to party level.



What should have seemed incongruous with the gravity of their mission somehow felt right. Life asserting itself as the boys let off steam. Like with Crusty's calls home to his family.



Sydney of all people would approve. No matter how down things got at home growing up, Sydney always smiled, danced through mud puddles, insisted everything would work out so why waste life worrying. Please God, don't let this place have crushed that out of her.



In honor of her sister, Monica walked forward as if being a little like Sydney tonight might bolster her sister somewhere else.



The open archway revealed the high-ceilinged room pulsing with noise. Santuci perched on the luggage return belt, using it like a disc jockey dais. A small boom box rigged into the ancient, crackling P.A. system blasted Foo Fighters. Stripped down to only his BDU pants and a concert T-shirt, Santuci was jotting requests on a notepad.



Others danced, some stretched out and read. A few even slept, the reverberation of music nothing compared to the concussion of combat.



Leaning against the archway, she watched, listened, losing track of time until a shadow stretched past her. Jack. She smiled over her shoulder.



He didn't smile back, simply moved across from her to lean against the opposing side of the archway. "I told you when we left Nevada I wanted you to stick close whenever we can. This place isn't safe."



She frowned, studied him, the stress lines fanning from the corners of his dark eyes. His "shitty mood" after the night flight had increased to something darker, intense and so unlike the easygoing lover she'd come to know the past months.



Scowling, he reached down to check the BlackBerry—wireless handheld e-mailer—attached to his web belt.



"Jack? Everything okay?"



He dropped the handheld back in place, then twisted open a water bottle. "Just finishing up my shift in the command center."



"And everything went all right?" she repeated. Was he dodging her question? "Is there any news I should know about?"



"No messages. Nothing to tell you. Everything's on schedule." He braced a boot behind him, tilting back his bottle, effectively ending conversation for a few seconds at least.



"I thought for sure you'd be over there with Santuci ordering some Elvis tunes."



He grunted, drank again. A hungry glint overlaid the edginess with a new intent she recognized well. Sultry tension pulsed from him much like after a dangerous flight when he needed the ultimate physical release. Sex.



Her mouth dried right up as too many memories bombarded her. She snatched the water bottle from him and moistened her lips, the rim still warm from him.



Uh-oh. She rolled the bottle between her palms and searched for safer ground. "Sydney would like this. She always loved music, even as a kid. Music played and her feet would start moving. She never cared who was watching." Monica passed back his water. "You have that same comfortable-in-your-skin air. I envy you both that."



"You do okay. It's tough to hold your own in a squadron of crew dogs, but you fit. Hell, they even gave you your own call sign. Not all flight docs get 'em."



The heat in his eyes combined with his compliment warmed her insides into soft chocolate. "You've never told me how you got your call sign."



He drank again, studying her over the bottle, visibly reining himself in. What churned in his head? And could she handle this darker Jack, anyway, when they barely survived in his easygoing days?



Finally he lowered his bottle. "I used to be 'King,' the whole Elvis theme. Before long, 'King Korba' shuffled to 'King Cobra,' and then just 'Cobra.'"



A deep chuckle sounded from behind her. She turned to find Rodeo looming over her.



He leaned one shoulder against the wall. "Don't let him bullshit ya, Hippocrates. It's a snake joke from the time he lost his wallet at a bar in California and the manager offered to comp his tab if he dropped his flight suit."



Jack winced. "I had on shorts."



"With big hearts on them, I seem to recall."



"You don't have to tell all my secrets."



Laughter faded from Rodeo's face. "Well, sometimes secrets can be toxic."



Monica's eyes flicked back and forth from Jack to Rodeo, unspoken communication so heavy there almost seem to be a visible thread linking the air between the two men.



The last strains of a Rolling Stones' classic dwindled. Santuci raised his megaphone to his mouth and shouted, "This next one's a special request from Captain Derek 'Rodeo' Washington going out to his pal Major Korba. Let's hear it for the King!"



Three notes into "Hunka, Hunka Burning Love," suspicion niggled along with memories of Vegas vows serenaded by music from the King. There had been all those pointed looks from Rodeo lately. Now Jack's glare at his best friend. Sure, everyone knew he liked Elvis, but somehow this went further.



By the time Elvis started wailing, she knew just how far. "God bless it, Jack Korba! You told him, didn't you?"



Damn him, he didn't deny it. Or even apologize. Just stared back at her with one slow blink before shooting another glare at Rodeo that stated clearly the guy was dead meat.



Did everyone know their marriage secret? She darted a quick look at the other fliers sprinkled in the crowd. No one was staring their way, which boded well. For now. Gossip flowed faster than air through a squadron.



Crew dogs were bad enough about teasing with little or nothing for fodder. Now her most painful mistake would be paraded in front of her for the rest of her Air Force career in the form of endless Elvis dedications.



As if she wasn't already going to have enough trouble getting over Jack Korba. Heartbreak and no sex. Now wasn't that a sad tune in the making?



Anger and betrayal strummed through her in four-four time. The music built along with laughter and dancing, all seeming to mock her with the mess she'd made of her life.



So much for warm chocolate and tender feelings toward Jack. "I specifically made it clear I did not want this discussed with others. You agreed."



God, she couldn't think right now, felt selfish enough for worrying about herself when Sydney was suffering.



She spun away, sidled past a small cluster of soldiers, ignored Jack's voice for five steps until she plowed into another body. Yasmine. Could this day get any worse?



Her sister nodded past her to Jack standing a couple of feet away. "Trouble with your boyfriend?"



Boyfriend? The word grated, although husband didn't sit too much better right now. But calling him a blabbermouth bastard would require an explanation she certainly didn't want to make, especially to Yasmine. "Everything's fine, thank you. Could you step aside please?"



"Fine? Really? He certainly does not seem happy."



"Aw. Too bad." And she felt petty and small for finding comfort in the notion he hurt, too. She started past her sister.



Yasmine stopped her with a fluttery hand on her arm. "Maybe if instead of storming off you went back over and smiled, talked."



Like a flood of gas on fiery anger already alive and well inside her, Yasmine's buttinsky advice incinerated the last vestiges of pretended civilities. "And you're a fine one to pass out love life advice after all your great success chasing Colonel Cullen down every hall."



Yasmine gasped. "That was flat-out hateful."



"And your sisterly advice wasn't solicited."



How five hundred Army Rangers could go completely silent, Monica didn't know. But a roomful of men crowded the portal, eyes all trained on her with her sister like randy men ready to watch a wet T-shirt catfight.



Yasmine definitely looked mad enough to hiss.



Instead, she pulled herself up with inherent regality, the calculating gleam giving Monica all of a two-second warning that this woman would fight a helluva lot dirtier than eye scratching or hair pulling.



"Well, my goodness," Yasmine crooned, her lilting voice somehow filling the entire luggage return hangar. "No wonder you did not win Miss Congeniality in the Miss Texas Pageant."



A hand clamped over Sydney's mouth tighter than a Texas lasso around a neck.



She swallowed down her scream mixed with bile. Hollering would only bring trouble to her friends.



God, she'd thought this part of the nightmare was over. Facing another sexual assault was more than she could bear. Especially after the horror of being forced to watch a public stoning. If they discovered her pregnancy, would she be executed in the same way?



Nausea roiled. But the will to live burned.



She allowed herself to breathe. Exhale before she passed out. Inhale.



Her nose twitched. She smelled—



"Shh."



Blake. Sweaty, stinky, just-out-of-the-field Blake. Oh, God. So amazing and perfect.



"Is it really you?" She muffled against his hand.