The Complete Mackenzies Collection by Linda Howard
“Let’s go, Bunny Rabbit,” Zane said, and the young black man grinned as he started the engine. The minibus looked as though it was on its last wheels, but the motor purred.
“You should a been there last night,” the black guy said. “It was tight for a minute, real tight.” He sounded as enthusiastic as if he was describing the best party he’d ever attended.
“What happened?” Zane asked.
“Just one of those things, boss,” the man on Barrie’s right said with a shrug evident in his voice. “A bad guy stepped on Spook, and the situation went straight into fubar.”
Barrie had been around enough military men to know what fubar meant. She sat very still and didn’t comment.
“Stepped right on me,” the SEAL on her left said in an aggrieved tone. “He started squalling like a scalded cat, shooting at everything that moved and most things that didn’t. Aggravated me some.” He paused. “I’m not staying for the funeral.”
“When we got your signal we pulled back and ran like hell,” the man on her right continued. “You must’ve already had her out, because they came after us like hound dogs. We laid low, but a couple of times I thought we were going to have to fight our way out. Man, they were walking all over us, and they kept hunting all night long.”
“No, we were still inside,” Zane said calmly. “We just stepped into the next room. They never thought to check it.”
The men snorted with mirth; even the eerie guy on her left managed a chuckle, though it didn’t sound as if he did it often enough to be good at it.
Zane turned around in the seat and gave Barrie that brief twitch of a smile. “Would you like some introductions, or would you rather not know these raunchy-smelling bums?”
The atmosphere in the bus did smell like a locker room, only worse. “The introductions, please,” she said, and her smile was plain in her voice.
He indicated the driver. “Antonio Withrock, Seaman Second Class. He’s driving because he grew up wrecking cars on dirt tracks down South, so we figure he can handle any situation.”
“Ma’am,” said Seaman Withrock politely.
“On your right is Ensign Rocky Greenberg, second in command.”
“Ma’am,” said Ensign Greenberg.
“On your left is Seaman Second Class Winstead Jones.”
Seaman Winstead Jones growled something unintelligible. “Call him Spooky or Spook, not Winstead,” Zane added.
“Ma’am,” said Seaman Jones.
“Behind you are Seamen First Class Eddie Santos, our medic, and Paul Drexler, the team sniper.”
“Ma’am,” said two voices behind her.
“I’m glad to meet you all,” Barrie said, her sincerity plain. She had trained her memory at countless official functions, so she had their names down cold. She hadn’t yet put a face to Santos or Drexler, but from his name she figured Santos would be Hispanic, so that would be an easy distinction to make.
Greenberg began to tell Zane the details of everything that had happened. Barrie listened and didn’t intrude. The fact was, this midnight drive through Benghazi felt a little surreal. She was surrounded by men armed to their eye-teeth, but they were traveling through an area that was still fairly active for so late at night. There were other vehicles in the streets, pedestrians on the sidewalks. They even stopped at a traffic light, with other vehicles around them. The driver, Withrock, hummed under his breath. No one else seemed concerned. The traffic light changed, the battered little minibus moved forward, and no one paid them any attention at all.
Several minutes later they left the city. Occasionally she could see the gleam of the Mediterranean on their right, which meant they were traveling west, toward the center of Libya’s coast. As the lights faded behind them, she began to feel lightheaded with fatigue. The sleep she had gotten during the day, between bouts of lovemaking, hadn’t been enough to offset the toll stress had taken on her. She couldn’t see herself leaning on either of the men beside her, however, so she forced herself to sit upright and keep her eyes open.
She suspected that she was more than a little punch-drunk.
After a while Zane said, “Red goggles.”
She was tired enough that she wondered if that was some kind of code, or if she’d misunderstood him. Neither, evidently. Each man took a pair of goggles from his pack and donned them. Zane glanced at her and said in explanation, “Red protects your night vision. We’re going to let our vision adjust now, before Bunny kills the headlights.”
She nodded, and closed her eyes to help her own vision adjust. She realized at once that, if she wanted to stay awake, closing her eyes for whatever reason wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but her eyelids were so heavy that she couldn’t manage to open them again. The next thing she knew, the minibus was lurching heavily from side to side, throwing her against first Greenberg, then Spooky. Dazed with sleep, she tried to hold herself erect, but she couldn’t seem to find her balance or anything to hold on to. She was about to slide to the floorboard when Spooky’s forearm shot out in front of her like an iron bar, anchoring her in the seat.
“Thank you,” she said groggily.
“Anytime, ma’am.”
Sometime while she had been asleep, Bunny had indeed killed the headlights, and they were plunging down an embankment in the dark. She blinked at something shiny looming in front of them; she had a split second of panic and confusion before she recognized the sea, gleaming in the starlight.
The minibus lurched to a halt. “End of the line,” Bunny cheerfully announced. “We have now reached the hidey-hole for one IBS. That’s military talk for inflatable boat, small,” he said over his shoulder to Barrie. “These things are too fancy to be called plain old rafts.”
Zane snorted. Barrie remembered that he’d described it as exactly that, a raft.
Watching them exit the minibus was like watching quicksilver slip through cracks. If there had been a working overhead light when the SEALs had commandeered the vehicle, they had taken care of that detail, because no light came on when the doors were cracked open. Spooky slipped past her, no mean feat given the equipment he was carrying, and when Greenberg slid the side door open a few inches, Spooky wiggled on his stomach through the small opening. One second he was there, the next he was gone. Barrie stared at the door with widened eyes in full appreciation of how he’d acquired his nickname. He was definitely spooky.
The others exited the minibus in the same manner; it was as if they were made of water, and when the doors opened they simply leaked out. They were that fluid, that silent. Only Bunny, the driver, remained behind with Barrie. He sat in absolute silence, pistol in hand, as he methodically surveyed the night-shrouded coast. Because he was silent, she was too. The best way not to be any trouble to them, she thought, was to follow their example.
There was one quick little tap on the window, and Bunny whispered, “It’s clear. Let’s go, Miss Lovejoy.”
She scooted over the seat to the door while Bunny eeled out on the driver’s side. Zane was there, opening the door wider, reaching in to steady her as she slid out onto the ground. “Are you holding up okay?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, because she was so tired her speech was bound to be slurred.
As usual, he seemed to understand without being told. “Just hold on for another hour or so, and we’ll have you safe on board the carrier. You can sleep then.”
Without him, though; that fact didn’t need stating. Even if he intended to continue their relationship, and he hadn’t given any indication of it, he wouldn’t do so on board the ship. She would put off sleeping forever if it would postpone the moment when she had to admit, once and for all, that their relationship had been a temporary thing for him, prompted by both the hothouse of intimacy in which they’d spent the day, and her own demands.
She wouldn’t cry; she wouldn’t even protest, she told herself. She’d had him for a day, for one incredibly sensual day.
He led her down to t
Zane lifted her into the IBS and showed her where to sit. The IBS bobbed in the water as the men eased it away from the shore. When the water was chest deep on Santos, the shortest one, they all swung aboard in a maneuver they had practiced so many times it looked effortless. Spooky started the almost soundless motor and aimed the IBS for the open sea.
Then a roar erupted behind them, and all hell broke loose.
She recognized the sharp rat-tat-tat of automatic weapons and half turned to look behind them. Zane put his hand on her head and shoved her down to the bottom of the boat, whirling, already bringing his automatic rifle around as he did so. The IBS shot forward as Spooky gave it full throttle. The SEALs returned fire, lightning flashing from the weapons, spent cartridges splattering down on her as she curled into a ball and drew the chador over her face to keep the hot brass from burning her.
“Drexler!” Zane roared. “Hit those bastards with explosives!”
“Got it, boss!”
Barrie heard a grunt, and something heavy and human fell across her. One of the men had been hit. Desperately she tried to wriggle out from under the crushing weight so she could help him, but she was effectively pinned, and he groaned every time she moved.
She knew that groan.
Terror such as she had never felt before raced through her veins. With a hoarse cry she heaved at the heavy weight, managing to roll him to the side. She fought her way free of the enveloping chador and didn’t even notice the hot cartridge shell that immediately skimmed her right cheek.
An explosion shattered the night, lighting up the sea like fireworks, the percussion knocking her to the bottom of the boat again. She scrambled to her knees, reaching for Zane. “No,” she said hoarsely. “No!”
The light from the explosion had sharply delineated every detail in stark white. Zane lay sprawled half on his side, writhing in pain as he pressed his hands to his abdomen. His face was a colorless blur, his eyes closed, his teeth exposed in a grimace. A huge wet patch glistened on the left side of his black shirt, and more blood was pooling beneath him.
Barrie grabbed the chador and wadded it up, pressing it hard to the wound. A low animal howl rattled in his throat, and he arched in pain. “Santos!” she screamed, trying to hold him down while still holding the chador in place. “Santos!”
With a muttered curse the stocky medic shouldered her aside. He lifted the chador for a second, then quickly pressed it into place and grabbed her hand, guiding it into position. “Hold it,” he rapped out. “Press down—hard.”
There was no more gunfire, only the hum of the motor. Salt spray lashed her face as the boat shot through the waves. The team maintained their discipline, holding their assigned positions. “How bad is it?” Greenberg yelled.
Santos was working feverishly. “I need light!”
Almost instantly Greenberg had a flashlight shining down on them. Barrie bit her lip as she saw how much blood had puddled around them. Zane’s face was pasty white, his eyes half-shut as he gasped for breath.
“He’s losing blood fast,” Santos said. “Looks like the bullet got a kidney, or maybe his spleen. Get that damn helicopter on the way. We don’t have time to get into international waters.” He popped the cap off a syringe, straightened Zane’s arm and deftly jabbed the needle into a vein. “Hang on, boss. We’re gonna get you airlifted outta here.”
Zane didn’t reply. He was breathing noisily through his clenched teeth, but when Barrie glanced at him she could see the gleam of his eyes. His hand lifted briefly, touched her arm, then fell heavily to his side.
“Damn you, Zane Mackenzie,” she said fiercely. “Don’t you dare—” She broke off. She couldn’t say the word, couldn’t even admit to the possibility that he might die.
Santos was checking Zane’s pulse. His eyes met hers, and she knew it was too fast, too weak. Zane was going into shock, despite the injection Santos had given him.
“I don’t give a damn how close in we still are!” Greenberg was yelling into the radio. “We need a helo now. Just get the boss out of here and we’ll wait for another ride!”
Despite the pitching of the boat, Santos got an IV line started and began squeezing a bag of clear plasma into Zane’s veins. “Don’t let up on the pressure,” he muttered to Barrie.
“I won’t.” She didn’t take her gaze off Zane’s face. He was still aware, still looking at her. As long as that connection was maintained, he would be all right. He had to be.
The nightmare ride in the speeding boat seemed to take forever. Santos emptied the first bag of plasma and connected a second one to the IV. He was cursing under his breath, his invectives varied and explicit.
Zane lay quietly, though she knew he was in terrible pain. His eyes were dull with pain and shock, but she could sense his concentration, his determination. Perhaps the only way he could remain conscious was by focusing so intently on her face, but he managed it.
But if that helicopter didn’t get there soon, not even his superhuman determination would be able to hold out against continued blood loss. She wanted to curse, too, wanted to glare at the night sky as if she could conjure a helicopter out of thin air, but she didn’t dare look away from Zane. As long as their gazes held, he would hold on.
She heard the distinctive whap-whap-whap only a moment before the Sea King helicopter roared over them, blinding lights picking them out. Spooky throttled back, and the boat settled gently onto the water. The helicopter circled to them and hovered directly overhead, the powerful rotors whipping the sea into a frenzy. A basket dropped almost on their heads. Working swiftly, Santos and Greenberg lifted Zane into the basket and strapped him in, maneuvering around Barrie as she maintained pressure on the wound.
Santos hesitated, then indicated for her to let go and move back. Reluctantly she did. He lifted the chador, then immediately jammed it back into place. Without a word he straddled the basket, leaning hard on the wound. “Let’s go!” he yelled. Greenberg stepped back and gave the thumbs-up to the winch operator in the helicopter. The basket rose toward the hovering monster, with Santos perched precariously on top of Zane. As the basket drew even with the open bay, several pairs of hands reached out and drew them inward. The helicopter immediately lifted away, banking hard, roaring toward the carrier.
There was an eerie silence left behind. Barrie slumped against one of the seats, her face rigid with the effort of maintaining control. No one said a word. Spooky started the motor again, and the little craft shot through the darkness, following the rapidly disappearing lights of the helicopter.
It was over an hour before the second helicopter settled onto the deck of the huge carrier. The remaining four members of the team leaped to the deck almost before the helicopter had touched down. Barrie clambered after them, ran with them. Greenberg had one hand clamped on her arm to make certain she didn’t get left behind.
Someone in a uniform stepped in front of them. “Miss Lovejoy, are you all right?”
Barrie gave him a distracted glance and dodged around him. Another uniform popped up, but this one was subtly different, as if the wearer belonged on board this gigantic ship. The first man had worn a dress uniform, marking him as a non-crew member. Greenberg skidded to a halt. “Captain—”
“Lieutenant-Commander Mackenzie is in surgery,” the captain said. “Doc didn’t think he’d make it to a base with such a high rate of blood loss. If they can’t get the bleeding stopped, they’ll have to remove his spleen.”
The first uniformed officer had reached them. “Miss Lovejoy,” he said firmly, taking her arm. “I’m Major Hodson. I’ll escort you home.”
The military moved at its own pace, to its own rules. She was to be taken home immediately; the ambassador wanted his daughter back. Barrie protested. She
Chapter 7
By the time the transport touched down in Athens, Barrie had cried so hard and for so long that her eyes were swollen almost shut. Major Hodson had tried everything to pacify her, then to console her; he assured her that he was just following orders, and that she would be able to find out how the SEAL was doing later. It was understandable that she was upset. She’d been through a lot, but she would have the best medical care—
At that, Barrie shot out of the uncomfortable web seat, which was all the transport plane afforded. “I’m not the one who was shot!” she yelled furiously. “I don’t need medical care, best, worst or mediocre! I want to be taken to wherever Zane Mackenzie is taken. I don’t care what your orders are!”
Major Hodson looked acutely uncomfortable. He tugged at the collar of his uniform. “Miss Lovejoy, I’m sorry. I can’t do anything about this situation. After we’re on the ground and your father is satisfied that you’re okay, then where you go is up to you.”
His expression plainly said that as far as he was concerned, she could go to hell. Barrie sat down, breathing hard and wiping away tears. She’d never acted like that before in her life. She’d always been such a lady, a perfect hostess for her father.
She didn’t feel at all ladylike now; she felt like a ferocious tigress, ready to shred anyone who got in her way. Zane was severely wounded, perhaps dying, and these fools wouldn’t let her be with him. Damn military procedure, and damn her father’s influence, for they had both wrenched her away from him.
As much as she loved her father, she knew she would never forgive him if Zane died and she wasn’t there. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know about Zane; nothing mattered compared to the enormous horror that loomed before her. God, don’t let him die! She couldn’t bear it. She would rather have died herself at her kidnappers’ hands than for Zane to be killed while rescuing her.