He swallowed down bile, reined in emotions, scanned the UWB across. Found one other person in the room.
Blake held up his pointer finger to signify his find to Carlos. The bastard's mine. Carlos nodded.
It was almost too easy. The door was even cracked open. He could see Sydney just beyond the man even though she was still oblivious that help was on the way. She stood, unwavering, seemingly unharmed, wearing the dirty brown jumpsuit given to prisoners. Still alive and being questioned.
Blake shifted his attention to the target. Medium height. Dusty khakis and a stained linen shirt. Am-mar al-Khayr?
He hoped so. Burned for it to be true because in seconds this man would die.
How? A shot would be risky, could go through and hit Sydney. He never even considered missing.
He eased the door open farther. A garrote would be too messy and horrific for Sydney to see.
His fingers closed around his knife. There was no other way. And no way to shield her completely from watching the man die.
He allowed himself one second to look at her before he would have to spring into her line of sight to attack. He absorbed the image of her...just in case this went to shit and he died. And damn but she was something. Small signs showed her fear, the twitch of her pinky at her side. Her lips pressed slightly too tight. But overall she was standing as tall and brave as any warrior he'd ever seen. A warrior.
How many times had she told him she had battles to fight just as he did? She understood the risks but insisted she couldn't simply sit back and hope someone else would take care of problems.
Her work put her in the line of danger in hopes of erasing the danger for others. Just like his job, except he wasn't called in until all other options failed. Sydney tried to fix things before they went to shit. Before the military was left with no choice but to pull their knives and take out the enemy with force.
Why the hell hadn't he seen that before? His need for vengeance faded by a few degrees as blending Sydney's perspective with his own blew away enough of the cobwebs for him to see clearly again. He only needed an end to this camp and Sydney back in his arms. Not vengeance.
His haven wasn't a house and white picket fence. It was this woman. Yet he'd tried to make her deny the very things about herself that made him love her.
And in seconds he would kill a man in front of her. Blake accepted the inevitable. Once she saw the total darkness of where he existed, she would never come back to him. A price he had to pay to keep her alive.
He moved in. Fast. Silent.
Sydney's eyes widened for a flash. Long enough for the man to stiffen, but not long enough for him to turn before—
Blake clapped a hand over the man's mouth and slid a knife between his ribs. The man jerked. Blake shoved deeper. Twisted. Hot blood surged over his hands.
The body went limp.
Sydney's tear-filled eyes held Blake's over the dying man's shoulder while blood puddled on the floor.
Blake flung aside the corpse. Stepped forward and caught Sydney already flying into his arms. He pressed her face against his neck, shielding her from death at their feet.
Shielding himself from seeing death in her eyes.
Behind him, Carlos called in, "Hostages secure. Ready for the Rangers."
Chapter 18
"Five minutes," called the jumpmaster at the aft door.
"Five minutes," Drew repeated, passing the call to the next Ranger in line seated beside him in the cargo hold.
The echo telegraphed down. "Five minutes, five minutes..." Waking, rousing, readying. Soon this would be over, mission complete, Rubistan in his past.
Calls mixed with the roar of engines and tension filling the metal cavern along with the sound of shuffling bodies, some praying, others snoring. Yet his mind was blank. Training, right? Hell, yeah. Not because thoughts of Yasmine Halibiz pissed him off. Made him fighting mad. Spitting fire instead of...
Shit.
Yeah, he believed her. She wanted asylum. She'd probably even convinced herself she felt something for him to justify her actions. But how the hell could he trust her, forgive her? He'd lived in a world of clear-cut routines, precision, right and wrong for too long.
He was better off doing what he did best.