She waited for the move. The Jack Korba push. Instead, he simply smiled. "Always glad to lend an ear."
"No. I mean for—'' she waved to encompass the room of soldiers and dust and focus on a mission "—for all of this."
"I don't want your gratitude. I would be here even if your sister wasn't one of the hostages."
"I know. And thank you for that, too."
Her eyes held his, then flicked away to settle beyond him on a cluster of uniforms encircling a female figure pushing a cart of water bottles. The woman moved with an odd familiarity. Incredulity niggled at Monica.
No. It couldn't be.
The slight figure ditched her cart and hustled toward the hall, turning sideways at the last second. Her very familiar face flashed in full view aided by the stark bulb overhead.
"What's wrong?" Jack's question barely penetrated.
She couldn't answer. Couldn't process what she was seeing.
"Mon, snap out of it."
She forced her mouth to move. "Oh, God. What is she doing here?"
"She who?" He glanced over his shoulder. "The water girl? She's probably drawing a beat on some other lonely bastard."
"It's my sister." She forced the words past numb lips.
His head swung back around fast enough for whiplash. "Monica, Sydney's still in the camp. I looked at satellite feed with Colonel Cullen in the mobile command center while we were airborne."
Shock shifted to anger. Of all the times for a family reunion. "No. Not Sydney. My other sister, Yasmine."
Her half sister from their mother's second marriage. A prickly, spoiled brat who'd resented every rare minute of their mother's annual visits to see the two children she'd abandoned.
Jack pivoted on his boot heel toward the woman darting around a corner, Colonel Cullen making tracks toward her with a battlefield march. Monica stifled a semi-hysterical bubble of laughter. She'd prayed so damned hard to see her sister soon, and apparently her prayers had taken a downward swoop for darker forces to answer, bringing Yasmine.
Not a Hyatt, but a sister all the same.
Chapter 5
Sydney Hyatt curled up on the cot, back flat against the cement wall in her cell. Her home for months, such as it was.
Three beds with thin mattresses for her and her fellow hostages were wedged in corners, a toilet in the other corner. Metal shelves leaned, creaky, their possessions on display for easy search. This place sucked, but at least it was familiar.
The first month of captivity, she and her two NGO co-workers had been shuffled to so many different locations, she no longer had any clue where they were. Other than the middle of the desert with an occasional tease of a salty gulf breeze.
Inconvenient for a woman who needed to escape. Soon.
Beyond their door, a staticky television jabbered while guards laughed. Across the cell, Kayla and Phillip sat cross-legged on a cot, silently playing cards. They'd all but rubbed the numbers off the deck.
Sydney battled to keep her eyes open, unwilling to surrender to the vulnerability of unconsciousness. Sporadic gunfire from what she guessed were night-training maneuvers often interrupted their sleep, but the weariness seemed tougher to contain lately.
Her body demanded rest. Her mind fought the lethargy of waning hope. Chill remaining from the desert night seeped through the pocked plaster, a relief from the sun creeping up the horizon. Beyond the welcome cooling, she appreciated the brief respite from watching over her shoulder.
Wind whistled through the lone window high on the wall while Jeeps roared out of sight below in opposing directions. Although "window" seemed a generous description for the thin rectangular opening near the ceiling that showed only the purity of a cloudless sky. A blessing perhaps that she didn't have to view the depravity of the terrorist training camp any more often than during her late-afternoon, twenty-minute walks.
Hitching the dingy sheet up to her waist in spite of the heat, she listened to the steady click of Kayla and Phillip snapping down spades. The shoosh of shuffling cards. More clicks. Monotony offered a temporary liberation.
She needed to tell them about her plans soon, but she couldn't give them too much time to think. To fear. To break and talk.
Still, she couldn't leave them behind to bear the brunt of the fury that would come from her attempt to escape. Staying would have to be their choice, these dear friends now bonded to her through experience into a family that had nothing to do with blood relations.