Devil in Dress Blues. Karen Foley
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What had made Lauren think that he would ever agree to talk to her about the rescue? Worse, why had she agreed to ask him about it this way?
She groaned, wishing she could redo the interview, wishing she’d followed her instincts and not pretend to be interested in his charity work. What must he think of her? That she was a dirt-grubbing journalist who would do anything she could to get a story? Sara sighed. She couldn’t blame him for walking away. She’d have done the same thing had she been in his shoes. But what was she going to tell Lauren? Her editor had been counting on her.
The fragrant mug of hot chocolate steamed invitingly, but Sara was no longer interested in drinking it. She felt sick to her stomach as she contemplated Lauren’s reaction to her disastrous interview. She’d be furious. She’d certainly never invite Sara to another gala event like the charity ball. Instead, she’d be relegated to the ranks of the other junior contributors, writing trivial little articles with no substance.
Gathering up her notepad and the little black book, Sara was preparing to leave when she had the distinct sensation of being watched. Straightening, she glanced at the other patrons, but couldn’t find one person who seemed remotely interested in her. Still, the short hairs on the back of her neck tingled with awareness. Trying not to appear obvious, Sara searched the pathways and gardens beyond the cafè, but aside from the normal tourist traffic and business people enjoying the late-autumn afternoon, nothing struck her as unusual.
Still, the feeling of being watched persisted. Unsettled, Sara shoved the book and pad of paper into her pocketbook and placed some money on the table. She didn’t look around, but made her way through the cafè and out the front doors. Only when she found herself standing on the busy sidewalk did she breathe a little easier. Nobody was watching her; it was just her over-active imagination. But as she walked in the direction of her car, she couldn’t prevent herself from throwing a quick glance over her shoulder.
4
RAFE NEEDED A DRINK. Badly.
Leaving the Pavilion Cafè, he strode along Constitution Avenue until he saw a small pub and ducked inside. He ordered a Guinness and stood at a table near the windows, replaying the interview with Sara Sinclair again in his head.
He hadn’t wanted to meet with her, hadn’t wanted to be sucked in by the radiance of her smile or the guilelessness in her blue eyes. He’d told himself that nobody could be that sincere, and he’d been right. Sara Sinclair wore her open-faced, Ivory-girl looks like a mask, deceiving those around her into believing that she had only their best interests at heart, while hiding her true nature. In that regard, she was exactly like Ann Lonquist, the woman who’d turned him off journalists.
He could still recall the night he and his men had infiltrated the compound where she and the other aid workers had been held by Taliban forces. Up until that point, the rescue mission had gone smoothly. His team had neutralized the guards positioned around the compound, and within minutes they had found the workers locked in a room deep inside the building.
He and his men had swiftly evaluated the women’s physical condition. They were exhausted and frightened, but unharmed. The youngest woman, Ann Lonquist, had clung to him, and Rafe had felt his protective instincts kick into high gear. For just an instant, he’d imagined himself as the big he-man hero and her as the helpless damsel in distress. Then his professional training had kicked in and he’d pushed the fantasy aside. They’d begun working their way out of the compound, using their own bodies to shield the women, when they’d encountered a top Taliban leader. The man had been walking almost absent-mindedly through the corridor, turning an expensive camera over in his hands. The expression of horrified surprise on his face when he rounded the corner and saw Rafe’s team of Special Ops soldiers might have been comical if their situation hadn’t been so perilous. There was no question in Rafe’s mind that he could have eliminated the man without making a sound or rousing any of the other Taliban, but Ann had given a low cry of outrage.
“That’s my camera!”
She’d darted forward, but had been restrained by one of Rafe’s men. Cursing, Rafe had launched himself at the enemy, just as the man jerked a gun out of his belt and fired wildly in their direction, striking Staff Sergeant Brody in the upper leg.
Then all hell had erupted.
They still might have gotten out unscathed had Ann Lonquist not stopped to retrieve her camera and snap several photos of the now-dead Taliban leader. Rafe had hauled her upward by her arm and literally dragged her alongside him, firing his weapon with his free hand as insurgents pursued them, while she continued clicking the shutter.
“What the hell are you doing?” he’d roared.
“Documenting the rescue,” she’d gasped, squirming in his grasp.
Rafe had responded by yanking the camera away and shoving it into a pouch on his belt. “Now move your ass,” he’d growled at her, “or I’ll damned well leave you here.”
Her pretty blue eyes had widened, but she’d snapped her mouth shut and allowed him to shove her ahead of him through the corridors. As he and his men hurried the women toward the exit, gunfire had erupted all around them, and a second man, Sergeant Hager, went down with a muffled cry. Rafe had hauled him up by his flak jacket and supported his weight as they’d made their escape. They’d planted several explosive devices around the compound hours earlier, and now Rafe’s men began methodically detonating them. In the ensuing confusion, the team managed to slip into the surrounding darkness with the aid workers, and they hadn’t stopped until they were several miles into the surrounding mountains.
Rafe had been forced to carry Hager across the rugged terrain. By the time they’d reached a safe spot to rest, Rafe’s entire body had ached with effort. After he’d set the man down, he’d fished through his pouch for his first aid kit, removing Ann’s camera and setting it on the ground nearby. The bullet had struck his friend just below the edge of his flak vest, in the side of his abdomen.
“We need to stop the bleeding before we can head to the extraction point, or he’s not going to make it,” he’d said grimly. “How is Brody doing?”
“I’m fine,” Brody had replied, as another team member wrapped a tourniquet around his injured thigh. “Just a scratch.”
A series of blinding flashes had sent Rafe surging to his feet, his weapon drawn. Fury seethed through him when he saw that Ann Lonquist had grabbed her camera from where he’d placed it on the ground, and was busy snapping pictures of their hasty triage. Had he really thought her attractive? With a feral growl, he’d advanced on her.
“Are you that much of an idiot?” he’d hissed, as she backed away. He snatched the camera out of her hands. “What the hell are you doing?”
“D-documenting.”
“Just who the hell are you?”
“I—I’m a relief worker.” Her voice had sounded high and thin, and Rafe had known she was lying.
“Bullshit. Tell me the truth.”
“Fine. I’m a photojournalist,” she’d acknowledged in a small voice. “But how else was I going to get my story? I never thought we’d be kidnapped and held hostage.”
“Your thoughtless actions nearly got my men killed,” he’d said softly, “and now you’re determined to advertise our exact location with your fucking camera flash.” In disgust, he’d opened the camera and retrieved the small memory card. “What did you plan on doing with these photos?”
He could see from her expression that she’d fully intended to publish them in whatever magazine or newspaper she worked for.
“Jesus,” he’d breathed in disgust. “You’d put all our lives at risk for the sake of your story.”
“I risked my own life for this story,” she retorted. “I’ve earned those photos.”
“The hell you have,” he’d snarled.