“Then let’s figure out where they are and go get them.”
Saint didn’t like the soft exhalation and the bruised look in Anna’s eyes.
“We do know the general area where they are. But, unfortunately, that’s not good news.” She clicked on a thickly forested area. “This is Bosanska Krajina, a region in northwestern Bosnia, north of Banja Luka, the second largest city in Bosnia and the de facto capital and largest city of Republika Srpska.” She clicked through a few more slides. “We picked up the helicopter from the ship and a satellite caught it entering Bosnian airspace. We lost it once the satellite passed. We believe they landed somewhere in this wilderness.”
“What’s the holdup then?” Pitbull asked.
“While the Prime Minister was happy to have us work out of Sarajevo, he will not permit us to enter his home area. He assures us he will send in his own people to assess the situation and report back to us. He is aware of the timeframe for the exchange. He will interpret any attempt by us to enter this area either overtly or covertly as an act of war. We are grounded here in Sarajevo where all we can do is gather intel as best we can.”
“Bullshit,” Saint said. “He’s in Darko’s pocket. I guarantee it. He called in a favor and the PM denies us access. Are we going to stand for this?”
“We have no choice in the matter. Our hands are tied.”
With that crushing information, they were dismissed. They went to their bunks, bitter with the decision not to launch a black ops mission to save their people. It went against everything they stood for—never leave a man behind. Neo was their teammate, their brother, part of the SEAL ethos, their inaction rubbing them all raw. Chry was their liaison, but it seemed the CIA was also tied up in this decision by the PM, leaving them literally no recourse but to buck authority and launch a mission to save them on their own.
Hours later, unable to sleep, Saint got up and headed for the mess for a cup of tea. He passed one of the balconies on his way there and stopped when he heard muffled noises. Someone was in distress. He stopped and retraced his steps, pushing the balcony door open. The air was chilly, and he saw a hooded figure, bundled up, shoulders shaking, leaning against the concrete edge of the terrace.
He realized the person was crying. It made his chest ache to hear the soft weeping. He couldn’t leave them alone like that in that kind of grief. He touched the person’s shoulder and they stiffened and hastily wiped at their face. Finally, the person turned, and Aella’s face, pale in the moonlight, her eyes swollen with tears, stared up at him.
As though there was an enormous energy built up in her, she met his gaze, her shoulders square, her chin up. “What are you doing up so late?” she asked, her voice shaky with emotion like she was trying to hold everything in. “I thought…I was alone.”
His own throat suddenly tight, he abruptly stuck his hands in his pockets, not trusting himself. Unable to tear his gaze from her face, he said, his own voice gruff, “You’re not alone, Aella.”
Her expression crumpled at his words, then suddenly she covered her face with one hand and started crying in earnest. “Oh, God, this is terrible and it’s my fault. I failed. I should have made him leave. He saved my life, and we can do nothing.”
In spite of all the reasons he should keep his hands off her, he just couldn’t stand to watch this tough woman fall apart like that. “It’s not your fault. You risked everything to save them. It was just bad luck,” he said softly, reaching for her.
He held her in a tight, secure embrace. Caught under enormous pressure, his heart felt squeezed in his chest. Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard and tightened his hold, his years of being a medic kicking in. With her warm and soft against him, Saint locked his jaw and made himself take a deep, slow breath, the heat from her body making his blood thicken. Ah, but it felt so good to hold her—so damned good.
She cried softly for a few moments, then pushed out of his arms. “I don’t normally let anyone see me like this. I keep it private.”
“Yeah, because you’re such a badass.”
She dashed at her tears. “That’s right,” she said. Her honesty made his heart roll over and his chest clog up. “What are we going to do about this? We can’t leave them to die, Saint.”
Feeling as if he might lose it himself, he nodded. “We aren’t. We just have to figure something out, and we will. I promise you. We’re not going to leave them to die.”
Chry sat on the bunk in her cell, curled in the corner with her legs drawn up. They had given her a bucket of tepid water and clean clothes along with socks, allowing her to wash—not in private, but she did her best to keep her nakedness to a minimum aware that the guard was watching her. She didn’t encourage him. She didn’t have to. His manipulation would be the beginning of the end of their captivity or she would die trying.
There was comfort and warmth from the blankets, but her heart was cold and in complete turmoil. She had no idea where 2-Stroke was, and unless they put them together, there was going to be a slim chance for them to figure out how to get out of here.
Suddenly, she felt a presence and her head jerked up. Someone moved in the shadows outside her cell. “Who’s there?” she called.
He stepped into the light, and she recognized the clothes—blue jeans, white Nikes, and the red shirt. She’d been right. It was a teenager who had watched from the shadows during Zasha’s demand video, and he couldn’t be more than fourteen.
She softened her voice. “What do you want?”
He motioned her over and pulled something out of his back pocket. She sat there for a moment, unsure if this was some kind of trick conjured up by Zasha. She rose from the bed and walked over to the cell bars.
He slipped something through the opening, and she looked down to find a bar of chocolate.
“I’m Aleksandar Custovic, Darko’s nephew, but call me Alek. I’m sorry about what he’s doing to you. I can get more.”
She clasped his hand, ignoring the chocolate. “Do you know where Neo is?”
He looked over his shoulder. “Yes, not far from here. I like him. He’s cool.”
Her heart jumped with the news. “You’ve talked to him? Is he all right?”
He nodded. “Beat up pretty bad, but my psycho uncle and his crazy girlfriend let our doctor patch him up. Zasha is at least true to her word. He’s clean and has been fed as well. But he’ll need to heal for a bit.”
Okay, this kid was disillusioned with his uncle and Zasha. That was good. Good for them. As an intelligence officer, she was not only well-versed in acquiring and turning assets for the United States, but she was keen on reading a potential candidate. She’d been successful with her every attempt. Alek was a different matter. First off, he was underage, and that went against everything inside of her. But not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, if he was primed to help them survive, she might persuade him to help them escape. That was also problematic. If the kid got involved, Darko could find out it was him who had given them the means to escape. But what choice did she have? It was either turn Alek into an outside source and convince him to help them get out of here or die at Zasha’s hands.
She had no illusion that the US would negotiate and turn Fast Lane over, not that they should. That went against not only policies, but human decency. That was Zasha’s fantasy and had no basis in reality. But if she were a guessing woman, Darko had hedged his bets and had placed them in an area where he was king and could control the US that way…politically. She wouldn’t put it past the bastard. He had the upper hand right now, but Chry had some things up her sleeve.