Sydney had to know he wouldn't leave her in there. If he'd needed to infiltrate alone, he would have done it for her. But he understood enough about his job and his fellow team buddies to know. This was better. Even if the extra wait was killing him, slowly, each day a whittling knife-swipe against his soul.
Not much longer. The HAHO—high altitude, high opening—drop with oxygen masks would allow them to maneuver their glide for nearly an hour over the gulf waters into the area around the coastal training camp. Then two more days to recon for additional intelligence before the rescue and Ranger drop.
The image focused on the portion of the compound where the NGO hostages were allowed out once a day. Studying their schedule was critical. He stopped breathing, knowing what the screen would show... now.
Three figures were escorted into the small fenced-in patch of sand. One man. Two women.
Cutting-edge technology from the Predator fed in a digital image as clear as any television screen. Yet even if it had been the less-detailed satellite images, he would have known in his gut which one was Sydney. The same gut that had carried him through ops in the bowels of Baghdad—missions she and he had bitterly disagreed on.
Guilt turned him into a pummeled workout bag. He should have fought harder at talking her out of coming here. Except he couldn't talk her out of her job, her calling, any more than she could talk him out of his. They both had the same goal. Peace. And two diametrically opposed ideologies on how to get there.
He'd given up on a second chance at building the family with Sydney that neither of them had ever had growing up. But he sure as hell wasn't giving up on her.
Blake leaned closer on his forearms, wanting like hell to crawl through the screen to get her. Even knowing it was old footage he'd memorized didn't stop him from looking again, like staring at her framed photo that once perched on his dresser beside the picture of his uncle who'd taken him in as a teen after his parents died.
Again he studied her hunched posture. Arms wrapped around her waist? The now-familiar twist closed his throat, just as powerful as the first time he'd seen the satellite feed. She wasn't a woman easily bowed. What pain was she hiding?
The image faded to static.
A discreet cough pulled him back to the cavernous belly of the plane. Too many eyes pinned him with a sympathy he didn't want. Couldn't handle.
Colonel Cullen rose from his seat. "One last point before we break for chow." His controlled, quiet tones rumbled with authority on a roll. "It hasn't escaped my notice that this mission is rife with conflict of interest. Now, I let this slide because you all happen to be the best available for the mission."
The Colonel's steely gaze swept Korba, Baker. Him. Of course the Colonel couldn't argue that this Afghanistan-seasoned SEAL platoon from Virginia was anything but the number-one choice.
"But if I find any of you allowing your personal agendas to risk the life of even one of my men, I will smack you down so hard and so fast, your children will be born dizzy." The steady stare of a commander held the air captive for five seconds. "Is that understood?"
Blake nodded without checking to see if the others did, as well. He couldn't risk anyone finding
something in his eyes. He had a few contingency plans of his own, but since his life would be the only one at risk, Colonel Cullen had nothing to worry about.
Chapter 7
Drew was worried.
Clanking down the side hatch steps of the C-17 mobile command unit, he blinked back the glare of the sun and gnawing frustration. There were too many agendas running on this airfield for his comfort level. And still, even without those outside elements, he would have chosen exactly this joint team for the mission.
If only they could keep personal issues clear of the battlefield.
He would have to trust what twenty years of service hammered into him. Training assumed control of a soldier in combat. It had to.
M-16 on his shoulder weighing with welcome familiarity, Drew cleared the last step onto the heated tarmac, the gritty breeze barely broken by the smattering of palm trees. Only April and the place was already roasting like the inside of an oven. The stretch of cracked cement sizzled with activity. A few feet away, a loadmaster supervised the tie-down of food and medical supplies into a C-17 scheduled to land in a rural community. A contingent of Rangers would meet up with the IFB aid workers to disperse the rations—his men wearing different patches on their uniforms to keep their other mission covert.
Would Yasmine Halibiz notice the overabundance of troops?
God knows the woman seemed to be all over everywhere. Everywhere being right under his feet. His nose. Right in front of his eyes with that tempting smile of hers every time he turned around. >As much as he ached to have Monica, some days he wasn't sure he wanted to be with a woman he had to fight every step of the way. Love had been so damned easy with Tina. Simply there. Uncomplicated.
Still, here he was, unable to walk away.
The part of him that had been gut punched over the image of Monica with a bullet in her belly wanted to shake her up, make her just as out of control as he felt. A damned selfish wish when he'd just spent the past ten minutes calming her down.
He needed to get the hell out of her room before he lost precious ground by thinking with his Johnson instead of his brain. Keep strategy in place and remember this woman did not respond well to being chased. He wanted more than just sex from her this time—or nothing at all.
He dropped the sack of cotton balls. "Enough talking for one day. You need sleep and so do I. I'm outta here."
Jack started for the door. Monica's hand shot out, gripped his arm, stopping him. He pivoted, his brain only giving him a one-second warning that Monica intended to kiss him.
Yasmine clicked the door closed to her "closet room." No footsteps retreated. Her military escort stayed outside, as ordered. A guard should make her feel more secure. Being in the compound should make her feel safer.