Grace under fire.

Despite his attempt to block them, images of Grace Chancellor had been bombarding his brain since Dalton had mentioned her name. Memories of the woman he had first met…almost ten years ago, he realized with a sense of wonder.

Grace Chancellor and Afghanistan. Two items of unfinished—and very personal—business.

Landon hadn’t made many mistakes since the years he’d been an operative. In his line of work he couldn’t afford them. What Cabot had set forth before him this morning was a chance to rectify the two most spectacular ones he’d made in his entire life. If Grace was alive, he’d find her. And if she wasn’t… Landon took a deep breath, thinking about what that loss would mean.

“Hang on, Gracie,” he whispered. “The bastards haven’t won one yet. They damn sure aren’t going to win this time, either.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

This July, Intrigue brings you six sizzling summer reads. They’re the perfect beach accessory.

* We have three fantastic miniseries for you. Film at Eleven continues THE LANDRY BROTHERS by Kelsey Roberts. Gayle Wilson is back with the PHOENIX BROTHERHOOD in Take No Prisoners. And B.J. Daniels finishes up her MCCALLS’ MONTANA series with Shotgun Surrender.

* Susan Peterson brings you Hard Evidence, the final installment in our LIPSTICK LTD. promotion featuring stealthy sleuths. And, of course, we have a spine-tingling ECLIPSE title. This month’s is Patricia Rosemoor’s Ghost Horse.

* Don’t miss Dana Marton’s sexy stand-alone title, The Sheik’s Safety. When an American soldier is caught behind enemy lines, she’ll fake amnesia to guard her safety, but there’s no stopping the sheik determined on winning her heart.

Enjoy our stellar lineup this month and every month!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Take No Prisoners
Gayle Wilson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For the guys and gals of my RWA chapter, Southern Magic. Thank you for your support and most of all for your friendship. You’ll never know how much you mean to me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Five-time RITA® Award finalist and RITA® Award winner Gayle Wilson has written over thirty novels and three novellas for Harlequin/Silhouette. She has won more than forty awards and nominations for her work.

Gayle still lives in Alabama, where she was born, with her husband of thirty-four years. She loves to hear from readers. Write to her at P.O. Box 3277, Hueytown, AL 35023. Visit Gayle online at www.booksbygaylewilson.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Landon James—The only woman this ex-CIA agent has ever loved is being held captive in the mountains of Afghanistan. There is no question he’ll go after her. The only question is whether he can find her in time.

Grace Chancellor—She had risen quickly in the ranks of the CIA, but her fall has been even more spectacular. Now her life hangs in the balance. And the one person who has the skills to rescue her is the man she walked away from six years ago.

Griff Cabot—The leader of the Phoenix is willing to go outside his own organization if necessary to save Grace Chancellor’s life.

Mike Mitchell—Taken prisoner with Grace, the dying pilot teaches her a lesson that would change her life.

Rudolph Stern—Grace refuses to abandon her fellow prisoner, despite the price she may pay for her loyalty.

Abdul Rahim—No one is more eager for Landon James’s return to Afghanistan than this drug lord with a long memory and a thirst for revenge.

Steven Reynolds—Will this Special Forces operative drive a wedge between Landon and Grace? Or is it possible Landon isn’t the only one guarding secrets?

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Prologue

“The heroin is taken out of the country by routes established centuries ago. Most of it goes through Tajikistan or Uzbekistan and on to Russia and China.”

Despite the noise of the Kiowa’s jet engine, Colonel Rudolph Stern seemed determined to keep up the ongoing dialogue he’d begun as soon as he met Grace Chancellor’s car at his headquarters. In the close confines of the chopper, he was leaning against her, practically shouting in her ear.

Of course, Grace had been well aware of almost all the information he’d provided long before she’d left Langley. In spite of that, she nodded, having decided a couple of hours ago that the occasional gesture of agreement was the easiest way to deal with her gregarious military host.

It had been painfully obvious from the first he didn’t believe she was the right person for the job she’d been given. Just as obviously, he didn’t realize that his attitude was nothing new.

Grace had spent more than a decade climbing the ranks in the CIA, an agency that celebrated its old-boys network. And Grace Chancellor had never been one of the “old boys.”

“In spite of our presence here,” Stern went on, “massive shipments still make it though those mountains and into Pakistan.” He nodded toward the chopper’s open door and the rugged peaks that stretched below.

This trip along the Afghan/Pakistani border had been an afterthought. Stern had already shown her the vast fields of poppies that now covered the relatively fertile valleys of Afghanistan. In full bloom, their flowers had thrown a blaze of color across the otherwise monochromatic landscape.

With the disruption of the Taliban’s control, the country’s trade in heroin had once again grown to staggering proportions. More than one-fifth of the world’s opium was currently being produced here.

Although heavily backed by an American and British commitment of money and manpower, recent attempts by the Afghan government to rein in that very profitable business had led to deep resentment and even violence among the general population. In a country whose grinding poverty rivaled any in the region, people were dependent on the cash produced by the poppies to feed their children.

It was now Grace’s job to find a workable solution for all of those involved. And to do it before the antipathy generated by the attempts to control the drug trafficking boiled over into a full-blown rebellion.

No one at the CIA, including Grace herself, had had any doubt that her current assignment was a demotion. In her opinion at least, it had been intended as a punishment, as well, but she was determined that the people at the Agency who had made this decision would never have the satisfaction of hearing her complain.

Almost the only thing she could control in this situation was how she conducted herself. Despite her bitterness over the undeserved castigation, she was resolute in her intent to bring to this challenge the same degree of professionalism and all-out effort she had invested in everything else the Agency had ever asked of her.

The colonel, a tall, spare man already deeply tanned by the relentless Afghan sun, raised his index finger and then moved it in a circle. His aide, who had apparently been keeping a watchful eye on their conversation, placed his hand on the shoulder of the chopper pilot and bent to shout whatever unspoken instruction he’d just been given against his flight helmet. The helicopter immediately began to turn, its nose tilting slightly downward as it did.

Before it had completed the maneuver, there was a loud bang. The Kiowa seemed to hesitate in midair, almost as if it were catching its breath.

Then the noise of the jet engine, which had made normal conversation impossible, was no longer there. In its sudden and eerie absence Grace could hear what sounded like the clatter of small-arms fire from below and the continuing whomp, whomp, whomp of the rotor blades over their heads.

“What the hell?” Stern muttered before he leaned forward, shouting the same question to his aide.

As he did, Grace was again able see the ground beneath the chopper. Following the Kiowa’s shadow, a stream of horsemen galloped over the rocky terrain below. The gunfire she’d heard had obviously come from the rifles they brandished in upraised hands.

She couldn’t hear the answer the aide had conveyed from the pilot to Stern, but the colonel’s expression when he turned toward her left no doubt that it hadn’t been what he’d been hoping to hear. His lips flattened as she met his eyes, trying to keep hers from revealing the fear that had already tightened her chest and rested cold and queasy in the bottom of her stomach.

“Looks like the bastards got lucky.”

Unlike the colonel’s previous comments, this one hadn’t been shouted. And there was a note in his voice she liked even less than she had liked his previous condescending manner.

“What does that mean?”

The hesitation before he answered lasted through several more endless seconds. Her heart rate, already elevated, increased exponentially while she waited.

“They hit the engine with those pea shooters. We’re going down.”

His eyes held hers, watching for reaction, she supposed. Although she tried to control any outward sign of what she was feeling, she was the one who finally broke the contact between them, looking down again on the horsemen who, even as she watched, seemed to grow larger and more menacing. The pilot fought to control their too-rapid descent, the blades thankfully still turning above their heads, allowing him a chance to try to set the chopper down.

She’d always heard that when you faced death, your entire life flashed before your eyes. Fingers tense around the metal arms of her seat, she realized that in her case, at least, that wasn’t true. There was only one image that kept repeating over and over in her head.

She had run into one of the old hands at the Agency shortly after she’d been called to testify before Congress. She hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, certainly not to talk to, so that she’d wondered at the time if he had arranged their “chance” meeting. If so, she was grateful. Most of the others at Langley had simply turned the other way as she walked by.

Neil Andrews had looked her in the eye. His warning had been equally straight and to the point:

“Watch your back,” he’d said. “Don’t think for a minute that they’re going to let you get away with it.”

“I’m sorry,” Stern said, bringing her abruptly back to the present. He sounded as if he might actually mean it.

Of course he does, she told herself. To believe anything else was sheer paranoia. After all, whatever dangers lay ahead, the colonel and his aide would experience them, as well.

Except they aren’t women, Grace acknowledged, looking down again on the barren ground and the riders who seemed to be rising up to meet their rapid descent. And although she had functioned in a masculine realm for years, she knew with a cold certainty that the world she was about encounter was far different in its approach to women than any she had ever faced before.

Chapter One

“I’ve already told Griff I’m not interested. Several times, actually.”

The deep voice on the other end of the line seemed resigned, almost amused rather than angry. Dalton Rawls knew that amusement wouldn’t last.

This was a call he’d been dreading having to make for several days, ever since Griff Cabot had broached the idea. They had both agreed, however, that there was no one better suited for this mission than Landon James. And since technically it wasn’t a Phoenix undertaking…

“This isn’t about joining the Phoenix,” Dalton said.

There was a beat of silence as the ex-CIA operative he’d just phoned digested the information. “Then what is it about?”

“A mutual acquaintance who’s in trouble.”

The silence this time was even more prolonged.

“If this isn’t about the Phoenix, then I suppose I should assume that whoever we’re talking about wasn’t part of the External Security Team, either.”

Griff Cabot’s elite counterterrorism unit had been destroyed by the Agency long before the terrorist attack that had devastated the heart of the country. The Phoenix, a private investigative agency, had been born from the EST’s ashes. Although Landon James had been a member of the CIA team from its inception, he had refused every inducement to join the private group of agents Cabot had put together during the last five years, its members almost exclusively drawn from his former operatives.

“We’re talking about Grace Chancellor,” Dalton said, seeing no point in making a mystery of his request. “Griff said you’d remember her.”

The quality of the silence this time was different somehow. As ridiculous as it seemed to believe he could judge something like that over the phone, Dalton knew he’d just taken the other man by surprise. A feat that had once been almost impossible to achieve.

“I remember.”

Dalton couldn’t quite read the tone of those two words, but he’d been right in his earlier speculation. Both the resignation and the amusement had disappeared.

“Tell me,” Landon demanded into his continued silence.

“You know that she testified before Congress a few months ago.”

“You mean when she told the Hill that their vaunted intelligence services—all of them—didn’t know what the hell they were doing during one of the most critical periods in this nation’s history?”

“I don’t believe she phrased it in exactly that way,” Dalton said, making no effort to conceal his own amusement at how accurately Landon’s opinion echoed those that had been expressed privately among the members of the Phoenix.

The destruction of the EST had been only one of the many intelligence blunders made by those in authority during the last ten years, but it had been the most personal for all of them. Certainly the most bitter. At least until New York.

Eventually both the country and Congress had begun to ask why no one had been aware of the threat from Al-Qaeda. Maybe, Dalton thought, because they’d all been too busy getting rid of the very people who might have been able to tell them. And that would certainly have included Landon James.

The Middle East had been his area of expertise. Just as it was Grace Chancellor’s. She’d been an intelligence analyst rather than an operative, but despite the fact that the two had struck sparks off one another on a number of occasions by supporting conflicting opinions about operations there, Dalton knew Landon had respected her opinions.

Whether that respect would translate into the ex-CIA agent taking action in this situation was something neither he nor Griff had been willing to predict. Neither had they been willing to bet against it.

If Landon refused, then Griff would move on to Plan B. With Cabot there was always a Plan B. They had agreed, however, that Landon James was their best hope.

And Grace Chancellor’s best hope, as well.

“Apparently she phrased it strongly enough that it’s gotten her into trouble,” Landon said. “I’m just not sure what you expect me to do about it.”

“I don’t believe the trouble she’s in right now can be blamed entirely on her testimony,” Dalton said carefully.

He didn’t want to suggest too much, but he also knew that the only chance he had of convincing James to undertake this mission was to be absolutely straight with him. Landon was too perceptive not to recognize when he was being played.

“The company despises whistle blowers,” Landon said. “Even those compelled to testify under oath.”

“So much so,” Dalton agreed, “that as a result of her testimony, the powers-that-be found Chancellor a new assignment.”

“Let me guess. Reading satellite images.”

“Something slightly more challenging.” Despite the seriousness of the situation, Dalton found himself smiling at the reminder of how hated that particular assignment was among Cabot’s agents. “They put her in charge of stopping the heroin traffic out of Afghanistan.”

Landon laughed, the sound short and harsh. “I’m surprised they didn’t give her a spoon and a bucket and point her toward the nearest ocean.”

Again Landon was on target with his assessment of the task Chancellor had been given. Halting the exportation of heroin from Afghanistan was an impossible job, considering the entrenched culture of poppy production. It had been made even more difficult now by the lawlessness of the vast areas that lay outside the direct control of the Afghan government or the forces of the international coalition.

“Chancellor wanted to see the extent of the problem for herself,” Dalton went on, “as well as every aspect of the process by which the drugs are transported out of the country.”

There was a noise from the other end of the line that sounded like derision. Unsure, Dalton decided to ignore it.

“The Army provided her with a military escort, some lieutenant colonel who was supposed to know the ropes and show her around. Chancellor probably knew more about what was going on before she arrived in the country than he did after several months there.”

“And knowing Chancellor,” Landon said, “she didn’t tell him that.”

Probably not, Dalton thought, but he ignored the interruption to go on with his story. “The Kiowa they were riding in was hit by small-arms fire. Fortunately the pilot was able to set the chopper down, but…”

“Go on,” Landon urged when Dalton paused.

The voice on the other end of the line had become very soft. It was a timbre anyone who had worked in the field with Landon James would have recognized immediately. The more tense the situation, the quieter he became.

“The body of the colonel’s aide was found with the helicopter. Lt. Colonel Stern, the pilot and Grace Chancellor were not.”

“Where did they go down?”

“The mountains just north of Kabul.”

“Son of a bitch.” The expletive was again soft, but obviously heartfelt. “How long ago?”

This was the part Dalton had most dreaded. So far the Agency had been tight-lipped about the incident. There had been a brief report in the media, no names provided. If Neil Andrews hadn’t contacted Griff, they might never have known Grace was involved.

“Nearly two weeks.”

The expletive Landon uttered this time was expressive of his contempt. “And of course, no one at Langley has a clue who took them. Or where.”

Those were not questions. They were assumptions, flatly articulated and based on Landon’s lack of respect for the kind of information gathering that had passed for intel in that area for years.

“Not a clue. At least, according to Griff’s sources within the Agency.”

“Griff wants me to find her?”

The hesitation this time was Dalton’s. “He recognizes that he has no right to ask you to do anything. He simply wanted me to make you aware of what had happened.”

“Okay,” Landon said. “Tell him I’m aware.”

Which didn’t sound promising. Nor did it reveal what the ex-operative intended to do. If anything.

Dalton suspected his boss wasn’t going to be satisfied if he brought back that enigmatic answer. He knew Griff well enough to know that if James didn’t accept the task, Cabot would find someone who would.

His loyalty toward those he considered the good guys within the CIA extended beyond the agents who had worked for him. Apparently, it covered Grace Chancellor, as well. And Griff would damn well want to know if the rescue mission he’d been hoping for was going to take place.

“Are you going to find her?” Dalton asked.

“If she’s still alive.”

“We have no reason to believe she isn’t.”

And none to believe she is.

“Anybody had an offer?”

“For ransom, you mean?”

“Someone in that region is holding a senior CIA analyst, an American colonel and an American pilot, and they aren’t trying to negotiate a deal for their release? Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

“It’s a pretty remote area. A lot of tribesmen—”

“You just made the same kind of mistake our former employer so frequently makes,” Landon interrupted. “Don’t judge sophistication by lifestyle. Just because someone lives in a cave doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what’s going on in the outside world. That should have been one lesson we all learned from 9/11.”

“Then…why wouldn’t anyone have been approached for ransom?”

“I don’t know, but I can tell you that single fact bothers me more than anything else you’ve told me.”

Dalton swallowed his own misgivings over the way the capture of the three Americans had played out reinforced by Landon’s certainty that something was wrong with the entire scenario.

“Someone mentioned the possibility that this has been organized by the drug lords,” he said. “Something designed to show that no matter how many people Washington sends out, they’re still in control.”

“If there’s to be any chance of Grace Chancellor being returned alive, you better hope whoever told you that is wrong.”

Dalton had no idea what to say to that. It sounded ominous. And absolutely assured.

“I still don’t know what you want me to tell Griff.”

“Tell him I don’t work for him anymore.”

“Believe me, he knows that, Landon.”

“Does he?” James asked, the hint of amusement Dalton had heard at the beginning of the conversation back in his voice. “And yet, strangely enough, this conversation sounds exactly like those he used to employ to get me interested in whatever he wanted me interested in during the External Security Team days.”

“Are you? Interested, I mean?”

“I’m a few years older and light-years wiser than I was when I worked for the CIA.”

“I don’t believe you’ve changed that much.”

Although Dalton had probably been the closest thing to a friend Landon James had had on the EST, he hadn’t seen his fellow operative in years. At Cabot’s request, he’d made the occasional contact to try to recruit him on the Phoenix’s behalf, only to be turned down each time.

He had no idea what Landon was doing right now. Griff probably knew, but he hadn’t passed on that information along with James’s phone number.

“Apparently not enough that Griff can’t manage to hit all the right buttons.”

“I don’t think that’s what he’s trying to do. I think he just hoped that since this is your area of expertise…”

“I’d ride to the rescue.”

“With all your expenses paid by the Phoenix, of course.”

“Paid on whose behalf?”

The Phoenix was very much a “for-hire” operation, although their charges were usually dependent on the client’s ability to pay. More than a few missions were undertaken on a pro bono basis, however, especially if Cabot felt that justice could be achieved only through their intervention.

“I don’t believe Grace has any family—” Dalton began, only to be cut off in midsentence.

“She doesn’t. I suspect our illustrious leader will be footing the bill himself. Not that he can’t afford it.”

Griff Cabot came from very old money. A lot of it. And James was right. He could afford to mount any quixotic rescue he believed should be undertaken.

“I don’t think he’s counting the cost on this one.”

“No, Griff always did have a penchant for lost causes.”

“Then… You think they’re dead?”

“Actually, that wasn’t what I meant at all.”

The amusement was back, but Dalton had no idea what had caused it. Nor did he have a clue as to what James was talking about.

“I don’t understand—” he began.

“It doesn’t matter,” Landon said briskly. “Tell Griff he pushed the right buttons this time. Obviously he hasn’t lost the fine art of leadership.”

“Then you’re going after them?” Dalton couldn’t keep the relief out of his voice.

“I’m going after Gracie. If the others are there, I’ll try my best to get them out, too.

Gracie? In all the years Dalton had known Grace Chancellor, he had never heard anyone ever refer to her as Gracie. The nickname was totally foreign to the cool, collected persona the intelligence analyst exuded.

Or maybe, Dalton thought, as a click and then the dial tone reverberated in his ear, it was just that he didn’t know Grace Chancellor nearly so well as Landon James did.

Something else Cabot had apparently failed to tell him.

LANDON JAMES PUT DOWN the phone and swiveled his desk chair around until he was looking out over the tops of some of the tallest buildings in New York. He’d been able to lease this office space high above the city for a song in the days immediately after the terrorist attack. No one, it seemed, had wanted to work in the clouds anymore.

After a moment he stood up and walked across the huge room to a wall of windows, thinking instead about the phone call he’d just concluded. Despite his attempt to block them, images of Grace Chancellor had flooded his brain since Dalton had mentioned her name. Memories of the woman he had first met almost…almost ten years ago, he realized with a sense of wonder.

He couldn’t believe it had been that long. He should, he acknowledged. A lot had changed in that time.

Including him. Maybe especially him.

He realized that he was unconsciously fingering the patch that covered the empty socket of what had been his right eye. He forced his fingers away from it, his lips tightening as he remembered how that loss had occurred.

Grace Chancellor and Afghanistan. Two items of unfinished—and very personal—business.

There weren’t many of either in his life these days. Other than the security consultation firm he’d started almost as soon as he resigned from the Agency, there was very little that touched him personally anymore. Both of those did.

Grace Chancellor and Afghanistan.

How well Griff knew him, he thought, his lips lifting in a smile of self-derision. And how cleverly he had chosen his weapons.

Landon hadn’t made many mistakes in the years he’d been an operative. In his line of work, he couldn’t afford them.

What Cabot had set before him this morning, like the food and water the ancient gods had set before Tantalus, was a chance to rectify the two most spectacular ones he’d made in his entire life. And to do it at Griff’s expense.

That wasn’t entirely true, he acknowledged, no matter what Dalton offered. Money was the least of what this journey would cost. And there was no guarantee that he would be able to do what the U.S. Special Forces in the area had not be able to accomplish and find the three Americans. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try.

If Grace was alive, he’d find her. And if she wasn’t… He took a deep breath, thinking about what that loss would mean.

“Hang on, Gracie,” he whispered, looking down on the area still marked by the attack of madmen. “The bastards haven’t won one yet. They damn sure aren’t going to win this time, either.”

Chapter Two

“Better?”

Mike Mitchell opened fever-bright eyes to look up into hers. His cracked lips lifted in a ghastly semblance of a smile. “Thanks,” he whispered.

Grace set down the cup of tepid water from which she’d just helped the pilot drink. She put her hand on his chest, wishing there was something else she could do to ease his suffering. Not that any complaints had crossed his lips in the weeks of their captivity.

Every day, however, she had watched a little more life slip out of those blue eyes. And every night she had listened to his labored breathing until she fell asleep, praying that she would still be able to hear it when she awoke.

“Try to get some rest,” she said inanely.

The grin widened before it became a grimace. Mitchell closed his eyes against the wave of pain, but when he opened them, he smiled at her again.

“I didn’t have anything much on my agenda for today.”

“That’s good,” she said, returning the smile, despite her fury at their captors.

Although she and Colonel Stern had begged for a doctor to see the pilot or for some kind of exchange to be made that would put him in the hands of either the coalition forces or the International Red Cross, their entreaties had been met with stony-eyed indifference. And with each day of their captivity, Mitchell had lost ground.

The infection that could have, at one time at least, been easily treated with antibiotics now ran rampant throughout his wasted body. If something didn’t change soon…

She turned away, trying to pretend that she’d been distracted by a noise outside the cave. In reality she needed a moment to regain control of her emotions. And she didn’t intend for Mike to see her tears.

Actually, she didn’t intend to shed any, she decided, fighting the burn at the back of her eyes. She had always despised crying women.

She hadn’t broken down when the Agency had “disciplined” her. Or in those first few terrifying hours after the crash. She wasn’t going to do it now. Not in front of a man who had kept his sense of humor and his will to live intact, despite the battle of survival he had been fighting—and was now losing.

She recognized that the causes of her emotional vulnerability ran even deeper than her anger over Mike Mitchell’s treatment. There was also the gnawing uncertainty about what was going to happen to them, as well as the frustration of having no control over whatever did.

Despite Stern’s insistence that they be afforded the same protections given prisoners of war—an insistence that had earned him the butt of a rifle in his stomach the last time he’d made it—the conditions under which they were kept had been both primitive and deliberately intimidating. Her immediate fear that she might be subject to sexual assault had thankfully not proven true.

Of course, neither had her hope that the men who held them would ransom them to some of the friendly forces in the area come to fruition. And again, frustratingly, she knew that those forces were very close.

For one thing, they had been moved three times in as many weeks. In the distance behind them they had heard both small-arms fire and the sounds of heavy bombardment. Not surprisingly, considering what she knew about the reliability of U.S. humint in the region, their captors seemed to have better information than whoever was searching for them.

Please God, let them still be searching for us…

Mitchell’s hand, almost skeletal now, closed over hers. She turned back, looking down at him.

He was lying on a rough pallet of rugs and blankets, which were all they’d been provided in the way of bedding. Despite the cold mountain nights, she and the colonel had given most of their share of those to keep Mitchell as warm and comfortable as possible, even as the relentless infection spread from the bullet hole in his thigh throughout his body.

She should have known what kind of treatment they were in for when one of the horsemen who had surrounded the downed chopper shot the pilot as he’d climbed out of the cockpit, his hands in the air. Stern’s aide had reacted by going for the weapon he’d already thrown down. He had died in the attempt.

“It’s going to be okay,” Mike said.

She smiled at him in response, refusing to comment on that ridiculous promise.

“You got somebody, Grace?”

“What?”

“Somebody who’s waiting for you back home.”

Mitchell had already shown her pictures of his wife and two children, a little girl almost three and a six-month-old baby boy. She couldn’t begin to imagine what these weeks must have been like for them. And for Mike, of course, thinking about what their life would be without him.

“Not really,” she said.

“You should have.”

“I guess I’ve been too busy with other things,” she said, a trace of defensiveness creeping into her voice.

“Lying here like this… Thinking about it all…” He attempted a laugh, which turned into a cough. “I guess this sounds stupid, but lying here, I’ve been thinking about life. You know?”

Life and death. How well she knew.

“And what earth-shattering conclusions have you come to?”

She dipped the piece of cloth she’d torn from one of the blankets into the bucket of water at the head of his pallet. She used the rag to bathe his face, although by this late in the day, the temperature of the water she’d been allowed to bring inside the cave was almost as hot as the surrounding air. Still, it was cooler than the brow of the man who was literally burning up before her eyes.

“That it’s all that matters.”

“I’m sorry?”

Her attention had been momentarily distracted by the dry heat of his skin. It seemed hotter this afternoon than she had ever felt it before.

And she realized belatedly that it had been more than twelve hours since Mike had asked Stern to help him urinate. She wasn’t sure what that meant medically, but obviously it wasn’t anything good.

“Having somebody to love you. Somebody you love in return. It’s the only thing that matters.”

With her heart breaking for the young wife and children who had loved this good, strong man, she smiled at him, once more fighting the sting of tears.

“I need to work on that,” she said, squeezing the water out of the cloth and preparing to lay it over his forehead.

His hand lifted, grasping her wrist before she could. “I mean it.”

“I know. I know you do. It’s just that… Not all of us are as lucky as you and Karen. Some of us…” She hesitated, trying to find words to describe the long-ago decision that had left her so alone. “Either we don’t find the right person to share our lives with or they don’t feel the same way about us that we feel about them.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

Her immediate instinct was to lie. To cover up the heartbreak she’d never forgotten. The one she’d tried to bury in hard work and furthering her career.

Mike Mitchell deserved better than that from her. Besides, what in the world could it matter what she told him? They were never going to get out of here.

At least…he wasn’t.

“Yeah,” she said, turning her wrist gently to break his fragile hold. “That’s what happened to me.”

She laid the cloth on his forehead and then leaned back to meet his eyes. Despite the situation, his were filled with compassion.

“How long ago?”

“Too long. Way too long.”

“And there hasn’t been anyone else?”

“He was a pretty tough act to follow,” she said, smiling at him with lips that felt numb.

What the hell was she doing sitting in a cave in Afghanistan discussing Landon James with a dying man? Was this what her life had come down to?

“You ever try to contact him? Reconnect? I mean… People change. Maybe…”

Mike’s shoulders moved in an approximation of a shrug, which was followed by a pained twisting of his face. This time a small expression of discomfort emerged from between the cracked lips.

“I don’t think he would have, but no, I never contacted him.”

“Maybe when you get out of here, I mean…maybe you ought to try to get in touch with him.”

“Yeah. I think I’ll do that. When pigs fly,” she added, laughing a little at her stupid joke.

“What could it hurt?”

My pride. My self-image. My hard-earned sense of the completeness of my life as it is now.

Or my life as it was, she amended. Before we ended up here.

Yeah, things were damn good before you ended up here. That’s why you came home every night with a stack of research material. Highly entertaining. Better than a lover any day of the week.

Better than a lover who had wanted to be nothing more.

And you always had to have it all. The brass ring. The whole nine yards. All those other clichés. You couldn’t be satisfied with what Landon had to offer. All he had to offer.

“…just wish I’d said everything I felt.”

She came out of her reverie to catch the last part of what Mike was saying. It was enough, however, to let her know exactly what he was thinking.

“You will.” This time she acknowledged, to herself at least, the terrible lie that was. “Besides, even without the words, I think the people we love know how we feel about them.”

But that wasn’t good enough for you, was it? You had to have the words.

“God, I hope so,” the pilot whispered.

She nodded, unwilling to trust her voice. For a long time neither of them said anything. The light faded from the entrance to the cave and with it the daytime warmth.

Night would fall quickly now. A cold, black eternity during which she would lie on the clammy rock floor, listening to the breathing of the man who, in these short weeks, had become a friend.

Listening also to the measured pace of the guard outside. To the noises of the encampment. The restless movement of the horses. The occasional unrestrained laughter of their captors.

Listening until it all faded like a familiar soundtrack behind the images that would parade through her mind for hours as she slept. Landon’s hands on her body. His mouth lowering to claim hers. His laughter, rare and far more precious for its rarity.

What would it hurt to try? Mike Mitchell had asked her.

Maybe it wouldn’t, but she knew she couldn’t take the chance. All she had to measure that risk by was how very much it had hurt before.

“They’re planning to move us again,” Stern announced from the doorway where he’d been watching the activity outside.

She glanced down at Mike to gauge his reaction and found his eyes closed, his breathing shallow but regular. It was just as well he hadn’t heard, she decided as she got carefully to her feet, leaving the damp cloth lying across his brow. She didn’t want to think what it would cost him to make another relocation. He had been measurably worse after the last.

“How do you know?” she whispered to Stern as she crossed to the entrance.

“They’re packing. They aren’t hurrying with it, and the cooking utensils are still out, so it won’t be tonight. Probably tomorrow before dawn.”

That had been the timing of the first two moves. The third had occurred shortly after midnight, a hurried scramble that had obviously been the result of some last-minute decision or threat.

“Do you think that means someone’s located us?”

Without lifting his eyes from their contemplation of the camp, Stern said, “If we’re lucky. Except that every time they do…”

She knew what he meant. Every time the people searching for them got close, they were moved. It was like a game of chess. Or like the children’s game of hide-and-seek, with their captors knowing all the best hiding places.

Neither she nor Stern could figure out why they were still dragging the three of them around. The best-case scenario was that the men holding them were in the process of negotiating an exchange. The fact that they didn’t appear to care if Mitchell died, however, seemed to counter that hopeful theory.

The worst case was probably that she and Stern were being offered for sale to someone, maybe Al-Qaeda, for whom they would have value as sources of information. In that situation, Mike would clearly be expendable.

“Maybe this time they’ll find us.”

And maybe pigs really will fly, she thought, negating her own comment.

After all, she was here because she had conveyed this exact reality to Congress: Human intelligence gathering in this region had been virtually nonexistent for years, and it was impossible to identify from satellite images what the people hiding in these caves were doing.

“I don’t understand why they haven’t mounted a larger-scale campaign to get us back,” Stern said.

Maybe because you had the misfortune to get captured with me.

Grace had never expressed that feeling aloud, but her conviction—that the people in charge of “special activities” here had just as soon she never be found—had grown with each passing day. It would be a shame if Stern and Mike were to be sacrificed because of her supposed sins, but there was very little she could do about it if that were the case. Not here. And not now.

“How is he?” Stern finally looked up, pulling his attention briefly from the flurry of activity outside.

“I think he’s dying,” Grace said softly.

“Then I hope to God he does it before morning.”

GRACE HAD NO IDEA how long it had been since she’d lain down. Long enough that she was deeply asleep when the hand on her shoulder roughly shook her awake and short enough that it felt as if she’d had no rest at all.

She opened her eyes to find a man she’d never seen before stooping beside her. Although his mustache was coal black, it wasn’t very full, almost as if he might recently have been clean shaven.

A patch covered his right eye. Glittering in the light from the dying fire, the remaining one seemed as cold and as black as the night.

He had said nothing, simply crouching beside her. Of course, he didn’t need to issue instructions. By this time she knew the drill.

She shrugged her shoulder away, freeing it from the touch of his hand, and began to rise. He grabbed her arm, turning her toward him again.

She looked up in shock and found that he had one finger across his lips, the universal sign for silence. She nodded her understanding and immediately he released her.

As she began to roll up her blanket, he stood, the move accomplished in one smoothly athletic motion, and walked over to where Stern was wrapped in his own blanket, his back to the fire. Grace was surprised that the colonel, usually a light sleeper, hadn’t already awakened, but then, the man moved virtually without sound across the floor of the cave.

He bent, touching Stern on the shoulder, just as he had her. The colonel rolled over, looking up at him in the dim firelight. Again the man put his finger over his lips.

He said something, his tone so low that Grace was unable to distinguish the words, although she had managed to pick up a little of their captors’ dialect since the crash. In response to the man’s comment, Stern pointed toward the heavily shadowed interior portion of the cave where Mitchell slept.

They had moved him there themselves that afternoon in an attempt to get him into a cooler area during the fierce heat of midday. Tonight they hadn’t had the heart to try to move him back nearer the fire. They had simply piled the remaining blankets around him, despite the heat that emanated from his ravaged body.

Before the man who had awakened them went back to the pilot’s pallet, he said something else to the colonel, who nodded. Grace watched as he walked by her, headed, she assumed, to arouse Mitchell.

“Come on. We have to get ready to go.”

She turned to find Stern standing beside her, close enough that she had understood his whisper. She nodded, reaching down for the blanket she’d already rolled up.

“Leave it,” the colonel said, taking her arm.

“But—”

“Shh…” he cautioned, drawing her across the cave to the entrance where he crouched, pulling her down beside him.

It took Grace a second or two to realize why it seemed so eerily silent outside. The tread of the guard stationed at the entrance to the cave, so familiar it had become like the noise of her own heartbeat, was missing.

“Where’s the—”

“Shh…” Stern whispered again.

She closed her mouth, considering the possible implications of his repeated warnings and the absence of the guard. The only logical conclusion for both—

“Let’s go.”

The man with the eye patch was back, standing behind them. That was her first realization. The second was that he had just whispered instructions to them in English.

English that had been spoken with an American accent.

“What about Mike?” she asked, looking up into a lean face that, partially lit by the dying fire, seemed as sinister as that of any of their captors.

“He’s dead.” The intonation of those two words had been flat. And final.

And they had not provided nearly enough information. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“It won’t take but a minute—”

As she rose and attempted to move past him, the stranger grasped her arm, pulling her around so that he could grip shoulders. Although he never raised his voice above a whisper, each word he spoke was clear and distinct.

“You never did know to shut up and do what you’re told, did you, Gracie? That’s why I had to come halfway around the world to find you. Mitchell’s dead. Believe me, I’ve seen enough dead men to know. And if you don’t stop asking questions, we’re all going to be joining him. I don’t know about you, of course, but personally, that’s something I’d prefer to avoid.”

Chapter Three

Landon supposed it must have been satisfying in some way to see the shock explode in those wide blue eyes as Grace finally realized who he was. He couldn’t think of any other reason for the brutal way he’d handled the revelation.

He knew he’d changed. And some of the differences were more obvious than others. That didn’t excuse what he’d done, but it might help explain it.

She so obviously hadn’t known who he was, despite the fact that he could have picked her out of any size crowd and at any distance simply by the way she carried herself. That hadn’t changed, in spite of the primitive conditions she’d been living in and his suspicion that she hadn’t had a real bath or a mirror since her capture.

Or maybe, he acknowledged, his response had been prompted by what he’d read in her face when he’d told her the pilot was dead. It was clear she’d been devastated, although, judging by the condition of the man in the back of the cave, she couldn’t have been surprised.

He had allowed himself a few seconds to wonder about her relationship with Mitchell before he’d forced his full attention back to the mission. Whatever—if anything—had been going on between the pilot and Grace, it was certainly over now.

His infamous luck had apparently held. It would have been hell trying to get the injured man out of the encampment and through the pass to where their transport was waiting. Thank God, Grace and Stern appeared to be in good physical condition, considering the circumstances.

“I hope you both ride,” he said, his gaze still focused beyond the entrance of the cave on the sleeping camp.

Deliberately he didn’t look at them. Nor had his comment been phrased as a question. He knew that Grace was an excellent horsewoman. If Stern couldn’t ride, he would have to manage the best he could.

It had been impossible to get any kind of vehicle to the plateau where their captors had set up their camp. That was the intent in choosing this location, of course. If Landon couldn’t figure out a way to get a truck or a Hummer up here, then neither could the Special Forces units who were searching the border for the missing Americans.

“I have ridden,” Stern whispered, “but…I’m afraid it’s been a long time.”

“Like riding a bicycle.” Landon had no idea if that was true, but there was no point in discouraging Stern. Not now.

He watched the silhouette of the guard assigned to the perimeter of the camp cross in front of the central fire. He was patiently waiting for him to reach the most distant point of his patrol before they made their move.

“We go to the right when we leave,” he instructed in a whisper. “Keep close to the rocks and watch your footing. Make any noise, and we’re all dead. The horses are in a rope enclosure about a hundred yards away.”

“Won’t they follow us?”

Obviously, the colonel hadn’t seen enough John Wayne movies. Their captors might try, but once he freed the horses, taking them along as they rode away, any tribesmen who followed would be doing so on foot.

“We take the horses with us,” Landon said, watching the steady advance of the perimeter guard.

He had already dispatched the one stationed at the entrance of the cave by the simple expedient of breaking his neck. Despite the obvious preparations the group had made for leaving the encampment, all of which he’d watched at sunset, the sentinels had been surprisingly lax.

Or maybe they were overconfident. After all, they had managed to avoid everyone who’d been sent to find them. Why should they believe that tonight would be any different?

“Now.”

As he whispered the command, Landon slipped out of the entrance. In a crouching run he headed toward the corral where the movements of the grazing horses had hidden his approach tonight.

The clothing he’d bought in a village more than a hundred miles away carried in its fabric the same smells as the robes worn by the men with whom those animals were intimately familiar: sweat, smoke and dust.

He hadn’t worried about Grace and the colonel betraying their presence among the horses. After three weeks of living in a cave, they, too, would undoubtedly smell the same to those sensitive noses.

Landon glanced back to track their progress. The flickering firelight, enhanced by shadows cast from the peaks surrounding the encampment, made it difficult to follow their movements. Which was exactly what he’d been counting on.

He took time to check the remaining guard, who, having reached the point most distant from camp, had taken the opportunity to smoke. Landon watched him raise the cigarette to his mouth, the tip growing brighter as he drew on it and then brought it down again.

He felt Grace ease to a stop beside him. He could hear her breathing, soft but irregular from the run she’d just made. He waited until Stern joined them, knowing it would be better if they made their raid on the horses together. Hopefully, by the time the sleeping tribesmen were aware anything was amiss, they would be mounted and away.

Hopefully.

“What about saddles?” Stern leaned across Grace to whisper.

He sounded worried, as he probably should be. Landon had anticipated from the first that the colonel could be the weak link in the escape, but after all, Stern wasn’t his chief concern.

He had known Grace could easily pull this part off. She had almost made one of the Olympic equestrian teams when she’d been a teen. He had remembered that when this rescue had still been in the planning stages.

Actually, he remembered everything she’d ever told him. That particular piece of information had been revealed in a conversation about their childhood memories. One they’d shared during a long rainy afternoon they had spent mostly in bed.

And of course conversation hadn’t been all they’d shared that day. Which was something it would be better not to think about right now.

“They leave them saddled,” he assured the colonel.

Most of the time that precaution made sense. It provided a means for a fast getaway, in a region that was rife with conflict. Although the soft saddles were probably like nothing either of them had ever ridden before, the fact that the horses were kept saddled was one of the things Landon had believed would make success possible when he’d come up with the idea to steal them.

He watched as the sentry’s cigarette was carried upward again. Then suddenly its red tip disappeared from sight. There had been no arching glow that would indicate he’d thrown it down. Apparently the guard had turned to look out over the sheer rock face that guarded the mountainside approach to the camp.

“Now,” Landon whispered, making his move toward the horses.

He didn’t look back, not even when he found the rope that had been stretched across the mouth of the narrow fissure where the animals were penned. Entrapped by that and the rock walls at their backs, the animals were effectively corralled for the night and yet ready at a moment’s notice.

The three of them were about to do exactly what Grace’s captors would have done if the camp had been raided. Once mounted, they would jump the low rope barrier and ride across the plateau and start down the steep, winding trail these same animals had been brought up only days ago.

As Landon moved among them, searching for the brown and white mare he’d chosen for Grace, the horses began to mill, trying to avoid the humans in their midst. He finally captured the mare, grasping her simple rope bridle to draw her with him. He turned, looking for Grace, and realized she was attempting to help Stern catch the lead of one of the others.

“Grace,” he hissed.

Unable to see the guard or his cigarette because of the press of horseflesh, Landon had no idea if anyone in the camp was yet aware of what was going on. With the noise the horses were making, however, he knew it wouldn’t be long before they did.

He dragged the mare over to where Grace was trying to control a big roan long enough to allow Stern to get his foot into the stirrup. The ineptness of the colonel’s technique was agitating the horse, making his task even more difficult.

“Here.” Landon attempted to take Grace by the elbow to direct her toward the mare. She resisted, jerking away from him almost angrily.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “Get on the damn horse.”

“When Colonel Stern’s mounted.”

Landon could tell by the set of her mouth that she meant what she said. He could argue with her until the camp was aroused or he could do what he should have done in the first place.

“I’ll see to Stern,” he snapped.

He pressed the mare’s lead into her fingers, which automatically closed around it. Then he took the roan’s bridle, pulling the horse’s head down firmly and holding it.

“Get up,” he ordered.

The older man made a valiant effort, eventually managing after another failed attempt to pull himself into the thin saddle. By then, Landon could hear shouts coming from the direction of the camp. Apparently the guard had finally finished his cigarette and figured out something was going on.

Landon flung the roan’s lead up to Stern. Without waiting to see whether the colonel would take charge of his mount, he turned to find Grace already in the saddle. In contrast to the roan’s restiveness, her mare stood docilely, having already acknowledged her control.

“You’ll have to ride through the center of the camp,” he directed, looking up into her pale face in the darkness. “No matter what happens to me or Stern, just keep riding. There are Special Forces units all over this area looking for you.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Right behind you.” As he made that assurance, he caught the stirrup of a bay that had been pushed against him by the restless herd.

“Can Stern—”

“I’ll take care of Stern,” he shouted, knowing by the commotion he could hear quite clearly now there was no longer any need for stealth.

“…to get separated.”

In the process of swinging into the saddle, Landon hadn’t caught the whole of that. It wasn’t important, he decided. All that was important now—

Directing his mount near the rear of Grace’s, he brought the flat of his hand down on the mare’s rump. He would never have done something like that if he hadn’t had complete confidence in Grace’s abilities. A faith that was clearly justified.

The mare surged forward, attempting to fight her way through the throng of milling animals. She approached the low rope at a dead gallop, and with Grace’s urging, easily cleared it.

Landon turned to search for Stern. He found the colonel still trying to get the roan headed in the direction of the plateau. He dug his heels into the flanks of the bay, urging him through the mass of horses, which seemed to seethe now with a life of its own. There was only one solution to the problem presented by the colonel’s ineptitude in the saddle.

“Hold on,” Landon yelled before he reached down and cut the rope barrier with the knife he’d taken from inside the belt he wore over his tunic.

He kicked his mount again, sending it thundering across the plateau and toward the tribesmen who were now stumbling out of tents and caves, weapons in hand. He glanced back to see the other horses following his lead, and Stern still miraculously astride the roan.

Ahead of them Grace had reached the center of the encampment. A dozen hands grabbed at her as she rode through the midst of her captors. Undeterred by their attempts to stop her, she, too, was urging her horse on, seemingly indifferent to the men who tried to slow her by throwing themselves in front of the mare.

Go on, Landon urged silently, his own mount racing across the open ground. Behind him he could hear the panicked horses pounding over the hard-packed earth of the plateau. They would provide a much-needed distraction, but he knew now there was too much distance between them and Grace.

He should have gone first. He should have left Stern to fend for himself and taken care of the woman he’d come here to find. He should have—

One of the reaching hands had locked around the mare’s lightweight saddle. Although the horse was still moving at a near gallop, the tribesman showed no inclination to give up his hold. He clung on the horse’s side, literally being dragged along the ground like an anchor.

And his grim determination finally paid off. He slowed Grace’s mount enough that another man was able to grab the stirrup on the opposite side. Instead of being dragged, he ran alongside the flagging horse.

Grace struck at him repeatedly, using the end of the lead like a whip. He refused to let go, despite several direct blows to the face.

Of course, if they allowed their captives to get away, the consequences would undoubtedly be severe, especially for those who were supposed to be on guard tonight. Tribal justice in this setting was both swift and harsh.

By now gunfire had been added to the shouts echoing off the towering rocks that surrounding them. Landon could only hope that the Afghans, surprised from sleep, were firing wildly rather than taking aim at the riders in their midst.

He glanced behind him again, realizing only then how close the stampeding horses were. Stern was still clinging to the back of his, but it was obvious that’s all he was doing. The animal was out of control, running wildly with the others.

Landon turned back toward the center of camp in time to see Grace being pulled off the mare. Although she fought desperately, she was overpowered by the three men who had surrounded her horse.

One of them grasped her from behind, his arm encircling her waist as he attempted to drag her toward the cave where Landon had found her. Once inside, and with the camp now fully aroused, Landon knew he’d never be able to get to her again.

Stretched low over the neck of the bay, he spurred the horse directly toward the man holding Grace. When he reached them, he pulled up, his mount rearing against the sudden sharp drag on the bit.

With the Glock he’d taken from his belt, he took aim, blocking from his mind the reality of how close that blond head was to the dark one of her captive. He fired just as the bay’s front hooves returned to the earth.

Without waiting for the man he’d shot to fall, Landon held out his hand, controlling his mount with his knees and thighs. Without hesitation Grace put her fingers into his.

At the same time she put her left foot on top of his boot, which was still in the stirrup. He pulled, and, as if this were a trick they’d rehearsed a thousand times, she vaulted onto the back of the bay, settling behind him.

As she did, the first of the panicked herd reached them, knocking down the other men who had helped stop the mare. Once more Landon dug in his heels, his mount mingling with the horses charging through the camp, flattening everything in their path. There was another wild volley of shots, but he didn’t look back, aware that because of her position behind him, Grace was exposed and highly vulnerable.

Aware also that at the other side of the plateau was that treacherous trail, part of which he’d explored last night. Steep and rugged, it was dangerous in daylight. To traverse it in the darkness, riding a horse that was on the edge of panic, would be near suicidal.

Near was the operative word, he decided, feeling Grace’s arms tighten around his waist. There was no limiting adjective involved in what would happen if they turned back now.

“Hold on,” he said unnecessarily, giving the bay his head as the horse began the plunge down the mountainside.

Chapter Four

By necessity Grace’s fingers were locked in the coarse fabric of the long vest Landon wore over his tunic. She lowered her head, pressing her cheek against his spine as she held on for dear life.

Since Landon had shown up, a hundred emotions had bombarded her, coming at her so rapidly that she was almost overwhelmed. Right now fear was primary, of course. Concern for Colonel Stern. Rage and grief over Mitchell’s senseless and tragic death.

She was also aware of a strange sense of self-betrayal. During the long days of their captivity, she had come to terms with the possibility that she would die.

After her talk with Mitchell last night, she had also reconciled herself to idea that it was too late to change anything about the way she had lived her life to this point, even if she wanted to. Although she had determined she would fight to her last breath to stay alive, she had reached a necessary inner peace about whatever fate had in store for her.

Until tonight. Until Landon James had unexpectedly taken a hand in the game. And, she admitted, until her body had once more come into intimate contact with the hard, unyielding muscles of the only man she’d ever loved.

She had been aware that Landon was no longer employed by the Agency. She had also known—only because she had finally broken down and asked Griff—that he wasn’t working for the Phoenix. The latest information Griff had had was that he was operating as an independent security consultant, primarily for companies forced to operate in the world’s hot spots.

Now, surprisingly, he was back in Afghanistan, trying to engineer a rescue of her and Stern. And unless the State Department was footing the bill, she couldn’t imagine why he would be.

“Hang on,” he said again, throwing the words over his shoulder.

As if she could do anything else, she had time to think, before she was literally forced to obey. The bay, which had been galloping at a breakneck speed down the trail, suddenly veered sharply to the left, allowing the horses behind him to sweep by on the right.

She turned her head in time to see one of them lose its footing on the treacherous trail. Stones ricocheted down the sheer rock face of the mountain, taking the floundering animal with them. Its scream as it fell echoed off the cliffs and ridges.

The bay, sides heaving, was slowly being forced to a stop. Tired, and its initial panic spent, the trembling animal gradually obeyed the hand on its reins. Landon guided the horse against the wall on their left at a point where the trail widened slightly, holding the exhausted animal there almost by force of will as the rest of the herd roared by.

Although Grace tried to peer through the darkness as the horses passed, she saw no sign of a rider on any of them. As the last stragglers came down the trail, Landon began to dismount.

Startled, she automatically tried to hold on to him, but he swung his right leg over the horse’s neck and slid out of the saddle. As soon as he was on the ground, he held up his arms to her, indicating that she should dismount, as well.

Except this made no sense. They had had the advantage. They were on horseback, while their pursuers were on foot.

All they had to do to be safe was ride into the valley below. Landon himself had told her there were people looking for them there, so why in the world—

“Get down,” he urged as she hesitated.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to get you out of this mess, but I swear I’m beginning to believe you like the lifestyle. Get off the damn horse, Grace, before I pull you off.”

He took a step forward, preparing to put his hands around her waist. She knew he would do what he’d threatened, no matter how much she protested. He was ruthless enough to manhandle her if he believed it was necessary.

In an attempt to keep him from touching her, she slipped her foot into the stirrup and swung down from the saddle. As soon as she hit the ground, he reached around her and slapped the bay on the rump, just as he had done earlier to her mare.

As the animal skittered nervously forward, Landon hit it again, sending it down the trail with a couple of others who were bringing up the rear of the stampede. As the horses clattered away, Grace could hear shouts coming from the direction of the camp.

A pursuit was being organized. Some of her former captors might even be mounted by now, if they’d been able to catch the stragglers from the string Landon had freed.

He grabbed her hand, pulling her along the sheer rock wall that rose high above their heads, blocking the stars. They’d gone less than twenty feet when Landon ducked, dragging her down with him.

Her first thought was that he’d heard someone behind them. Then she realized he was guiding her through the entrance of another of the natural caves that dotted these mountains.

This one, in contrast to the spacious cavern where she’d been held prisoner, was small, its entrance low and narrow. Once they’d squeezed inside it, she realized how very little room there was. Landon immediately pushed her against the stone wall and then pressed his body over hers, shushing her attempted protest.

“Listen,” he hissed into her ear.

For several long heartbeats she obeyed, not daring to breathe as their pursuers came nearer and nearer. And she’d been right about the horses. At least some had been caught. Their riders shouted questions and directions to one another as they bolted past the narrow entrance that concealed their hiding place.

Despite the danger of having her captors only a few feet away, Grace was conscious of Landon’s body pressed against hers. She tried to put his nearness out of her mind, thinking instead about what might have happened to Colonel Stern.

He had probably been recaptured before he could get out of the camp. After all, if it hadn’t been for Landon’s intervention, she, too, would have been retaken once she was surrounded.

As hard as it was for her to believe, considering the terms on which they’d parted, his principle concern had seemed to be getting her out rather than mounting a rescue operation that would include all of them. That wasn’t enough for her, however.

“What about Stern?”

Despite the softness of her whisper, Landon’s “Shh” was as clearly a command as any he’d given out on the trail. She obeyed, but only because she understood that if they were retaken, there would be no hope for the other American. If they managed to escape, they could eventually get help and come back for Stern.

After several minutes without any sound from beyond the entrance to the cave, she put her hands flat on Landon’s chest and pushed. He leaned back, increasing the space between their torsos slightly, but he refused to release her, his hips still pressed intimately against hers.

“They’re gone,” she whispered.

“They’ll be back.”

“Until they are…” she suggested, increasing the pressure against his chest.

The darkness inside the cave was almost total. She couldn’t see Landon’s face, much less read his expression. All she knew was that he hadn’t moved away as she’d asked, other than that initial lean.

“Whatever you think you’re doing, it isn’t welcome.” Her voice rose on the last as anger overcame her fear. “I’d really appreciate it if you’d get the hell off me.” She punctuated the final sentence with another shove against his chest.

“You’re wearing white.”

The words were so low that for a moment she wondered if she had misheard them. And then, in a rush of understanding, she knew what he feared.

The sleeveless vest Landon wore over his tunic was black. With his body over hers and his back toward the entrance of the cave, he was effectively hiding the pale silk blouse and linen slacks she wore, as well as his own lighter-colored tunic.

Now that she’d made a fool of herself again, she thought with a trace of bitterness, she should shut up and wait for him to tell her their next move. That would be the smart thing to do, but then she’d never done the smart thing where Landon James was concerned.

“Since they’re gone…” she began, only to be interrupted by a noise on the trail outside.

Landon again leaned forward, putting his forehead against hers. She didn’t dare protest, not with whoever was outside so close.

Suddenly she was aware of the breathtakingly familiar scent of Landon’s body. Not the dusty miasma of his clothing, but the fragrance of his skin. Something she had once known as well as her own face in the mirror.

She closed her eyes as memories washed over her in a wave of hunger so strong nothing else seemed to matter. Not the threat of the tribesmen outside. Not Stern. Not even the very good reasons for which she had destroyed what had been between them all those years ago.

“Let’s go,” he whispered, again increasing the space between their bodies.

She opened her eyes, surprised to find they had now adjusted to the darkness enough that she could see his face. The dark patch and the mustache distorted his features, making them alien. And exactly what she’d thought before, sinister.

“What about them?”

“I think that was the last.”

“But… When they don’t find us down below, they’ll come back.”

He didn’t bother to respond, taking her hand instead to lead her toward the lesser blackness that represented the cave’s narrow entrance. He stooped beside it for a moment, checking the trail outside. Then he slipped through, obviously expecting her to follow.

Once outside, she took a deep breath of the cool night air, letting it clear her head as her eyes examined the trail below. Landon had apparently been right. In the distance she could hear the occasional shout and the sound of horses clattering over the rocks as her captors searched for them. They had been fooled by his trick, just as he’d anticipated.

“Now what?”

He turned at her question. “We go up.”

“Up?”

“Back toward the plateau.”

“But…”

“Don’t worry. We’ll skirt the encampment. By the time they figure out that we aren’t down there—” he tilted his head in the direction of the valley below “—we’ll be on the other side of the mountain.”

The other side of the mountain…

She looked up, her gaze tracing the peak that seemed to reach to the sky. The tribe’s horses had struggled up the trail to where they’d set up camp, and that was less than a third of the way up the mountain.

Surely Landon didn’t intend for them to cross it on foot and without supplies. Not even water, she realized, her heart sinking.

“Let’s go,” he said once more, putting his hand under her elbow to urge her up the trail.

“You’re seriously proposing that we go over the mountain?” she asked as she automatically began to follow him.

“Not over the top. There’s a footpath that skirts around it. It won’t be easy, but…we don’t have a lot of other choices.”

As if to punctuate his words, from below came the sound of an explosion. It was clearly not the small-arms fire she’d heard the day the chopper had been brought down. This was ordinance, only she had no idea who could be firing it.

“What was that?”

“It sounds like an unexpected reception for our friends.”

Unexpected to him? Or only to the tribesmen he’d sent down the trail? Had they encountered the Special Forces operatives Landon had told her were in the area? The ones who had necessitated the expected change in location of the camp.

If so, then why were the two of them headed in the opposite direction? Why weren’t they attempting to make contact with the good guys?

“Is that—whatever’s happening down there—something you arranged?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I wish I had that much influence.”

“You said people were looking for us.”

“They are. Somewhere. Maybe even down there. The problem is I don’t have way of knowing who that is. And until I do, I don’t intend to initiate contact. Sorry to disappoint you, Gracie, but for the time being we’re on our own.”

“Don’t call me that.”

She was already beginning to breathe more rapidly with the pace he’d set, but she thought she heard him laugh. That had always been Landon’s reaction to anything that even remotely smacked of her trying to tell him what to do. He wasn’t a man who took direction. Not about anything.

“Anna Grace Chancellor,” he said, mocking her anger over the nickname only he had ever used for her. “So who the hell did you piss off enough to end up in Afghanistan?”

“The same people you did, I imagine.”

The words were a little breathless, her voice lacking force as she struggled to keep up. It didn’t matter how loud those words had been, of course. Even if they’d been whispered, they were cruel enough to carry their own impact.

Whatever had driven Landon James from the Agency had happened here in Afghanistan. That much she knew. But there had been a conspiracy of silence—at least as far as she was concerned—about the details.

He turned, looking at her over his shoulder. “You have changed.”

“Everybody changes. It’s been a long time.”

“Not long enough, it seems, that you’ve forgotten.”

Or forgiven, she thought. “Have you?”

“Only the unimportant things. This is where we go across.”

He stopped, allowing her to catch up. Despite the gunfire from the valley below, in the nighttime stillness she could hear the labored sound of her own breathing.

The moonlight illuminated the path he was indicating they should take. Even in comparison to the steepness of the trail that led up to the plateau, the ascent looked impossible. It ran straight up the rock face, hand and toe holds invisible in the darkness.

“I hope all those years of sitting behind a desk haven’t taken too great a toll.”

Without waiting for a response to his gibe, Landon began to clamber over the rocks, seeming to locate the next hold intuitively. Grace watched him for maybe ten seconds before she admitted that, no matter how she might feel about him, she had no choice about this.

She could follow Landon, or she could wait here for her captors to find her. Mike Mitchell was dead, and Stern might be, as well. Although she had not felt the affinity for the colonel that she and the pilot had quickly found, he had been another American. Someone to talk to. Someone with whom to share her concerns about whatever was going to happen next.

If she broke with Landon, then she would be on her own. And very much alone.

It had already become evident that the tribesmen who’d captured her were unwilling to negotiate an exchange. She and the others had been held for some purpose, and without knowing exactly what that purpose was…

She put her hand on the rock, pulling herself up onto the slope Landon was climbing. She could hear him above her, but she refused to look up, fiercely concentrating instead on finding the next fingerhold.

After all, there would be plenty of time after tonight’s journey was over to wonder about what would come next. And time, too, to worry about the very different kind of danger being in such close proximity to Landon James would pose for her emotions.

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