Gayle Wilson - Take No Prisoners

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.

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.