Elle James - One Intrepid Seal

She snorted. “Wake up and smell the coffee, Ferrence.” As soon as she mentioned coffee, her belly rumbled. The only thing they’d been given to eat were a couple of bananas and unbaked sweet potatoes. Fortunately, they’d been supplied bottled water to drink, thus saving their stomachs from parasites. But the last bottle of water had been on the second morning. “It’s been three days. If they don’t get their ransom money soon, they might decide to kill us and hide the bodies.”

“We’re still equipped with the GPS tracking devices,” Ferrence argued. “They’re probably on their way as we speak.”

“Are you willing to risk it? Do you really think these men will wait much longer? Just today, they were fighting among themselves. At least sit up and let me see if I can untie the ropes on your wrists.”

He did as she asked, scooting around to put his back to hers.

Reese had already tried to untie her bonds or to rub the rope against something coarse, but she was confined to the tent, and nothing inside the tent presented itself as a coarse surface.

She fumbled with the ropes on Ferrence’s wrists, finally finding the end and working it back through one of the knots.

She’d broken out in a sweat by the time she’d freed Ferrence’s hands. “Now me. Untie my hands.”

“When I get my feet done.” He leaned away from her and grunted.

Reese grit her teeth. “Think about it, Ferrence. If you untie my wrists first, we can both untie our feet at the same time.”

“I’ve got it,” he said, triumphantly, and then turned to work at the knots on her wrists. “Yours are tighter.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “I don’t think I can get it.”

“Try harder,” she urged.

Finally, she felt the ropes give, and she shook her hands free. She immediately bent to the task of untying her legs. “If the guard comes back, pretend your wrists and ankles are still tied.”

“Like hell. I’m getting out of here.”

“Wait until I’m free,” she said. “We need to stick together.”

“You’re fast. You can catch up.” He lifted the back of the tent, stared out at the night and whispered, “I don’t see anyone out there. I think we can make a run for it.”

“Wait—” Her hands still fumbling with the knots around her ankles, Reese couldn’t lunge after Ferrence. He was out the back of the tent and gone.

“Son of a b—” The end slipped through the knot and the ropes fell away from her ankles. A grunt sounded outside the front of the tent, and something fell, landing hard against the ground.

Not willing to stick around to find out what it was, Reese ducked beneath the bottom of the tent, rolled out and sprang to her feet. She ran for the nearest trees and bushes.

A shout rang out to her right, and then all hell broke loose.

Shots were fired, men yelled and chaos reigned. Reese didn’t slow down, didn’t stop, just kept running until she hit a wall. She hit the obstacle so hard, she bounced off and landed on her butt. Refusing to be captured again, she shot to her feet and dodged to the left.

A hand snaked out and grabbed her arm.

She rolled beneath the arm, sank her elbow into what she hoped was the man’s belly and hit what felt like solid steel. Pain shot through her arm. She’d likely chipped her elbow.

Whoever had hold of her was wearing an armored plate. Having been caught and tortured before, she refused to be a victim again. She kicked her foot hard, connecting with the man’s shin.

He yelled and almost lost his grip on her arm.

Reese took advantage of the loosened hold and yanked herself free.

Before she could run two steps, arms wrapped around her waist from behind, and she was lifted off the ground. She struggled, kicked and wiggled, but nothing she could do would free her of the man holding her.

“Damn it, hold still,” a man’s voice whispered against her ear, his breath warm and surprisingly minty.

Reese recognized the American accent immediately. “Who are you? Why are you holding me captive?” She fought again. Many Americans hired out as mercenaries. This could be one of them.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” He grunted when her heel made contact with his thigh. “Damn it, I’m here to rescue you.” He dropped her to the ground so fast, she lost her footing and crumpled into a heap at his feet.

More gunfire sounded behind her. Where the hell was Ferrence? Had the rebels shot him for trying to escape?

This time, when she tried to get up, the man in the armored vest laid a hand on her shoulder and dropped low beside her. “Stay down. You don’t know the direction they’re shooting.” He stayed close to her, and then he said. “Get him out of here.”

“What?” she asked.

“We’re getting Klein out of here.”

“Not without me,” she said. “He’s my client.” Reese started to get up, but that hand on her shoulder kept her down. “Who are you?”

“My team was sent to get you two out of here.”

“Your team?” She glanced around. “Are you Spec Ops?”

“Shh,” he said. “Someone’s coming.”

In the limited light making its way through the canopy of foliage, Reese could make out the silhouette of a man carrying a weapon. She lay low against the ground. The man beside her flattened himself, as well.

Neither moved a muscle as the man carrying what appeared to be an AK-47 passed inches away from where they lay.

More shouts rose up from the rebels in the camp. A motor sounded close by, and flashlights lit up the area.

The man with the AK-47 turned and almost walked over them on his way back to camp. Thankfully, he must have been too blinded by the lights to see what was right next to him.

Once the rebel fighter was out of hearing range, the man beside Reese spoke softly. “Looks like they’re getting into their boat.”

Reese peered through the darkness. All she could see were flashlights heading away from her and the occasional man caught in the beam. The camp was emptying out, heading for the river.

“They’re heading south,” the man said softly. “Your direction. Don’t wait on me. Get Klein out of here, now. I have Brantley. We’ll find our own way back. I’ll contact you when we’re out of danger. Don’t argue. Just go.”

Reese was only half-listening to her rescuer’s side of a conversation. Some of the men appeared to be climbing aboard a boat. The others turned around, shining lights toward the jungle. She tugged on the sleeve of the man beside her. “We’ve got a problem.” She rose onto her haunches. “Some of them are coming this way with flashlights.”

* * *

BRANTLEY WAS RIGHT. Diesel glanced around. The men were coming toward them and spreading out, heading south along the river. A shout went up when they found their sentry.

“Follow me. And for the love of God, stay low,” he commanded. He led the way deeper into the jungle and turned north, praying he didn’t get them lost. He figured, as long as he had a GPS device on his wrist, he’d be all right. If they had to, they’d travel all the way to Kinshasa, the capital of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and show up on the doorstep of the US Embassy, claiming some lame excuse of being tourists who’d fallen off a riverboat cruise.

In the meantime, they had to get away from the gun-toting rebels who’d just as soon shoot first and ask questions of a corpse later. Especially since they’d found one of their own dead.

A shout sounded behind him. He glanced back at Brantley. Lights flashed toward them. “Run,” he urged.

They gave up all attempt at quiet and charged through the jungle. The head start they had on the rebels would help, but they couldn’t keep running forever. They needed to find a place to hide.