Without his NVGs, Xavier was forced to resort to his red-tipped flashlight to illuminate the ground directly beneath their feet. She followed close at his heels, stepping where he stepped as they moved slowly and silently, always on the alert for tangos and SEALs as they traversed the slippery rainforest.
The team knew better than to signal trainers if they spotted them in the woods. After all, they were being judged on their ability to move through the forest unseen. If they spotted him, they’d tuck down and hide, presuming Xavier was a fake tango on patrol.
There was nothing he could do to change that, not without exposing Audrey to the men who’d killed Jeb. One of those men had already come after her with a knife, while another had left Cohen’s finger on a worktable as a message.
He couldn’t let her become collateral damage in…whatever this war was they were fighting.
At last, they reached the woods behind the blacksmith shop. Xavier studied the silhouette of her SUV. It was only ten feet away, and he was barely able to see it in the inky darkness and shroud of incessant rain. With no other choice, he shined a light on the vehicle.
Motherfucker. The front tire was flat.
He shined the beam on the rear tire. Also flat.
Audrey’s audible curses were an echo of his mental ones. “Are those bullet holes in the gas tank?”
He focused the light on the rear panel and could just make out dark dots around the tank. He snapped the beam off. “Yes.”
Audrey’s SUV wasn’t going anywhere.
He pulled her into the darker shadows of the woods. He felt her shiver as this new reality sank in. “I’m sorry, Audrey,” he whispered.
She leaned her forehead against his chest. Rain hit her coat, splashing him in the face. “I knew it was too much to hope for, that there was a way out. That I could call for help.” She raised her face, and he could just see the shape of her nose and chin in the inky darkness. Her voice shook. “This is not my skill set. I’m a liability. I’m scared I could get us both killed.”
He cradled her face. “I’m safer with you than I am alone.” He ran his thumbs across her cheeks, wet from the rain. “And I will do everything I can to get you out of here.”
She pulled her head back, twisting slightly to remove his hands.
He’d overstepped. “I’m sorry. I—I—I’m just sorry. Sorry I got you into this. Sorry I touched you.”
“I started it. But…I’m just scared and not thinking straight.”
He reminded himself she had pretty much zero reason to trust him now or ever again. That she’d hung with him for the past hour without complaint was a testament to their predicament.
“We’ll head to the lodge, try to find the SEALs.” In the pounding rain, it would be difficult to hear birdcalls that would signal the SEALs, so odds were they’d stay firmly hidden, but they were out of options. “We’ve got sixteen allies in these woods, and they’re among the best-trained men on the planet. We’ll find them and coordinate our efforts to get you out of here and find the other trainers.”
They stayed in the trees, going back in the direction they’d just traversed, creeping along like fugitives.
Or prey.
As a SEAL, he was used to being the predator. This feeling of being at a disadvantage was foreign. Trainings like this one—no communication, unfamiliar woods and building, unidentified targets—were meant to address this, but still, on an op, they were doing the attacking. When SEALs were sent in to stop pirates, rescue a hostage, or liberate a seized facility, they were proactive. Swooping in to save the day.
They weren’t targets; they were the response team.
But the objective here had flipped on its axis—on a training he, personally, had planned right down to the last detail.
This was all on him. He’d set these guys up for this. The platoon was based out of Coronado, and he knew all sixteen men by name. He and Flyte had been on the same team once upon a time. The lieutenant was the only reason Xavier was alive today.
He’d been the leader of the rescue mission that had landed Xavier in the hospital. The other two on their four-man team had died. Only Flyte had walked away from that mission on his own two feet, carrying an unconscious Xavier over his shoulder. He now was second-in-command of a new platoon, some shuffled from other teams, some new to the ranks.
He and Flyte were first-name kind of friends. On an op, it was always rank or last names, but out of uniform, Lieutenant Flyte was Chris. And Chris’s wife, Pam, had attempted to fix Xavier up with half the women in San Diego before she finally introduced him to Lynn.
Shit. Carly. Pam. Those were only two of the wives he’d let down today.
And then there were the children. Xavier had Thanksgiving dinner at Paul Cohen’s house. That night, he’d read bedtime stories to Olivia, Paul’s six-year-old daughter. She’d chattered excitedly about how now that Thanksgiving was done, Hanukkah was just a few days away and her daddy would be home for the entire Festival of Lights because he was teaching now and no longer going on missions, which meant this would be the best Hanukkah ever.
His heart ached thinking of Olivia and Carly and the severed finger that was now in his pocket. The zigzag pattern of the tattooed wedding band was a nod to Carly’s name: Carly Brown. She’d added Cohen to the end when she married Paul. When she realized Paul’s finger had been cut off because of his tattoo, she would lose it. Xavier wouldn’t tell her, but she was smart. She’d figure it out.
Where was Paul now? Was he bleeding out from that and other wounds? Was he a hostage?