Laurie jumped and almost lost her grip on the pistol. She flinched at every explosive shot, her ears ringing constantly. Damien moved stealthily out the door, rifle held ready, and darted across the ground. Laurie eased into his vacated spot, watching him as he gained distance from her. He fired the rifle in a sweeping horizontal arc until he reached the cover of a small wooden building. He looked back at her and jerked his thumb toward the large building on her right.
She nodded and slipped out the door, struggling with the gut-wrenching sensation of abrupt, dangerous exposure. Ducking slightly, pistol pointed ahead of her, she inched slowly along the wall to the corner. Terrorists ran directly across her path. She cringed back and shot Damien a terrified glance. He held the rifle at his waist, pointed toward her destination. His burst of automatic gunfire scattered the terrorists.
She sucked in a sharp breath, gathered her meager courage, and ran. Terrorists ran like frenzied cockroaches but Damien was no longer visible. He had left his dubious cover. Terrified and worried, she made her way alone toward the double doors directly ahead of her.
A terrorist charged around the corner and stopped short, his eyes wide with surprise as he gawked at her. His hesitation cost him. Though her hand shook badly, Laurie raised the gun and squeezed the trigger. The shot cracked like thunder in her ears and she winced. But the terrorist dropped like a stone and did not move.
She ran through the open doors and halted in her tracks, shocked by the arsenal of rifle, ammunition, handguns, and other things she did not recognize. The firefight raged outside but she inadvertently spent precious seconds gaping at the weaponry.
“My god,” she said softly, tightening her sweaty grip on Damien’s pistol.
With a violent shake of her head, she dispelled the shock and sped around racks of weapons in the cavernous area. She dashed into a much smaller room, looking for a way out.
Except for a cot on one end and a fairly sophisticated computer system, the room was empty. She spied the regular size door at the other end of the room but concentrated on the computer, instead.
Intently studying the screen, she used the mouse to scroll through dates and notes of targets. Recognizing several recent attacks from news stories, she looked ahead and found references to future plans, including potential targets in the United States.
“Damn,” she muttered, astonished and angry at the same time. What was it about terrorists and little piss-ant countries that made them think they could take on the United States and win? She snatched the diskette out of the drive, spotted two more next to the keyboard, and ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening
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grabbed them, as well. She quickly scanned the desk but found nothing else of interest. Without a less destructive alternative, she shoved the diskettes into her back pocket.
The door crashed back against the inner wall. Her head rang but she whirled and pointed the gun at the intruder. He ducked as she pulled the trigger. She missed but the bullet shattered wood at head level.
“Don’t shoot, Ms. Crawford,” a distinctly American male voice called out calmly.
Her hand steady as a boulder, she pointed the gun at the door. “Show yourself,” she commanded coldly. The gun did not waver.
The soldier peeked warily around the doorframe but did not enter. His glance flicked to the splintered wood at his eye level but he made no comment. Laurie took one step back and stared suspiciously at him. He wore an American uniform. Green and black stripes covered his face but there was no mistaking those bright blue eyes. She motioned him forward with a slight flick of the gun barrel. She trusted no one. He hesitated for just a split second then stepped over the threshold, his rifle held ready.
“Laurie Crawford,” he stated, not seeking confirmation. “I’m Neal Farrell, United States Navy SEALs.”
Now, Laurie hesitated. Though Damien was not a traitor, he had deceived her, after all.
Neal lowered his rifle despite her pistol pointed straight at his head. He held out his hand, his bright blue eyes warm and friendly.
“Come on,” he urged softly. “I’ll get you out of here.”
She examined him through critical eyes. He was just under Damien’s six feet four inches height, his muscular body tensed for a fight. Warm blue eyes gleamed. He exuded good will and dependability. Trusting him for the moment, she lowered the pistol slightly. She heard his sigh of relief and nearly chuckled at his uncertainty. She put her free hand in his but kept the gun ready.
He quickly yanked her behind him and looked out the door.
“When I move, stay behind me and don’t stop,” he whispered over his shoulder.