Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(42)

She swallowed hard as she was marched back across the compound and past the block of tents set up on the perimeter. One was reserved for the general. She’d gotten glimpses of communication equipment in another. There was the cook tent where the general’s meals were prepared. The fourth was a barracks for the guards. The fifth was reserved for important visitors. Since she’d been here, she’d seen two other Asian men—both businessmen, judging by their clothes—come and go. One had spent the night in the tent she was being taken to now.

“It’s about damn time,” the American grumbled when the guard shoved her inside. “Sit. I’ve ordered food. It should arrive any moment.”

Her stomach growled involuntarily, and hope rose out of the ashes of her degradation. He was going to feed her. That had to be good, right?

Seconds later, the general announced himself outside the tent flap and entered, followed by his aide, who set a tray heavy with covered dishes on a small, low, wooden table.

“Excellent. For stamina,” the American said, giving her a predatory wink. “Can’t have you passing out when things get a little rough.”

Nausea roiled in her stomach. She hated the police who had arrested her. Hated the judge who had sentenced her, and the guard who’d delighted in beating her. But this man was the vilest of all. His arrival had raised her hopes of rescue, but he’d turned out to be one more insult to her safety and her sanity. For that, she felt more contempt for him than she did for her captors.

With their big whips and bigger guns, they at least looked the part of villains. This tall, unreasonably handsome American with the perfectly styled dark hair, deep brown eyes, and easy smile was evil and deception incarnate. Pretty on the outside but, inside, nothing but ugliness and depravity.

“Well,” the American said, digging into his backpack, then tossing a string of foil packets onto the table, “let’s get this party started.”

He moved toward the tent flap, all long limbs and athletic grace, then indicated with a lift of his hand that the general could leave now. His smile said he had an agenda that didn’t include spectators.

The general hesitated, then with a glare at Carrie that clearly said, “Please him or else,” he and his aide left.

CAV WATCHED CARRIE Granger’s face as she stood awaiting her fate. Whoever had said that eyes were a window to the soul could have been talking about hers. Those blue eyes said volumes about her opinion of him. They also told him that despite the horror she’d gone through, she hadn’t given up. She still had some fight left in her. Clearly, she would like to gut him, skin him, then burn him alive. After she cut off his balls.

But she was smarter than that. Even though she saw him as a bastard who had bought her for sex, she understood that he was still her best chance for a ticket out of hell.

Much as he wanted to reassure her, he needed to keep her in the dark until he was certain she wouldn’t give him away. The general had left guards outside the tent and they could potentially hear everything that happened inside.

“Eat.” He pointed toward the table.

Her gaze cut to the food. He could see how badly she wanted and needed it, and how desperately she fought the hunger.

Her control broke and she turned venom-filled eyes back to his face. “I’d rather eat dirt.”

She might be half starved, beaten down by exhaustion and fear, but she still had grit to spare. Good. She was going to need it.

Keeping her in sight, for fear she might attack him if he turned his back on her, he walked over to the table that held the food and his backpack. He fished around inside the pack and came up with a notebook and pen.

“You’re American,” she said letting go of her animosity long enough to appeal to him. “Please. You have to help me.” The slight hint of a Georgia drawl colored her words. “If you can’t take me with you when you leave, please, please get a message to my family. Or to the U.S. embassy—”

“I’m not your good Samaritan, sweetheart, so save your breath,” he snapped for the benefit of any ears outside the thin tent walls.

If she’d wanted his balls before, she wanted his heart now. On a stake.

He quickly wrote in the notebook, then held it out to her.

“Go ahead, take it,” he said, knowing that anyone who might be listening would assume he was offering food. “Take it,” he demanded harshly.

Eyes wary, she slowly reached out a hand and, after shooting another distrustful glance his way, lowered her head and read his note.

Don’t react. Wyatt sent me. I’m here to get you home.

Her head flew up. Her eyes widened with hope and disbelief as she frantically searched his face for confirmation that it was true.

Cav pressed his finger to his lips in warning. One wrong word, one careless action, and this whole thing could blow like a block of C-4.

He reached for the note, tugged it out of her frozen grip, and added, Play along, Carrie. It’s going to be okay.

After she read it, she just sort of crumpled. He caught her as her shoulders sagged and her knees buckled.

“Easy,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her and pressing her face into his shoulder to muffle her sob. “Keep it together. You’ve made it this far. We’re going to get you out of here.”

Small hands pressed against his chest, and her fingers tightened in a death grip on his shirt. “Don’t… don’t leave me… here.”