of folding metal chairs. A bare lightbulb hung on a cord from one of the poles that propped up the roof, adding a stark glare to the already-grim surroundings.
“These are standard government nondisclosure forms, Miss Locke. You’re welcome to read them over before you sign.”
Abbie jerked as a sheaf of papers was pushed across the table in front of her. She looked at the man who sat on the other side.
Major Mitchell Redinger wasn’t wearing a uniform—in his knit golf shirt and pleated khakis he should have looked more like a lawyer on his day off than an army officer—yet he radiated an air of authority. Maybe it was from the distinguished-looking silver that threaded the dark hair at his temples or the ramrod stiffness of his posture. Or maybe it was the unwavering gray steel in his gaze. Whatever the cause, the overall effect made her grateful she was facing him across a table and not a battlefield.
She took the papers from his hand, but when she tried to focus on the words, her shaking fingers made the print blur.
“We’re sorry for the inconvenience,” the major continued. “We’ll take you home as soon as it’s safe to do so.”
Inconvenience? she thought wildly. Was that how they described having her door broken down by three armed men and being kidnapped by a bunch of soldiers?
Abbie moved her gaze to the third person in the room. Sarah Fox stood by the canvas flap that formed the door, her arms folded over her chest. Like the major, she didn’t need a uniform to assume an air of command. Even in her lemon-yellow sleeveless sweater and her short skirt, there was something intimidating about her. She was only a few inches taller than Abbie, but she was one of those people who had the kind of presence that made her appear larger than she actually was.
She had seemed so nice at first, Abbie thought. Before they’d left the garage, Sarah had identified herself as a member of the United States Army and had done her best to stem Abbie’s budding panic. She’d explained that Abbie had accidentally put herself in the middle of a ransom exchange, then she’d calmly taken off the cardigan that matched her yellow sweater and loaned it to Abbie to cover up her wet blouse.
It had been a kind gesture—Abbie hadn’t realized how indecent she had looked with that soaked cotton plastered to her breasts. Had Flynn noticed?
What a stupid thing to worry about. How could she be concerned about herself at all? She wasn’t the only one who had been kidnapped. A child’s life was at stake here, and she had unwittingly made things worse. The papers crumpled in her grasp. “What’s going to happen now?” she asked.
“As Major Redinger said, you’ll be taken home as soon as possible,” Sarah replied.
“No, I meant to the child? Is he going to be all right?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Who is he?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Locke, but in the interests of national security, we can’t give you any more details,” Sarah said.
“I hadn’t meant to interfere. I hadn’t realized what was in that pack. I had thought that one of my students had left it.”
“Yes, we realize that.”
“What happened to those men who broke into my apartment? Were they arrested?”
“No, we couldn’t do that at this stage,” the major said. “Once they regained consciousness and saw that the ransom was not in your apartment, they left. They’re under surveillance, so they won’t pose any further danger to you.”
“But what about the child they kidnapped? If they didn’t get the ransom—”
“Don’t be concerned. They’ll negotiate again.”
“But I still don’t understand why the army is involved. Isn’t the FBI supposed to deal with kidnappings?”
“Normally, yes, but these are special circumstances. When it comes to hostage rescue, our expertise surpasses that of the FBI.”
Something stirred in Abbie’s memory. A movie she’d seen, or some news report about a clandestine mission. The army had commandos who were trained in hostage rescue. Their skill and dedication were legendary, but they were so secret, their existence wasn’t officially acknowledged. These people weren’t ordinary soldiers, they were… “Oh, my God,” she said. “Are you from Delta Force?”
Sarah and the major exchanged a look.
“That has to be why this is all so secret,” Abbie persisted. “You’re from Delta Force, right? Like those movies?”
“We’re a far cry from the Hollywood version, Miss Locke. We’re Special Forces soldiers, not Ninjas.” The major held up his palm. “Please, don’t press us for more information. We want to keep your involvement to a minimum so that you can return home. You do want to help us, don’t you?”
“Of course I want to help.”
“Then all you need to do is sign those forms in triplicate and give us your oath that you won’t divulge anything that has happened.”
She had to suppress another bubble of hysteria. How could she divulge what had happened? Even if she wanted to, who would believe her? She placed the forms on her lap, smoothed them out and bent over to read them. She had only managed to finish the first paragraph when footsteps sounded outside the cubicle. There was a sudden draft of cool air as the door flap was pushed aside. “You wanted to see me, Major?”
At the deep voice, Abbie’s head snapped up. It was Flynn. Or to be more accurate, it was Sergeant First Class Flynn O’Toole.
He was a soldier, just like everyone else here. No, he was more than simply a soldier. He was a Delta Force commando, one of the most elite fighting men in the armed forces. She could see it in the proud tilt of his head, the square set of his shoulders and the rigid straightness of his spine. The rumpled plaid flannel shirt and those worn jeans didn’t detract from his air of confidence. Neither did the dark stain that covered his sleeve where he’d rolled it above his elbow or the small white bandage that was taped to his forearm.
Abbie felt sick as she saw the evidence of her attack on him. So far no one here had appeared to blame her. Sarah had seemed to find the incident amusing and had even joked about the way Abbie had been running away from Flynn.
But it hadn’t been funny. Abbie had been terrified and had believed she’d been acting in self-defense. She cleared her throat. “Mr. O’Toole…uh, Sergeant?”
Flynn turned his head to look at her. He wasn’t smiling. No, Sergeant O’Toole’s gorgeous dimples weren’t anywhere to be seen. He looked hard, as predatory as the last time she’d seen him. Yet he was still handsome enough to send her stomach into that doomed little dance.
She had to fight the urge to make another run for it. “I’m sorry about stabbing you.”
“No problem, ma’am,” he said stiffly. “It was a minor injury.”
“Still, I want to apologize.”
“You did what you had to do. You can’t be faulted for that.”
“Are
