EVERYTHING WAS LOOKING good to Cali. They were making excellent progress at the site. She drove her white Toyota Tundra outside the enclosed power plant area. The August heat was nearly unbearable, and she was glad to have air-conditioning in the truck as she did her daily drive-by inspection. Work was in full swing, with earthmovers and bulldozers pushing dirt to pave the way for the actual buildings. The gravel quarry was operating efficiently. Stockpiles were being maintained.
The concrete plant hoppers could be seen near the hills, about a hundred yards inside the perimeter fence. Cali had had her people carefully train the Afghan workers who would operate the concrete plant. They were learning the rhythm and timing of making cement in order to begin pouring the large foundations.
Clouds of reddish dust rose in the dry, hot air. Water trucks routinely trundled along, sprinkling the parched ground in order to keep the choking dust to a minimum.
The construction road around the site was not in great shape. Afternoon thunderstorms routinely rushed down from the mountains, delivering monsoonlike downpours that rutted the road. Cali had to drive carefully to avoid the axle-deep pits and gullies. Under no circumstances did she want to rip out the belly of her truck by driving into one of those deep trenches. The red clay was hard as steel when it dried.
Today, she wanted to reach the south corner, stop and take digital photos of the progress. Very early in her career, Cali had learned to document her work with pictures. They never lied. And if the accountants from Pete’s side ever questioned anything, Cali would have an array of photos to back up her side of the story.
She pulled over at the far end of the site. Massive thunderheads had formed over the mountains and were now moving toward them. She could see semiopaque, purplish veils of rain darkening the rolling hills coming in her direction. These storms were fitful, powerful and no one could accurately forecast them.
After turning off the engine, Cali threw on her hard hat and climbed out. She reached in and picked up the roll of blueprints. The breeze was fitful, the afternoon air as stifling as an overheated oven. As Cali shut the door and walked around the truck, she made sure her radio was on her belt, as well as her pistol, which she carried everywhere. She flattened the blueprints on the hood of the truck and began a critical study of progress at the site.
Sliding on a pair of sunglasses, Cali looked up. The Taliban were omnipresent. They’d proved that time and again by night forays around the fence. At least twice a month there were raids.
After her meeting with the enemy on horseback, Cali hadn’t slept well. It was one thing to be on a construction site in a third world country, and another to be a constant target. Here, fanatics struck without rhyme or reason. Her nerves were taut and she was far more jumpy than she’d ever been on any other project. Cali didn’t know which was worse, the danger from the Taliban or the danger of working with Pete Trayhern.
She waved to a group of sentry guards patrolling inside the fence. The small Arabians they rode were different colors, from brown to black, gray and white. Dressed in traditional Afghan costume, the riders rode proudly, their shoulders back and heads held high. They were consummate horsemen, Cali acknowledged.
A breeze gave her momentary respite from the suffocating heat. Breathing deeply, Cali smiled to herself as she took out a red pen and started noting progress on her blueprints. She also dated each entry. Once she’d recorded the changes for the day, she unsnapped her digital camera from the leather case hanging on her belt and began taking the mandatory photos.
Cali was halfway through her shots for the day when she heard a truck approaching far faster than it should. Frowning, she lowered the camera and looked in that direction. Instantly, she went on guard. The truck, a dark blue Toyota with crunched fenders, raced toward her. Dust rose behind it like a rooster tail, indicating its high rate of speed. She saw at least six men in the bed of the pickup, all Afghan and carrying rifles.
Cali didn’t like what she saw. Normally, she had a sentry with her, but the guards’ truck had had oil-pressure problems and was in the garage for repair. Quickly putting the camera away and gathering up her blueprints, she climbed back into the cab. The blue truck was speeding her way. She grabbed a two-way radio as she started up her Toyota Tundra.
“Major Trayhern, are you there? Over.”
Glancing around, Cali saw the speeding vehicle round the corner of the fence and continue toward her. It was less than half a mile away. Who were these men? She knew none of the Afghans who worked on the site would ever speed like that. The potential of tearing out the oil pan on a truck was too real. Yet this blue Toyota was flying toward her as if the driver didn’t care.
“Trayhern, here. Over.”
Relief drenched Cali as she forced her pickup back onto the rutted road, clasping the radio with her free hand. “Do you have anyone in a blue Toyota out here?” Sweat dribbled down her face. Cali drove her truck toward the eastern side of the work site. Apprehension sizzled through her as the unfamiliar vehicle came closer, gaining on her. The men in the back were standing up and aiming their rifles at her.
“No, no one,” he muttered.
She could hear him riffling through papers. More than likely he was in the construction trailer. “Okay, I’ve got a problem. I see Afghans with guns, and they’re aiming at me. I don’t have a security truck with me because it broke down. I’m going to make a run down the eastern side of the site, outside the fence. Call out the guards. I may need some help. Over.”
“I’m on it, Cali. I’ll call the head of security to get out there. And I’m climbing in my truck right now. Be careful….”
She heard the concern and tension in Pete’s tone. The worry. They always kept one pickup for security needs at the construction trailer, and she knew Pete would use it to come after her.
The first rifle shots cracked the air like a whip, passing too close to her head. Cursing softly, Cali gunned the engine and jerked the radio to her lips. “Pete, they’re firing at me!” It was too late to take back use of his first name. Cali addressed him formally to keep that distance between them, but right now she was scared. Scared she was going to be killed.
After dropping the radio on the seat, Cali wrapped both hands around the wheel and stomped on the gas. The blue Toyota kept gaining on her, and she tried to think beyond her panic. And then, like a storm of hail, bullets slammed into her vehicle.
Son of a bitch! As Cali sped toward the curve, red dust rose behind her. Good! If they couldn’t see her through the thick cloud, they couldn’t fire accurately at her. Grimly, she kept her attention riveted on the dangerously rutted road. She purposely straddled the deep trenches, knowing that she’d have to slow down to take the corner. It wasn’t a banked curve, unfortunately. No, if she didn’t brake now, she’d go skidding off the road and into the desert. If that happened, she was dead meat. She didn’t have to guess who was behind her. It was a Taliban attack. In broad daylight.
Damn them! The Tundra groaned and skidded as Cali hit the curve. The truck bumped and jostled. Knuckles white on the wheel, she forced the growling vehicle to stay on the road. Oh God, if she hit one of those ruts at this speed, it could flip her over. Sweat ran down Cali’s rib cage. Her fingers ached as she held on to the wheel and guided the Tundra across the hazardous terrain.
More bullets struck her truck. The pinging sounds were so close! Gasping, Cali felt a moment’s relief when the vehicle hugged the corner and came out of it without sliding off the road. Up ahead, at the nearest security gate, she saw a white pickup speeding in her direction. Pete! It had to be! Cali suddenly ducked and winced as the windshield blew inward on her. A well-aimed bullet caused thousands of sparkling bits of glass to explode all around her. She squinted to protect her eyes, feeling the sting of glass striking her arms and neck as wind roared into the cab.
Cali had no choice but to keep going. Through her rearview mirror she saw the blue Toyota lunge toward the corner. The driver nearly lost control, the truck bumping wildly and nearly skidding off the road. She had half a mile to go before she reached help. The security guards were standing up in the bed of the white Roland truck; she saw their M16s at the ready.
Suddenly, she heard a sharp sound, and her Tundra began to sway drunkenly. Shit! The Taliban soldiers had hit one of the tires. Riding on three wheels, the truck was no longer controllable at this speed. Eyes widening, Cali fought to keep the vehicle straight. If she hit one of those ruts…
“No!” The scream tore from her lips as her vehicle listed. And then, at forty miles an hour, the flat tire on the front left side sank into a deep rut. Everything went into slow-motion then, as if Cali were viewing a film. She felt the jarring slam as the wheel hit the deep groove. The next second, the truck was lifting as if it had wings. Like a slow-moving nightmare, it leaped upward, its motor growling, then bounced nose-first on the road. In the frenzy of movement and sound, Cali saw Pete’s truck speeding toward her. She caught a glimpse of the security guards answering Taliban fire. But none of this mattered now. She was in the air, and careening off the side of the road into a desert littered with brush.
Since she hadn’t had time to fasten her seat belt, Cali knew she was in trouble. Her mind raced with ideas on how to survive this. She didn’t want to die. As her truck sailed off the road, slowly rotating to the left, she gripped the steering wheel with every ounce of strength she possessed.
Pete let out a curse as he saw Cali’s truck jam its left front tire into an unforgiving rut. Seconds later, it was flying skyward. His heart screamed out in protest. He didn’t want her hurt! Or killed. Tromping on the accelerator, he heard the security guards firing at the approaching Toyota, and saw the vehicle suddenly veer to the right. Five men were flung out of the bed like rag dolls as the vehicle struck the deadly ruts.
Acting on pure adrenaline, Pete slammed on the brakes and yelled out the window, “Go after them!”
Desperate to get to Cali, Pete stopped the pickup and bailed out, his pistol raised. As he sprinted toward Cali’s truck, now unmoving, a myriad of images ran through his mind. Was Cali okay? He was afraid of what he would find, yet desperate to get to her. In the background, he heard his guards clambering out of the pickup, screaming in Pashto at the dazed and stunned Taliban scattered nearby.
Running hard, air tearing raggedly from his lungs, Pete reached the small rise where the Tundra sat. Relief flooded him as he saw Cali move. At least she was alive! The door swung open. She fell out and landed on her hands and knees.
“Cali!” he yelled, putting his pistol away. Pete dropped to her side and gripped her shoulders. “Are you okay? Talk to me.”
Her face was ashen and the bloody cuts on her neck and arms shocked him.
“I’m okay. Give me a minute.” Cali sat up and leaned against his hands. At once, Pete’s nearness steadied her. She felt him embrace her and hold on to her.
“My God, I could have flipped over….” Closing her eyes, Cali raised her hand to her head.
Pete divided his attention between Cali’s injuries and his guards. They’d rounded up all the attackers and disarmed them. They were settling the prisoners in a tight circle and placing plastic handcuffs around their wrists.
Reassured, Pete leaned down, his face inches from hers. “Look at me, Cali.”
She lifted her chin and drowned in his stormy gray eyes. “I’m okay, really. I just bashed my head against the window.” She pointed to a growing goose egg on her brow. Giving him a crazy smile, she added, “No concussion. My pupils are fine.” His touch felt more than just stabilizing to Cali. The shock from her brush with death began to dissolve beneath the fierce caresses of his trembling hands across her tense shoulders.
“You sure?” Pete studied her beautiful forest-green eyes. The urge to sweep her into his arms nearly overwhelmed him, but he fought it. Damn, but he wanted to press his mouth against her parted lips. He wanted to taste Cali. Feel her.
The thoughts were shocking to him. Galvanizing. What the hell was wrong with him? Angrily shaking off his desire, Pete abruptly leaned away from her.
“You look fine. But we need to get you to the doctor. Can you stand?”
Cali was unprepared for the sudden gruffness in his tone. “Uh, yeah.” Pete helped her up, and she was grateful because a wave of dizziness assailed her. Unexpectedly, she swayed against his warm, hard body. Oh, how many times had Cali wanted to do just this? Wanted to touch him? Feel his strong, vibrant form against hers? Too many times.
“Easy….” Pete breathed, his mouth pressed against her hair. “Take it easy, Cali. Let me help you to my truck….”
It was heavenly to be tucked protectively against his side, Cali decided. Her vision blurred, then cleared as she walked forward drunkenly. Maybe she’d hit her skull a little harder than she’d thought. Maybe her hard head, as her father called it, was not so hard, after all. Her boots seemed to have a mind of their own as she stumbled through the soft sand. Pete kept his arm around her shoulders and held on to her as if she were a priceless work of art. Cali’s mind reeled and tangled, along with her fast-beating heart. She could smell the sweat from his body, feel the dampness of his T-shirt.
Pete ordered his guards to stay with the prisoners. After tucking Cali into the truck, he made a call to the office trailer. Javad, his right-hand man, would inform Sheik Hesam, and would get another company truck out here to transport the raiders. Grimly, Pete waved to his guards, who held the scowling, bleeding prisoners at gunpoint.
Once in the truck, Pete turned to Cali. The dark, ugly blue bruise forming on her forehead undid him. “You really need to be checked out by Dr. Hakimi.”
“I know.” Cali’s voice sounded hollow to her own ears. She struggled to latch the seat belt around her. Too bad she hadn’t done that earlier. But then, banging her head against the window would have happened anyway, due to the pickup almost flipping over.
Pete drove at a moderate speed toward the gates in the fence. “Tell me what happened.”
Cali told him bits and pieces. By the time they reached the entrance, a number of site security men on horseback were galloping out to help bring in the Taliban prisoners.
Lifting her hand to rub her forehead, Cali murmured, “Hesam isn’t going to be happy about this. The Taliban have been attacking us regularly. I know he’s trying his best to find them up in the caves in those hills, but there are more of them than he counted on. This is getting crazy.”
Nodding, Pete drove straight to the medical trailer. “I agree. We need to talk to him. Get more of his men making trips up there in the hills to root them out. We can’t have people attacked right outside our site like this.”
Now Cali’s head began to ache in earnest. She’d been injured before and knew the routine: first shock set in, followed by pain. “Are you going to put a call in to him this afternoon?”
“I will after we get you to the doc.” Worried, Pete glanced over at Cali. Her face was ashen. She’d closed her eyes and her fingers were pressed against her brow. With her lips parted, she looked excruciatingly vulnerable. As he parked the truck, he tried to swallow the feelings for her that had only grown over the last three months. Climbing out, he said, “I’ll come around and get you. Stay put.”
No problem there, Cali thought. She felt like jelly that had been dumped out of a jar. Relying on Pete’s guiding hand, she inched out of the truck and allowed him to shepherd her up the wooden steps and into the trailer. As Cali eased onto the awaiting gurney, she heard Pete call for the doctor. Hurting everywhere, feeling frayed and vulnerable from her experience, she tried to ignore his gentleness and concern. But it was impossible. When Cali had least expected it, Pete Trayhern had come to her rescue.