Danger Zone (Delta Force Echo: An Iniquus Action Adventure Romance Book 2) Read online

  Danger Zone

  Fiona Quinn

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  The Teams

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  THE WORLD of INIQUUS

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  The World of Iniquus

  Ubicumque, Quoties. Quidquid

  Iniquus - /iˈni/kwus/- our strength is unequaled, our tactics unfair – we stretch the law to its breaking point. We do whatever is necessary to bring the enemy down.

  The Lynx Series

  Weakest Lynx

  Missing Lynx

  Chain Lynx

  Cuff Lynx

  Gulf Lynx

  Hyper Lynx

  Strike Force

  In Too DEEP

  JACK Be Quick

  InstiGATOR

  Uncommon Enemies

  WASP

  Relic

  Deadlock

  Thorn

  FBI Joint Task Force

  Open Secret

  Cold Red

  Even Odds

  Kate Hamilton Mysteries

  Mine

  Yours

  Ours

  Cerberus Tactical K9 Team Alpha

  Survival Instinct

  Protective Instinct

  Defender's Instinct

  Delta Force Echo

  Danger Signs

  Danger Zone

  Danger Close (2021)

  This book is dedicated to Blythe ~

  who inspires me with her strength of character, creativity, and curiosity.

  And to those around the world whose lives turn upside down without a moment’s notice,

  may you always find loving support and kindness.

  The Teams

  Reporters:

  FR3

  Jean Baptiste Rujean

  Éloïse Marquette

  Marie-Claude de Nimoux

  Washington News-Herald

  Remi Taleb — war correspondent

  Liu — Editor in Chief

  Jules Edwards — photojournalist

  Jasmine Tremblay — White House reporter.

  David Puck — covering the DOJ, Washington D.C.

  Iniquus’s Cerberus Tactical K9

  Tripwire and K9 Valor — Team Alpha

  Bear MacIntosh and K9 Truffles — Team Bravo

  Bob Palindrome, logistics — Team Alpha

  Military

  Soar 160th — Night Stalkers

  D-Day Rochambeau

  Nick of Time

  Delta Force: G Squadron (clandestine), Echo (reconnaissance)

  G Squadron Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Burnside

  Josiah Landry (T-Rex) Echo Actual

  Tyler Newcomb (Ty) Echo Two, K9 handler for Rory

  Jeopardy — Echo Three

  Nitro — Echo Four and Laurel, his wife

  Havoc — Echo Six

  Carlotta Hill (Winner) — logistical support

  Government

  U.S. Senator Barb Blankenship (Texas)

  Diamond Johnson — senator’s aid

  Chapter One

  Remi

  Monday, Washington D.C.

  Horror wasn’t a new sensation for Remi Taleb. In fact, it was kind of her go-to emotion.

  After a while, she’d learned even horror could feel banal.

  This…uselessness.

  This incapacity to help in any way at all.

  Fear and panic pumped through her system as Remi stood in front of the wall of television monitors here in the D.C. newsroom.

  Jean Baptiste, look at him!

  News stations around the world all played the same reporter telling his story.

  His clothing, shredded. Dirt and what looked like an oily substance covered what scraps still clung to her dear friend’s wiry frame.

  The haphazard bandaging that wrapped Jean Baptiste’s head and left eye seeped with blood, drying around the edges to rusty black splotches.

  His arm hung bizarrely twisted and limp at his side.

  It was surprising that Jean Baptiste could stand at all. He was almost unrecognizable to Remi; though, his face had been a constant in her life ever since she signed her first contract, climbed in the back of her first armored vehicle, and began her career as a war reporter.

  Troubled spots were Remi’s home turf. Just like the other misfits that called themselves war correspondents.

  They were Remi’s kind of people—folks with the ability to hold both compassion and emotional distance, at the same time maintaining—or feigning—an indifference to the steady blast from their internal adrenaline hose.

  Her job was to traipse the cliff’s edge, summit the mountain of human depravity. One either found their balance, or they crashed to the valley floor.

  Jean Baptiste Rujean was one of the best combat photojournalists around. His high wire tricks were legendary. He’d been behind his camera, focusing his lens on the worst atrocities found in the far reaches of the world. Not only had he succeeded at gathering his reports, but he had emerged from the jungles and deserts, the urban guerilla fights, seemingly unscathed.

  His luck had finally run its course.

  In this story, horror had become personal.

  The wall separating journalism from the reported event had dissolved.

  Unwilling to take her eyes off the screens even to blink, Remi stood, hands on hips. Piking forward, with her shoulders arched back, she tried to get space in her lungs for air.

  She aimed her mouth vaguely over a colleague’s trash can in case she needed to puke up this morning’s bagel with lox and the large coffee that was churning around her insides.

  The room held still in stunned silence.

  The journalists and news staff, like Remi, stretched their eyelids wide. Hands covered mouths and suppressed gasps. They pinched at their lips to hold back expletives so that they didn’t disturb the newsroom’s silence and everyone could focus on the wall of televisions.

  The only sounds came from Jean Baptiste, the French reporter reporting on the reporters.

  That sentence became an earworm. A stupid alliterative sentence that would get Remi an eye roll from her editor, but this was no time for elegance of phrase.

  This was catastrophic.

  Two of them. Marie-Claude and Éloïse. Colleagues. Friends. Held hostage.

  Only Jean Baptiste made it over
the Syrian border into Lebanon.

  Jean Baptiste, Marie-Claude, and Éloïse working for FR3, a French television station, were fellow travelers in this crazy-assed job.

  Remi had been trading war stories with them at the hotel bar in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, where they were covering the coup attempt. The general at the head of the effort had been captured and killed.

  The following day, Remi leaped on a plane back to D.C.

  And her friends had flown on to Iraq, jumped into an SUV heading over the border into Syria. Into the arms of ISIS.

  Thirty-six hours ago.

  Crap.

  Another wave of horror washed over Remi, threatening to drag her into the bottomless gulf of self-recriminations.

  I was supposed to be with them.

  The FR3 team had invited Remi to join them on that very assignment.

  And Remi agreed to go.

  Logistics planned, bag packed, ready to climb on her flight with Jean Baptiste and the others, when her boss, Liu, had nixed the trip. He’d called her back, ostensibly to be part of some powwow about another hot spot he wanted covered.

  Remi had assumed that was a ruse to force her back to D.C. where Liu could compel her to attend the National Journalism Awards Ceremony and accept her applause for her reporting on SEAL Platoon One. Sure, it was a prestigious award, but Remi didn’t care about honors. They weren’t a motivating factor. If anything, accolades were disincentives. She was always uncomfortable with praise and personal attention.

  Remi wanted to put her head down and get the job done.

  Liu had other things to consider in asking her to attend the award ceremony, like the newsroom’s stature and consumer engagement.

  Though Remi had made solid arguments why she should be allowed to go with the FR3 team, Liu had insisted she fly back immediately.

  In so doing, he had probably saved Remi’s life.

  Remi scraped her bottom teeth over her lip as she absorbed the unfolding story on the TV screens.

  Jean Baptiste should be in the back of an ambulance, not swaying on screen telling this story.

  While fluent in English, Jean Baptiste was slurring out the timeline of his capture, torture, agreement, and release in his native French, with English subtitles racing across the screen. He explained that Marie-Claude and Éloïse would pay the price if he didn’t record and air this story immediately.

  Jean Baptiste was obviously in shock and in need of medical attention as he rambled through the description of the atrocities he’d endured.

  From his pocket, he dragged a scrap of paper. He tried to read it, turning his head this way and that.

  Jean Baptiste didn’t have his glasses on.

  Someone off-camera pressed a pair of half-moon reading glasses toward him.

  Then there was the fumbling as Jean Baptiste tried to figure out how to maneuver one-handed. He put the paper between his lips, flicked the glasses through the air to get the earpieces to extend, and tried again. This time, he was able to read down the list of points the terrorists wished to convey:

  ISIS knows that these three held fabricated press credentials.

  These three are not French nationals but Lebanese with connections to the West.

  The three crossed from Iraq into Syria not to report on the ISIS victories at providing food to the town but to gather data for an attack.

  ISIS is not comprised of fools. Spies are recognized when they present themselves. The three are CIA.

  The West should not allow Syrians to find shelter within their borders, or they will face consequences again. Be aware, ISIS can unleash terror anywhere at any time.

  Jean Baptiste concluded his report by explaining that, as an elder, his captors didn’t believe he would survive long enough to be of use to them.

  The terrorists blindfolded him and took Jean Baptiste to the border, where they spun in a U-turn, tossed him from the moving pickup truck bed, and roared deeper into Syria.

  Jean Baptiste signed off as he collapsed.

  A professional to the outer edges of consciousness.

  Remi blinked for the first time as the station anchors came onto the screen to reiterate the highlights and pull in experts who answered questions via video connections, adding their punditry to the circumstances.

  A warm hand on her shoulder made Remi jump and spin.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Liu said. “Come on.” Liu turned, assuming Remi would fall in step.

  As he strode past the newsroom staff, he held his hand bladed by his face to indicate he wasn’t available for conversations.

  Hoping Liu wanted her to go to Beirut to report this story out, and so she could be of some support and solace for Jean Baptiste, Remi scampered after him.

  Chapter Two

  Remi

  Monday, Washington D.C.

  Liu had dressed his slight frame in trousers with sharply pressed pleats.

  His dry cleaner stiffened his ubiquitous white button-down shirts with extra starch. Remi always thought that if Liu were to bend over, he might just snap in two like a cracker.

  As always, Liu had loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top button, rolled up the sleeves, giving him the look of a doer and a shaker.

  He maintained a whirl of energy about him.

  Rounding into his corner office, he moved behind his desk. Avoiding his captain’s chair, he leaned forward, pressing the length of his fingers onto the cluttered surface. “Sit down.”

  Remi could barely keep her body still. Sitting would be torture. She held up her hands to ward off the invitation.

  “Jeezis, Remi.” He caught her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  Her head bobbled in tight, quick nods to accept the words. The corners of her mouth grew heavy, dragging her expression into a dramatic frown. She blinked away the tears, wanting to be away from this professional setting before she allowed herself the indulgence of sobbing out her frustration and anger at what had happened to her friends. Opening her mouth to speak, nothing came out. She sniffed, cleared her throat, and tried again. “I have to get to Lebanon.”

  “No way.” Liu walked the three steps over to the office door and pushed it shut with a bang.

  “Liu—”

  “Stop.” He held up a hand as he made his way back behind his desk. “You heard Jean Baptiste.” Liu’s hands came back down on the desktop. “They were there to gather information on the food situation.”

  Remi scratched at her face. “I’m aware. You remember, I was supposed to be with them. We were invited by the leaders. Perhaps—”

  “They took the FR3 folks deep into Syria. Éloïse and Marie-Claude aren’t held along the border.”

  “I don’t—I have to get to Jean Baptiste. Talk to him.”

  Liu quirked a brow. “What good would you do over there?”

  Remi shrugged. “I could make some phone calls. Pull some strings.”

  “And you can do this better than the French government? Better than the U.N.?”

  “Yes.” Remi pressed and rubbed her sweat-slickened palms together. “Yes. I’ve worked in the region on and off for over a decade. I’ve got contacts others may not have.”

  “Better than the CIA?”

  “No.” Though Remi thought of a black ops guy named Angel with whom she had a mutual aid relationship. She also knew two other CIA officers, one named Grey, the other Red.

  Those three often worked behind Syrian lines. But Remi didn’t have contact information for them. When a need arose, the CIA would reach out to her, not the other way around.

  While Remi wasn’t sure where Red exerted her energies other than “regional,” Angel and Grey seemed to target women under duress. Remi understood that while saving females was partly humanitarian, from a practical point of view, women were great sources of information for the CIA.

  ISIS fighters thought of females as rocks in the garden, furniture, not sentient, intellectual beings, so the terrorists felt free to talk in front of the women.

 
; If only Remi knew how or where to catch up with Angel and Grey. They showed up when they needed something. They traded news stories for information.

  It was fair.

  Yeah, that wouldn’t work. Those connections weren’t readily available. Though in Remi’s mind, she was flipping through her files, trying to figure out just whom she could ask, pressure, or coerce into helping her save Marie-Claude and Éloïse.

  It gave Remi zero relief to know that these two women were whip-smart and athletic. That would do little to help them survive this situation.

  While ISIS thought little of females, they knew the West was different. Holding and torturing women would hit the western countries much more profoundly than if they had captured a man.

  Jean Baptiste said he was released because he was old.

  Remi would guess he was let go because he was an unattractive male and wouldn’t garner the same level of sympathy. Of the three, it made sense to Remi that it was Jean Baptiste who was released to play the mouthpiece.

  Two fit and attractive women being held—yeah, that would impact the West differently, right or wrong.

  And the bile that burbled along Remi’s esophagus reminded her that if she hadn’t been called back to D.C., she, too, would be held captive.

  Liu clapped his hands. “Focus,” he said sharply. “I know you’re in shock. I know your mind is going warp speed trying to figure this out. You need to stop. You can’t go find them. You can’t even run through your vast contact files. Why?” He leaned back, tucking his chin and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll tell you. You’ll step on toes.”

  Remi shot Liu a snarl that said she couldn’t care less if she did.

  “You never know if you’ll be saying the wrong thing in the right ear. The thing that will get your friends moved. Get your friends hidden more deeply. Or just get your friends’ necks under a jihadist sword for a snuff film. You’re a reporter not—hear me—not a hostage rescue professional.”