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“Not injured, no. She’s running a high fever and she can’t keep anything down.”

“Crap!”

“Yessir.”

“She can’t get up that rock? Even with you helping her?”

“She can’t even stay on her feet, Colonel.” Dec lowered his voice. “She’s sick. Very sick. She’s dehydrating. If I don’t get her out of here soon…”

“Crap,” Stuart said again. “She dies, we’ve got the mother of all cluster fucks on top of a fucking international incident.”

Dec clenched his fist. An international incident? Was that what the possible death of the woman he loved meant to this prick?

“We need to move fast, sir,” Dec said, forcing the sir through his teeth. “Send in a couple of birds. One to take Annie—the princess—to safety, the other to lay down covering fire in case Amjad gets here while she’s still being extracted.”

“Thank you for the advice, Lieutenant.”

The rebuke was clipped and cold. Dec bit his lip. It was stupid to antagonize this jerk and he knew it. So he waite

d, saying nothing until Stuart spoke again.

“Okay. Two birds to your location. It’s a fucking risk, but I don’t see any choice. With luck, ETA about five minutes before Amjad reaches you.”

“Sir. One last thing.” Dec cleared his throat. “The princess must not be returned to Qaram. Or taken to Tharsalonia. Once she’s stable, fly her to the States. Her situation is…”

“Her situation,” Stuart said, even more coldly, “is none of your fucking concern, Lieutenant.”

“For Christ’s sake, Colonel! Do the right thing!”

“You will report to me on your return to base, Sanchez.”

Dec didn’t answer. Whatever he said next might land him a court martial. What good would he be to Annie then?

“Did you hear me, Lieutenant? You will report to me on your return.”

Dec took a breath. “Yessir.”

“Not that you’re entitled to an explanation, Lieutenant, but I have spent my entire life doing the right thing. I sure as shit don’t have to be lectured on it by you!”

The line went dead.

Fuck. Fuck! Dec slammed down the satphone.

Do the right thing. Black had used the same words. Do the right thing was the unofficial motto of the Units. Do it for God, for country, for the guy fighting beside you. Do it because you believe in honor and duty and commitment.

Who knew what doing the right thing meant to a mired-in-DC-manure colonel?

Yeah, well, to hell with the colonel.

Dec would be on the Black Hawk with Annie. He’d be with her when it landed on the deck of the Harry S. Truman, the super-carrier stationed in the Gulf. He’d be with her when the docs on board checked her over, treated her, did whatever had to be done. He’d be with her during her return to the States, and he wouldn’t need the permission of any candy-ass colonel to make sure everybody involved did the fucking right thing.

His mission had been to find Annie and get her to safety, and that mission wouldn’t end until he brought her to American soil.

Stuart had said the helicopters would arrive only a few minutes before the terrorists. Dec had to assume they wouldn’t. Assuming the worst was always the safest bet.

A gust of wind sent a rush of dust and coarse sand slapping at his face. Visibility was getting poor. That would make it tough for the helicopters, but it might help him. And, dammit, he was running out of time.

A plan. He needed a fucking plan…