Part One
-o-o-
Lots of triggers in this one!
-o-o-
Jaz marks the passage of days by the tray of inedible food shoved between the bars of her cell.
She's long ago lost count of how many there have been. Now, it's just a way to know that the earth has rotated once again, that 24 hours have passed - and that she's still here.
Of course, they could be messing with her. They could be feeding her every twelve hours, or every 36, or maybe even on random intervals. Just to keep her head spinning.
It doesn't even matter anymore.
They'd stopped torturing her after two weeks - or maybe it was three. Those days are a blur in her memory. For several weeks after the beatings had stopped, a few of the guards had come down every night to...have their way with her. But even that has stopped.
For weeks now hasn't seen a single person, hasn't spoken to a soul. Days and nights have passed, alone, on the cold damp floor of this five foot by five foot concrete cell.
Sometimes she hears screaming. Sometimes heavy boots stride past, shadows in the darkness. But otherwise, there's nothing.
Sometimes she isn't even sure she's still alive.
They're keeping her as a bargaining chip. She knows they've sent photos of her battered, tortured body - proof of life. Knows they've demanded something - the release of Iranian terrorists maybe, or an end to the sanctions, or perhaps the resources they need to restart the country's nuclear program.
But she also knows the US government won't deal. Knows they probably haven't even acknowledged her existence, admitted that she's an American soldier on an official mission.
She isn't sure how she feels about that, after all she's gone through for her country. She wonders if they're talking about her back home, pointing to her miserable fate and saying, look! This is why women can't be in special forces!
If she had the energy, she might be upset by this.
But she doesn't. The only thing that still has the capacity to upset her - the only thing that's threatened to make her cry in these weeks or months or maybe years - is knowing that her team has seen those photos.
That Dalton has seen those photos.
But she tries not to think about that.
She tries not to think too much about her team. But it's hard, alone in her cell, with little else to focus on. She wonders if they've replaced her yet. Wonders if they've given up on her, accepted that she's not coming back.
Wonders if they've been able to move on, just like she did, eventually, after Elijah died in her arms.
She's never believed in heaven, or any kind of afterlife. But sometimes she thinks she can hear him talking to her. Sometimes she wonders if he's waiting for her. Over there.
Sometimes she wishes they'd just shoot her so she could find out already.
-o-o-
When Elijah had died, Dalton had mourned his friend and teammate. He'd felt angry, and guilty, and sad - and, finally, somewhat at peace.
He'd given a eulogy at his fallen friend's funeral. He'd hugged Elijah's parents, told his little brother to call him if he ever needed anything. He'd packed up his belongings and sent them home to his family, keeping only a photo of the team that had been taped to the wall above Elijah's bed.
He'd done four sessions with the Army shrink. He'd talked over what happened with Preach and McGuire and Jaz, who was closest to Elijah in more ways than one, and who took his death the hardest.
He'd recruited a new member. He'd rebuilt his team, one that missed and mourned and grew stronger.
He'd moved on.
He can't do that now.
There is no moving on, there is no moving forward. And all he can think about - all he can focus on - is getting Jaz back.
He failed her once, and look where it got her. Got them.
He will not do it again.
The team spends every minute of every day drilling for her rescue - training and brainstorming and preparing for every possible scenario, every eventuality. Dalton pushes himself harder than he ever has before, running and lifting and boxing and shooting. He knows the rest of them are doing the same, knows they're all struggling with the guilt and grief and anger.
But this time, he can't talk about it with any of them. This time, the burden of command weighs too heavily on his shoulders - it had been his call, his risk to take.
Except he'd been wrong, he'd been so wrong, and so stupid, and he hadn't been the one to face the consequences. He's in his comfortable bed, eating Amir's gourmet meals and taking hot showers and drinking himself to sleep to numb the pain.
And she...
When he closes his eyes, all he sees are the photos the Revolutionary Guard had sent to the DIA. Jaz's bruised and bloodied face. The slashes and burns on her back. The marks covering her legs.
Her dull, pain-filled eyes.
He knows what happens to women in Iranian prisons.
-o-o-
She's been trained to withstand torture of course, but no one tells you that the training is nothing like the real thing.
That when it really happens, when you're alone and cold and scared and hurt in a dark cell three floors below an Iranian prison, you'll feel a piece of your soul breaking off and shattering into pieces.
She hasn't cried. Not through the beatings with an electric cable, not through the knife carving patterns into her flesh, and not through the seven fat, sweaty men taking their turns with her. Not through the weeks alone and shivering, waiting to die.
She thinks sometimes about Elijah's funeral. They'd all flown back to the States for it - back to rural Pennsylvania, where Elijah had grown up, and where his parents and three younger siblings still lived.
At the reception afterwards, she'd sat in the corner of Elijah's parents' living room by herself, uncomfortable in her dress uniform, holding a glass of iced tea and wishing it was something stronger. She'd watched Elijah's twelve year old sister chatting with a cousin.
"Soldiers know they could die," the cousin had said, chewing on a chocolate chip cookie. "My dad says it's a sacrifice they make to keep us safe."
"Elijah didn't want to die," his little sister said, her eyes puffy, her own cookie untouched on a napkin in her lap.
"Yeah, but he knew it could happen," the cousin had told her.
Jaz had walked away, unable to intervene, unable to keep listening. He hadn't known it could happen! she'd wanted to scream. None of us knew!
She hadn't known this could happen. No matter how many times she'd been warned, no matter how many times she'd said she accepted the risk, that doing this was worth the risk…
She just hadn't known what the risk was.
-o-o-
He finds McGuire on the beach, early in the morning. The sun is just rising, warming the sand, gentle waves lapping against the shore.
He'd gone for a run, early, before the rest of the team was up - or so he'd thought.
He's tempted to turn around, pretend he hadn't seen him, but - he's the team leader. He needs to step up.
So he slows to a walk, and then drops down beside his medic, sand sticking to his sweaty legs.
"You're out early," McG says, his voice hoarse. Dalton wonders if he's been crying.
"So are you," Dalton says, rubbing the sleeve of his T-shirt over his sweaty forehead.
"Couldn't sleep."
Dalton nods. He gets that.
McG doesn't say anything else, and Dalton thinks about getting up, about going off to finish his run and start the day - he's got several training exercises planned, simulations for how they'll break into a heavily armed Iranian prison and emerge with Jaz.
He's about to make an excuse and leave when McGuire says, "I pushed her into it."
What? "What?" Dalton manages, nearly stunned into silence.
McG is still staring out at the water. "When we were in that room...I said it would be a shame to leave that fucker still alive. I thought she should do it. I pressured her. And it wasn't my ass on the line."
Dalton stares at him, unable to speak.
It was my fault, he thinks. I'm the one who approved the mission. I'm the one who sent her in there.
But before he can swallow the lump in his throat, McG speaks again.
"I can't stop thinking about what's happening to her," he says, and now Dalton realizes that he really was crying. "What she must be going through, while we're just sitting around on our asses. Waiting."
He spits out waiting like it's a dirty word.
Dalton knows he should say something, something comforting and reassuring and strong. Something befitting of a leader.
McG swipes the arm of his sweatshirt over his eyes, and Dalton nearly loses it.
"Me too," he manages finally. "Every single second of the day."
-o-o-
It's been a long time since they brought her out of her cell. But Jaz still isn't surprised when they fling the door open and a blinding light invades her senses.
"Get up!" one of the guards shouts in Farsi. There are at least five of them standing at the door.
In an action movie, one where Jaz is a superhero, she'd take all five guards out in a spectacular fight - one where they all ended up dead, and she walked away with barely a scratch. She'd grab the fat, sweaty one's gun - the one who liked to push her face into the floor while he raped her - and put a bullet in his temple, then shoot her way out of the prison, running triumphantly into the sunlight.
Instead, she's too weak to push herself off the concrete floor. Two guards seize her by the arms and drag her out, up a flight of steps, her shins bouncing painfully off the rock-hard stairs, and into the interrogation room that frequently appears in her nightmares.
They shove her into a chair. Yank off her torn T-shirt, leaving her in just a tattered, threadbare bra, and strap her into place.
A wave of panic crashes over her. Is she being executed? Is this it, right now?
Suddenly, pain ricochets through her entire body - once, twice, three times. She bites down on her tongue till she can taste the blood. She won't let them see her cry.
"We continue to hold this American spy," a voice says in heavily accented English from somewhere above her.
There's another flash of agony, another lash of a thick cable against her bare stomach.
"This spy has snuck into our country on false pretenses," the voice says. "She murdered an Iranian citizen, on Iranian soil, and has spread terror through our entire nation."
Jaz forces herself to open her eyes, to breathe slowly through the pain. She finds herself staring at a blinking camera.
They're recording this. Or livestreaming.
She tries to open her mouth, tries to say something - she has no idea what - but it's been so long since she's spoken that she can't manage to make a sound.
Another lash.
"This is our final warning to the American government," the voice says, and she realizes it's coming from one of the guards - the one who always appeared to be in charge.
The only one who's never raped her. She's not sure what that means.
"This American spy will be executed by firing squad in 72 hours unless our demands are met."
Another lash. She jerks as the cable wraps around her ribs, can't help moaning quietly.
And suddenly, she's able to find her voice. "Don't do it," she croaks, so hoarse that the words are practically unintelligible to her ears. "Don't give them what they want! Don't do it!"
A sudden blow to her abdomen knocks the wind out of her, and suddenly fists and weapons are flying at her.
Her last thought before she passes out is that at least this will be over soon.
-o-o-
Dalton is midway through a set of twenty mountain sprints when his secure sat phone buzzes. He nearly tumbles to the gravel trying to get it out of his pocket.
A 911 from Patricia.
Heart pounding, he sprints back to their barracks. He's still gasping for breath when he opens his laptop and connects the video call.
"What is it?" he demands.
"Dalton, we found her."
-o-o-
Jaz doesn't sleep much. The floor is hard and uncomfortable, and she's shaking with cold much of the time. The cell is too cramped for her to lie flat, and her battered muscles ache from being curled into a ball. When she does manage to drift off, she often wakes in a panic, startled into consciousness by half-remembered acts of cruelty.
But every so often, she dreams of home. She feels Dalton's strong arm around her as they stroll through the streets while undercover, hears McGuire's teasing laughter. She tastes Amir's Lebanese breakfasts, sees the way Preach's face lights up as he Skypes with his daughters.
Sometimes, in the dreams, Dalton talks to her. She can never make out what he says, but his voice is soothing and gentle, his eyes dancing with joy and mischief. She can feel him tuck her long hair behind her ear.
But when she reaches out to touch him, he disappears.
The only time she cries is when she wakes up from those dreams.
-o-o-
Dalton's heart is pounding in his ears, but he ignores it.
They're here. They're finally, finally here. And if all goes according to plan, they'll have Jaz back in less than twenty minutes.
Even if all doesn't go according to plan, Dalton's team has trained for every single possibility.
And they're not leaving without her.
They have less than 12 hours before the Iranian government's deadline for her execution. But a solid tip from a long-time asset, combined with some sloppy encryption work on the uplink of the latest video has enabled DIA to pinpoint Jaz's location.
And here they are. Huddled in a van outside a secret black site, waiting for the go-ahead from command.
Preach puts a hand on his shoulder, and he realizes that he's bouncing his leg up and down. "We got her Top," he says, and Dalton is jealous of the confidence in his voice. "We've got this."
"Yeah," he says, nodding to himself. "Yeah."
Amir is so focused it's scary. McGuire shoves more medical supplies and an extra canteen of water into his pack.
Dalton tries not to let himself imagine what kind of shape she's in.
He hadn't been able to watch the whole video. Hadn't been able to look at the whip hitting her bare stomach, had walked away completely when they'd begun whaling on her with their fists and the butts of their guns.
Her weak, crackling voice had twisted his guts.
But now they're just meters away from her. And next time they're in this van she'll be with them.
"Drone will be in place in three minutes," Hannah's voice says into his ear. 100% focused. 100% business.
"All right, let's review the plan one more time," Dalton says.
-o-o-
Jaz doesn't know how long it's been since they dumped her back in this cell. Doesn't know if 72 hours have passed, or twelve, or a thousand. She doesn't know if the deadline is up - if it's time for her execution.
She's been in and out of consciousness since the guards treated her as a punching bag. It's been easier that way.
She's scared. She wouldn't ever admit it, even to herself, but knowing that they're going to tie her to a pole, put a bag over her head and shoot her is terrifying.
She wonders if it will hurt. Wonders if she'll feel anything, or if it will all just...end.
She wishes they'd at least give her a chance to say goodbye. Not to her family - she'd made her peace with them long ago. But to her team. To Dalton.
There are so many things she wishes she could say to Dalton. She hopes he knows at least some of them.
She hears a gunshot from far away, then screaming in Farsi. She can't make out the words.
But she knows this is it. They're coming for her.
She tries to sit up. Finds that she can't.
She closes her eyes.
Another gunshot.
She won't let them see her cry.
-o-o-
"Where is she?" Dalton hisses, pressing the knife to the guard's carotid. A trickle of blood drips down his neck, and Dalton feels a sick sort of pleasure.
The terrified guard babbles at him in Farsi. Dalton digs the knife in a little deeper.
"He's saying she's in a cell, in the second sub-basement," Hannah translates in his ear. "The keys are on his belt - it's the key with the green cover."
Dalton plunges the knife into the guard's throat, relishing the gurgling, pain-filled sound he makes. Blood gushes, and Dalton lets him drop to the ground, kicking him once in the stomach for good measure.
He recognizes this guard from the video. He knows what this guy's done to Jaz.
"North stairwell is clear!" Amir announces in his comm link.
"Okay, make sure it stays that way," Dalton says. He shrugs his rifle out of the way so he can pull the keys off the belt of the guard he's just dispatched. "Preach, how we doing on their comms?"
"You should be good for another two minutes."
"All right, I'm going down," Dalton says, hurrying towards the stairs. "McG, you've got the south?"
"All clear."
He hurries down the staircase, trying not to let his excitement and nerves trip him up. It's pitch black as he descends, and he switches on his headlamp.
The basement is silent. He looks around, scanning for any sight of her.
"Dalton, status," Patricia says in his ear, her voice tense.
"Entering the sub-basement," he says under his breath. He takes a careful step, two - and then he hears a whimper.
"Jaz?" he gasps, hustling towards it.
And there she is. Right there, in front of him, for the first time in more than two months.
Alive.
"Dalton?" "Top?" There is a cacophony of voices in his comm, but he ignores them all, fumbling in his pocket for the keys.
He unlocks the cell, yanks the door open, and is suddenly on his knees beside her.
"Jaz," he whispers. "Hey, Jaz."
She's curled up into a ball, face pressed against the cold concrete.
"Top," she murmurs, eyes bleary and unfocused. He turns his headlamp away from her face.
"Hey," he says, throat filling with tears. He presses his palm to her cheek - she's ice cold, but she's here. With him. "I can't tell you how happy I am to see you."
She tries to lift her arm, tries to reach for him, but she's too weak.
"Dalton, you've got two tangoes on the second floor, heading down the south staircase," Hannah says urgently.
"I've got it," McG responds.
"Okay," Dalton says, refocusing. "I've got Jaz. I'm gonna get her up the north stairwell. Preach, I need you at that exit. She's not ambulatory."
"Copy," Preach says.
Dalton holsters his sidearm, turns back to Jaz. She's staring up at him like she isn't sure he's really there. "You're safe," he promises, trying not to look at the bruises on her face. At her bare legs. "I'm getting you out of here."
He slides his arms underneath her knees and back. She's so thin, so frail. She moans as he lifts her up, clutching her against his chest like he might an infant. "All right, I'm heading up," he says.
"North is clear," Amir responds.
"Standing by at the exit," Preach says.
He takes the stairs slowly, carefully, cradling her against him, not wanting to cause her any further pain.
"I wish this was real," Jaz says, so softly he can barely hear her.
His heart cracks into pieces. They should have found her sooner.
"It is, Jaz," he says. "I promise you, it is. You're safe, okay? It's all gonna be okay."
It's all gonna be okay.
-o-o-
She wakes up on the floor of the van to McGuire sliding an IV into her arm, and promptly rolls over and vomits bile onto the dirty carpet.
"Shh, shh, shh," Dalton murmurs, his big, warm hand pressing against her forehead. She fights the urge to flinch, to cry, to scream. "You're safe, Jaz. We've got you."
She tries to get up, but hands hold her down. She can only manage a whimper.
"Shhh," Dalton says. "You're safe, Jaz. It's okay, it's okay."
But it's not okay, because her legs are bare and bruised, and Dalton sounds like he's going to cry, and the men she respects most in the world are seeing her, naked and violated on the floor of this car, and nothing will ever be okay again.
"Fifteen minutes to the border," she hears Amir say, his voice far away.
She feels hands rolling up her shirt, and she gasps, squeezing her eyes shut.
"No, Jaz, don't go to sleep," Dalton says desperately. "Stay with me."
She keeps her eyes shut. She can't be here for this.
-o-o-
"And you are officially in Azerbaijan!" Hannah's voice says in his ear. Cheerful. Celebratory.
He can hear clapping and laughter in the background from the DIA.
They've done it. They've gotten Jaz out of Iran. They're safe.
None of his team celebrates. And if it weren't for Jaz, unconscious in his arms, he's not sure he'd be able to hold it together.
"Transport is four minutes out," Noah tells him. "Stay low in case anyone's tracking you on the Iranian side."
Amir nods to a copse of trees by the side of the dirt road. They all fall in, stealthily moving behind it.
Jaz doesn't even stir. He's grateful. He can't imagine how much pain she must be in.
"You okay?" Preach asks quietly. "I can take her if you need."
Dalton shakes his head. "I got her," he says.
-o-o-
She wakes up again to movement - too fast on a bumpy road, her head bumping into metal, a muttered curse.
Dalton's face is hovering over her, his eyes worried, his lips smiling.
This dream again.
She squeezes her eyes shut, tears welling. No. She can't handle this again. It's not fair, it's not…
But didn't this happen already? Was McGuire there? Was that a dream too?
"Hey, hey, Jaz," Dalton says.
His voice. She never hears his voice in the dreams.
"Hey, look at me. Jaz, can you open your eyes?"
Curious, she does. His face is still hovering over hers, his thumb rubbing the tears from her eyes.
"We've got you, okay? You're safe. We've just crossed into Azerbaijan. We'll be at Dollyar in about two hours."
"Hey, Jazzy," McGuire says, his face coming into her line of vision. "You're doing great, okay? You just hang in there."
She looks from one man to the other. McGuire is injecting something into the IV connected to her arm. Dalton is clutching one of her hands. Her head is pillowed on his thigh.
This may not be a dream.
-o-o-