The knife at her throat pressed an icy reminder of the need to hold very still. Her senses went on hyper-alert to the stench of her captor’s garlic breath, the stickiness of his sweat, the steely press of ammo strapped to his chest. Focus, damn it. She was a trained professional. That should be what carried her through. Instead she drew strength from the conviction in Jose’s eyes. Somehow he’d found a detached professionalism that was deserting her. She ached to call out to him, even knowing she couldn’t afford the least movement, not even the tremble of her lips as her mouth watered. But she could soak up the sight of him. Jose. Here, decked out in camo, survival gear, and pointing an MP5 directly at her captor. She’d expected him to be brought in to break her code, not participate in the actual rescue operation. But he’d more than heard her. He’d come for her. For a split second the adrenaline poured from her toes.
