Taking Fire by Cindy Gerard Page B

she had to get to Meir.
    Scrambling to get her feet under her, she tried to stand—and went right back down. For several seconds, she sat with her head between bent knees and breathed deep until the light-headedness passed. He’ll be all right , she told herself as she pulled off her single shoe. The other one was gone, lost with everything else.
    She tried to stand again. Landed on her ass again and swore.
    She didn’t have time for this, but she had to wait for the dizziness to pass. And while it did, she assured herself again that Jonathan would never let anything happen to Meir. She’d fully vetted the bodyguard before she’d taken this post in Muscat a week ago, and she trusted him completely.
    Surely he would hear about the bombing on TV or in the news feed on his phone. He’d know what to do, where to go. He’d keep Meir safe. And as long as Hamas thought she was dead, her son would stay safe. There was no reason to panic. But until she made contact with Jonathan, she couldn’t completely believe Meir was okay.
    She had to get to a phone.
    On this attempt to stand, she took her time and stood slowly. Made it to her feet. Made herself breathe. For a dizzying moment, it was all she could do to maintain her balance and stare in horror.
    Hell burned all around her. This end of the embassy complex had been reduced to blown-out walls, fractured glass, and piles of burning rubble. The roof gaped open through a jagged hole. Another alarm blasted in her head. The rest of the roof could fall anytime. She’d be damned if she survived the bombing only to die if the roof collapsed on top of her.
    Have to get out of here.
    She took an unsteady step, then another, and looked around for other survivors.
    â€œCan anyone hear me?”
    Her heart dropped when no one answered.
    She called out again. Waited again.
    Please. There must be more survivors.
    But again, she heard nothing.
    Then she spotted her aide. Oh, please, God. Not Saul.
    A chunk of concrete the size of a desk had fallen on his back, pinning him to the floor. Blood pooled beneath his head. He wasn’t moving.
    She’d just met him this past week but already felt close to him. He was an amazing young man, smart, eager, and excited about the baby his wife was due to deliver in four months. Choking on the thick smoke glutting the air, she staggered over to him, dropped to her knees, and searched for a pulse.
    He was gone. Fighting tears and now even more desperate to ensure that Jonathan got Meir to safety, she searched Saul’s pockets, feeling like a ghoulish thief, and finally found his phone.
    Torn between grief and hope, she punched in Jonathan’s number—and got nothing. The phone was dead. The screen was black.
    If she hadn’t already been on her knees, despair would have taken her there. But then something clicked in her head. If she didn’t get hold of herself right now, didn’t shut out the grief, the survivor guilt, and the fear for her son, it would paralyze her. She’d die here, and she’d never see Meir again.
    There was no shame in grieving. But there was no honor in giving up.
    Above all else, the rigorous training she’d been subjected to as Mossad had instilled both physical and mental strength.
    With renewed conviction, she rose to her feet again and searched for a way out. As she did, a sudden blast of memory hit that seemed as surreal as the devastation around her.
    Right before the blast, she’d seen Bobby Taggart. Large and lean and as uncompromisingly male as she remembered. It made no sense, but he was here. In the building when the bomb detonated.
    Propelled by renewed urgency, she started searching for him, shutting out the voices that reminded her that she’d betrayed him, that he must hate her. And if he didn’t hate her now, if she found him alive, he’d soon have every reason to.
    He couldn’t be dead.
    She couldn’t accept that possibility.