were shouting, but it sounded like he was underwater in mud.
Noah fumbled with the door handle, but it wouldn’t give. He was moving through a nightmare’s quicksand, stunned and slow.
The door flew open and Daggett yanked him to the ground. A few feet out, Fuller was giving hand signals to the other men. He turned back to Daggett and yelled, “Get Stone under cover. Go, go—”
Abruptly, Fuller froze. A hole appeared in his forehead, his jaw sagged and he dropped to the ground. Before Noah or Emile could react, another blast struck—a direct hit on the HMV, now empty, behind them. A wave of heat and sound plowed him down. Hot knives seemed to slice his shoulders, belly and legs. He heard an ungodly scream. Just before everything went black, he realized the scream had come from him.
WHEN NOAH CAME TO, HIS body burned with pain and every breath was a stab of agony. He lay on his side, tasting dirt and swallowing blood. His ears rang and his mind kept flickering like a lightbulb about to blow. He tested his body for mobility. His right leg and left arm seemed to be broken. Any movement made him nearly pass out. His ribs were at least cracked and every breath was torture.
He was being shouted at, but with his ears ringing, he couldn’t detect the language. A rifle jabbed him in the chest. An Iraqi soldier above him wanted Noah up.
Adrenaline was all that got Noah to his knees, despite his injuries. He saw Emile Daggett, also kneeling, bleeding from the head and mouth, one eye swollen shut, a rifle trained at his temple.
The two Iraqis arranged themselves in front of Noah and Emile, clearly readying to execute them. Dully, Noah wondered why his life wasn’t passing before his eyes. Instead, he thought, This is a great story, but you’ll be too dead to write it.
Suddenly, shots chinked nearby, zinging off metal, pocking the dirt. Another Iraqi ran up to the two guarding Noah and Emile and yelled something. Agitated, the soldiers dragged Emile and Noah to their feet and shoved them forward. Noah’s leg gave out, so he got dragged along the ground into a machine shop, then to a small room filled with tarp-covered crates and what looked like engine parts. The space stank of wet earth, motor oil, blood and something foul.
Emile turned to speak and got slugged by a rifle butt. He dropped to the ground, unconscious, possibly dead. When Noah looked up, he saw the stock of a machine gun coming for his head. Once more, he dropped into blackness.
THE NEXT TIME NOAH WAS conscious, the dimness of the light leaking through the seams in the steel walls told him hours had passed. His mouth was coated with dust and he was desperate for water. His pain had localized to his injured parts, including his skull, where he fingered a baseball-size lump. Emile was out, but breathing.
Going under with a concussion was bad news, so he fought to stay awake, but failed. When he came to again, he heard machine-gun and rifle fire and an occasional mortar landing nearby. He wet Emile’s lips from a bucket of foul-smelling water that had appeared while Noah was unconscious. Emile groaned.
Hours passed. Noah faded in and out. At one point, he heard men talking overhead. He thought he recognized Fariq and tried to say his name, but his mouth was too dry, his voice too faint.
He tried to find a way out. There was something about the crates he needed to check. He felt for his camera, thinking he should take pictures, if he could stay awake long enough and clear his vision…?.
He woke in different parts of the cramped room, forgetting what he’d been trying to do. At one point, a guard came in and caught him writing in his notepad. This time, when the blow struck and the blackness came, Noah expected never to see light again.
CHAPTER THREE
Phoenix, Arizona
AT 3:00 A.M., MEL woke to wet sheets and a sharp pain. Instantly, she knew. Her baby was coming. Her water had broken and she was having contractions. Game on. A few weeks early, but safe, gracias a Dios. Endometriosis could lead to premature birth, but at her last appointment, the doctor had told her the baby was developed enough to be born anytime and likely not need neonatal care.
Okay. This is it. Here we go. Excitement poured through her. Adrenaline, too, waking her up, putting every cell of her being on alert. She was a little scared, her heart pounding, but she stayed in charge, her tasks scrolling through her mind: Call the doctor. Wake Mamá. Dress. Pack a quick bag. Drive to the hospital. She pushed to her feet and got started.
The doctor told her to meet him at the hospital, so she went to wake her mother. She hated to rob Irena of vital sleep, but her mother would have her head if Mel left without her. “Mamá, it’s time.”
Irena threw back the covers. “Lista!” she said, bounding out of bed. Ready. Mel’s heart ached at how hard her mother tried to hide her pain from Mel.
Irena was still weak from a second surgery, required because her fibromyalgia flare-ups had delayed chemotherapy. Mel had moved home to be more useful to her and had been helping out more at Bright Blossoms.
Mel carried her mother’s condition constantly with her—a drumbeat in her head, a throb in her heart. What if she didn’t recover? What if she got worse? What if she died?
At least Irena would see her grandchild. Mel knew that and it filled her with relief. No matter what happened, she’d have given her mother this gift.
“Are you excited, mi’ ja?” her mother said, a happy light overriding the gray exhaustion that ruled her features. Just the sight of Mel’s growing belly had seemed to cheer her and daily Mel had been grateful for that.
“Very,” she said, going close to hug her mother, taking in the comfort, the warmth, the love that meant so much to her. “Gracias a Dios I am here to see this day,” Irena whispered, her voice urgent, her eyes gleaming with tears. It was rare for her to admit this possibility and it hit Mel hard.
She bit her lip and swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Of course you are here. You’ll be here for years and years.” She pressed her cheek against her mother’s, praying that what she’d said would prove true.
“Get dressed while I pack.”
Then, in her room, throwing toiletries into a bag, it hit: What about Noah? She’d put off calling him, not wanting to deal with his shock and possible outrage over her carelessness with birth control. Plus, she hadn’t heard from him since that first month. He’d clearly moved on. She should, too.
Oh, Noah. Her heart surged with longing for him, as it had over and over again during her pregnancy. It was weak and stupid, but at night, she’d often fantasized him with her, spooning in bed, his warm hand cupping her swollen belly, cozy in their cocoon.
Pregnancy hormones, no doubt, but embarrassing as hell.
And now? Now that the baby was here? She had to tell him. The man hated secrets. She owed him this truth.
She reached for her cell phone, where she had his number, but a contraction gripped her. Pain ripped through her insides, twisting her organs, taking over her brain and body, making her gasp. She grabbed the bureau, panting, fighting to remember the Lamaze technique. “Ow, ow, ow,” was the best she could manage. How many minutes had gone by since the last contraction?
She didn’t remember. There was no time for a phone chat, that was certain, so she settled for a text: Got pregnant that weekend. Baby coming. No need for anything. This is what
