I was on my feet. “The truck—” I think I shouted.
“Forget the truck. We’ve got a chopper. This way—move!”
As if I had a choice, with this man-machine’s arm around my waist, half carrying me. But I could see Will and the other members of my crew being similarly hustled through the rooms of the bombed-out house—mostly rubble now—and gave myself up to being rescued and focused my attention on trying not to step on anything that might have been body parts.
Once clear of the house, we ran across open ground with all the speed we television newspeople were capable of, bent almost double as if that would make us less vulnerable to bullets and mortar shells. My rescuer kept me tucked under his arm, practically under his body, shielding me with his own armor.
I could hear the thump-thump-thump of rotors, and then my rescuer’s hands grasped my waist and hoisted me bodily into the helicopter. Within seconds we were all aboard—rescue squad, news crew and most of our gear—and the chopper lunged into the air. As it banked and swept away from the battle zone, heading back toward the base, blessed quiet—comparatively speaking—settled over us. Above the creak and rustle of armor-clad warriors settling themselves and their weapons in for the journey, I could hear my own heart beating, out of sync with the thump of the chopper blades.
When I could breathe evenly enough to speak without gasping, I looked over at my personal savior. I found him watching me, eyes half-closed in his blackened face, the fire in them banked for the moment.
“Thanks,” I said, knowing how profoundly inadequate it was.
A smile transformed him instantly from machine into man. “Just doin’ our job, ma’am,” he drawled.
“What’s your name, soldier?” I asked, remembering my own job, belatedly.
Still smiling, he shook his head. “Soldier’s enough.”
* * *
That was the first hint she’d had of how human he was; later, she’d found he could even be vulnerable. Though...she’d never seen him afraid, not once in all the years he’d flitted in and out of her life like a shadow.
But he’s afraid now.
She was almost certain of it. What could have happened to him in the year since she’d last seen him...touched him...felt his touch? Possibilities flashed through her mind, scenarios formless as wisps of smoke.
She strained her ears, listening in the silence of that room, silence that stretched beyond the mud-brick walls and small shuttered window into the cold Afghan night. There were no sounds of battle tonight, no voices raised in fear or anger, song or prayer, not even the cry of a night bird or barking of an abandoned dog. Again she listened for the rustling of clothing, the whisper of quickened breathing. And again, all she heard was her own heartbeat.
Anger came like a small hot whirlwind. She sucked it in and held it close as she threw back the heavy woven wool blankets, thankful once again for the years of experience that had taught her to sleep fully clothed in these remote outposts.
“What do you want?” The question came in a tumble of uneven breath as she stabbed the darkness with her feet, searching for her boots. “Damn you, at least tell me why you’re here. I think you owe me that much.”
The answer barely disturbed the silence. “You’re right. I do.” There was a quick, soft exhalation and then: “I need your help.”
And for Yancy, where there had been heat, now there was cold, a new chill that penetrated to the pit of her stomach. On a sharp gasp she asked, “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“For God’s sake, Hunt.” Still shaky, she pulled her coat from the foot of the cot and swung it around her shoulders. It wasn’t until she stood up that she realized how unreliable her legs were. She groped for the battery-powered lantern and swore under her breath when she kicked it in the near-darkness.
“No,” her visitor said harshly. “No light.”
Unformed notions swirled like swamp fog through her mind. Oh, God, he’s been wounded...horribly disfigured...doesn’t want me to see...
As if he’d read her thought, his voice held a touch of irony. “I need to open the door... Don’t want the light to show outside. Okay? Just...wait...”
She caught back questions and stood hugging her coat around her, trying not to shiver as she stared at the place where she remembered the outside door was. She listened to faint sounds, felt the movement of air as the door opened all but invisibly against the blackness of the night. After a moment, she heard the door close. The shadows in the room rearranged themselves.
Hunt spoke, barely a whisper. “You can put the light on now, if you need to.”
Yancy fumbled again for the lantern and this time found it and switched it on. Light flooded the room, a visual assault after such darkness.
She turned quickly, heart pounding, not knowing what to expect, afraid of what she would see. And went utterly still with shock. Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t this.
Where the shadow had been that was Hunt Grainger, now there were two figures. A tall man wearing traditional Afghan clothing and a full beard, thick and dark. With him was a small Afghan child—a boy, judging from the way he was dressed, and no more than four or five years old.
“Not quite what you expected, I guess.” Hunt’s voice was still soft, but again with that hint of wry humor as he gave words to her thoughts.
“Not...quite,” she managed to murmur, still staring at the child clinging to Hunt’s leg with the fierce determination of a drowning cat. “Who is he?”
“She. It’s safer if...” There was a pause before he continued. “Her name’s Laila.”
Yancy lifted her eyes to look at him, understanding beginning to dawn. Could it possibly be...? How does he know what I...? Uneasiness tightened her chest.
“Why— How...?” She stopped, knowing it was useless to try to rush him.
“Her mother’s dead.” The statement came in a flat undertone. He tipped his turbaned head toward the child. “And if she stays in this country she might as well be. She needs to get out, and I know you can make that happen.”
Her small gasp of laughter was an automatic and, she knew, futile diversion. “Why would you think—”
He cut her off without raising his voice. “Yankee, I know. Okay? I know what you do, who you work for—besides WNN. I know your organization has the machine in place, the people—and I don’t mean them.” He jerked his head toward the door behind him, indicating the rest of the house and the rooms where the other members of the news crew were quartered. “You have the means to do this. You know how. You’ve done it before.”
Yancy hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. A cloak of calm came around her, and the ground steadied under her feet. She didn’t know how or why Hunt Grainger knew about INCBRO, but the fact that he did wasn’t a complete surprise. Hunt and the others like him seemed to know things no one else did.
“She’s
