yelling to the children to run. But she was not able to escape herself before the bomb—”
He couldn’t finish because the idea of a blast anywhere near Tahra threatened his composure. Zakharian men never cried. Hadn’t he been taught that since childhood? And yet...without that emotional release he needed something else. Vengeance. An eye for an eye. But right now there was no one on whom to wreak vengeance. No terrorist organization had come forward to claim responsibility for the attacks. That could change at any time, but for now...
Alec glanced away for a moment, as if to give Marek time to get his emotions under control. Then he said, “I heard you tell the receptionist Tahra’s your fiancée. Probably not the best time to say it, but congratulations—Tahra’s one in a million, and you’re a lucky man.” Alec and Angelina were the only ones who knew how Marek felt about Tahra. Not that he’d ever actually come right out and told either of them, but anyone who’d seen Marek and Tahra together—which Alec and Angelina had—would know...
Alec added, “Tahra didn’t mention the two of you were engaged, but I’ve been pretty busy lately. Guess she didn’t have a chance to tell me.” Something in Alec’s steady gaze told Marek the other man suspected he’d lied about being Tahra’s fiancé, but wasn’t going to call him on it. Yet. Not when the lie had garnered information about Tahra’s condition.
He opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn’t quite sure—when a man in medical garb walked into the waiting room, spoke to the receptionist, then came over to where Alec and Marek were seated. Both men stood quickly.
“You are waiting to hear about Tahra Edwards?” the surgeon asked in Zakharan.
Alec spoke first. “Tahra works for me at the US embassy.”
“She is my fiancée,” Marek threw in, not even waiting for Alec to finish.
The surgeon nodded. “She is in recovery. Her wounds are serious, but not life threatening. There was internal bleeding, but no major damage to any vital organs. We were easily able to effect repairs without complications via a minimally invasive technique called a laparoscopy. She has a broken right wrist, but it was clean and we set it without difficulty. There will be some scarring, of course, from the fléchette rounds that pierced her body.” His lips tightened as if merely the idea of fléchettes angered him. “But she was turned away from the bomb when it detonated, so her face is fortunately untouched.”
He hesitated. “The only thing that concerns me is the head injury she received. Severe concussion. Apparently the force of the bomb blast threw her into a park bench, and her head took a terrific blow. There is some swelling of the brain, but there does not appear to be any internal bleeding inside her skull. We have induced a medical coma to allow her body to heal without the distraction of pain. We are monitoring her closely, however, and will deal appropriately with any cause for alarm.” He smiled reassuringly at Marek. “Your fiancée was a healthy young woman before this happened, and the prognosis for a complete recovery is excellent.”
How Marek was able to hang on to his stoic expression, he never knew. “Thank you,” he told the surgeon in a voice wiped clean of emotion. He shook the man’s hand. “Thank you.”
“Always glad to deliver good news,” the surgeon replied with a smile. “You can see her as soon as they bring her up to her room. She will not be able to respond, of course, but remain positive—it is always possible she can hear you even in a coma.” He glanced at Alec and switched to English. “You may also see her as soon as she is conscious, but she will not be returning to work any time soon.”
* * *
“She saw my face,” Sergeant Thimo Vasska reported to his superior officer in the headquarters of the Zakharian Liberation Front. “It is possible she could identify me.”
Before the lieutenant could reply, another man entered the room so quietly he was there before either man was aware. Sergeant Vasska stiffened, then nervously saluted the supreme commander of their revolutionary force.
“That is unfortunate,” Colonel Damek Borka said in his flat, emotionless voice. It wasn’t his real name, of course. Everyone in the Zakharian Liberation Front went by a pseudonym because the danger of disclosure was great...although more for some than for others. “Unfortunate...for her and for you.” The colonel said nothing more, but his face conveyed how badly the sergeant had screwed up.
Failure was unacceptable, the man knew. If the witness could not be silenced, the Zakharian Liberation Front would have no choice but to remove the link between the botched attack today and their secret organization. Sergeant Vasska nodded his understanding. “Yes, sir,” he said, saluting again. “It will be dealt with immediately.”
* * *
Marek stared down at the unconscious woman in the hospital bed, his emotions churning. Tahra, his darling Tahra, could have died today. And he wouldn’t have been able to do a damn thing to prevent it.
He took her unbandaged left hand in his and raised it to his lips. Forgive me, he told her silently, aware that the nurse attending Tahra and setting things up could hear every word he said. But until you are conscious, I have no choice. I must protect you the only way I know how.
He waited until the nurse turned away, adjusting something on one of the machines monitoring Tahra’s condition, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the little ring box he’d been carrying for weeks. Tahra had declined his proposal, but that had changed nothing. She was still his mariskya and always would be. He had drawn back, wanting to give her time to see what a mistake she was making, but he’d had to repeat the lie he’d told the receptionist to hospital staff, that Tahra was his fiancée, or else he would have been shut out of her sickroom. And that he couldn’t have borne.
He surreptitiously slid the engagement ring onto her finger, then kissed her hand again. “Sleep well, my darling,” he whispered in Zakharan. “I will keep you safe from this moment forward.”
Tahra slept on, oblivious, but he took comfort in the slight rise and fall of her chest.
Marek caught the nurse’s eye. “I have left my phone numbers with the main desk. Call me immediately, please, if there is any change in my fiancée’s condition.”
The nurse nodded, and Marek walked out, passing the two soldiers from the Zakharian National Forces posted right on either side of the door, returning their salutes automatically. He hadn’t even had to ask Colonel Marianescu to post guards, although he would have if necessary. The colonel was too smart not to realize the attacks today had to all be related and were a threat to national security. Which meant Tahra—a witness to the attack on the school—was also vital to national security. No one else had been close enough to the man who’d left the knapsack to identify him, but several witnesses in the area had indicated Tahra had been much closer to the terrorist. Anything she could tell them about the attack would be crucial. Which meant it was very possible her life was still in danger...and not from the injuries she’d received.
Tahra floated in a sea of disjointed memories. Carly was there, and her parents. Then her parents were gone, and seventeen-year-old Carly was kneeling in front of ten-year-old Tahra, saying gently, “They’re not coming back, honey. They’re never coming back. But I’m here. And I’ll take care of you, I promise.”
Tears and years.
There was Carly, fiercely confronting the secretary of state.
