stumbled forward on unsteady legs. He had cuts on his feet and blood dripping down his back. He was weak with hunger, shaking from dehydration. Maybe it was the stress of the situation, or the lack of proper nutrition, but he felt dizzy. When he careened sideways, the other men supported him. They dragged him across a cobblestone street and into a quiet alleyway, where a woman was waiting with a donkey cart.
She scolded the boy the same way the men did, adding a hard tug on his ear. The boy scowled and pulled away from her. Then she turned her attention to Hud, and a strange sensation hit him. It was like a red alert, or a premonition. This woman was important. She was central. He zeroed in on her as if they were the last two people on earth.
She was stunning, with intense dark eyes in an oval-shaped face. Her hair was covered with a simple blue hijab, her body draped in a shapeless robe. She had an elegant nose and finely arched brows. She looked like a desert princess in peasant garb.
Maybe any attractive female would have dazzled him into a stupor, after what he’d been through. This one was top-class, even swathed in fabric from head to toe. One glance at her brought him to his knees. She was that beautiful.
“This is him?” she said in accented English. She didn’t sound impressed.
His vision went dark at the edges. He swayed forward, tumbling into oblivion.
The locals must have exaggerated.
Layah Anwar had heard stories about Navy SEALs. Wild tales about death and daring. SEALs were the Da’esh’s worst nightmare. They were mythical beasts that descended in the dark of night. They struck by sea, air or land, with an arsenal of weapons. They were rumored to have freakish strength. She’d pictured a genetic mutant in heavy chains. A thick-necked brute, hulking and indestructible.
This man wasn’t indestructible. He was unconscious.
To be fair, he’d been held captive for months. He’d been tortured and beaten and deprived of basic necessities. He was covered in dust and blood. He appeared adequately muscled. But he was just a man, like any other. She’d seen larger specimens among her own people.
“Are you sure this is him?” she asked Ashur again.
“It’s him. He has the tattoo.” Ashur pointed. There was a geometric shape of a mountain on the inside of the man’s forearm.
Layah helped her cousins lift the man off the ground. He was heavier than he looked. Even Ashur had to grab an arm. She’d made a place for him on the cart between straw bales. He groaned as his back hit the wooden platform. Beneath the dirt, his face was pale.
She hoped he wouldn’t die before she got any use out of him. She’d paid a high price for the explosives. They’d been planning this breakout for weeks.
“Go,” she said to her cousins. They raced into a nearby building to hide. She covered the man with a length of burlap and Ashur rearranged the straw bales to disguise his presence. Then she leaped into the driver’s seat and took the reins. Ashur climbed in beside her. Her hands shook as she urged the donkey forward.
The streets were empty—for now. Telskuf had been evacuated months ago, before the town had fallen. The only residents who’d stayed had done so at great risk, for Da’esh militants patrolled the roads with automatic rifles. Although the Iraqi Army had attempted to regain control, they’d abandoned the effort after a few days. There were other, more important cities to protect. More important people. The Assyrian community wasn’t a top priority in Iraq, or anywhere else.
Layah set aside her bitterness and focused on their escape. They had to reach the farm on the outskirts of town, where she could give the man medical attention. If he didn’t recover from his injuries, she’d have to find another guide.
She glanced at Ashur, who sat like a stone beside her. She couldn’t believe he’d defied her by rushing into the building. “You were supposed to stand watch.”
“Yusef was afraid to go in.”
“So he sent you?”
Ashur didn’t answer. She knew he hadn’t waited for permission. He’d just acted in his usual fashion, with recklessness and impatience.
“I heard gunfire.”
“The American shot a guard in the head.”
Layah’s chest tightened with unease. Ashur had seen too much violence in his short life. He was becoming inured to it. Or worse, infatuated. He had a glint in his eye that suggested he’d enjoyed the excitement.
She wished she could shield her nephew from the most devastating effects of war. Instead, she’d recruited him as a spy. She hadn’t expected any bloodshed on this mission, but the possibility always loomed. Maybe the narcotics they’d given the guards hadn’t worked. Ashur had delivered the spiked tea this morning, after the usual errand boy had been delayed by her cousins.
“Did he recognize you?” she asked.
“I don’t think so.”
Ashur had met several Navy SEALs in Syria two years ago. His father, Layah’s brother, had worked for them as an interpreter. Ashur remembered a SEAL with a tattoo on his forearm, blue and green lines in a distinctive mountain shape. Last month, Layah had learned that the Da’esh’s new captive bore this tattoo.
He was exactly what she needed for the journey north. As long as he lived.
She led the donkey down cobblestone alleyways and dusty side streets. When the cart went over a bump, their passenger groaned in protest.
“Water,” he said in a hoarse voice.
She was glad he was awake, but she couldn’t give him water. “Tell him to be quiet.”
Ashur leaned toward the injured man. “No water for you,” he said in stilted English. “Now shut up or we die.”
Layah frowned at his harsh words. “Speak with care, nephew. We need his help.”
Ashur shrugged, unconcerned. He’d gotten his point across. The man fell silent. Perhaps he’d passed out again.
She focused on the road, holding the reins in a sweaty grip. It was a pleasant spring day, sunny and cool. No storm clouds loomed on the horizon. They were almost out of danger. She set her sights on the archway at the south end of town.
“Halt!” a voice shouted in Arabic.
The native language of Telskuf was Assyrian, so she knew the speaker wasn’t local. He was a Da’esh invader.
Layah pulled up on the reins and reached underneath the wooden seat for the tar she’d hidden there. She stuck it over her front teeth. Then she grabbed a pair of dusty spectacles from her pocket. The thick lenses distorted her vision. When the Da’esh militants reached her, they found a homely creature.
“What are you doing?” one of the men demanded.
“Delivering a load of straw,” she said. “My husband is too ill to accompany
