“In Iraq?”
“Telskuf.”
He set the cup aside. “I have to make a phone call.”
“You can’t. The Da’esh cut all the phone lines and tore down the cell towers.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. He seemed agitated, but unfocused. She’d given him a hefty dose of narcotic. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to lie down and let me take care of you.”
He blinked drowsily, studying her face. She patted the wool blanket she’d placed in the middle of the platform. He stretched out on his stomach with a wince. She waited a few moments, until his shoulders relaxed and his breathing deepened. She studied his sleep-softened features. His eyelashes were dusty, his forehead creased. The blood on his back had dried into a sticky red-black paste. He had a scar on his elbow from an old surgery. Faded bruises spanned his rib cage from his lean waist to the underside of his right arm. He’d been kicked by his captors. She felt the strange urge to soothe him, stroke his hair.
“What are you doing?” Ashur said, startling her.
She gave him a chiding look. “You should be at your post.”
“I want a gun.”
“What?”
“I can’t stand guard without a gun.”
She pointed at the far wall. “Go keep watch.”
He went with a scowl, kicking a rock across the courtyard. Sometimes she didn’t know what to do with him. She’d inherited a teenager who seemed hell-bent on destruction, and destruction was everywhere they went.
She gathered her medical supplies to tend to the American’s wounds. First, she washed his feet, which were covered with shallow cuts. He stirred as she flushed out the debris, trying to push her hands away.
“I don’t work for the government, you bastards.”
She blinked at his harsh tone. He seemed to think he was still a prisoner, being tortured by the Da’esh.
“I already told you. I’m an independent contractor.”
She applied some healing ointment and wrapped his feet in strips of muslin. As long as he didn’t get an infection, the cuts would heal quickly. His back was a different story. He had a deep laceration that needed sutures. She knelt beside him and cleaned the area as best she could. The work was painful enough to make him lift his head.
“Be calm,” she said. “It is Layah.”
He stared at her blearily. “Layah?”
“I’m taking care of you.”
“I should bathe, before we...”
“Hush.”
She didn’t have any local anesthetic, so she applied a numbing agent. Then she hiked her skirt up to her knees and straddled his waist, because she didn’t trust him not to jerk away from her when she sank the needle in. The contact felt unbearably intimate. It reminded her of stolen nights with Khalil.
“This would be more fun if I rolled over.”
She let out a breathy laugh, resting her hand on his back. She was surprised he had the energy for sexual suggestions. “I have to stitch your wound.”
He groaned in protest.
“You are strong. Stay still.”
His shoulder twitched as the needle penetrated his skin. “Are you a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?”
“In Iraq? I was born here.”
“In Telskuf.”
She closed the cut with neat sutures. “I came for you.”
“Why?”
“I want you to take me across the Zagros Mountains.”
“I’m not a pilot.”
“We go on foot.”
“That’s...impossible.”
“I disagree,” she said, placing a large bandage over the wound. “But we can debate later. First, we have to escape this town alive.”
He slipped back into unconsciousness. She didn’t expect him to go along with her plan. She had no money to pay him, and he wouldn’t volunteer his services. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. SEALs were bound by professional regulations. They didn’t do freelance missions. He would never be allowed to guide a group of refugees on a dangerous journey.
So she wasn’t giving him a choice.
Hud woke with a mild headache and a queasy stomach.
He jerked upright, almost falling out of bed. He was in a bed? It was a narrow bed with a pillow and a wool blanket, in the corner of a quiet room. He couldn’t fault the accommodations. It was a hell of a lot better than an underground torture chamber. This place had air and light and even a window—an open window with muslin curtains that fluttered in the breeze. Goats bleated and bells clanged at a distance.
They weren’t in Telskuf anymore. He wasn’t in his cell, and he wasn’t alone. There was a boy in a chair by the window, glowering at him. Hud searched his memory for a clue to his identity.
Shut up or we die.
This was the boy who’d rescued him, with the help of that woman.
“Layah,” he said. He remembered her.
“She is not here.”
“Who are you?”
The boy rose to his full height, which was about five and a half feet. He had hair that stood up on top and ears that stuck out to the sides. His thickly lashed brown eyes were set in a hard glare. He looked like Bambi, if Bambi were an angry adolescent.
“I am Ashur,” the boy said.
“I’m Petty Officer William Hudson.”
Ashur stepped forward. Instead of shaking hands with Hud, he brandished a dagger. “If you try to leave, I will kill you.”
Hud studied the blade warily. He didn’t know who these people were or what they intended to do with him. They could be allies. They could be opportunists. Ashur reeked of antagonism, but that didn’t mean anything. Some Iraqis hated Americans as much as they hated the terrorist invaders. There was a lot of resentment about the involvement of foreign governments, most of which had done more harm than good.
