In Love and War (17 page)

Sweat was running off of Dylan when his cramped feet touched the ground. It was all he could do to stifle his groan when his wounded leg was forced to bear his weight. Even without touching his thigh, he knew it was bleeding out, soaking the sock anew.

All of a sudden he found himself covered in a black
abbaya, his arms trapped at his sides. The fabric hid the bags, as well. The woman settled the black veil over his head, shifting it so he could see, then with a finger to her lips, she led him to the shadows of the nearest house.

Ali’s other aunt was waiting
there. Together, they crept silently along the side of the building, away from the street. It was a slow and careful trip to their home. Every footfall was jarring as he tried to keep up—shaking, sweating, weak, and dizzy. He couldn't believe how painful it was to continue on with knees bent. The strain was more than he expected.

The old woman was waiting just inside the back door when they darted in
to safety. She looked more fragile than she had mere hours earlier. Her eyes glittered with tears, her anxiety impossible to mistake. The aunt who’d collected him from the car spoke, her voice cracking. Their wave of grief encompassed Dylan, as well.

He
felt even weaker now, beyond fatigued. The muscles in his legs twitched uncontrollably, his bouncing kneecaps reminding him of chattering teeth. The room began to close in on him and in one mighty whoosh, everything went black. Dylan crumpled soundlessly to the floor, his arms still pinned to his sides, the bags clutched in his hands.

**
*

Ariela never returned to bed. She went back and forth to the computer, hoping a reassuring message
would suddenly appear from Dylan. One never came. Keyed up on the pot of coffee she’d brewed around four a.m., she decided to head in to work early.

It was useless.
She couldn’t focus there either. A cold, gripping dread had spread through her, and hours later, try as she might to share in Jean’s good news, her mood cast a pall over everything.

“
The steaks were fabulous,” Jean said in a happy rush. “I always overcook them, but this time Ron’s had the perfect amount of pink. Of course, by then, he was getting pretty buzzed. He’s not used to wine. I’d poured him three glasses before everything was ready. We never even touched the salad. There’s plenty for lunch, if you’re interested. It’s good. I had some for breakfast.” Jean spun around in her heels, her face alight with joy. “Ariela! I’m getting married! I asked him.
I
asked
him
and Ron said yes!”

Ariela shared in the laugh
ter, but it was half-hearted. “I’m so happy for you. Really, really, happy,” she said, trying to placate Jean. “I’ve just got this horrible feeling something happened to Dylan. I know that sounds crazy, but I feel it.”

Jean sighed and slouched down in her chair. “Don’t do this to yourself. That’s fear talking. So
, he’s a little late sending you a message—big surprise. He warned you that would probably happen. Now look at you, you’re falling apart right in front of me for no reason whatsoever. I can’t stand to watch it.”

“Then don’t watch.”

“Why don’t you call it a day here? It’s not like you’re getting anything done, anyway,” Jean snapped moodily.

Ariela agreed.

***

Once
she’d let Max into the yard and brought the garbage out of the bathroom, Ariela went on a hunt. She picked up Dylan’s scrapbook and began flipping pages, looking for anything that might give her a clue, or a contact.
A contact
…

Setting the book aside, she went over to his desk and
claimed his chair. There was something going on. It harassed her like an itchy scab. She considered trying his phone again, but what was the point? She’d already left him two messages—not that she expected him to have cell phone service wherever he was. She’d also tried his satphone number, but that was futile too. Of course, there was an even more disturbing reason why she chose not to call again. What if she inadvertently made whatever situation he was in worse? It scared her to think she might put him in danger herself.

Forget it. This was better. At least that’s what she thought until she found herself stymied by his coded address book. Why hadn’t she expected this? Of course he’d protect his sources and contacts
. And she wasn’t going to get anywhere on his e-mail without his password.
Damn it
.

Shaking with desperation, she began rummaging through his desk until she found an old appointment book tucked into the top drawer. She flipped through it, her eyes crazed with hope. One number, running along the margin, looked promising. She picked up her phone and dialed.
She was connected to the automatic-answering system for his paper. After listening to the options, she pressed a button for the editorial department, hoping for the best. A woman answered.

“Hi,
yes, I’m trying to reach Dylan Bond. It’s an emergency.”

“I’m sorry
. We’re not allowed to give out personal information.”

“I realize that. I’m not a stalker. In fact, I’m
…” she faltered for a second, “his girlfriend. I’m staying at his house and taking care of his dog. I know he’s in Iraq, but I need to reach him. Please, it’s very important.”

“Have you tried his phone?”

“Yes, many times. All I get is voicemail.” Ariela squeezed her head in frustration.

“He takes his computer. I suggest you contact him through his e-mail.”

Now she was really losing patience. She tried to control her temper as she explained, “We’ve been sending e-mails back and forth. He hasn’t responded to my last one.”

“Sometimes they can’t
, when they’re in the field.”

Duh
!

Ariela took a deep breath
, but she couldn’t help the pleading in her voice. “Listen. I know this sounds ridiculous, but I have a bad feeling something’s gone wrong with him.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could help, but I have no hidden doors beyond leaving a message for him with our Baghdad bureau. I can do that for you
, but if he were in contact with them, he would most likely be in contact with you.”

Ariela hated this woman. “Would you call me if you hear from him
, or about him?”

“Are you on his emergency contact card?”

Her heart sank. “No,” she whispered miserably.

“Then I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.
Policy restrictions.”

Before
she could badger her further, the woman cut the call.

“Fucking bitch!”
Ariela spun in fury, nearly flinging the phone at the wall. Only a flash of reason stopped her.

She went through the appointment book again, but after ten minutes, it was thrust back into the drawer. It took every ounce of control she had not to break down.

Picking up her phone, she hit redial. When the options came up, rather than hit the number for the editorial department again, she went directly to the operator to make a more specific request.

“I need to reach the editor in charge of international stories.”

“One moment.” She was transferred.

“Hal Cooper.” The man had a rough and direct manner. This might not work.

“Hello, I’m Ariela Perrine, Dylan Bond’s girlfriend. I’m trying to reach him. It’s an emergency.”

“I don’t know what I can do to help. You can leave a message with us, and if he calls in, we’ll pass it along
, but that’s about it.”

Ariela
fought hard to sound calm. “Listen, I realize this sounds crazy, but I know Dylan’s in some kind of trouble. He’s been really good about keeping me informed through e-mails, but it’s been days since I’ve seen anything from him. He was supposed to send me a message with his flight information. That message never came. This isn’t like him.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line then she heard the squeak of a chair as it moved under the editor. “No one
’s reported back to me that he might be missing. I would have heard. I’m sure it’s probably something as simple as his batteries being low and he isn’t able to recharge. Everything he’s carrying runs on batteries. If his satphone is down, so is his laptop. Don’t let your imagination run away with you. This is just part of the business over there.”

She
trembled and her voice shook. “Please. I know something’s wrong. I don’t know how I know, but I do. I feel it.”

He didn’t even try to hide his sigh of annoyance from her. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Could you check with your people over there? See if they know anything? Please?”

There was a pause followed by another
irritable sigh. “Give me your number.”

For the next two hours, all
Ariela could do was pace. She was so wound up she nearly dropped the phone she’d been stroking when it rang.

“Hello?”
she asked in a breathless rush.

“Ms. Perrine?”

Every muscle in her body clenched tight. “Yes.”

“Hal Cooper calling back.
Well, Dylan hasn’t been in contact with anyone at the Baghdad bureau. They said they’d keep an eye out for him. He hasn’t been around the base, either, but that’s nothing new. I’m sorry, there isn’t much more I can do. Bond’s dropped off our radar at the moment. I wish there was more I could tell you.”

Ariela couldn’t stop her sob.

Hal Cooper broke in, his tone reassuring. “Calm down. This isn’t unusual, especially for Bond. He keeps tight control over his sources, especially over there, and we’ve had to learn to trust him. He’s got good instincts. He’s a professional. He’ll be in touch.” The phone went quiet in her hand.

Numb, she
closed her phone. Maybe she
was
reading too much into this. So, why didn’t she believe it?

Rather than make
dinner, she loaded Max into the car and they went for ice cream, her favorite comfort food.

Chapter 16

Dylan jerked awake to the sound of a distant explosion and instinctively curled into a protective ball before noticing where he was. Moving was a mistake. Searing pain ripped through his leg and left him gasping for air. Twice
, he thought he was going to float out of consciousness again, but didn't. Gradually, he was able to look around the unfamiliar room. He must have been carried here.

His leg was killing him
—quite possibly, literally
and
figuratively. Without disturbing the dressing, he was able to tell immediately, by touch alone, there was swelling around the wound. The entire limb felt thirty pounds heavier and forty degrees hotter than the rest of him. Not that the temperature difference mattered all that much because he was simultaneously burning up and shaking with chills. Not good, definitely infected.

One of Ali’s aunts came into the room with a tray. She must have been listening for him. Setting the tray aside for the moment, she felt his forehead. Her eyes were troubled
, but she gave him an encouraging smile. Apparently there was a basin near the bed. She bent and he could hear her wringing out a cloth before she pressed it to his face.

Putting down the cloth, she
urged Dylan to sit up. He didn’t have the energy without her supporting his shoulders. Then she held a bowl of broth to his lips. He was thirsty, no question, but he didn’t know how much he’d be able to manage. A few swallows later, he shook his head and tried to pull away, but she persisted in getting him to drink more. Only when she was satisfied did she put it away and help ease him down to the pillow. She pulled the blanket up to his chin, feeling his forehead one more time. His eyelids were heavy, but he caught her worried frown as his lashes fluttered then closed. He listened while she picked up the tray and left the room.

He was so cold
his body trembled and shook uncontrollably.
She isn’t the only one worried about my fever
, he thought just before he fell back into darkness.

**
*

Ariela stifled a yawn as she walked into the office at seven-thirty on Friday morning.
Dropping into her chair, she set her cell phone on her desk and turned on the computer. It was unlikely she’d find a message already. She’d checked minutes ago, just before leaving Dylan’s house. There’d been nothing on his computer. Still, it made her feel better to have the screen up. She’d become obsessive about monitoring her mail while she worked on other things. Her heart broke a little more when she logged in. Tears prickled her eyes.

“I’m going mad, slowly going mad,” she whispered, clutching her head in both hands.
She speared her fingers into her hair and pulled until her scalp tingled. She needed to feel something,
anything
, if only to distract her from this nightmare.

She was staring into space, practically catatonic, when Jean came down to the office thirty minutes later
and flipped out.

“Holy shit
! What’s going on?” Jean rushed over.

Ariela forced herself to look up.
“Still no word. Jean, I’ve tried everything. My hands are tied. I know, deep in my gut I know, something’s happened to him. Call it intuition, I don’t care. But I know he’s not okay.” Tears trickled down Ariela’s cheeks, and she made no effort to stop them or even wipe them away.

Jean grabbed a tissue and blotted at the trails herself, her c
ompassionate face full of pain.

Ariela stared bleakly back at her silent friend.
“I was supposed to pick him up this weekend. Dylan said he’d let me know when and where by now. Or tell me if those plans changed. Nothing,” she added with a soft sniffle.

“Oh, honey.”
Jean sat on the edge of the desk and smoothed Ariela’s hair. Had she even remembered to comb it this morning? She had no idea.

“I have his car,” she mumbled,
at a loss.

Jean squeezed her shoulder. “Have you slept?”

“No. I just lie there and smell his pillow.”

“
Go upstairs and lie down. I’ll take care of things down here today. And I’ll keep your computer up. If he does try to reach you, I’ll be upstairs in a flash. Please, let me hold vigil for a while, okay? You need rest.”

“
Does that mean you want my phone too?”

“Yes. It’s the only way.” Her face softened. “
Trust me. I know how important this is. I won’t screw it up.”

A tremulous smile twitched at the corner of Ariela’s mouth.
“All right.”

Her arm around her shoulders,
Jean led Ariela to the back staircase. “Shut the phone off upstairs and lie down.”

“I was going to drop by Mrs. Corley’s job today,” Ariela said as she
climbed the steps.

“Mrs. Corley can wait until Monday. I’ll call her and explain you’re out of the office.”

Hearing that, Ariela turned and gave Jean her first genuine smile in days. “Thanks. I appreciate this.”

“What are friends for?”

***

Jean was sitting alone, lost in thought, when Ron dropped by.
She looked up at him and he smiled. “I missed you at lunch today.”

Coming over, h
e perched on her desk. She moved into his arms and laid her cheek on his shoulder, comforted by the familiar scent of her man, overlaid by the equally familiar industrial-strength hand soap he used at the garage.

She sighed.
“I’m worried about Ariela.”

He kissed her
temple. “I can see that.”

“I feel so powerless. There’s nothing I can do to make her feel better. This isn’t like supporting her through hangnails and inconvenient pimples, pollen and food anxieties. Do you realize since Ariela got together with Dylan, she hasn’t mentioned
omega three or mercury levels in fish
once
?”

“Is that big?”

“That’s major.”

*
**

Dylan
lost all track of time as he slept around the clock. He was only marginally aware of how hard his attendants worked to bring down his fever and keep his wound clean. Somewhere in the dull and murky recesses of his mind, he knew the bullet had to come out, but Ali’s aunts weren’t equipped to handle it here. No doubt the thought of digging deep into the muscles of his leg, and doing even more damage, kept them from attempting anything beyond bandaging him.

He
drifted in and out of consciousness whenever they roused him to force fluids down his throat. On the one occasion he tried to speak, he wasn’t coherent—not that they understood him anyway. But he knew. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears.

His
fever must have subsided slightly because he woke on his own to find the two younger women engaged in a hushed and heated conference just outside his door. They were speaking of him, clearly. They had to know they couldn’t keep him here much longer without proper medical attention. If they didn’t move him soon, he might not make it. His eyes drifted closed as he wondered what they planned. Options were limited and all would be risky.

He found himself jostled, vigorously, his name spoken with a heavy accent.
“Mr. Bond. Mr. Bond!”

She slapped his
cheek and Dylan worked his eyes slowly open. Even that took some effort. Looking at her, he realized his head no longer hurt. How long since his ears stopped ringing? Those were the only positive changes he noticed. Unfortunately, the heat radiating from his thigh was more intense than the overall warmth he felt from his lingering fever.

Ali’s aunt
pulled on his shoulders, forcing him to sit up. She was stronger than she looked, and he was weaker than normal. It was no contest. She pointed at him, then to the door. Where had the other woman gone? Distracted by the thought, he didn’t respond, so she made the gesture again.

He sat
there, comprehending what she wanted, but not sure he could manage it. “I’m tired. Too tired.” His throat was dry. His voice broke from disuse. He waved her away. “Tired.”

Before he could drop back onto the pillow, she called out and her sister hurried in with her arms full.
She dropped what she was carrying and together they spun him so he sat on the edge of the bed then dressed him in what he assumed was the same black abbaya he’d worn when they smuggled him here. There was a minor battle over the veil when they placed it over him. He tried to pull it off.

“It’s too hot,” he argued, but they insisted, determined to see this plan, whatever it was, through.

While one woman secured the veil, the other pressed a glass of water on him. He drained it without coming up for air. How long since he’d taken a pee? Dylan had no idea.

They left him alone to manage his shoes
. That was a mistake. He dropped forward like a limp noodle, his head swimming. It took a lot of effort to keep from blacking out as he struggled to tie his laces without falling on his face.

More alert when
the sisters returned, Dylan was resigned to whatever was coming. He took a steadying breath then got to his feet, staggering out of the room between them.

Ali’s grandmother was waiting at the back door. Dylan saw his and Jim’s bags on the floor at her feet. The two younger women each took a bag
. They wrapped them against their bodies. Clearly, they didn’t think he had the strength to carry them. They were right about that.

The women led him outside and surrounded him like a precision military formation, shielding him while still somehow managing to give the impression they weren’t doing anything other than going on a routine trip to the market.

The old lady reached over and touched Dylan’s shoulder to get his attention. When he turned, she pressed both hands down to the ground, crouching slightly, willing him to understand. She was telling him he was too tall. He bent his knees and tried to adjust his height, feeling the strain and the pain running through his thigh. At least the robe helped hide his unnatural posture.

They took side streets, cutting toward the heart of the city. When Dylan needed to rest, they stopped
, but always urged him on again, even when he didn’t feel up to it. There was no way to avoid other pedestrians once they reached the business district, but that turned out to be a good thing. It actually helped them blend in. At one point, they saw a roadblock, presumably set up by the Iraqi police. Without a word, as a unit, they moved him away, in a different direction.

The buildings were taller here, though their surfaces were pitted by bullets
—rubble was a given. There were more broken windows than intact ones now. Daily life carried on amid obstacles and debris, the scars inflicted by three different sets of fighters, each with their own agendas.

Ahead, a convoy of Hummers approach
ed, moving down the center of the street. Gunners were positioned in each vehicle, ready to respond to potential threats. Dylan swayed weakly, his skin clammy, his knees struggling to keep him upright in such a tiring, bent posture. Sweat dripped from his hair, and his damp clothing under the abbaya clung to him. He could scarcely take the smell of his own body.

How had everything gotten so fucked up? What day was it anyway? How much time had he
lost in a sweaty, fevered delirium? How was Ariela? She had to be absolutely frantic with worry. That’s all he needed. He imagined her reaction to what he had to tell her and wondered if they could survive it. He hoped so, but doubts gnawed at him.

The foursome waited for the vehicles to close the distance
. Before Dylan realized what she intended to do, the old woman stepped off the curb and walked right at the first truck with her hands in the air. The convoy stopped rolling.

“Stop!” the gunner
shouted at her.

She did.
Men came out from around the trucks. The guns that weren’t pointed at her fanned the street, the men holding them warily watching for any sign of an ambush. The old woman raised her open hands even higher to show she was unarmed and peaceful. That didn’t mean anything. How could they know her intentions? Those robes could hide anything, including bombs. All a bomber needed was the chance to get close enough to take out as many people as they could when they detonated.

Anxious
to diffuse the situation, Dylan stumbled down from the curb and limped over to Ali’s grandmother. He held his breath as a number of the guns swung around and trained on him. The tension was so extreme he was afraid even straightening up to his full height would be risky. Who knew how that would look to them? He stopped beside the old woman and slowly pulled his headscarf back, just enough to expose his face to those closest to them.

Dylan
saw one soldier’s mouth drop open as he stared in shock. It was safe to say, the last thing this guy expected to see under a Muslim woman’s garments was a scruffy man with deep blue eyes looking back at him.

“
My name is Dylan Bond. I’m an American journalist. My photographer and interpreter were killed. I’ve been shot. I need medical attention.”

He held out his CPIC press badge and one of the soldiers
came forward and snatched it from him, handing it off to his superior.