Night Hush (21 page)

 

Chapter Thirty-­Four

September 10. 8:15
A.M.

Bachelor Officer's Quarters, al-­Zadr Air Force Base

I
T WAS GOOD
to be back in her own apartment. Heather puttered. She dusted, vacuumed, and took a long, hot soak in the tub. Washed her hair. Napped.

And missed Jace.

Where was he?

It had been less than twenty-­four hours, so the empty ache inside her felt ridiculous. But the past week had been glorious, every moment spent with him. They talked, laughed, made love. He took her to a picnic on one of the unused shooting ranges. She showed him her secret place at the edge of Lake Sego, where the rushes met the water and a broad, grassy strip was the perfect place to sit and read. She had shared with him parts of herself she'd kept barricaded inside for years.

No doubt he was busy working with the Secret Ser­vice to thwart any possible terrorist attempt to get close to the president. Her fingers literally shook with the need to get back out there. To help.

Instead, she forced herself to read one of the books Jeremy had lent her. CNN hummed in the background, discussing the president's visit to Azakistan the next day. The visit included a meeting with Prime Minister al-­Muhaymin, a town hall assembly with the soldiers of al-­Zadr Air Base, then a speech at the al-­Zadr parade grounds, thrown open to the public in honor of the event. She shivered.

By noon the next day, she was too restless to sit still. Getting into her car, she headed across base to the headquarters of the 10th Special Forces Group. She needed to clear out her desk anyway; her tour of duty in Azakistan would be up before the doctors cleared her for active duty. And it would be good to see her friends. It had been almost a month since her escape from Sari Daru Province. They no doubt wondered about her.

She was mobbed as soon as she stepped into the building. One after another, friends and colleagues hugged her or shook her hand. It was silly, really, all the fuss. Most of these same ­people had visited her in the hospital. Still, this was goodbye, so she smiled, thanked them, hugged them back, and shared some tears for their lost comrades.

Finally, she made it to her desk. There really wasn't much to pack—­a few pictures, a dead plant, some books. The new regimental intelligence officer stayed with her as she sorted through her drawers, picking her brain on various projects she had been working on prior to her trip out to Eshma. Finally, she stopped in to say her farewells to the battalion commander.

As she made her way out of the building, a uniformed officer hurried after her. “Lieutenant Langstrom. I'm glad I caught you.”

Heather smiled at the head of personnel. “Hey, Captain. How're things?”

The officer shrugged. “Same ol', same ol',” he said. “We're sure sorry to lose you.”

“No more than I'm sorry to leave.”

“Well, you're going from the frying pan into the fire. And in a hurry, too.”

Heather cocked her head, her brow wrinkling. “Sir?”

The personnel officer lifted a sheaf of papers in his hand. “New orders. They came in this morning. I was going to have them messengered over to your quarters, but you saved me the courier.” He handed them to Heather with something of a flourish. “You must have impressed someone.”

Already? She had thought new orders wouldn't come for another few weeks, until her doctors cleared her to return to active duty. Frowning, Heather glanced at them.

What?

Heather did a double take, looking hard at the orders in her hand. Reading them again didn't change the words. She had been reassigned to the 1
st
Special Forces Operational Detachment-­Delta.

Delta wanted her?

An instant of joy washed through her. Jace would work beside her.

Delta Force was, of course, the elite of the special operations forces. Even the SEALs weren't as tough, as trained, as elite as Delta Force operators. To be selected to support them was the highest form of compliment. Delta always got the best. Always. And if they wanted her, that meant they thought . . . she was.

Reality crashed in. Delta didn't want her, Jace did. What strings had he pulled to get her reassigned?

She looked over her orders more carefully. She was being attached to Forward Operating Base (FOB) Hollow Straw, al-­Zadr Air Base, pending full medical release. That was, she now knew, where the Delta detachment resided, where she had been spending a lot of time recently. Her orders further stipulated a follow-­on assignment to 1
st
Special Forces Operational Detachment-­Delta at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, home to the Special Operations Forces. She was due to report there in a little more than a month, when her rotation in Azakistan ended.

Heather didn't even try to control the hot wash of anger coursing through her. Of all the conceited, arrogant, high-­handed actions, this one had to take the cake. How dare Jace mess with her career? Fuming, she walked back to her car. When she eventually accepted an elite assignment such as this one, it would be because she earned it. On her own, with no one's help, and on her merits. Not because someone pulled strings. It galled her.

Without conscious volition, she drove across base to FOB Hollow Straw. The guard checked her ID and her orders, and allowed her, unescorted, through the gate. Heather let her fury carry her into the Tactical Operations Center. Like a laser, she saw Jace at once, bending over a map on the central conference table, deep in conversation with several men. She barreled over to him, interrupting him midsentence.

“Captain Reed. I'd like to talk to you, please.”

He looked up, clearly surprised to see her. “Heather. Hi. Can you give me a . . .”

“Now, Captain.” She stalked back toward the door and wrenched it open.

Jace straightened, leveling a look at her. After a moment, he glanced toward his men. “Tag, keep working with Mr. Seifert and Mr. Boston. Gabe, get with Private Tams. I'll be right back.” He followed Heather through the door, closing it firmly behind him, shutting out the curious faces turned their way.

Heather took a few stiff steps away from the building before turning on Jace. “How dare you?”

Jace's eyes narrowed fractionally. “You're upset. I can see that. Care to give me a hint why?”

Heather waved her orders in his face. “This, you bastard. My reassignment. Here.”

His brows pulled together as Jace took the sheaf of papers from her hand. He scanned them, his frown deepening. “What the hell?”

“Exactly!” Heather cried. A passing soldier gave her a curious look. Lowering her voice, she said, no less intensely, “What gives you the right to mess with my career?
I
decide where I go. Or the Army. Not you.”

“Look, Heather . . .”

She spoke over him, her volume increasing again. “What, did you think I'd fall all over you in gratitude? Follow you home to North Carolina? What? What could you possibly have been thinking?”

“Will you calm down?”

“I will not calm down. This is unconscionable. Pulling me away from my unit . . .”

Jace got loud. “I didn't do anything of the sort. I had nothing to do with this.”

Heather waved her arms. “Oh, and I'm supposed to believe this is all some sort of great coincidence? I meet you, and suddenly I'm assigned to your unit? I'm not an idiot, Jace.”

“Then stop acting like one. Let's be rational—­”

“Well, guess what, Jace?” Heather interrupted. “Your great plan backfired. 'Cause now? Now we'll be working together? We're not going to get to have any kind of a relationship.”

Jace rubbed two fingers along the bridge of his nose. “This is a misunderstanding. Are you really saying you're going to throw away what we've been building?” He exhaled hard, slicing a hand through the air. “Look, let's stop and take a breath, okay? We're not going to get to the bottom of this by shouting at each other.”

Heather simply shook her head. “No. We're not. Because I'm going to take this assignment, Jace. This is the chance of a lifetime for me. And as for us? We're through.” Her shoulders sagged, and her throat clogged with tears as she realized the truth of what she was saying. “The second the adjutant cut these orders, I became a member of Colonel Granville's support staff. And fraternization between military support staff and operational personnel is prohibited. You and I are done.”

 

Chapter Thirty-­Five

September 11. 8:00
A.M.

Ma'ar ye zhad, Azakistan

A
A'IDAH TU
CKED HER
purse into the bottom drawer of her desk and turned on her computer. Shukri disappeared into his own office. Her father was out this morning, at a breakfast meeting with a potential new client. She checked the appointments calendar for the day. Nothing special, just a few clients. She began to sort their portfolios from the file cabinet and put them in order.

Her fingers stilled, the folders momentarily forgotten as she stared at the photograph she'd taken from Shukri's office yesterday. He had framed it in wood decorated with henna designs. Five men stood shoulder to shoulder, smiling into the camera. Two were Zaahir and the sheik. Shukri was on the left. The one on the right had been at her home with Zaahir. She thought his name might be Rami. The fifth man she did not know at all.

She picked up the photograph. If Shukri asked where it was, she could always lie and tell him she wanted a photo of Zaahir on her desk. Once she faxed it to Christina Madison, though, she had stepped over a line she could not uncross. Her stomach fluttered.

A step sounded on the floor an instant before Zaahir al-­Farouk appeared. Aa'idah closed her eyes; but when she opened them, he still stood in front of her desk, and he did not look pleased. Neither was she.

She had not seen him since the disaster at lunch four days ago. Both her father and brother had bellowed at her for her rudeness, and her mother screeched that Aa'idah was ungrateful, that Zaahir was a strong and powerful man—­and handsome, by Allah's grace—­and would provide well for her. Aa'idah had tried to explain the sickness she sensed in him, but her family scoffed.

“You are a silly girl.”

For a moment, Aa'idah could not tell if the words came from her mother or from the hulking man in front of her.

“Have you no greeting for your betrothed?” Zaahir asked.

Ice froze her heart. Had her father truly given his consent for this marriage? “You are not my betrothed.”

Zaahir waved a hand, dismissing her words. “I soon will be.”

“Honored sir, I do not wish to marry. Not anyone.”

Zaahir offered a tender smile. “All women must marry and produce children. You will have your own household, Aa'idah, with servants. I will pamper you. You will want for nothing.”

Aa'idah stood, unwilling to have him tower over her. “But I do not understand this. Why choose me? There are women more beautiful, younger, more conventional. I'm a modern women. I am educated and intend to work again, to teach. You are very traditional. We would not suit.”

For the first time, he displayed to her the arrogance he showed her father and brother. “I will teach you the practices. You are intelligent and will learn quickly. You yourself are both beautiful and desirable. In time, you will grow to love me.”

Love? She almost gagged. “What must I say to dissuade you? This cannot happen.”

His heavy brows pulled down as he frowned. It made his already-­harsh features ferocious. Aa'idah found herself cringing away from him.

“An alliance between our families can be nothing but beneficial to both the Karim and al-­Farouk households. Yes, there are other reasons for us to ally, important political considerations. Still, I desire you.” His warm gaze moved over her face, then dropped along her body. A small smile played around his mouth. “Very much. I will be a devoted husband to you.”

“I do not wish your devotion!” cried Aa'idah in panic. The thought of his hands upon her body had her stomach roiling. The reception desk imprisoned her, she realized abruptly. Maybe she could squeeze past him? “My father is a successful asset manager. He's not political.” Her shoulders sagged. She did nothing but fool herself with such thoughts. She knew what these men intended. While the thought of reporting their plan to Christina Madison frightened her, allowing an explosion to harm Americans when she could stop it filled her with repugnance.

Somehow, she would find the courage to try to stop Zaahir.

Zaahir's smile was condescending. Before he could speak, Shukri appeared in his office door. “Father has strong political ties,” he said. He gestured between Zaahir and himself. “And we have important work to do.”

Aa'idah felt her head spinning. “My father has been funneling money so you can buy guns,” she blurted out, then clapped a hand over her mouth. What was she doing? “Is this what you do?” She glared at Zaahir. “Kill?”

His eyes narrowed. “I support jihad as my sacred duty, praise be to God.”

“But jihad is for defending against an attack, not to slaughter the innocent,” she said. “No one attacks us.”

Zaahir scowled. “Every day these nonbelievers befoul our lands, Muslims forget our sacred traditions and responsibilities. It is an attack on our way of life, and I will not rest until every one of them is dead.”

Aa'idah pressed a hand to her chest, seeking courage. “Zaahir, you spoke to Shukri about a bomb. What do you mean to do?” She held her breath.

Shukri blew a sound of annoyance, but Zaahir, astonishingly enough, answered her.

“I have a very dangerous gas,” he told her. “I intend to mix it with another chemical. The explosion will send a poisonous cloud that will blanket my enemies in death.”

“American soldiers?” Even her lungs ceased functioning as she waited for the answer.

“No. I will strike them where it hurts the most. Once their families are gone, they will also leave my country.”

She gasped. It took many moments for her to work up the courage to ask, “When will you do this?”

“On the day of the American president's visit, by God's grace.”

Her hands pressed together entreatingly. “No, you can't. Please. There will be babies . . .”

“Nonbelievers.” Zaahir dismissed them as unimportant. “Your father has been lax. Once we are married, I will teach you our sacred ways. Our alliance is important.”

“But why?” she wailed.

“When we marry, your family becomes my family. Your father will obey me and continue to fund the training of our courageous Muslim youths. I will provide the money, and he will force his government contact to buy necessary supplies.”

Since she didn't understand what he was talking about, she turned to what she could comprehend. “So I am a pawn so you can control my father and brother.”

“No one controls me!” Shukri said. “I fight alongside my brother.”

Zaahir's irritation flickered through his eyes, but Shukri did not notice. “Where can Aa'idah and I be alone?” he asked. Shukri flushed, but pointed to their father's office. “Thank you. Would you be kind enough to bring back some donuts for your sister? The soft white powdered ones.”

How had he known those were her favorite?

Shukri's mouth turned down, but he went without comment. Aa'idah nearly called him back; but really, what could he do? His loyalty was clearly to Zaahir.

Who came around the reception desk and hooked a hand around her bicep. “Come, fiancée. I wish to have a few private moments with you.”

She tried to free her arm without success, heart pounding loud enough she wondered if he could hear it. “No. I need to stay here. I am the receptionist. I cannot . . .”

He did not speak further, simply pulling her along until they reached her father's office, ignoring her protests. He closed and locked the door, and she backed away from him, putting nearly the width of the room between them. Something primitive and hungry flared in his eyes, and Aa'idah realized her mistake. Her running excited him.

“Zaahir, please do not do this.” For she was not a naive young girl. She knew what private moments with him would entail. She would not give in to him.

“We are betrothed. It is the same as being married. I would like to make love to my wife before I begin the jihad against the foul Westerners. Is that so wrong?”

“You cannot force yourself upon me!” she cried. “It is sinful and forbidden by Allah.”

“We will wed. You will obey your father.” Warmth fled from his tone, leaving it brittle and harsh.

She blurted out the only thing she could think to say. “A virgin cannot be married without her consent.”

Something ugly moved behind Zaahir's eyes. “I will have your consent.” He stalked toward her, nostrils flared and eyes blazing. She tried to dart around him, knowing he would move faster but determined to fight him until the bitter end.

He caught her around the waist, jerking her back against him. His hands came up to cup her breasts, squeezing them though the fabric of her blouse, pinching her hard enough to hurt. One hand slid down her torso and shoved between her legs. Aa'idah opened her mouth to scream. Sensing her intention, his other hand clamped over her mouth, gripping her jaw. He slammed her forward into the wall, pinning her in place with his body. Her head smacked the plaster, and she cried out under his hand. He began to yank and tug her blouse from the waistband of her skirt.

This can't be happening.

If she did not do something drastic now, he would succeed in forcing himself on her. Nausea roiled in her gut. When his hand loosened on her mouth, she opened her jaws wide and clamped down as hard as she could.

His scream carried through the office. She refused to let go, even when he punched her in the side of the head and she saw stars. He hit her again, but somehow she found both the strength and will to turn in his arms, and brought her knee sharply into his groin. He shouted again, but his hold on her loosened as he collapsed in on himself. Tearing herself him his grasp, she wasted several precious seconds fumbling with the door lock and several more snatching her purse and Shukri's photograph from the desk drawer, Zaahir's bellows of rage following her, before running out into the sunny morning.

She did not stop running until she reached the gates of the American Embassy.