Night Hush (7 page)

 

Chapter Ten

August 16. 9:30
A.M.

Bhunto, Azakistan

H
EATHER HEARD THE
helicopter a shade before Jace. She knelt and shaded her eyes, watching the speck grow larger as it approached. Soon, the racket drowned out everything else. The team circled up to defend the Blackhawk medevac as it came in for a landing. The rotor wash nearly knocked her over. Almost before the wheels touched down, Jace wrapped an arm around her, lifting and supporting her weight as they approached the red cross on the door. Two medics hopped out and took over, guiding her inside and directly onto a litter. The rest of the team piled in, and the bird lifted into the sky.

One of the medics, a fresh-­faced, freckled woman, inserted a large-­bore peripheral IV into the back of her hand and taped it down, checked the drip of the saline, and then hooked her up to a monitor. Her vitals began to appear on the screen. Blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen levels. The medic frowned at the monitor and placed an oxygen mask over Heather's nose and mouth.

Now that she knew she was in good hands, everything inside Heather relaxed. That also meant she could no longer compartmentalize the pain of her battered body, which became a seething mass of misery. Her vision began to blur again.

“I'm going to start you on morphine,” the flight medic said. “Scale of one to ten, how bad is it?”

The pain came in at a killer solid ten, but Heather managed a shrug, avoiding the other woman's gaze. “I'm all right.”

The medic squeezed her shoulder. “That you are, Lieutenant. That you are.” She produced a syringe, checked it, and slipped it into a vein.

A tingling glow spiraled through Heather's body, softening the agony until it vanished under a wash of weightlessness. Time slowed. She stared at the ceiling, grateful to whoever had developed the drug, drifting in a cocoon of warmth. The medic checked her other injuries, pronounced herself satisfied with Jace's handiwork, and updated her patient's status on the rugged combat laptop bolted to a shelf.

Jace came over, hunched so he wouldn't hit his head on the equipment stored above him. He peered down at her, worry flickering in his eyes. “How is she?” he asked the flight medic. The interior of the medevac was relatively noiseless, so she heard him with ease.

“Stable. We won't know the extent of her injuries until we get her to the Emergency Department. They'll need to run tests,” she said. Eyes bright, she added, “It's great you found her!”

Apparently the crew knew who they'd flown out to retrieve. Heather frowned, uncomfortable. What had Jace said? She'd been on the news?

Jace grinned at the flight medic. “Damned straight. It's freaking amazing. Is it all right if I sit here?”

“Sure. Holler if anything changes.” The medic strapped herself into a jump seat a few feet away.

Jace squeezed himself into the narrow seat next to her litter. Heather rolled her head toward him, scrutinizing him for the first time without trepidation. He'd told the truth. He was one of the good guys. The relief felt more intense than it should have.

She allowed her gaze to run from his face to his shoulders, then all the way down his body to the sturdy combat boots planted on the metal plating beneath him. The fact was, even with sweat-­matted hair and streaked camouflage face paint, he was gorgeous. From his high cheekbones to his strong jaw and hard body, he was sheer male perfection.

When she peeked at his face again, she found herself ensnared. The intensity in his eyes unnerved her, but she couldn't seem to look away. She fumbled for his hand. He scooped hers up, cupping both of his around her fingers.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

A tender smile softened his features. “My pleasure,” he murmured back.

J
ACE CHECKED HER VITALS.
She remained stable, which was a relief, since they were still an hour and a half from the trauma center at al-­Zadr Air Force Base. A quick survey of his team showed most of them dozing. He should be getting some shut-­eye, too, but he could not seem to force himself away from her side. She watched him out of eyes unfocused from the morphine running through her bloodstream, as though afraid he would vanish if she closed them.

He'd found her, or rather she'd found him, but she'd relied on him to get her to safety. The buds of trust had bloomed. There was nothing more to the look. It was wishful thinking on his part to believe there might be anything more.

How could she know how many hours he'd spent mooning over a stupid photo? And if she did know, why should she care? She had ­people waiting for her, a family, a . . . a . . . Oh, shit.

“Are you married?” he blurted out. Why hadn't he ever considered the possibility that she had a husband waiting for her back Stateside?

“What?” A tiny laugh escaped. The throaty sound mesmerized him. She reached up and took the oxygen mask off. “No. I'm not.”

“Boyfriend?” Why was he asking her that?

“Not at the moment, no. You might say I'm married to my career.” Pride and conviction rang in her tone. “I'm going all the way. And I'm doing it my own damned self. Nobody's given me shit.”

He didn't doubt she could do it, either. She'd shown herself to be strong, capable, and cool under pressure. “The survivors from your convoy reported you'd been kidnapped, but no one had any idea where you'd been taken.”

News media coverage had been ferocious. Heather Langstrom was a national celebrity, with vigils held around the country for her safe return. The intelligence community and 10
th
Group had been frantic for any word. The White House had made her liberation a priority.

“There were survivors?” Heather's face lit up. “Oh, I'm so glad!” Just as quickly, her face clouded. “I'm . . . I forgot to ask about them.” Genuine distress laced her tone. “God, I'm . . . I never meant to forget about them. I didn't know if I was alone in that camp, or if there were other prisoners. Even when I escaped, I didn't think to . . .” She tensed, starting to sit up on the litter. Jace placed a hand on her shoulder to prevent her from raising any higher. After a moment, she gave in and eased down, but both hands fisted in her hair. “What kind of soldier . . .”

“Stop that!” Jace made his voice sharp. He knew where this was heading. There was no room in their line of work for second-­guesses. “You were a lone female prisoner snatched from a convoy and taken to the middle of nowhere. Given how you escaped, there's no shame . . . good God, Heather, you barely made it out of there alive. You know that, right? You might not have been released for years. Maybe never. Most likely scenario is they would have killed you. And that's the nicest they would have done. Or did.” She flinched, and he knew he'd hit a nerve. His fists clenched. What, exactly,
had
they done to her? “Heather, I . . .” He leaned forward, ready to comfort her, to erase the self-­condemnation he could see simmering in the depth of her gaze.

She jerked away as though she knew his intention, raising an arm to keep him at bay. “No. I didn't do what I—­” Her breath hitched, her voice filled with self-­loathing. “What I was supposed to do. I only thought about my own situation. I didn't even consider that there might be more prisoners. So much for my training.” Her arm dropped as though she no longer had the strength to keep it aloft. Jace knew the sudden movement triggered a wave of morphine-­induced muzziness by the way her eyes slackened and glazed. He relaxed back into the seat. She wasn't ready to hear anything he had to say at the moment.

“How many survived?” she asked after a moment, voice slurring.

“Four dead. Seven wounded.”

“Four? Who? Do you know?” She tried to catch his gaze, but her eyes no longer focused. Jace stroked a gentle hand over her head.

“Relax, now, Heather. Everything will be all right. Shh, baby. Sleep.”

 

Chapter Eleven

August 16. 8:15
P.M.

Near the Samarra Mosque, Ma'ar ye zhad, Azakistan

T
HE
E
NGLIS
HWOMAN,
C
HRISTINA
Madison, was in trouble. Aa'idah peeked through the kitchen curtains, watching her walk through their tiny wrought-­iron gate and turn left, into the after-­dinner bazaar. Straight toward Aa'idah's brother Shukri and the imam, Salman Ibrahim, who would be returning from evening prayers. That was not good.

Maybe they would not see her?

Aa'idah raced to her mother's sewing room, which looked out onto the bazaar. Her ballet flats whispered along the ceramic tile, past the cutting table to the counter with the brand-­new sewing machine. She wedged herself into the small space between the sewing table and the window, raising her veil across her nose as she pushed the window open and peeped through the sheers.

Christina stood out among the Muslim men and women, her fair skin and lack of head scarf setting her apart. Aa'idah herself had the typical dark hair and brown eyes of the region, although her nose was a shade longer and her face was perhaps a bit more square than others.

Christina had passed the storefront piled high with baskets of every imaginable size and construction and eased around a cart stacked with tomatoes, cucumbers, and lumpy brown potatoes. She paused for a moment next to the two carts filled with soccer balls and lifted her nose into the air, inhaling deeply. Aa'idah mimicked the move. The air had cooled and was now spiced with an aroma of roasting lamb and falafel. Delicious.

The brunette Englishwoman stood almost directly below her open window. Aa'idah's heart began to pound as she saw her brother and the imam cutting a path straight to her. Yes, they had seen her leave the Karim household. This was not good.

Christina picked up a brass water jug and appeared to admire the wide bottom, tapered top, and swirled handle. Her fingers traced the intricate design and rubbed across its scratchy surface, but the glances she darted toward Shukri and Salman Ibrahim spoke a different story. She knew who they were, and their approach made her nervous. Which meant the timing of her visit to Aa'idah had been no coincidence, as she had suspected.

The vendor approached eagerly, speaking in halting, broken English. “You like? Very beautiful. For flow the water, yes?” Aa'idah knew the merchant. His English, like her own, was nearly flawless. For some reason, he believed Westerners bought more expensive pieces from him because they saw him as poor and needy.

“I give special to American. Good price.” He named a price that probably represented a hundred percent profit for the man, but would seem low enough to Christina.

“I'm with the British Education Foundation,” Christina said, her London accent firmly in place. “We're here rebuilding bombed-­out schools. Great Britain. Not American. English.” Aa'idah's brother and Salman Ibrahim drifted closer. Aa'idah hoped they could hear Christina. She hoped they believed her.

“Good price. American,” the merchant said stubbornly.

Sighing, Christina pulled a few crumpled bills from her pocket and offered the money to him, spreading it out to show the amount, clutching it with both hands. The merchant hesitated a moment, then reluctantly nodded and took the bills. He wrapped the jug in paper and handed it to her, face still registering disappointment. Christina nodded her thanks, trying and failing—­to Aa'idah's eyes, anyway—­to appear contrite and grateful. The deal had been a good one for both parties. Aa'idah knew the moment Christina turned, a smug look would appear on the merchant's face.

But Christina did not have the chance to turn, and the merchant did not have the chance to gloat. Shukri reached her, roughly grabbing her arm and yanking her around to face him. The self-­proclaimed English relief worker tensed. Aa'idah thought she might fight, but instead she shrank away and clutched the paper-­wrapped jug as though she thought she was being robbed.

Shukri, wearing the dark pants and tunic hanging past his knees he always wore to Friday prayers, muscled Christina out of the street and into the space between the brass seller and the carts piled high with soccer balls. She eased back, anxious that neither her brother nor the imam catch her eavesdropping. Christina pulled and twisted, uttering cries of distress. Aa'idah's heart fell. The action would not garner her sympathy. Shukri pounced on weakness like a cat after a dormouse. True to form, he shoved her against the stucco wall. The light material of Christina's blouse caught on the rough surface. Both Shukri and the imam faced her now, twin lasers of hostility and anger in their gazes.

Christina shrank back, one hand flat on the wall behind her, the other clutching the jug to her breast like a shield. “Who are you? What do you want?” she rasped.

Salman Ibrahim jabbed a finger at her, voice venomous as he upbraided her for strutting in the marketplace as though she were an empress, then in the next breath accused her of being a shameless whore. Aa'idah's cheeks heated with embarrassment for the other woman, even though the stream of angry words issuing from the imam's mouth was clearly too fast for the Englishwoman to follow. Christina shook her head, a bewildered look on her face; but Aa'idah knew she got the gist of it loud and clear.

“What do you want? Who are you?” Christina asked again. Shukri put up a hand, and Salman Ibrahim subsided.

“Why did you speak to my sister?” he asked, in clear, British-­accented English. The evening shoppers maneuvered around the confrontation, heads down, pretending they saw nothing. Christina straightened, looking Shukri in the face. Aa'idah's heart hammered against her rib cage. In this ultraconservative section of Ma'ar ye zhad, the imam could beat her to death right in the street, and no one would interfere.

“Your sister?” Christina asked. “I'm very sorry, but I don't know you.”

“I am Shukri Karim.” His voice swelled with arrogance. “My sister is Aa'idah Karim.”

“Oh, yes. I talked to her just now. She is a teacher at the Thenoon al Fattah school for girls,” Christina said, voice puzzled but respectful. “The school is nearly fully rebuilt. When it reopens, the children will need their teachers back. I asked her to return to teach. That's all.”

“You spoke to her alone,” he said accusingly.

In fact, Aa'idah remained convinced Christina had arranged the timing very carefully, approaching her door just after Friday prayers and on a day when her mother had gone to visit her aunt. And yes, they had spoken of the school, and the girls who urgently needed an education. But they had spoken of so much more. Things Shukri must never hear.

Christina continued to look up at Shukri, her brows pulled together. “No one else was home.”

“This is not permitted. A male member of her family must be present.”

The imam grabbed Christina's arm, looming over her as he shook her. His fist clamped so tightly around her bicep that Aa'idah knew Christina would carry the bruises for a week. Shukri translated as the imam snarled. “Salman Ibrahim is a Shi'ite cleric, imam of the Samarra Mosque. He says you have behaved in a disrespectful manner, shaming the home of Mahmoud Karim. He says you are brazen and not of good character, that you walk outside with no male escort to ensure your virtue. He says you do not lower your eyes submissively, as a woman should. He's going to beat you to teach you to behave properly.”

Blood pounded through Aa'idah's head. If Salman Ibrahim followed through on his threat, did she dare interfere?

Christina pinned her gaze to the cleric's feet and gripped the water jug tighter. Aa'idah imagined the other woman's hands were probably shaking as badly as her own. “Please tell him no discourtesy was intended.” Christina's voice cracked. “My group is staying at a hostel near the school. Your government places no restrictions on us. I'm a British citizen. Please call the consulate. I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding.” Her voice became pleading. “I'm a relief worker. I'm here to help you.” Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.

“We do not wish your help,” Shukri said harshly. “Your corrupting influence has spread far enough. My sister will not be returning to teach.”

Aa'idah's heart sank even further. She had suspected as much. Her father seemed to be fading, allowing his eldest son to make decisions for the family. And Shukri had become angry. Bitter. And determined to force his traditionalist ideals onto his family whether they wanted it or not.

“All right. I'm sorry.” Christina tried to disengage her arm from the cleric's grip. He growled something, his voice too low for Aa'idah to hear. When he glared into the woman's face, yanking her closer, a cold frisson of fear slithered down Aa'idah's spine.

Shukri spoke, sounding neither sorry nor concerned. “Salman Ibrahim says,” he reported, “that you are under arrest.”

This was very bad.