Navy Seal Rescue. Susan Cliff
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 me, and my brother just died from the same sickness—” She broke off, hacking until she wheezed. “I hope it’s not contagious.”
The man retreated a step, his lip curled. “Who are you?” he barked at Ashur.
“I am someone who belongs here.”
“What?”
“He’s simple,” she said, coughing again. “Don’t mind him.”
“How old is he?”
“Eleven,” she lied. He was thirteen.
“Telskuf is under the control of the Islamic Front,” the militant announced, as if she didn’t know. “Those who enter without permission are considered enemy combatants. Even women and children.”
She bowed her head. “Please forgive me.”
He pardoned the trespass with a flick of his hand. She continued toward the archway, her heart pounding. Although the majority of townspeople had fled during the first strike, some residents had stayed. The sick, the stubborn, the desperate. They hid in their homes and prayed for the occupation to end.
Layah took off the glasses and put them in her pocket. Her eyes hurt from squinting through the dusty lenses, and her throat ached from fake coughing. A glance over her shoulder revealed an empty road. No one was following them.
When they arrived at the abandoned farmhouse, Ibrahim opened the wooden gate and closed it behind them. Then he returned to his post, leaning heavily on his cane. She maneuvered the cart under the shaded awning on the terrace and turned to Ashur.
“Someone who belongs here?” she repeated.
“We are the native people of this land. Not them.”
“You think pointing that out will make any difference?”
“You think making yourself ugly will stop them from raping you?”
She removed the tar from her teeth, rattled by the question. He knew more than a boy his age should. He was angry and difficult and he broke her heart daily.
“You’ll never be too ugly for them. Goats aren’t too ugly for them.”
Laughter bubbled from her throat, despite the tension. Goat-fornicator was a common insult in their language. Ashur shouldn’t repeat the crude talk of adults, but she didn’t have the energy to scold him all the time. She was overwhelmed with other responsibilities. Her people were prisoners and outcasts in their own country. “If you worry about those men hurting me, you should not bait them.”
“I will kill them,” he asserted, thumping a fist against his chest.
She hoped he wouldn’t get the chance. As the oldest male in her immediate family, he’d taken on the role of her protector. Which was ironic, because she was his legal guardian until she found a more suitable arrangement.
Their conversation was interrupted by the American, who shoved aside two bales of straw with a furious heave. His eyes were red-rimmed, his nostrils flared. He appeared larger and more dangerous up close, without her cousins holding him. She was pleased, and a little scared. Neither Ashur nor Ibrahim was capable of defending her against this man, who looked ready to tear her apart. He was bloody and disheveled, with a tangled beard that couldn’t disguise his strong features.
“Water,” he snarled.
“Bring it,” she said to Ashur, afraid to break eye contact with the man.
Ashur filled a tin cup from the nearby barrel. The American drank in huge gulps, rivulets streaming down his dusty throat. Then he leaned against the straw bales, eyes closed. His face was pained, his breaths ragged.
Layah didn’t think he felt well enough to attack her. He wouldn’t try to run with bloody wounds on his feet. The gate was locked. He had nowhere to go. She motioned for Ashur to fetch the tray she’d prepared earlier. Ibrahim kept one eye on her and one eye on the road, squinting in disapproval. He didn’t trust Americans. Neither did Layah, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
She unharnessed the donkey and pushed the remaining bales off the cart to make room. Then she climbed onto the platform and sat down. “Your wounds need to be cleaned.”
He grunted, but didn’t move.
Ashur returned with shawarma and the special tea. After delivering the tray, he led the donkey away to graze. Taking care of the American was Layah’s job. She needed him to make a swift recovery.