Navy Seal Rescue. Susan Cliff
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. It was a goat-screw of a situation, as his comrades would say.
That didn’t mean he was going to let this little punk threaten him. Hud reached out to grasp the boy’s skinny wrist, lightning-quick. When Ashur tried to twist free, Hud applied pressure until the dagger fell from his hand. “You couldn’t kill a turtle. You’re slow and small, and your blade is dull.”
The boy said something in Arabic, probably curse words.
“Also, your eyes reveal too much.” Hud picked up the dagger. “I know what you’re going to do before you do it.”
“Teach me.”
“Teach you what?”
“How to kill like you.”
Hud met the kid’s fervent gaze. It was a chilling request, made more so by the fact that Hud had already supplied a brutal demonstration of blowing someone’s head off. “You just point and shoot.”
“Layah will not allow me to have a gun.”
“Layah is a smart woman.”
“Why do you say this?”
“Who do you want to kill?”
Ashur lifted his chin. “The men who killed my father.”
Hud returned the boy’s dagger, handle first. His old man had died when he was about this kid’s age. After the funeral, Hud had taken an air rifle into the woods and shot at everything that moved. Every innocent little bird and squirrel. He didn’t want to think about that day, or to relive those feelings. He certainly didn’t want to teach this boy how to be like him. “I’ll give you some tips if you do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Bring me a cell phone.”
“There are no phones in this village.”
“Where are we?”
He rattled off an Arabic name with about twenty syllables. It might have begun with S.
Hud knew that they weren’t in Telskuf anymore. Last night they’d loaded him into the bed of a pickup truck. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness while they traveled over miles of dark, dusty road with no headlights.
Ashur handed him a cup.
“What is this?”
“Water.”
Hud drained the cup and passed it back.
“I bring food,” Ashur said. “You want to eat?”
His stomach growled with interest. “Yes.”
“Do you need a pot?” He mimicked the act of urinating.
“No,” Hud said, putting his feet on the tile floor. They were sore, but they held his weight. “Is there a toilet?”
“Yes,” the boy said. “Come.”
The stitches on his shoulder tugged as he followed the boy through the door. There was a closet-sized space with a squat toilet at the end of the hall. No sink, just a bucket with cold water. He rinsed his hands and let them air dry. He wanted to pour the entire bucket over his head. He’d kill for a hot shower and clean clothes.
When he emerged, Ashur escorted him back to his room and disappeared again. Hud went to the window to look out. The ground was about six feet below. There was a walled courtyard with a simple wooden gate. He could escape easily if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. He was safer here than out there, and he needed to regain his strength. He needed time to think about his next step.
Beyond the gate was a pastoral-type village with rolling green hills. He’d never seen this side of Iraq. It lacked the relentless dust and nothingness of Telskuf. He could feel moisture in the air, not just swirling debris. Mountains rose up in the distance, with jagged edges and snow-capped peaks. In this little valley, it was a pleasant spring day. At higher elevations, the weather would be harsh and unpredictable.
Had she really asked him to take her across the Zagros? Maybe he’d dreamed up the request. Surely he’d exaggerated the beauty of the woman who’d made it, as well. Angels didn’t appear out of nowhere in Iraq. They stayed hidden in voluminous black robes, faces veiled. He must have imagined the heat in her eyes as she studied him, as well.
His shoulders tensed when she entered the room. He knew it was her without looking. He could estimate height, weight and gender from the sound of footsteps. He also just felt her, like a whisper of breath at the nape of his neck.
He turned and saw that she was even prettier than he remembered. Her dark hair was uncovered, gathered in a sleek braid. She wore a long blue tunic and black leggings with Moroccan slippers. Her eyes were deep brown and thickly lashed, with a calm serenity that made him want to inhale her.
She was exquisite, but she wasn’t really his type. He had lowbrow tastes, truth be told. He liked party girls who weren’t afraid to show some skin. This one didn’t even reveal her hair in public. When she crossed her arms over her chest, he got the impression of nice curves hidden beneath layers of fabric.
“You should be resting,” she said.
He sat on the bed dutifully. She took the chair across from him.
“Do you remember our conversation?”
His gaze traveled over her figure. He remembered her bare thighs straddling his waist, and her throaty laugh as he suggested a better position. He liked her bedside manner—a lot. “About the Zagros?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think I can help you?”
“You are a Navy SEAL, and a mountain climber.”
“Who told you that?”
“My sources.”
He didn’t bother to deny it. The tattoo on his chest was a symbol of his military affiliation. The terrorists had known he was a SEAL. They’d enjoyed putting out cigarettes on his trident, searing his flesh with hot embers. He touched the spot absently and felt no remnant of the torture. No permanent scarring. He was lucky they hadn’t used a poker or a cattle brand. The minor burns had healed, the pain fading into a distant memory.
“You are a SEAL, yes? Sea, Air, Land?”
“You need an experienced local,” he said. “I’ve never climbed those mountains. I’ve never even seen a map of the route.”
“There isn’t one.”
“No map?”
“No established route. I have topographic information and satellite imagery,