Guarding The Soldier's Secret. Kathleen Creighton
are you hungry? I know I am. How about we go back to the hotel and see if they have any ice cream.”
“Pistachio?” Laila’s golden eyes sparkled up at her with that wicked humor that never failed to wrench at Yancy’s heart and bring back memories of a time she hoped someday to forget.
She’s so like him. How am I ever going to be able to forget, with her as my constant reminder?
With one arm resting lightly across Laila’s shoulders, Yancy lifted her head to survey their surroundings, hoping to determine the best and shortest route back to the main street where, presumably, they could flag down a taxi. But she found she couldn’t see much because of the press of people that surrounded them.
Which was odd, because a moment ago she could have sworn there were only a few straggling shoppers here, dawdling about among the stalls. Now she and Laila appeared to be completely walled in by a crowd of people.
No, not a crowd. A group of men. Tall, bearded men, all dressed in traditional Afghan costume.
As the bolt of awareness shot through Yancy’s brain, it triggered a wild montage of the warnings, cautions and instructions she’d heard time and time again when preparing to venture into volatile and unpredictable regions of the world. More than once she’d covered the story when a colleague had been abducted—or worse—and there had even been some close calls that were hers alone, the memories of which were all too vivid. She’d never really been frightened then—at least not that she could remember. But it was different now. Now there was Laila.
She tensed and strengthened her hold on her daughter’s hand, at the same time nervously checking to make certain no stray locks of her own dark red hair had strayed from beneath her scarf. Keeping her eyes averted, she quickened her step.
Without any overtly threatening moves or gestures, the knot of men moved with her, keeping pace.
Yancy’s mind raced, searching for explanations but capable only of shooting off questions. Who are they? Taliban? What’s happening? Why are they doing this? What do they want with me? Are we about to be kidnapped? What have I done?
Or...is it Laila they’re after?
Her heart banged against her ribs. Her scalp sizzled; she could actually feel her hair lift and stir against the silk fabric of her scarf. She could almost hear Hunt’s voice... They’ll find her again, sooner or later...
Oddly, the thought had a calming effect.
Laila? They can’t take her. They will have to kill me first.
She drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. Think. You have one advantage: you’re a woman. They won’t be expecting resistance from a woman. Plus, they won’t want to touch you, a strange female, if they can avoid it. You know the moves—they won’t expect that, either. Strike fast, strike hard, break loose.
Then both of us run like hell.
They’d reached the outskirts of the bazaar. Beyond the human barricade that surrounded her, Yancy could hear cars moving slowly, tires crunching on the hard-baked ground. She could hear laughter, music coming from a car radio, the impatient beep of a horn. She wondered if one of those cars was meant for them. She imagined a sudden shriek of brakes, hard hands shoving her into a waiting vehicle, Laila screaming...
Or, infinitely worse, Laila being wrenched from her grasp. Then the slamming of car doors, a gunned motor and silence.
* * *
Twenty yards or so behind the odd clot of Afghan males in the otherwise free-flowing stream of midday traffic, Hunt Grainger maintained a relaxed and steady pace. Keeping anger in check along with surging adrenaline, he followed the phalanx’s every movement, gauging the situation, biding his time, waiting for the moment.
And still hoping this was going to turn out to be nothing more ominous than a tight-knit group of male shoppers oblivious to the two insignificant females in their path. Still hoping it wouldn’t be necessary to make himself known. He’d intended to do so eventually, of course, but at a time and place of his own choosing.
No, not this way. Not now.
The adrenaline was easier to deal with than the anger. He knew how to bank adrenaline, keep it focused and ready for the job at hand. He’d already assessed the odds of roughly ten to one, which didn’t trouble him particularly—he’d handled worse. Although admittedly not with a woman and child in the immediate proximity of the operation. That might complicate things.
Damn Yancy, anyway!
What was she thinking, bringing the girl back to Afghanistan? Hadn’t he made it clear to her how dangerous it was? If Zahra’s family found out...
That was the troubling thing. They obviously had found out. How? How could they know?
Although, he supposed, if he’d known, it was possible someone else could, as well. A world-famous network war correspondent couldn’t exactly keep a low profile.
The agency he’d hired to keep an eye on the two while he was out of reach had kept him informed of their travel plans, and he’d been watching them almost from the moment they’d arrived in the country. Admittedly that wasn’t so much because he feared for their safety. Not then.
Truth was, he’d simply wanted to see them again. Both of them. Nothing wrong with that, he’d argued with himself as he’d lain wide-awake and sleepless in anticipation of their arrival. Laila was his daughter, after all.
And Yancy... Hell, he wasn’t sure what Yancy was to him. Never had known.
What he did know was, it would be better for everyone if he could have stayed away, let them go on believing he was dead.
He’d told himself he’d look—that was all. Watch them from afar. Then let them go, never knowing.
It’s better that way. For now.
That was the plan. One of them, anyway. Maybe he would have been able to keep to it, maybe not. Now it looked as if he wasn’t going to have the luxury of choice.
His senses snapped to full alert when he noted what appeared to be a disturbance in the tight knot of men surrounding Yancy and Laila. The knot appeared to be unraveling. He quickened his pace, and several things happened in lightning-quick succession: One man seemed to stumble, then fall back against his comrades. This sent several to the ground in a tumble of flowing garments that might have been comical under different circumstances. Then two female figures, woman and child, broke free of the melee. They came straight toward him, running as if from the devil himself.
The woman’s face was a mask of grim determination; the child’s was blank with confusion. Hunt started forward, then halted when he saw the woman’s eyes focus, home in on his face. He saw her eyes go wide, first with fear, then with stunned recognition. He saw her stumble slightly, her body flinch and her face drain of all color.
Unexpected pain sliced through him.
Dammit, Yancy. Not like this—this isn’t the way I’d have chosen to break it to you.
An image came into his mind, one of those lightning flashes that stays on, seared into the memory like a brand.
...I’m strolling the boardwalk on the base with a couple of guys from my team, fresh off a successful mission with some leftover adrenaline to dispose of. Every soldier has his own way of dealing with it—that jacked-up reckless feeling you get sometimes when you’ve done your job and come back in one piece. Everything seems sharp and clear and simple. Life and death. You win or you lose. And that day we won. Life was good.
Times like that, some guys head straight for their laptops for a face-to-face with their families. A few go to the chapel, I guess. Me, I get a yearning for a little piece of home, so I hit the boardwalk and the same fast-food places I used to hang out in when I was a kid, growing up in the Midwest.
So my guys and I are debating the relative merits of subs, pizza and tacos, or whether we should go to Friday’s and have all three. And that’s when I