Guarding The Soldier's Secret. Kathleen Creighton
her chest from one shoulder to the opposite hip. She dug in it frantically, located her cell phone and turned it on. While she waited for it to locate a signal, she looked around, hoping to find a street sign or, failing that, some sort of landmark that might help a taxi find their location.
“Look, Mom—donkey,” Laila said in a faint but hopeful voice.
Yancy watched the small dusty animal toiling up the rocky, rutted street—just a path, really—with a load of water jugs balanced on his scrawny back. A boy no more than eleven or twelve years old, dressed in baggy trousers and a T-shirt several sizes too big for him, trudged along beside the donkey and switched idly at its rump with a small stick. Several yards beyond the pair, a man plodded steadily uphill bearing a pole across his shoulders, a plastic water container suspended from each end. Several children ran by, their bare feet seemingly impervious to the rocky ground as they leaped nimbly across the ditch that ran down the middle of the street carrying sludge and raw sewage. And she realized she did know where they were, at least generally.
This was the old slummy part of Kabul, where mud-brick houses clung to the side of the mountain practically one on top of the other, most without electricity or running water. Where people lived in appalling poverty, and all the water needed for cooking and bathing had to be carried up from the community wells down below. Several years ago Yancy had done a feature on the conditions here. It was disheartening to see that nothing much had changed.
With unsteady fingers poised to punch in the number for her network’s Kabul bureau, she hesitated. Of course, they’d send someone to pick them up if she asked, even though she was on leave, not assignment, and hadn’t told anyone at the network of her travel plans. But if possible, she wanted to continue to fly under the radar, for so many reasons. This was a personal pilgrimage, for her and for Laila. Or it had been, until...
Until we were almost abducted in the middle of a Kabul bazaar, for who-knows-what reason.
Until a man I thought was dead stepped in to help us escape.
Or did I only imagine that part? Could he possibly be real?
But Laila had seen him, too.
“Mommy, I’m thirsty.” Laila was tugging at her skirt.
“I know, baby. I’m thirsty, too.” Shading her eyes with her free hand, she surveyed the jumble of houses and winding dirt paths through which they’d just come. Water would only be found at the bottom of the hill, as would paved streets and access to taxis. They couldn’t stay where they were, obviously, but what if their would-be abductors were down there, as well, looking for them?
Inspiration struck as she remembered the shopping bag with the things they’d bought at the bazaar, including the scarves she’d picked up as gifts for Miranda.
Jamming her cell phone back into her purse, she opened the bag and pulled out the two most brightly colored and beautifully patterned scarves, one in rose and gold, the other in blue and green. She pulled off the much more sedate and modest gray one she was wearing and draped the rose-and-gold one over her head and shoulders, arranging it so it covered her hair and half of her face. Ignoring the glances of passersby, she exchanged Laila’s white scarf for the prettier blue-and-green one, while Laila gazed at her with solemn eyes and said not a word, not even to ask a question.
Yancy straightened and took Laila’s hand, shifted her purse onto her hip and said, “Okay, sweetie, let’s go find some water, shall we?”
She wanted more than water. She wanted a huge glass of wine. Or maybe a slug of whiskey. She wanted to sink down with her back against the mud-brick wall and fall completely to pieces.
Not now. Not until Laila’s safe. I have to get her to safety. Somehow.
She started down the dusty street, holding her head high and putting as much confidence in her step as she could summon while her heart pounded and cold sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. They’d gone no more than twenty yards or so before a tall, imposing figure stepped out of a narrow, branching alleyway to block their path.
“This way—I’ve got a car.” His voice low and terse. “They’re probably still looking for you.”
Yancy stood rock-still, conscious only of her burning eyes, pounding heart and the small moist hand in hers. She whispered, “Hunt?”
Deadpan, he said, “Yeah, Yankee, no ghost. It’s really me. Come on—hurry up.” He waited for them to slip past him into the narrow passageway, then followed, urging them to go faster, fast enough that Laila, with her shorter legs, had to trot to keep up.
Yancy’s Irish temper sparked to life and built to a slow simmer. Not the best timing for it, she realized, but it did help burn off the fog of shock. Before her anger could reach full boil, she halted, so abruptly Hunt had to sidestep nimbly to keep from bumping into her. She heard him swearing under his breath.
“What are you stopping for? Move, move.”
Yancy tightened her grip on her purse strap. “That’s not going to happen. Not another step. Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
From the shadows between his turban and beard, his eyes seemed to glow like those of a wild animal. “Can’t you just trust me?” She stared at him without answering. He hissed out a breath. “Dammit, Yancy, this isn’t the time. I’ll answer your questions when I’ve got you to safety.”
“Okay, sure, that’s fine.” Holding herself straight and firm, tall as she was, she still had to look up to meet his eyes. “Darn right you will. But there’s someone else here I’m sure has questions. Maybe they can’t wait. Did you even think about her? Did you stop to think you might be scaring her?”
She saw him hesitate, saw his gaze flick to Laila and something she couldn’t identify flash across his eyes, though his features remained impassive. He dropped to one knee, took Laila by the arms and turned her to face him in a way she’d seen him do once before.
In a gentle voice she’d also heard him use once before, he said, “Hey, do you remember me?” Laila stared stoically back at him, rigid as a post. “Do you know who I am?”
Moments passed, filled with heartbeats and silence. Yancy held her breath until it hardened in her chest. Then Laila whispered a single word, in Pashto. “Akaa...”
There was a soft hiss of breath. He threw an unreadable glance at Yancy before turning his attention back to Laila. “That’s right. Akaa Hunt, remember? I need you to come with me now—will you do that?”
He reached for her hand, but she shrank back against Yancy, shaking her head, whimpering, “No...no...”
Hunt drew back and draped the rejected hand across a drawn-up knee. His voice was, if possible, even more gentle. “No? Why not?”
Yancy put her hand on Laila’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She nearly choked on the words. “It’s okay, baby. He’s...our friend.”
Laila turned swimming golden eyes toward Yancy and asked in a small voice, “Is he going to take me away, Mommy?” A tear made its way slowly down her cheek. “I don’t want to leave you. Please don’t make me go.”
Again, pain sliced through Hunt’s chest. He had to look away and his hand clenched into a fist while Yancy gathered his daughter close and murmured reassurances.
My daughter.
But I deserved that, I suppose.
Not that knowing it lessened the weight in the pit of his stomach to any noticeable degree.
He stood up and briefly laid his hand on Laila’s scarf-draped head. “I’m not taking you away from your mom. You’re both coming with me. Right...Mom?” He braced himself and met Yancy’s eyes, prepared for the blazing anger he saw there, knowing he deserved that, too.
No apologies,