Peter Talladay's eyes opened and a slow grin deepened the laugh lines around his mouth and sparkled in his gray eyes. A scar, new since Sidon, bisected the man's face from his right temple to his jaw. Matt winced to see it, aware of how painful the wound must have been.
"Well, now," Peter drawled in his inimitable Gaelic brogue, "Seems the beasties in these parts found you a tad too tough to chew, lad."
An unexpected laugh burst from Matt, surprising him with its hoarseness. His eyes stung. Damn it, this wasn't like him. He didn't cry. He shed his last tears in Hell at the tender age of fourteen. However, the relief of knowing his best friend survived overwhelmed him; he couldn't speak for fear of his voice wavering. Instead, he clasped Talladay's hand in a firm handshake. After a moment, he cleared his throat and was pleased when his voice came out steady, if wry, as he responded, "I guess they did, at that. How are you guys doing?"
Trevor shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm copasetic, boss. I was driving the last jeep, so I didn't even catch shrapnel. I would be fine, except I got debris dropped on me when I was searching for survivors. I must've been pinned under that shit for a good three ticks before a sweet little angel lifted it away and dug me out."
Angel? Matt cocked one eyebrow skeptically. He didn't believe in angels any more than he did Manara's demons. Still, he couldn't find it in him to scoff as the memory of a figure framed in ethereal sunlight flashed through his mind. He wasn't about to admit Trevor might be right. "Angel, huh? Sure you weren't hallucinating?"
"No way." Trevor's sober, stubborn expression was compelling. Uneasy certainty crawled along Matt's skin as his memory of spirits and otherworldly lights plagued him.
He shook off the feeling and focused on Trevor again, only to find a distracted air to the black man's expression. Trevor's gaze moved around the room over Matt's shoulder as if searching for something or someone. Then, suddenly, his dark face broke into a wide grin. "There she is."
Matt turned and looked around. He saw no angels, just white-clad women and very ill people. "Who?"
"My angel, boss."
Matt followed Trevor's pointing finger, and the blood drained from his face. Manara knelt beside a young woman's pallet, a compassionate smile spread on her ripe lips. Lips he'd fantasized about since he first saw them. She haunted his dreams for weeks, now. Yeah, he knew she was at the canyon. She admitted as much to him. He sucked in a sharp breath as the image of dark hair and billowing white wings flashed deep in his mind.
It can't be!
"Manara?" He prayed Trevor would deny it. Surely, the other man meant someone else.
"Is that her name?" Trevor's curious gaze jumped between Matt's bloodless face and Manara's serene expression. "She never said a word to me. Just smiled pretty-like and set me in the jeep next to this guy here," he thumped Talladay on the shoulder. "He was pretty fucked up; compound fracture on the right arm and a nasty gash on his face and neck."
Which explained the scar on Peter's face. Matt's attention went to Peter, and he studied the scar more closely. It looked healed, but he knew appearances meant nothing. His own wounds seemed more healed than he knew they were. He was still in almost constant pain. Was Peter really as recovered as he seemed? "Bad?"
Peter shrugged. "I'm still livin', aren't I?"
That wasn't the answer he was looking for, but the words gave Matt pause as he recalled what Manara admitted about his own condition when she rescued him. His gaze skipped to Trevor. "How much damage was there?"
Trevor wouldn't meet his gaze at first, and Matt's uneasiness skyrocketed clear into full-blown fear. Could he be the one in the wrong? Had Manara told him nothing but the unvarnished truth? Then, Trevor spoke, and Matt's terror was complete.
"You scared the shit out of me, Matt. I saw you when she put you in that jeep."
Matt cleared his throat and tried to make light of it. "It couldn't have been that bad."
Trevor's head shook, his somber expression twisting the knife of certainty further into Matt's gut. "There wasn't anything left that wasn't bloody or bleeding. I was sure you were a goner, but when I tried to ask, she just gave me this look like she was Jesus Christ or something. I wasn't about to argue with her after she saved my ass."
Matt shuddered at the realization he really was dead when she found him. He died back there in that canyon. Manara didn't save his life. She brought him back from the dead. Bile rose in Matt's throat and his stomach churned with horror. Why the hell was he alive? What did she want with him?
"What did she say?"
"It was really weird, boss." Trevor's gaze went to Manara, the faraway look of resurfacing memory on his face. "She never said a word, but she had this real strange look on her face the whole time."
Matt turned his attention to Manara as well, and a frown pulled at his lips. He hated wanting her so much he was almost willing to forgive her for doing whatever she did to bring him back. "I still don't understand why they separated us."
"Maybe I can answer that," Peter spoke up quietly, drawing both of the other men's attention. "When we got here, she turned us over to some other women. Someone mentioned funeral rites, but she just turned that look Trevor described on them, then climbed back in the jeep and took off with you."
"Yeah," Trevor agreed. "She never said a word about you either, until Pete confronted her the other day. Man, you had us both freaked! We were sure you were dead, but nobody was saying anything."
Matt was stunned. This was the most he ever heard the usually silent Watkins say at one time, and... His gaze shifted to Talladay. This was the most sedate the normally verbose and demonstrative Irishman had ever been in the decade Matt had known him. What the happy Hell was going on around here?
"You two are aware that we've probably been officially declared dead, aren't you?"
"Aye." Talladay's gray gaze fixed on the sandy floor at his feet, his expression morose.
Worried, Matt moved to stand next to his friend, stooping to lay one hand on the other man's shoulder. "Pete? What is it, man?"
Talladay's gaze lifted again, the characteristic spark of laughter eerily missing as his attention fixed on Matt's with penetrating directness.
"When I was layin' there in that canyon, I had a vision."
He didn't want to hear this. Normally, Matt ran as far and fast as he could from anyone who uttered those words. He wasn't a believer in psychics or mystics, or whatever the hell people called themselves when they had psychological breaks. Only...Peter Talladay didn't have psychological breaks. He was tested for psychological problems after his ordeal in Cambodia. Aside from the expected Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Peter displayed no psychological abnormalities. Which meant...
"What vision?" Matt forced the words out through a throat gone tight in dread.
Peter studied his own hands for a long moment, his expression pensive before a resigned sigh escaped him and he raised his eyes again. "What happened in that canyon was no mistake, Matt. We weren't meant to survive."
"I don't know what you're getting at, but—"
"We've got a war on our hands, and this is the endgame, Matt. Only dead men can go where we're about to. Pardon me if bein' Bean Si bait don't thrill me."
Matt winced at the tone of Peter's voice, but the other man's piercing gray eyes held no condemnation, only resignation; even a little fear. Peter Talladay harbored no illusions his future would be anything more than a shadow of his past, or that he'd escape it alive. That scared the shit out of Matt more than he was willing to admit.
Unable to face the stark reality of Peter's words, Matt turned his eyes away and cleared his throat, glancing toward Trevor. "Have you guys had a chance to do any reconnaissance yet? What do you know about this place?"
Trevor snorted. "Not much."
"You haven't checked it out?"
"Oh yeah, we've had a look around." Trevor lowered his voice. "This is one damn strange place, boss."
Like he hadn't already figured that out. Manara took secrecy to a level h
e hadn't even seen veteran spies go to. "Strange how?"
"They've been on the move since we got here. Must've covered a good three or four hundred klicks."
Matt nodded. "Manara says they have to stay on the move to keep some kind of nasty organization from finding them."
"Makes sense," Peter offered.
"Yeah, but it doesn't explain why, two weeks ago, they plunked down here and haven't moved a muscle since," Trevor pointed out.
Matt had to agree. If they were so desperate to stay ahead of this Brotherhood Manara mentioned, two weeks in one location sounded like a death trap. He wondered if his men knew how close to danger they really were. "Do you know where we are?"
Trevor nodded. "We're about three klicks from the Iraqi border, give or take."
"And they haven't moved in weeks?" It made sense. He'd been awake for a couple of weeks now, and they hadn't budged an inch.
"Not an inch. It's like they're waiting for something."
Matt frowned, remembering what Manara told him about poking around the camp. "Anyone give you any trouble about snooping?"
Trevor and Peter shared a telling look before Trevor spoke again. "They don't stop us from having all the looks around we want during the day, but they put this place under lockdown at night, and no one is allowed to leave the hospice, nurses included."
"Most of them have already disappeared by the time they lock things down," Peter added quietly, still studying the floor.
Trevor glanced around to be sure no one could hear their exchange, and then said, "Pete and I have been hearing some strange shit at night, too."
Matt's heart sank. This couldn't be good. "What kind of strange stuff?"
Trevor shrugged. "Not sure. Sounds like singing or chanting, and something else so faint we can't make it out."
Dread punched Matt in the gut. This was what he was most afraid of. Manara admitted she was into something unusual. The memories of Rachel were too powerful, and he knew Manara was into something dangerous. She had to be. No one chanted for any good reasons, right?
"How do you think we can get some hard evidence?"
Trevor cleared his throat nervously. "Well, we're under guard here, but we were thinking... Since you're not in the hospice at night, maybe you can find out what it is. You're probably not under the same restrictions..."
Matt nodded grimly, even as his heart sank. "I'll check it out tonight. You two sit tight. Be prepared to move. We don't know what these ladies are up to, and even if it's nothing, we've outstayed our welcome. We still have a job to do. But, I want to know what they're hiding around here first." Matt's heart clenched. Whatever these women hid from them, Manara was in it up to her pretty little neck.
Unable to still the sick roiling in his stomach, Matt's gaze swept the hospice until he found Manara. She had moved on to another patient -- a young boy of about twelve years who reminded Matt of another boy who once found himself in a hell he couldn't escape. Anger boiled up into rage. Matt acknowledged his men with a sharp nod and hobbled across the tent to where Manara knelt, moving as fast as his bum leg would let him. He'd be damned if he would let another child suffer the effects of the supernatural.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The words flew from Matt an instant before he realized exactly what she was doing. Manara was changing the bandages on the stumps that remained of the boy's legs.
Even as Manara snapped around in surprise, illness assaulted Matt as he stared at the child's mutilated body. It wasn't the injury itself. He saw the effects of landmines before. He'd watched grown men whimper and scream like babies from the terrible wounds inflicted by the heartless machines of war. He even saw children maimed by the deadly devices, before. But the idea of Manara viewing the same devastation... Protective anger flared full force for both the child and the woman who knelt at his side.
"What happened?" The answer was obvious, but he needed to know how. He needed an enemy he could fight.
Manara's gaze searched his for a long moment and he got the distinct impression the sadness in her gray eyes was for him, not the child she cared for. Then she turned back to the child, her touch gentle as she cut away the remainder of his bandages.
"Mahir lost his legs below the knees. He is a Kurd and was forced into service as a sweeper for the Iraqi army."
Matt's throat tightened at the pain in Mahir's eyes. In this area of the world, where proper treatment and prosthetics were reserved for the wealthy, the boy would never know what it was like to run and play again. Mahir was a Kurd. He wasn't likely to ever see that kind of medical attention. "How did you find him?"
"Shahdi did. She often walks at night when her dreams trouble her. She found Mahir laying near death at the edge of the camp."
Matt averted his gaze from the remaining stumps of Mahir's legs. The paramedic in him appreciated the excellent job the women here did of stitching the wounds closed with the primitive equipment they used. If the means existed to get this boy prosthetics, those neatly stitched stumps would be easy to fit. However, the draining shrapnel wounds still seeping across his legs, arms and torso were another matter. In camp conditions, those could easily become septic. If that happened, Mahir would die. He needed a properly sterile hospital. Normally, Matt would have him on the first plane to the States and medical attention. This wasn't a normal situation. Matt was a dead man himself, and if Pete was right, he had to stay that way to see his mission through.
Fresh, helpless anger washed through him at the injustice. He knew what sweepers were. They were women and children -- the very people an army was supposed to protect -- sent out onto the front lines to run the fields for mines. They were innocents, thrust into the most dangerous area of battle without choice. The most innocent were so often the most abused. It infuriated him. One glance at Manara's pinched expression told him his fury was nothing compared to hers.
"Manara..."
She rose to her feet so abruptly he back-pedaled, putting more weight on his own wounded leg than was wise. He swore, leaning heavily on his cane as he fought to maintain his balance. Damn it, he hated being wounded!
Manara barely spared him a glance at his oath before heading to a central island of colorful, unlabelled glass bottles and clean bandages. She clearly needed a moment to pull herself together. Matt gave her that by turning his attention to her patient. He offered the boy a reassuring smile.
Mahir returned the smile weakly, though pain radiated in his eyes. His curious gaze drifted to Matt's cane and leg. "Amrîkâni?"
"Yes, I'm an American," Matthew answered him in Arabic, wishing he could crouch down to the boy's level. His injury frustrated him, but Mahir was a clear example of how much worse it could be.
"What happened to your leg?"
Matt glanced down at his leg and frowned. It was a question he hadn't had the courage to ask, himself. "I'm not sure."
Mahir nodded, as if he understood -- an understanding no child should have. Before he could open his mouth to ask Mahir if he was being well cared for, Manara was back, shooing him away so she could clean Mahir's wounds and rewrap them. Matt stepped back and watched her work, concerned. She still looked ready to crack. Manara was definitely not handling this well.
"She would save the whole world, if she could. She does not understand she is only one woman."
The sudden voice, soft and sad, pulled his attention around, to find Shahdi standing beside him, her china blue eyes fixed on Manara. His concern skyrocketed. If Shahdi was worried...
"Why?"
"It is who she is, what she was trained to be." Shahdi's matter-of-fact response wasn't comforting. He didn't like to think Manara would kill herself to save others. He couldn't imagine a world without her in it, anymore. He caught Shahdi's gentle smile. "You will do her good."
Shahdi moved past him, crouched to converse with Manara and the boy, leaving Matt to digest her meaning. His gaze went to Manara and the furious glare she shot him told him she was pissed. What had he done now?
; *****
She had no right to be angry. That didn't keep the feeling from crawling through Manara's chest as her gaze went between Shahdi, now talking quietly with Mahir, and Matthew, who stood watching them. She didn't know how to explain the twisting, clawing discomfort in her chest. She knew Shahdi was experienced and a willing ishtaristu. She could give Matthew everything Manara could not, and she was also very beautiful.
"You have nothing to worry about." Spoken in Sumerian, Shahdi's words were clearly for her ears alone. Manara flushed to know her friend saw through her so easily.
"He will bore of me when he realizes he cannot have me."
Shahdi chuckled. "You think he sees me? You are the only woman in this world, in his eyes. I see it. Why can you not?"
Manara chewed her lip. She couldn't tell Shahdi about her feelings. They were feelings she was not supposed to have. Shahdi squeezed her shoulder gently as she rose to her feet again. "It will not always be this way, my friend. In time..."
Shahdi moved toward the entrance of the hospice, leaving Manara no choice but to meet Matthew's gaze. The intent focus of his dark, hungry gaze sucked the breath from her lungs and left her hot and dizzy. In time...
Manara blushed and forced herself to breathe as she looked away. Maybe Shahdi was right; maybe she didn't have to worry. Still, she couldn't stop the fear.
"Mukarramma!" Shahdi was back, her expression suddenly nervous. With a quick glance toward Matthew, she spoke in Sumerian. "They are back."
Dread rolled through Manara, even as she rose to her feet and headed for the entrance. She had to take care of this swiftly, but quietly.
"What's going on?" Matthew was by her side with more speed than she imagined he could move in his current state.
"It is nothing."
"Sure. Nothing. That explains why Shahdi looks ready to come out of her skin and you're chewing your lip again."
In Her Name Page 12