by Tawny Weber
"So, what were you going to tell me when we both started talking at once?"
"Oh, I remembered something. Or I should say I think I remembered something." She told him about the ride, the seatbelt, the bumpy road. "Did that happen?"
"Yes. After we got out of the school, I thought the safest place for us was out of the city, so I took you to an abandoned town where I'd been working, about an hour and a half away."
"Did anything happen along the way? Anything unusual or bad?"
"Your ribs hurt. You were scared of me, but that was it. Well, other than being in a country falling into civil war, and not knowing for sure who the guy hauling you out of there was."
"But it beat the alternative. Being in that school." Or being dead.
"So, things are starting to come back to you," he said. "And you're okay, remembering?"
"It makes me uneasy, but most everything does, so it's not that different. If anything, the part worrying me most is how concerned you seem to be about telling me what happened. We were just waiting for a helicopter to come pick us up, right?"
He nodded.
"My father made it sound like nothing surprising or unusual happened in that time. Did anything happen?"
"Not really."
"Then why are you so reluctant to tell me about it?"
"You block things out for a reason. As I understand it, it's because the memories are too overwhelming, too traumatic for you to handle all at once."
"I know that. But I am remembering, and I'm handling it, Will. I'm fine. And you said nothing really bad or scary happened while we were waiting for the helicopter. So, please, tell me."
Buhkai, Africa,
January 16th
Will picked up Amanda and carried her inside the building where he'd been sleeping. It had good sight lines to the open ground around the town and the main road.
He put her down on the mat that had been his bed, uneasy that she'd hardly stirred. He needed to check her more thoroughly for injuries. He needed to contact her father and Mace. And he needed to figure out how they were going to get out of the country.
Will tried his phone. No signal. Not a surprise. He'd try again later.
Then he dug out his first-aid supplies and went back to Amanda.
It was warm in the room, as always, but her skin was cool to the touch, breathing shallow and a bit fast, pulse rapid, too. In the time he'd been with her, she'd also been disoriented and agitated, and in and out of consciousness. She was in shock, but she also had a knot on her head.
He pulled out a flashlight and shined it into her eyes. She roused a bit, enough to flinch and grumble weakly in protest.
"Sorry," he said. "Just need a second here."
Her pupils were equal in size and constricted in response to the light, although the right seemed to react more slowly than the left, a worrying but not alarming reaction. Not yet. He'd keep checking her pupils as the day went on.
The head wound didn't look overly alarming, and neither did the size of the bump, although he knew that could be deceiving. She'd taken a blow to her jaw, which was red and starting to swell, but he didn't feel any broken bones in her face.
The sleeve of her blouse was torn and a couple of buttons were missing. She'd tied the ends of the shirt together at her waist. Kids and the unshakeable hold they'd had on her?
Maybe.
He didn't want to think about what else the condition of her blouse could mean.
He untied her shirt and lifted the right side to see her ribcage. It looked like she'd taken a boot to her ribs. He'd had those, and he tried hard not to think of a man doing that to her.
He didn't feel any jagged edges of bone that could puncture a lung. That was good. He slid his hands over her shoulders, arms, pelvic bones, legs, ankles, feet. Nothing seemed to be broken. Her clothes had dirt and a little blood here and there, but nothing overly alarming.
He rolled up one sleeve of her shirt and pinched the skin of her forearm. The skin was slow to come back to its normal position, which told him she was dehydrated. Not surprising in this climate and given what she'd been through. Dehydration could be part of the reason she was disoriented.
He had a bag of saline and decided to go ahead and get fluids running into her, because that almost always helped. She didn't flinch when he slid the IV needle into her arm. He wasn't the worst stick in the world, but he wasn't the best, either. He'd thought she might object to that, as she had to the light in her eyes.
He re-checked her breathing, pulse, pupils, finding them much the same.
Okay.
Maybe she was more exhausted than anything else. The hyper-vigilant state of someone held hostage by gunmen in a third-world country had to be exhausting. He'd let her sleep, keep checking her vitals and see if the fluids helped rouse her.
Next, he tried his phone again, getting a weak connection to his buddy manning the desk at his SEAL team's headquarters.
"Mace, it's Will. We're out. Me and the girl, all in one piece."
"Good, because it looks like things are getting ugly on the ground in the capitol. The protest against what happened at the school turned into a mob scene. Where are you?"
"Holed up in an abandoned house, well outside the capitol. Did you find us a ride?"
"I'll make the call. Not sure how long it'll take. Are you safe where you are? Good to wait?"
"We're good." They had food, water, shelter. No problem.
"How's the girl?"
"No urgent medical needs," Will said. "Anybody really pissed at me back there?"
"No, I think you're good. Her old man must really have some pull at State. Are you going to call him or do you want me to?"
"I will, but after this, I'll leave it to you to update him. I don't want to make any more calls than I have to." Just in case. If the country was descending into civil war, all the Americans needed to lay low while they waited to be evaced.
"All right. We'll contact you when we have an update on your ride."
Will called Sam and Rachel's house next, feeling lucky to have a connection, however faint and static-filled. Sam answered in the middle of the first ring.
"It's Will. I have her. We're safe."
He heard a commotion through the line, then Sam saying, "I think her father needs to hear that from you."
Amanda's father got on the phone. "She's okay?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Where are you?"
"Somewhere safe, out of the city, waiting for transportation out of the country."
"I'll get it for you," the man said.
"Yes, Sir. I appreciate that, but don't be surprised if they won't put a bird in the air until dark, just to be safe. We've made it this far. I don't want to get shot down while getting out of here." Flying at night with night-vision technology made it so much harder for the enemy to spot them.
"Of course. She's really okay?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I need to speak to her."
Will had known that was coming. "Sir, she's resting."
In an instant, Will could feel the man's anxiety level rising despite the distance between them.
"Unconscious?" the ambassador guessed.
"Yes, Sir, I believe she has a mild concussion and a few bruised or cracked ribs. Nothing serious. We had a brief conversation when I got her out of the school, and she was awake and alert enough to give me hell for getting her to safety without the children who were also being held hostage."
"That's my girl," the man said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Find out if all the kids got out safely," Will said. "She'll want to know."
He hoped like hell they did. Not just for the sake of them and their parents and everyone else who loved them, but for himself, too. If they all got out safely, Amanda Warren might forgive him for leaving them behind.
Baxter, Ohio
As the waitress refilled their coffee, Amanda thought of how much she'd put her father through, how scared he must have been.
"That's it? A helicopter came, and we were out of there?"
He nodded.
"We didn't have any problems getting out of the country?"
"No. The chopper was in and out without incident. It was maybe..."
He broke off as someone walking past the diner caught his eye through the big front windows. His whole body tensed, and for a moment, Amanda thought he actually looked afraid.
What in the world could scare Will?
Amanda looked in the same direction he was. She saw a woman, rail-thin, older, messy, rough-looking. He kept staring, and then he was sliding out of the booth and onto his feet.
"Give me a minute," he said. "I'll be right back."
Amanda watched him go. He followed the woman down the sidewalk, staying a few paces behind her until they got so far away she lost sight of them.
Curious, even a little worried—she'd never seen Will rattled—she pulled a five-dollar bill out of her purse and left it on the table, then went to find him.
He was a full block away, standing against the brick wall of the hardware store. The woman had taken a seat on the sidewalk across the street and half a block further down. She had a one-foot-square piece of cardboard—like she'd cut it from a box—in her hand and had put a cup in front of her.
She was begging for money.
Amanda put her hand on Will's arm, and he tensed even more. "Do you know her?"
He nodded.
"Do you want to go talk to her?"
"No." He pulled out his wallet, brought out a hundred-dollar bill, then went still again. "Shit, if I give her that, she could buy enough to overdose." He put the hundred back and pulled out a twenty, which he handed to Amanda. "Give her that, okay?"
Amanda took the bill. "Okay."
"I'm going to head back to your car. I'll meet you there."
"You don't want to see her? Talk to her?"
"No."
"But—"
"It wouldn't do any good, Amanda," he said, then turned around and walked back the other way.
Amanda let him go, and once he got down the block and across the street, she turned and approached the woman. Up close, Amanda could see so many lines on her face, and skin turned brown and leathery-hard by the sun. Her clothes weren't clean, and neither was her hair. She was rocking back and forth slightly, and she looked up and smiled as Amanda approached her.
She mouthed "Thank you," as Amanda slipped the bill into her cup. When she saw the denomination, she said, "That's twenty dollars. You know that?"
Amanda nodded.
"Do I know you?" the woman asked.
"No," Amanda said. "Get something to eat, okay?"
"I will," the woman said. "Thanks, again."
Amanda turned around and walked back to her car. Will was beside it, pacing until he saw her walking toward him. Then he stopped and leaned against the car, his arms crossed in front of him. If she had to guess, he was trying very hard not to look uptight. His jaw was tight, his mouth was stretched into a straight line, and his expression was carefully blank.
"I gave her the money."
"Thank you."
"I'm guessing you don't want to talk about this?"
"She's just somebody I used to know." He held out his hand to Amanda and asked, "Car keys?"
She pulled them out of her purse and handed them to him, thinking they were going somewhere, and he wanted to drive. But he clicked the key fob to unlock the car, opened the door on the driver's side and held it for her.
Amanda stepped between him and the car. "Will, you're upset—"
"I'll be fine."
"I'm sure you will. I just... Let me help you for a change."
"Amanda, there's nothing to do. Just get in the car."
"So, it's fine for you to do everything you can for me, but no one gets to help you with anything?"
"I don't need anything—"
"You can hardly stand still and speak. Your jaw is so tight—"
"Do I like seeing what I just saw? No. Does it surprise me? Not in the least. Is there anything I can do to change it? No. Learned that the hard way. Years ago. So, there's nothing to talk about."
And then he just stood there, holding the door open.
"The friendship thing? It goes both ways," she said. "We're not friends just so you can take care of me. I could help you, too."
He nodded, but still said nothing. She gave up and got inside. Once she was seated, he pulled out the seatbelt and handed it to her. She buckled it, and he handed her the keys.
"I'm sorry, Will. For whoever she is and whatever she means to you."
"Thank you," he said, then gently closed the car door.
Amanda did what he wanted. She drove away, leaving him standing there. She didn't know what to make of the whole thing.
Ridiculous as it was, she'd thought he was invincible. Maybe he was right, and she did see him as some larger-than-life caricature of a man instead of who he was, a real person, faults and weaknesses and all.
Had she treated him like that?
She hoped she hadn't.
And she wished she were someone he could confide in about things that upset him, like that woman. But he had very firmly clammed up and pushed her away.
Did he let anyone in?
Sam? Rachel? Emma?
There had to be someone.
And yet, Emma had said even she didn't know much about Will's past, and they'd known each other since they were children. Will was considered part of the family. So how could Emma not know about Will's childhood?
Could he be that private about his life? That alone?
Amanda hated that idea.
And that woman? His reaction was so strong.
The woman's age wasn't easy to figure out. Drugs aged a person prematurely. Amanda wasn't even sure how old Will was. Mid-thirties, she'd guess.
But the most logical thing, judging by the strength of his reaction to her, was that the woman was his mother. Amanda hated even thinking that. And that he'd done so much for Amanda, but wouldn't let her even talk to him about this.
Chapter 13
"Is it possible that Will's mother is a drug addict, living on the streets here and begging for money?" Amanda asked Emma at her next session.
Emma looked taken aback. "I guess so. I mean, I guess anything is possible with her. Why?"
Amanda told her what had happened with the woman.
"Wow. I'm guessing he didn't want to talk about that."
"No, other than to say he wasn't surprised to see her living that way, and that he knew there was nothing he could do to change things for her."
"When you're dealing with an addict, if that's what she is, he's right."
Which made Amanda so sad for Will. "I want to help him. What can I do?"
"Amanda, I don't know what he'll let you do. That's the question."
"I know. You're right." And she was afraid she knew the answer. Nothing. He wouldn't let her do anything for him.
"So, can we talk about you now? How are you?"
"Better, I guess. Well, probably more... not as bad. I did enjoy meeting your sister the other night. My father convinced me to leave the house long enough to have lunch with him in a restaurant, and we ran into Grace with your father."
"We're all glad to have her back. I hope she and her husband are here to stay. What else have you done?"
"I'm not spending as much time in the corner of my bedroom. Not having as many nightmares or panic attacks. I'm doing my yoga, a little tai chi. I cooked a meal for my father the other night. Still not eating much, but I cooked. It sounded like a good way to spend time. The recipe was complicated and slow. I had to think, but I wasn't... you know, thinking about anything important. A quarter teaspoon of this, half
a cup of that. Whisk, fold in ingredients, stir. A lot of slow stirring."
"Good."
"Then I wanted to cook something really good and take it to Will."
"Did you?"
"No. I was still trying to figure out how to talk to him about that woman on the streets."
"Okay, back to you."
"I'm tired. I'm frustrated. I'm sick of being scared all the time, sick of everything I feel and how hard it is to do anything, like get out of bed in the morning, get dressed, eat, breathe. I'm just pathetic today," Amanda confessed. "Tell me again that it's going to get better."
"It's better already, and it's going to keep getting better. I promise."
Buhkai, Africa,
January 16th
Amanda was back under water, drifting along.
Except the water was sleep or something like it, and she didn't want to leave it. Because there, she didn't think anyone was trying to hurt her.
Awake, she was scared. Something bad was there, so she lay perfectly still, listening, waiting.
Out of nowhere, she felt hands on her, behind her neck, tilting her head to the side, and something slipped onto her bottom lip.
She jerked away as hard as she could, then cried out because it hurt. Her side hurt. Her eyes were open, she thought, but it seemed to take a while to focus, and when she did, she saw a man about three feet away from her, sitting back on his heels, his hands held up, palms flat, as if to show her that he wasn't going to hurt her.
She didn't believe him.
Her heart raced. Her head pounded. Her whole body felt like it had been beaten up, and every time she tried to suck in air, it hurt.
"It's okay," the man said. "I'm not going to hurt you, but you've got bruised ribs, maybe cracked ones, so every time you make a sudden movement, it's going to hurt. Try shallow little breaths. That should help."
She looked around. Where were they?
The Middle East, she guessed, from the thickness and the look of the walls of the room, and the dirt floor, and the window that was just a hole in the wall. It was hot. Daytime, because there was sunlight.