He stilled.
She kept talking. “It’s all right. Wake up and look at me. You’re safe.”
Slowly, his eyes opened against the morning light and darted around the room. His breaths came in ragged pants and his face was bone white, coated in a thin sheet of sweat.
“See? You’re safe now.” He seemed to be holding his breath, so she added, “Breathe. It’s okay. Open up your lungs and breathe.”
He exhaled hard and the strain went out of his muscles.
“There you go. Breathe through it.”
He lifted his hand, the tips of his fingers lightly brushing her cheek before he caught himself. Cursing under his breath, he rolled away from her and climbed to his feet. With dirt smeared on his clothes and face, and his eyes showing too much white, he looked like a feral creature from long ago, more animal than human.
She wanted to comfort him, but when she reached out, he shied away.
“Don’t touch me,” he said in a strangled voice that didn’t sound like his own. He held up a hand as if to ward her off.
“Okay. I’m sorry.” Phoebe wrapped her arms around herself. Blood seeped from her reopened bullet wound, making her shirt stick to her arm. She ignored it. “You had a nightmare.”
“I fucking know that.”
She recoiled at the venom in his tone. “Are…you okay?”
He laughed, but it was a nasty sound. “I’ll never be okay again.”
Oh, damn. Heat stung her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she repeated because she didn’t know what else to say.
His gaze snapped to hers and she thought she saw a hint of softening in the icy blue. At least his eyes didn’t belong to a wild animal anymore.
“No.” Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck. “It was a legit, polite question you ask a person who has woken up from a bad nightmare,” he said, almost as if reminding himself of the fact. “I’m just a bastard who doesn’t know how to carry on a civil conversation anymore. I apologize.”
“Don’t.” She wasn’t fully aware of speaking the word aloud until he swung around and faced her again. “I mean, you don’t have to apologize for anything.”
His features darkened. “And you don’t have to give me any special treatment just because you know my sob story. If I’m being an asshole, tell me. It’s the only way I’ll—” He stopped short and edged past her. “We need to get moving.”
She wasn’t quite sure what made her reach out and catch his hand, but his whole body went rigid. She drew away and clasped her hands together, lest she keep finding ways to touch him. “It’s the only way you’ll…?”
Seth stared for a long moment, his eyes sweeping over every inch of her face like he was trying to figure her out. Or memorize her features—especially her mouth, which he focused on for a beat longer than necessary before looking away. She moistened her suddenly dry lips.
“Seth? It’s the only way you’ll…what?” She could only see his profile, gilded by the morning rays. Despite myriad scars, he had a surprisingly pretty face. No other word for it, with those long dark lashes and big blue eyes that probably got him out of all kinds of mischief when he was a boy.
His throat worked. “It’s the only way I’ll learn to be human again.”
He walked away, leaving her to gape after him in stunned silence. Did he really believe he wasn’t human anymore? Yes, he’d lived through the unimaginable, and going by his screams while in the grip of the nightmare, she didn’t want to imagine it. And, yes, he was ragged around the edges, a walking open wound with psych issues galore. But he still had a beating heart. Thoughts, feelings, fears. He was still human, and someone should prove it to him.
She took two steps in the direction he’d disappeared before catching herself. No. It wasn’t her job to help him. As Zina often pointed out, she couldn’t save everyone, as much as she wished otherwise. And after what she’d done to Seth, it’d be foolish to even try.
Distance. She had to keep her distance.
Hardening her heart against the need to fix him, she grabbed her bag, climbed over the pile of rubble, and met him on the abandoned street below. Ruins of other bombed-out buildings similar to their hideout cast forlorn shadows across the pitted road and it seemed there was not another living soul for miles. Amazingly, this ghost town existed within the bustling city limits of Kabul—a sad reminder of the wars that had ravaged the country for too many years.
“It’s beautiful in a sad, haunting kind of way, isn’t it?” She took out her camera and captured a few shots of the hopeful pink rays of morning sunlight playing through the destruction. She couldn’t wait to get these pictures into Photoshop. She’d desaturate the crumbling buildings and bring out the reds in the light, varying the shades from pink to orange…
Seth grunted.
She glanced away from her viewfinder. “You don’t think so?”
“No.”
She studied their surroundings again. He was wrong. The ghost town possessed the same kind of beauty as a desert. Desolate, ravaged by the elements, and awe-inspiring. “How can you look at this place and not see it?”
“I see war. Destruction. Death.”
“Of course. But underneath all that…”
“No. There’s nothing in this country I find beautiful.”
“Nothing?” She turned to find his gaze fastened on her, hot as a caress, and her belly jittered with a nervous kind of excitement. He really did have the most gorgeous eyes, the same intense color of a cloudless Caribbean sky in the middle of summer.
But then he noticed her arm and winced, breaking the intensity of the moment. She’d forgotten about the bullet wound, but now that he’d drawn her attention to it, she became acutely aware of the throbbing pain. She was also bleeding again.
He started walking. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere I can get in contact with my team.”
His strides were long, filled with purpose, and she struggled to keep up. “Your team? You’re still in the military then?” She couldn’t see how that was possible, though. Sure, she didn’t know much about how the military functioned, but she was certain they wouldn’t allow a man with Seth’s history to rejoin.
“No,” he said and seemed to be making a conscious effort not to look at her.
“So you’re a mercenary. Or, wait, I believe the preferred term is private military contractor?” His lip didn’t even twitch toward a smile like she’d hoped. She huffed out a breath in exasperation. “Where’s your team?”
“No idea. I doubt they’re still in the same place, which is why I need to contact them.”
“Great.” Her stomach let out an embarrassingly loud grumble. “Well, can we at least get some food first? I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday.”
He stopped moving and blinked at her like she had spoken in ancient Greek. “Food?”
“Didn’t even cross your mind, did it?”
“No.” His shoulders hunched, curling toward his center, giving her a glimpse of the tortured soul she’d seen during the nightmare. Then he straightened to his full height again. “I don’t enjoy eating anymore, so no, I didn’t think of it. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t enjoy eating? How was that possible? Everyone—everything with a pulse liked food. And if he didn’t eat, what did he survive on?
Her slack-jawed expression must have broadcast her thoughts because he said, “Protein shakes, mostly. And I do eat. I just don’t like it.”
“But…why not?”
He shrugged and started walking again. “I don’t have any Afghan money, but we’ll find something for you.”
Okay, so he wasn’t going to answer. Fair enough. They were practically strangers, after all. He didn’t have to tell her anything. And besides, she was supposed to be keeping him at a distance, not getting to know him better. That path only led to trouble. As it was, every time he looked at her, she was terrified he’d see through her, would somehow know the horrible things she’d done.
She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the cold again for the first time since she woke up. Despite all logic to the contrary, it still stung that he wouldn’t confide in her. Which, yes, she knew was a completely ridiculous way to feel, but there it was.
Her stomach growled again.
God, she was starving. And cold. And her arm stung like hell.
“Am I still your prisoner?” she called after him.
Seth’s breathing hitched and he halted as if he’d slammed into an invisible wall. When he whirled to face her, his complexion drained of color. “You’re not a prisoner.”
He looked so stricken, Phoebe silently cursed herself. She was trained as a journalist and although she dealt primary in photography now, she should still have enough command of the English language to keep from sending the poor man into a panic attack.
C’mon, girl, what’s with the verbal diarrhea? Get your act together.
Since acknowledging his panic would probably only embarrass him, she shrugged it off and strode past him like nothing happened. “Then follow me. I’ll take you to the shelter.”
He hesitated. She imagined he was taking the moment to regain his bearings, but soon enough, he was at her side again, silent and stone-faced. With his scars and that carefully blank expression, he looked downright menacing.
Crap. Zina was going to be so pissed.
Chapter Eleven
Oh boy, had she ever been wrong. “Pissed” didn’t even begin to cover it.
Phoebe had never seen the usually mild-mannered woman so livid and honestly, it was a bit frightening. Zina may have looked like a runway model but she sounded more like a lioness protecting her cubs. In a tone that dared Seth to argue, she ordered him to give her his team’s contact info and stay in the courtyard. Then, with a fuming glare at Phoebe, she stormed inside. She didn’t slam the front door—that would be too undignified and would scare her girls—but the soft click of it closing behind her was somehow even worse.
Phoebe bit her lip and glanced over at Seth, who had borne the gale force of Zina’s rage without so much as a blink. “I’m sorry. I knew she’d be angry, but I thought she’d take it out on me.”
He nodded. His jaw was clenched so tightly she swore she heard his back teeth grind—but not out of anger. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his skin despite the chilly day and his hands trembled at his sides.
Good God, he was terrified and trying not to show it. Had Zina’s tirade brought on another flashback?
She wanted to reach out, entwine her fingers through his, let him know he had nothing to fear. No, dammit. She was supposed to be keeping her distance. For both their sakes.
She hurried toward the front door. “I’ll talk to her.”
She didn’t wait for a reaction and ducked inside. Pausing in the foyer, she leaned against the cool wood of the door and swore under her breath. Keeping her distance was going to be harder than she thought. Seth Harlan had stolen a small piece of her heart two years ago when he stoically withstood the public lashing caused by her article, and she didn’t want distance. She wanted to help him. Wanted to make up for the pain she’d caused him.
“Is he an American soldier?” a voice asked in Pashto.
Surprised, Phoebe pushed away from the door and spotted Tehani Niazi coming down the stairs. “Who?” she asked, even though she knew exactly who.
“I was watching from the window,” Tehani admitted. “He looks like a soldier.”
“He’s…” How to explain the difference between Seth and the type of soldier Tehani meant? She didn’t think she knew enough of the language to do so, in any case. “Yes. Yes, he is.”
Tehani crossed the foyer to stand in front of Phoebe, her hands tucked behind her back. “Can you take me to see him?”
“Oh.” She winced, imagining Zina’s reaction. No, thank you. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
But Tehani wasn’t deterred. She lifted her chin, showing a glimpse of the stubborn streak that ran through her core. “I have something I need to give him.”
Phoebe reached out and straightened Tehani’s slipping head scarf. Such a strong, brave, determined girl. It was impossible not to love her. “All right. I’ll introduce you to him, but let’s keep it a secret, okay?”
Tehani nodded.
Phoebe started to open the door, but then thought better of taking an Afghan to meet a traumatized former Marine without first knowing what the girl meant to give him. Last thing he needed after facing Zina was to be surprised.
“Tehani,” she said, pulling the girl’s gaze away from the door. “First, can you show me what have for him?”
Tehani produced a battered folder from behind her back and held it out. Phoebe recognized it as the same one she’d carried with her few belongings from her village. She’d been so protective of it she hadn’t wanted anyone to even touch it. That the girl now trusted her enough to let her see inside made Phoebe’s eyes burn with suppressed emotion.
“Thank you.” She opened the ragged cover and her chest seized. “Oh my God. Where did you get this?”
“Zakir gave it to me. He told me I had to give it to an American soldier. He said it was very important.”
Phoebe leafed through the pages, then started at the beginning again and read more carefully to make sure she was actually seeing what she thought. No, she wasn’t delusional. This was indeed a military report on at least two dozen arms deals and several suicide bombers, including the unidentified woman who attempted to bomb the American embassy three weeks ago. Dates, names, and places—all written by a precise hand and sometimes accompanied by photographs. And one particular name all but leaped off the page and smacked her in the face.
Jahangir Siddiqui.
The front-runner in Afghanistan’s upcoming presidential election.
Holy. Shit.
…
Seth released a breath and consciously made himself relax as the door shut behind Phoebe. He shook out his hands, worked his jaw. He couldn’t say what it was about the encounter that had bothered him. It wasn’t that he thought Zina could hurt him, wasn’t even that she was angry at him for disrupting the shelter’s peaceful existence. She had every right to her anger.
Still, it had thrown him back into a very dark place. And now that he could think straight, that really pissed him off. What had happened to all of his fucking progress?
The shelter’s front door flew open and Phoebe sprinted toward him with a girl on her heels. She didn’t say anything when she reached him—just shoved an open folder into his hands and, wide-eyed, jabbed a finger at the pages.
“What?”
She gasped in a great exhale as if she’d been holding her breath. “Jahangir Siddiqui is Tehani’s husband.”
He tried to read the first page in the folder, but she was still jabbing at it wildly. “Okay. Who’s Tehani?”
“I am,” the girl said in Pashto.
He caught Phoebe’s hand before she put a finger through the paper in her excitement. “This girl is Siddiqui’s wife?”
“Yes, and he’s behind the rash of suicide bombings. Look. He’s using his wives. And look. He’s buying arms, making bombs.” She poked the papers again. “And we have proof! We need to tell someone. We need to stop him.”
“No.”
Her mouth snapped shut. “No?”
“No,” he repeated. “Not yet, at least. It’s too dangerous. Where did you get this information?” It read like a highly classified military report.
“Zakir gave it to me,” Tehani said.
A little thrill curled in Seth’s gut. “Zakir who?”
“Zakir Rossoul.” She frowned in thought. “But I don’t think that’s his real name. I heard him talking on his radio in English when he helped me escape and he called himself…” She hesitated. “Sergeant Zak Hendricks.”
Jackpot.
Seth closed the folder. “We need to get my team here right now.”
“Wait,” Tehani said and reached into the pocket of her dress.
Seth couldn’t help the automatic tightening of his shoulders. Goddammit, this girl meant him no harm. He needed to stop jumping at shadows or he was going to make a mistake. And a mistake in this country meant death.
The girl held out her hand, a small flash drive in her palm. “Zakir told me it was very important I give this to an American soldier because my husband is trying to buy a nuclear bomb.”
It took him a second to translate that last part and he looked at Phoebe for confirmation. “Did she just say nuclear bomb?”
“Yes,” Phoebe breathed. “She did.”
Chapter Twelve
This was Seth’s team, the men he was supposed to trust to watch his back?
They weren’t what Phoebe expected. While the seven men filed into the courtyard, Zina ushered Tehani back inside before returning to stand guard by the gate like a mama bear. All of the men radiated varying degrees of disapproval as they passed Seth. One guy in a cowboy hat looked on with that assessing gaze doctors used while reading an X-ray, as if Seth were a broken bone that needed to be set. Another man with brutally short hair and a lean, mean face sneered like a high school bully in sight of middle school prey and, sure enough, he started right in with the taunting as soon as he cleared the front gate. “Hey, Hero. Thought you ran home crying.”
Seth bore the ridicule in stoic silence and none of the others said anything to shut the bully up—not even the scowling man with the cane who appeared to be in charge of the motley bunch.
How could he put any trust in these men when they obviously didn’t respect him? Didn’t they realize he already thought of himself as subhuman and their coolness toward him only served to reinforce that belief?
No, probably not. They were men, after all. And this looked to be a power struggle that Seth had no hope of winning.
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