by Loye, Trish
“Jalila will teach you some Arabic while I shower and dress.” Sarah took the extra cup from him. One sip and her eyes closed; a look of pleasure crossed her face. A look his body recognized. A look his body wanted to see again.
Her eyes opened. “You remembered how I take my coffee.”
“We were together for a month.” He captured her gaze. “I remember every moment of it.”
Her breath caught and her eyes widened. She wasn’t good for him. Hell, she didn’t even like him, but he couldn’t stop himself from stepping closer. Her mouth parted. She didn’t move away. For the past five months, he’d dreamed of kissing those luscious lips again.
“Qobla?” Jalila said from the table.
Sarah jumped back, her face going red. She averted her eyes and shook her head, speaking to the girl.
Dylan dragged in air, feeling like he’d just come in from a run. “What’d she say?”
If anything, Sarah’s face got redder.
That was interesting.
“Qobla means kiss.” She walked past him without pausing. “I’m going to shower. Jalila will teach you the basics. Try not to teach her any more curse words.”
Dylan watched until Sarah shut the bathroom door. She wasn’t indifferent to him. In fact… He looked at Jalila. “She wouldn’t be all embarrassed unless she had feelings for me, right, kid?”
“F-uck.” Jalila grinned.
“Damned straight, kid.”
* * *
Sarah stepped out of the shower, determined to retain control of her traitorous body. She couldn’t let Dylan affect her like that; he couldn’t get under her skin again. It had hurt too much last time letting him go.
And she would let him go. He had to leave and she had to stay. Her work was important: Not only did the coalition forces use her information to target bombing runs, but the people of Mosul needed help. The children enslaved by ISIS had no one else. Her primary mission was to gather intel, but in her heart it was to rescue as many girls as she could. And as long as she could help, she needed to stay.
She dried herself and dressed in loose, dark pants and a long-sleeved shirt. The days were still hot, and although she obeyed the dress rules of the culture, she didn’t like anything too clingy in this heat. And if it also served as camouflage to ward off the interest she’d seen sparking in Dylan’s eyes, then that was a side bonus.
She came out of the bathroom, braiding her long hair. A sound stopped her. A little girl’s giggle. Dylan and Jalila sat at the table, both grinning.
“What’s so funny?” she asked in both English and Arabic.
“This fatah,” Dylan said with a mock frown that sent Jalila spinning off into giggles again. “Is laughing at my Arabic.”
Even without language, the two of them had bonded. Jalila sat close to him and pointed out items while she named them. Dylan made her laugh with his exaggerated accent. As a special operator with E.D.G.E., Dylan would have to know more than one language. She seemed to remember his specialty was Eastern European languages.
She wanted to join them, but knew if she sat down it would only bring gloom to the table. She’d never learned how to be easy with people, unless it was a cover she played, and then it wasn’t herself. Though she sometimes wondered whether she was ever herself with anyone. If she even knew who she was at all.
She left them at the table and lifted the lid on the lamb stew that still simmered. She snagged a spoon so she could taste it.
“Whatever’s on the stove smells delicious,” Dylan said.
She jumped. He was right behind her. Her heart continued to beat too hard. She glanced down, needing a distraction from the large male behind her. “You could at least wear shoes,” she turned to face him, “to make it slightly easier for me to hear you.”
His blue eyes held mischief while his lips curved in a smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”
The overhead kitchen light shone on his blond hair, making it glint with gold and him look like a fallen angel from the romance novels she read in secret.
Jalila giggled again and Sarah realized she’d been staring. Dylan’s eyes no longer held mischief but interest. Warmth flooded her cheeks. Dammit. She needed a distraction.
“I’m going out today,” she blurted.
Dylan frowned, all humor gone, and stepped back from her. “Where are we going?”
She shook her head and turned back to her stew. Her breath came easier now that he’d backed away. “I’m going alone.”
“You can’t,” he said. “Unless ISIS left in the middle of the night.”
Inspiration struck and she waved her spoon. “I won’t be alone. I will get my friend’s husband to look after me. I’ll go to the store with him as chaperone.”
Dylan crossed his arms. “I’m your partner. How can I help you if you’re not with me?”
“I can take care of myself,” she said. “Besides, you don’t actually have a say in this.”
“You’ve been working alone for too long.” Dylan’s face was grim and all trace of teasing gone. Back in place was the cold man he’d become.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Rakin has been my partner for months.”
“Is he your partner, or just a convenient tool that you use?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t.” He shook his head. “You do whatever you want, whenever you want, without thinking of your teammates, or the cost to them.”
She scowled. What was his problem? Did he not think she could handle herself? “I’m just going to the store. It’s not a big deal.”
Dylan rubbed the back of his neck, his frustration obvious. “You’re not getting it. What if something happens to you? How will I know how to find you?”
“If I don’t come back, then take Jalila and get out of the city any way you can.”
His eyes widened and he stepped closer, boxing her against the counter. “You want me to leave you?”
Her voice softened. “You’ll have to. There’s nothing you can do if I’m taken. There’s too many of them.”
He shook his head, his scowl ferocious. “Then don’t go. Stop putting yourself in unnecessary danger. What do you even need at the store?”
She almost leaned away from him, but refused to back down. What she needed was to get out, to get away from him, but she couldn’t say that. Besides, she really did need to go to the store.
“We need hair dye for you. If anyone catches a glimpse of you, you’re in trouble. But with dark hair, you’ll have an easier time blending in.”
That made him pause and it gave her enough time to scoot away from him. Just a few steps, so she could breathe.
“So you’re doing this for me?” he asked.
“For all of us,” she said. “I’ll call my friend after the midday prayer.”
Someone knocked on her door. Her muscles tightened and beside her, Dylan tensed. “You expecting anyone?”
“No.” She picked up her headscarf. “Hide.”
“I don’t like this.” He grabbed her arm and stopped her from going to the door. “Something’s off.”
“Hide,” she said. “Let me handle it.” She shook off his hand and moved to the door, waving at him to go when she saw him in her living room: tall, imposing, and unwilling to let her face danger alone.
A part of her thrilled at the sight of him, but she stomped that part down. She had to remind herself she worked better alone. He was leaving soon and she couldn’t get used to depending on him.
“You’re not helping. You must hide.”
His scowl returned, but he stalked into the kitchen and she assumed downstairs to the hidden room with Jalila. She pulled her scarf across her face and peeked out her window. She frowned and opened her door.
“Ahmed? Why are you here?”
His thick brows drew together in disapproval. “As-salamu alaykum.”
“Wa-alaikum salaam,” she replied automatically. “Rakin is not here.” She started to close the door
.
Ahmed put his hand out and stopped her. “I’m not here to see Rakin.”
She put shock into her tone, though all she felt was a simmering anger. “This is improper.”
“I heard a man’s voice.” He pushed her door open farther and looked over her head. “Just a moment ago. What man do you have in your house?”
Sarah had had enough. “You are mistaken. You must have heard the radio.” She shoved the door shut against his narrowed gaze.
Dylan stepped out from the stairwell. He obviously hadn’t gone to the hidden room. “He’s going to be a problem.”
Sarah nodded. “I’ll deal with him.”
She ignored Dylan’s scowl and went to call her friend.
* * *
Amirah hooked her arm through Sarah’s and pulled her close. She tried not to stiffen. She still wasn’t used to Amirah’s natural tendency to hug and touch those she cared for. Growing up without a family meant no one had hugged her or brushed her hair or touched her head in passing. A simple touch from a friend made her feel awkward. So she drew on her training and let her cover show her the way. She became Sarah Al-Dahwi. She lowered her chin since she was a humble woman, and squeezed her friend’s arm.
They walked behind Amirah’s husband to the store two blocks away that was part grocery, part hardware and part everything else. It was the place where she shopped if she needed only a few things.
Both women wore the niqab and face veils and gloves. Sweat slicked Sarah’s back and made her loose shirt stick to her.
“What is troubling you?” Amirah asked. “Is Rakin really that sick? Do you want me to come look at him?”
Sarah had come up with the excuse that Rakin was ill in order for Amirah’s husband to help her out. She didn’t want Amirah to ask why she needed hair dye, so she’d said that she just wanted a walk to the store to refresh herself.
Even with Amirah pleading her case, Fouad hadn’t been persuaded easily; since he wasn’t a relative of Sarah’s, it was against ISIS’s rules for him to act as her mahram. Amirah had convinced Fouad that Sarah needed a break from the confines of her house and her sick brother. And besides, with both of them completely covered, no one could tell who they were. As long as they didn’t run into any of the hisbah demanding identity papers, they would be okay.
Amirah had talked Fouad around, though now it looked as if he were having second thoughts.
She’d be giving him kleicha cookies tonight.
“He’s not that ill, but he’s claiming I poisoned him with my stew, the oaf.” The lie came easily to Sarah. She wondered briefly if she should feel guilty about lying to her. No. It was something Sarah Al-Dahwi would say. And Amirah was friends with Sarah Al-Dahwi, not Sarah Ramirez.
She had to remember that.
“It can’t be from your cooking. He probably just has a stomach flu,” Amirah defended her.
They made it to the store and Fouad stood at the door. “Be quick,” he told them, his eyes scanning the street.
Sarah nodded. She went into the store and grabbed the chicken broth that she’d told Amirah she needed, along with a bit of chicken and vegetables. Then she snuck into the toiletry aisle and looked at the hair dyes.
Dark brown should do. She threw that in her basket and went to the cashier to pay. After she’d finished, she turned to look for Amirah. They’d agreed to meet by the door. No one stood there. There were a few other veiled female shoppers, but no one of Amirah’s height.
Frowning, she went to the door. Had she stepped outside?
Dammit. A block away, Amirah’s husband had a hold of Amirah’s arm, dragging her home. Amirah kept looking back at the store.
He’d left Sarah to get back on her own. It wasn’t impossible but it was a pain in the ass. She’d have to attach herself to unsuspecting males and trail after them, hoping they’d keep walking in the right direction.
Then she saw why Fouad had gotten spooked and left her to fend for herself. Three members of the hisbah strode down the sidewalk toward the store.
Fouad wasn’t going to get any cookies from her.
8
Sarah pulled back into the store, but stayed where she could watch the men. She wanted to curse aloud when she saw them step onto the sidewalk in front of the open door. She moved up the aisle and over one. The store had only four aisles, with an open center lane breaking them up in the middle.
Sarah now stood in the second aisle from the door, close to the middle lane. Her hand touched the cans of peas in front of her as if she browsed the labels.
The men spoke loudly when they came in the store, laughing about the antics of one of their children.
Sarah was too short to look over the aisle to see them, so she kept track with her ears. Another woman at the end of her aisle closer to the door did the same, standing frozen in front of packets of spices before darting to the far end of the aisle and disappearing.
Time for Sarah to disappear too.
She followed the woman’s route, but did a quick peek around the corner before moving. One of the hisbah had stationed himself at the door and now had the woman who’d moved first by the arm.
“Where is your mahram?” he asked the woman.
Shit.
Sarah pulled back and hurried down the aisle. In the middle, she turned left, away from the door. She passed the paper towels and cleaning supplies and headed for the large freezers lining the wall. There had to be a back entrance somewhere.
At the last aisle, she took a quick peek before stepping out. A man perused the batteries on display at the far end. His long beard and black dishdasha gave him away. One of the hisbah.
She moved back before she drew his attention. Damn, she felt like a mouse caught in a maze with three cats. Sooner or later they were going to stumble upon her. The man by the door still berated the sole woman for being alone. At least one of them was out of commission.
She eased away. She needed a distraction.
She went back to the aisle with the canned vegetables. She picked up a large can of tomatoes. No one else was near her. The woman’s sobs almost covered the sound of footsteps coming her way. Her gut tightened.
She would not get caught like this.
She whipped the can to the back of the store near where she’d last seen the one hisbah. It landed with a thunderous crash against the freezer doors and the men started shouting. Footsteps pounded up the aisle beside hers.
She ran for the door. The man no longer stood there. She slipped out without looking back and joined the foot traffic on the sidewalk, slipping calmly behind a veiled woman who walked behind her man.
Sarah’s heart pounded and she desperately wanted to look back; instead, she kept her head lowered like the woman in front of her and trudged the two blocks to her housing complex, but it was on the other side of the street. She slowed her pace when she came to the corner and then slid among the trailing women of another family crossing the road.
With a quick glance around, she slipped into the alley between buildings and then into the area behind hers. She knocked once on her back door before opening it.
Dylan stood there with his Sig Sauer pointed at her. She slowly raised her hand and pulled off her veil. “It’s me.”
He holstered his gun with a scowl. “Where the hell have you been? Your friend and her husband came back fifteen minutes ago.”
She brushed past him into the living room and pulled aside the curtain. Dylan came to stand behind her. Outside, the men of the hisbah strode down the street; their heads swiveling as they searched for someone. For her.
She blew out a breath and dropped the curtain. Too close.
“What happened?”
She went to move around him, but he blocked her.
“Sarah?”
“The hisbah showed up. Amirah’s husband freaked and he took her home.”
“So you were left on your own to deal with them?”
“I handled it,” she said.
He crossed his arms.
“You shouldn’t go out by yourself again. It’s not safe.”
Anger erupted inside her. She ripped off the abaya she wore and tossed it aside, before crossing her arms. “I said I handled it. You have to trust me.”
“I do, but…”
“No buts.” She stomped by him into the kitchen. Never before had she wished for a glass a wine so much. “We’re on a mission. Would you treat Jake this way?”
Dylan sighed. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is.” Sarah started a pot of coffee. If she couldn’t have alcohol, then she’d at least have caffeine.
“No, it’s not. Don’t put this on me,” he said. “This mission has a different set of rules. You’re a female. You can’t go solo without attracting attention. That goes against everything you’ve learned and what you’re trained for.”
He was right, but it still chafed. She wanted to tear her abaya and veils into pieces. She wanted to burn them. But without them she was truly trapped in this place. Dylan just watched her with a look of compassion on his face. It irritated her. And that fact that she was irritated by his compassion irritated her even more. She was acting emotionally and not logically, like an operator should.
Fuck. She needed a few minutes and a cup of caffeine to get herself leveled out.
She dug the hair dye out of the bag and threw it at him. “Don’t forget to do your eyebrows and beard.”
She started to put away the few groceries that she’d purchased. Unfortunately, Dylan didn’t leave. He just waited in the doorway and watched.
Finally she turned to him. “Fine. I won’t go out alone.”
He nodded and headed for the bathroom.
“Unless there’s no other choice,” she muttered.
“I heard that,” he called, his voice hard. “And there’s always a choice.”
The bathroom door closed.
She wanted to whip the chicken broth at the door; instead, she poured herself a coffee. “I am a cool, logical operator.”
And maybe if she repeated it enough times, it would be true.