by Loye, Trish
* * *
Dylan read the instructions on the box of hair dye and tried to control the anger that simmered inside him.
How dare she put herself in danger like that? And all for some hair dye? He stripped off his shirt and mixed the chemicals together before he rubbed it through his hair. The smell made his eyes water, but he refused to open the door for fresh air. He didn’t want to see Sarah, afraid he might say something more.
She was a skilled operator, but something about this place raised the hair on the back of his neck. The roving patrols of fanatics could have easily caught her. And from the paleness of her face, he suspected they almost had.
Not that she would tell him about it, damn her.
Her stubbornness and refusal to talk to him reminded him so much of Natalie, his high school girlfriend. She’d also always said things were fine. That she could handle her alcoholic father and he’d made the stupid mistake of believing her.
Until the night she couldn’t and she’d landed in the hospital because of the beating her father had given her. Dylan had never known how bad it had been for her because she’d never opened up and he’d never pushed it.
He’d vowed never to let something like that happen again. To never again let himself be in a relationship with someone who wouldn’t open up to him.
But no matter what he did, Sarah wasn’t talking. He’d known before he’d found her good-bye note that their relationship wouldn’t have a chance if she didn’t learn to trust him.
From her actions, she still didn’t trust him, not even as a partner, let alone as a friend or lover.
He checked his watch. Twenty minutes. He’d been in here breathing in fumes and obsessing for the last twenty minutes. Fuck. What was his problem? Why did he let her get to him? He needed to keep it professional between them.
Rakin should be back by tonight and then he could get the fuck out of here. He shucked his pants and turned on the hot water tap. At least today it was tepid.
He washed the gunk out of his hair. The dark-brown water roiled around his feet before going down the drain, reminding him of a muddy river. Not a good sign of what he was going to look like.
When he stepped out of the shower, he stared at himself in the mirror. A stranger looked back at him. The dark hair made him look harder and meaner. It suited his mood, he decided as he pulled on his pants.
Someone knocked on the front door and he glanced out of the bathroom. Sarah strode to the front entrance. He yanked his Sig from the holster on the back of the toilet and watched Sarah as she pushed aside the curtain at the front window.
“It’s Amirah,” she whispered without looking back. “Stay hidden.”
He pulled back, but not far. He wasn’t going to let Sarah get into trouble again.
* * *
Amirah burst through the door, ripping her veil off. Tears streamed down her face.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah. I was so worried.”
Sarah opened her arms because it was expected and Amirah launched herself into them. She squeezed Amirah awkwardly, wondering how long she should hold her for.
“It’s okay, Amirah.” She pulled back to look into the woman’s face.
“No, it’s not. I’m so mad at Fouad for pulling us away. You could have been taken, and all because you wanted to get some soup for your brother.”
Sarah pulled out of Amirah’s arms. “Fouad was just trying to protect you.”
“I’m still mad at him.” She looked over Sarah’s shoulder. “How is Rakin?”
“He’s fine.” Sarah moved to block Amirah from coming farther into the house. “I’d invite you in, but I’m not sure if what he has is contagious.”
Amirah frowned, but her brow smoothed and she nodded. “Of course.” She looked down and nodded again. “I understand.” Her voice held just a slight tremble.
Sarah felt like shit. She’d never before denied entrance to Amirah. She must believe Sarah didn’t want her in her home. And she didn’t, but not for the reason Amirah believed. Sarah wanted to pull her back into a hug, but knew that would only make things worse. Her insides seemed to shrivel at the look of hurt in Amirah’s eyes.
“I am truly sorry,” Amirah whispered again.
“I know,” Sarah said, her throat tight. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” But she wasn’t sure they would. It struck her that if she left, she would be leaving Amirah behind to deal with the hell that Mosul was becoming.
She shut the door on her friend and closed her eyes. A slight whisper of sound told her Dylan stood behind her, but she didn’t turn around. Not yet. She needed just a moment to put her armor back on. Somehow Amirah always managed to steal it from her.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” he said quietly.
She still didn’t turn. “Why are you sorry?”
“Because I can see it’s hurting you to lie to her. And it’ll be hard for you to leave her behind.”
She sucked in a breath. How could he know that?
She turned. “Are you a mind read—”
He was shirtless again. And he’d used the dye. His hair now lay over his forehead in dark locks, highlighting his lean face and his vividly blue eyes. Those eyes pierced the very armor she’d been trying to repair.
Her breath hitched.
His brows furrowed slightly and he took a step closer.
That wasn’t good. She took a step back. A slight smile quirked his lips and heat entered those blue eyes, darkening them.
Really not good. She backed up another step and her back hit the door. She had to keep distance between them. “We’re on a mission,” she blurted.
He nodded slowly, but didn’t take his eyes from hers as he moved closer. Her need for air seemed to increase the closer he got. When he stood only inches from her, her heart threatened to pound out of her chest.
Not. Good.
He brushed one finger over her cheek and then trailed it down her neck to the spot where her pulse beat a rapid rhythm.
“I’ve missed us,” he said, his voice low.
“We’re on a mission,” she repeated in a whisper. “This can’t happen between us.”
“Why not?” Dylan traced his finger back up her neck and toward her ear. She shivered. He leaned closer. “We have nowhere to be and nothing to do but wait.”
It was true. And it didn’t have to mean anything. Why shouldn’t she indulge herself a little? Compelled toward him, she stopped when her lips were only inches from his. “Jalila,” she whispered.
“Downstairs,” he said.
She nodded. “Just this once.”
His lips touched hers; her eyes closed and her body ignited. Fire shot through her system with that simple touch. Her lips sensitized and a moan slipped from her. He pressed closer, until she could feel the heat of him all along her body. She slid her hands along the hot skin of his chest and over his broad shoulders, pulling him to her.
“Sarah?” Jalila said from the kitchen doorway.
Dylan jerked back, while she yanked her arms to her sides.
She drew in a ragged breath. What did this man do to her? She lost all sense of herself when he was around. She needed to get a grip.
It was why she’d needed distance from him. She tried to keep it to just sex between them, but each time had been more explosive than the last, and more emotional for her. Dylan’s fiery touch stripped away her armor along with her clothes, leaving her soul bare to his gaze, and she didn’t want that. She didn’t know what he’d find, or worse, if he’d find anything at all.
It had been a part of why she’d accepted an overseas assignment. She’d needed space, but once she got here, the mission gave her more: it gave her a purpose. Helping the women and girls here made her feel as though she was making a difference. It almost made up for her loneliness.
“Who was at the door?” Jalila asked, interrupting Sarah’s thoughts.
“Just a friend,” she said in Arabic. “You missed lunch. I’ll get you something.” She moved briskly past D
ylan without looking at him. This was not happening again, she vowed to herself. No matter how many times he came out without a shirt on.
She couldn’t let anything distract her. This place was too dangerous.
And so was Dylan.
9
Later that evening, Sarah pulled dinner from the oven. Earlier she’d gotten a sandwich for Jalila and hadn’t left the kitchen since. She’d started by adding more ingredients to the lamb stew. Paying attention to the details of a recipe had helped organize her thoughts. She hadn’t felt fully settled by the time the stew had finished and didn’t want to leave the kitchen. So she’d baked bread for the stew.
She was turning into a freaking Martha Stewart. This amount of cooking was crazy, even for her.
She set the loaf on the counter to cool and turned off the oven. If she was honest with herself, the baking was a way to avoid Dylan, but she needed that today. She’d felt too raw after this morning and the kiss.
No. She wasn’t going to think about that. Or him.
She took out plates and utensils for dinner and set the table. Normally, if she cooked, Rakin set the table and cleaned up. But tonight she would handle it on her own.
She turned to call Jalila and Dylan for dinner and stopped. They both stood in the doorway, side by side. Jalila leaned close to Dylan. Did the child even know how much she trusted him already?
“It smells delicious,” Dylan said, his eyes wary.
“Are you still angry?” Jalila asked in Arabic.
“I’m not angry,” she told Jalila.
“You made a lot of noise while you cooked,” Jalila said. “You slammed pots like my mother would when she was angry.” The girl’s lip trembled and she lowered her eyes.
“Oh, sweetie.” Sarah dropped to her knees. “I wasn’t angry. I was just thinking. I’m sorry.” The girl came into her arms and she hugged her.
Dylan just watched silently but when she looked up at him, he arched one eyebrow at her before giving a slight nod toward Jalila.
Was he seriously pointing out her attachment to the girl? Her lips compressed.
“I dare you to reject a child who needs a hug.” She forced her tone to be gentle though her scowl was anything but. “This has nothing to do with my ability to do my job here.”
She gave Jalila another squeeze and then smiled at her before bringing her to the table. She dished up a plate of the fragrant lamb stew and placed it in front of her. She brought the bread to the table and a dish for herself too.
Dylan served himself and sat down across from her, with Jalila between them. A cozy family dinner. Something she’d always wanted as a child.
Jalila pushed her food around with her spoon. Dylan ate his without looking up, quickly and efficiently, like the soldier he was. Sarah no longer even felt like eating the dinner she’d spent all afternoon on.
Cozy family? She almost snorted. She sat with a man who didn’t like her and a child who wanted her own mother, not Sarah. What a complete farce. Just like her. She was no one’s mother and definitely no one’s wife.
And she never would be.
Jalila set her spoon down. “When are we going to get Besma?”
Dylan stopped eating and frowned. “What did she say?”
“Sister,” Jalila said in English, thumping her chest. “Sister. Besma.”
“Shit,” he muttered, and then looked at Sarah. “This is all you.”
Jalila looked at Sarah and her face was as serious as Sarah had ever seen it as she switched back to Arabic. “My sister is still there. I know the soldier is leaving. And I think he wants you to go with him. But rescue my sister first. Please. You promised.”
Sarah couldn’t look away from Jalila’s face. The things she must have seen already, no ten-year-old should even know about.
“Please,” Jalila repeated, her eyes filled with the horrors that had slashed her innocence apart. “I can’t leave her behind.”
“She’s asking you to rescue her sister,” Dylan stated. He shook his head. “Her sister held by ISIS?”
As if she could sense his growing anger about what she was asking them to do, Jalila turned and put her hand on Dylan’s and spoke in halting English. “Sister Besma. Bad, bad place. Help Besma. Please, Dylan. Please.”
Dylan closed his eyes.
“You know I have to,” Sarah said quietly. She’d known the moment she’d heard about Besma.
His eyes snapped open and focused on her with their blue intensity. “We have to. This isn’t a solo mission.”
She tilted her head. “No. It just means I wait for Rakin to come back. You make the exfil.”
Dylan shook his head. “How often do you rescue girls?”
She pushed the food around on her plate. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Like hell it doesn’t,” he said. “Talk to me, Sarah.”
She sighed. “I’ve built a network of contacts in the city. Usually the girls we rescue have been ‘married’ to an ISIS fighter. They stay married for only a week or so before the fighter gets bored, disavows the marriage and sends her back to marry the next fighter.” She looked him straight in the eye. “The girls have no choice. We usually rescue them out of individual homes rather than the sabaya houses or markets. Then we hand them over to the underground, who get them out of the city.”
“That’s impressive.” His words warmed her, but the next ones threw a bucket of ice water on her. “Impressive and completely off-book, I suspect.”
She lifted her chin. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that ISIS is tightening their grip on this city. You’ve already rescued Jalila from the same pit that her sister’s in. How are you going to pull something like that off a second time? They’ll be ready for you.”
She shook her head. “No. They have no suspects. My cover hasn’t been compromised.”
“How do you know?” he said. “You can’t even go check without Rakin here. You’re operating with a huge disadvantage. Stop this madness and leave with me.”
“Are you finished?” She crossed her arms when he said nothing further, but his lips pressed together as if he fought not to yell. “I’m not some little girl who needs your permission to do anything. Don’t try to order me around. You are not Blackwell.”
“I’m not ordering you around,” he said in a quiet voice. Quiet, but Jalila still shifted away from him. “I’m telling you what will happen if you stay. You’re too emotional about this.” He stood and Jalila flinched.
“Jalila,” he said in a gentle voice. His hand touched hers. “Sadiq,” he said, saying the word for friend. “Are we good, kiddo?”
Jalila nodded. “F-uck.”
He grinned at her, but his eyes were hard when they looked at Sarah. “And don’t think you’re gonna try any Lone Ranger shit either.”
She ground her teeth together. “I’ll do what’s necessary.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face before he nodded. “Thank you for dinner. I’ll clean up after you two are finished.”
He went down the stairs to the basement, as silent as ever.
Jalila’s hand stroked hers like Dylan’s had done to the girl’s. “You will help Besma?”
She nodded. She would figure out a way to keep them all safe.
* * *
Dylan sat cross-legged on the floor of the hidden room. He cleared his rifle, taking off the magazine and inspecting the chamber. Now he could clean his weapon.
He laid out his cleaning kit in front of him before closing his eyes. Every special ops soldier needed to know his weapons inside and out.
“And blind.” He quoted a sergeant from his past.
He popped out a pin and slipped off the forearm, setting it by his left knee. He placed the retractable stock by his right. The trigger pack went to the left and the receiver group to the right.
When he took apart his rifle like this, it was close to meditation for him. He had to concentrate and sit still, his thoughts focused. He almost always cleaned his
weapons when he had a problem to think about.
He’d been trained to fly helicopters and to fight. Sitting and waiting—no, hiding—wasn’t his style. He was no sniper and preferred to take the enemy head on.
He popped the bolt head out of the carrier group and set it down close in front of him, next to the firing pin and spring.
He took out his 9mm brush and gun oil and set to work—cleaning, lubricating, and protecting.
Dylan’s fighting style worked against him on this mission. He frowned as he cleaned. He’d been in way worse situations, so what was it about this one that put him on such edge? He was hiding in his woman’s house.
His woman.
And there was his issue. She wasn’t his anything.
An image of her popped into his head: She lay beneath him. Her dark hair spread out on his pillow. Her bronzed skin flushed with pleasure and her dark eyes beckoning him. He grew hard at the memory.
Fuck. That was not helping.
He focused on cleaning: Rubbing the CLP on each piece carefully. Feeling the grooves, the smoothness and the mechanics of his weapon. But always careful not to leave too much of the oil. A balance with his closed eyes that demanded his full attention and dragged his thoughts from the woman upstairs.
He noticed a presence. He kept cleaning, and didn’t open his eyes, though his other senses stayed on alert.
Small, quiet breaths. At the top of the stairs. He hadn’t closed the door. Jalila.
“Come on down, kiddo,” he said.
She crept down the stairs almost silently. Kid had good skills. He hated to think about why she’d learned them. Though he kept his eyes closed, he could hear her settle across from him on the floor. He suspected she sat cross-legged too.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that, kiddo,” he said. She wouldn’t understand his words, but maybe she’d understand from his tone. “Sarah and I were fighting, as adults do. It had nothing to do with you.”
She spoke back to him in Arabic.
He caught the word sister. “I want to help Besma,” he told her, “but I also want to keep you and Sarah safe.”