Edge of Courage (Edge Security Series Book 5)

by Loye, Trish

  The kettle whistled on the stove, breaking the trance she’d been in. She pulled her hand from his and stood. “The tea…”

  He sighed and reached for a cookie. “My mom always gave me cookies when I was upset. You’d make a good mom.”

  The words froze her, kettle in hand. Pain sliced into her that she knew she couldn’t keep off her face. At least her back was to him.

  How could she be a mom when she’d never really had one herself?

  “Sarah?” The chair scraped behind her as he stood.

  Wake up, she snapped at herself, or he was going to start asking questions, prodding her. She poured hot water over the loose black tea in the teapot. The scent of bergamot filled the air. Earl Grey.

  “Sarah.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “What did I say?”

  She tried not to tense under his light touch. Should she answer? Which lie should she give him?

  She forced a lightness to her tone. “Nothing.” She brought the tea to the table. Time to change the subject. “We need to move the boy today. Do you know how to lose a tail?”

  He scowled and she almost smiled. Subject changed.

  “Of course,” he said. “You want me to lose Hisham’s guy out front?”

  “Yes, then come meet me and the boy at the entrance to the back alley.”

  “Are you going to tell me the plan this time?”

  “Of course,” she said. “We’re going to put him in my network. I find the kids and then give them over to a former imam who’s in hiding.”

  “In hiding?”

  “He opposed ISIS. They’ve killed a number of imams since they’ve been here. Rakin and I helped him evade capture and convinced him it would be better to start an underground railroad rather than to be a martyr.”

  Dylan nodded. “Nice work. So what then?”

  “The imam will take him to a safe house to await transport.”

  “Transport? Is it something we can use?”

  She shook her head. “It’s a bakery truck that has a secret compartment in its undercarriage. Only big enough to fit two or three kids at a time. The truck gets a weekly tune-up at a garage. One person brings the kids in a car. Inside the garage, they slip into the truck. The baker goes on weekly trips to Erbil.”

  “He does? What about all the checkpoints?”

  “He’s put his house up as collateral. Rakin and I also help fund him.”

  Dylan picked up another cookie. “What does that mean?”

  “Bribes for the checkpoints, of course.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I think there’s hope for you yet.”

  “Meaning?”

  He laughed. “You actually shared a plan. Doesn’t it feel good to be part of a team?”

  Her lips twisted as she struggled not to smile. “Don’t get used to it, Cowboy.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Ghost. Now let me grab a bite to eat and then I’ll take off.”

  She went to check on Waqar. He’d washed up and put on the clean clothes. Sarah brought him one of Rakin’s kufis. With the new dishdasha and clean face, he seemed like a different boy.

  They left the basement just as Dylan finished a sandwich.

  “You ready?” she asked.

  “Where are we going after I lose the guard?”

  “To a baker’s shop over on Nivenah Street. It’s a bit of a walk, but it should be safe enough.”

  His eyes widened, but she noticed a twinkle in them.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You actually shared more information with me.”

  She scowled but her heart wasn’t in it. “I’m trying.”

  “Should I give you a gold star?”

  She rolled her eyes. “This isn’t the time. Go get rid of that guard.”

  “Always with the orders,” he said, but he grinned as he did.

  Something inside her lightened to joke with him like this.

  At the door, Dylan turned to her, all laughter gone. “I’ll meet you in fifteen minutes at the end of the alley.”

  “How about thirty? Why don’t you give yourself some time to lose him?”

  “I don’t need time. I’ll lose this guy in five.” He opened the door and yelled in Russian, “I’ll be home when I get home, woman!”

  She couldn’t stop herself from giggling.

  He winked and then slammed the door.

  Control yourself, Sarah.

  This was serious. She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Fifteen minutes.

  At the twelve-minute mark, she put on her veil, hugged Jalila good-bye, admonishing her to stay hidden, and then took the boy’s hand. He stiffened but within a moment relaxed.

  She opened the back door incrementally. The stench of the dead dog in the heat made Waqar gag and her stomach twist up. She waited at the door until fourteen minutes had passed; then she pulled the boy out and down the alley.

  They walked up to the alley entrance. It was harder to blend into the people on the sidewalk with a child in tow. And this boy wasn’t much more than a child, so he’d never be considered an appropriate mahram.

  But she didn’t have to worry. Dylan walked by exactly as they neared the road. She and Waqar stepped onto the sidewalk behind him with no one saying anything. One veiled woman looked at them but just kept following the man in front of her.

  “Tell me which way,” Dylan said in Russian.

  “Three blocks, then left for two blocks, then right.”

  Dylan nodded and they walked in mostly silence. Waqar’s grip on her hand was tight, but it eased as they walked. He kept his head down mostly, darting glances at the people passing, but never staring openly. Her lips twisted behind her veil. They’d trained him well as a slave.

  They were almost at the bakery when she noticed people leaving the sidewalk ahead of them. Not being tall, she couldn’t see what was happening ahead. “Dalkhan?” She used his cover name. “What’s up ahead?”

  Dylan cursed. “It’s a group of those fucking morality police.”

  The boy must have sensed something, because he tensed beside her, loosening his grip as if preparing to run. She tightened her hold on him.

  “The boy,” she said to Dylan.

  Dylan smoothly moved so the boy walked between them. He laid a hand on his shoulder, looking like a fatherly gesture, but his fingers flexed and Sarah knew Dylan had him and would stop him if he tried to run.

  “It’s okay,” she said in Arabic to the boy. He began to tremble. “We won’t let anything happen. Just keep your head down like you’re doing.”

  She glanced up. It was four members of the hisbah in black dishdashas and turbans, with beards reaching mid-chest. Their eyes glittered with malice as they spoke loudly to a woman who wore a niqab, but from the sounds of it, the half veil across her face had slipped too low. They berated her and her mahram about modesty in women.

  “Cross the street,” Dylan muttered, looking for cars as he stepped off the curb.

  Sarah followed, itching to look over her shoulder at the men. “We’ll draw attention.”

  “I’m afraid my lack of a proper beard will draw even more if we walk too close to them.”

  Sarah nodded. The boy visibly relaxed and once again tightened his grip on her hand. “Almost there,” she murmured to him.

  The bakery shop was doing brisk business. The family who owned it specialized in affordable breads, but also sweets.

  Dylan frowned when she motioned to the shop. “Here?”

  “Yes.” She walked in with the boy and got in line while Dylan waited with the other men near the front of the shop.

  The woman in front of her shook her head. “It’s so crowded in here now that we have to bring our men everywhere.”

  Sarah forced a happy tone in her voice and complained about long lines and the heat with the woman while waiting to see the baker.

  The boy shifted from foot to foot, but didn’t complain. Finally it was their turn.

  “What would you like?” the baker
asked.

  “I would like a loaf of flat bread and any breadcrumbs you might have left over. It’s for my birds.”

  The baker stiffened, but didn’t drop his smile. His gaze darted first to the boy, and then to the front entrance before coming back to her. “Do you have a lot of birds?”

  “Just one blue one. But I expect I’ll have two more red ones tomorrow.”

  The baker looked at the boy. “Birds are tricky right now.” He packaged up a loaf of bread. “I give out breadcrumbs at the back entrance.”

  She paid him and then the three of them left the store.

  “What now?” Dylan asked.

  “We go to the back alley,” she said. They walked casually down the block and two buildings over, went down an alley. As she glanced over her shoulder, they ducked into the laneway behind the shops.

  “This guy will help?” Dylan said.

  She nodded. “He’s the brother of the imam. He’ll deliver the boy to a safe house tonight. The next supply trip is in five days.”

  “Will they look after him?”

  “Yes.” She looked up and down the alley. No one but them right now. “These are people who don’t agree with ISIS and want to do what’s right.”

  She stopped before the metal door of the bakery and rapped on it. The baker opened it and shook his head. “Sarah,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do this anymore. We’ve had visits from the hisbah. They know someone is smuggling girls out.”

  “This isn’t a girl,” she pointed out. “Look at him. He needs you.”

  The baker lifted his cap off his head and ran his hand through his hair. “Is there no one else to help?”

  “He needs to leave tonight, Omar. Please.”

  The baker looked at the sky. “Allah would want this.” He nodded. “I will help the boy. But he is the last one. I can’t keep putting my family at risk.”

  Her shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you, Omar. Jazak’ Allahu khair.”

  The boy didn’t want to release her hand. “It’s okay, Waqar,” she said. “This man will help you. Do what he says and you will get back to your people soon.”

  The boy’s eyes widened and he nodded, but he still didn’t speak. Sarah wondered if he’d ever feel safe enough again to express himself.

  * * *

  Sarah walked beside Dylan on the way back to the house, sending a quick prayer that the boy they’d just left got back to his family. They were only two blocks from the house when Dylan cursed under his breath.

  “What?” Sarah asked.

  “The guard is out front on his phone. He’s probably calling for reinforcements.” Dylan sighed. “I’d better go chat him up and make him realize that I’m not a bad guy.”

  “But you’re his bad guy.”

  Dylan grinned. “You’d better go around back so he doesn’t know you slipped out.”

  “Wilco.”

  Sarah peeled off at the alley entrance that led to the back of her building. No one followed her and she made her way to her door. She wasn’t sure what was worse: the buzzing of the flies by the dog’s body, or the stench in this heat.

  She opened her door and her senses went on high alert. Something wasn’t right. A kitchen cupboard was open. The couch pillows lay scattered on the floor in the living room.

  Someone had searched the place.

  The door slammed into her, knocking her sideways. A man jumped out and rushed her.

  She blocked his first punch, but her veil shifted and covered her eyes. A blow landed on the side of her face and she staggered as pain seared her senses. She kept moving, stumbling into the couch as she ripped off the veil.

  A man stood in front of her. Medium height. Black clothes. He hit her in the stomach and her breath whooshed out. She gasped, but there was no air.

  The man shook his head. “Why is Zahir so scared of you? You’re nothing but a woman. Tell me where the pictures are and I’ll let you live.”

  Realization blazed through her. It was Zahir’s lover. “Ayreh Feek,” Sarah said, telling him to fuck off.

  “Ya Sharmouta,” he snarled as he called her a bitch, and raised his hand to strike her again.

  Sarah was ready this time. Her jujitsu was rusty but she was an E.D.G.E. operator. All of them knew how to defend themselves.

  She grabbed his hand and twisted, even as she pulled down, using his own momentum against him. He stumbled forward and past her. She tripped him and he fell flat.

  She stomped her foot down, but he’d rolled away. So he wasn’t new to fighting, just fighting women. She’d use that.

  He came at her hard and fierce; she backed up with each swing, not letting him get another shot in, but waiting for him to get cocky and overreach. Jab. Jab. Right cross. Jab. Jab.

  She grabbed his cross and used his momentum to fling him headfirst into the wall.

  He dropped fairly quickly, landing sprawled on his front, limbs akimbo and eyes closed. She pulled a knife from her sleeve and set it against his throat. It wouldn’t be long.

  His eyes opened and he started. She pressed harder with the blade. “Don’t move,” she said quietly in Arabic. “Just answer my questions and you’ll live. Who sent you to get the photos?”

  He scowled and shifted, so she dug the knife into his neck, letting blood well up. He obviously didn’t understand who had the upper hand. “I have a knife to your throat,” she said. “Don’t move again, or I won’t care about getting blood on my floor. Who sent you?”

  “Ayreh Feek!” he cursed. “No one sent me. I want the fucking pictures! I’m tired of living—”

  She dug the knife in, shutting him up. She should kill him, but then they would have a body to dispose of. She still had the pictures and could use the threat of them to get him to cooperate.

  “I don’t care what you’re tired of. Listen very carefully. If you want to live, then you will walk out the back door and never come back or I will make those pictures public. If you do anything else, this knife will find a home in your body. Understand?”

  “Bitch, I—”

  She pushed the blade against his windpipe. The blood flowed, but it wasn’t too serious. “Understand?” she said evenly.

  “I understand.”

  “Good.” She let one of her throwing knives slide into her grip from under her sleeve. She held the other knife to his neck as long as she could while she shifted her weight, preparing to stand. Then she jumped back and landed in a crouch, her throwing knife in her right hand, the slashing blade in the other. “Now get out.”

  He muttered curse words continuously as he stood. Blood dripped from his neck, but not serious enough to even need stitches. Or many. The scent of blood and his sweat filled the air.

  “Go out the back,” she ordered.

  “Fuck you,” he said, walking to the front door.

  She couldn’t have him leave by the front. Not when Dylan was out dealing with the guard.

  She lifted her throwing knife. “If you leave by the front door, then everyone will suspect me of having an affair.”

  He blew a kiss at her. “Oh no. That’s too bad. They’ll stone you to death right in the street. Your husband won’t be able to do anything about it.”

  She adjusted her stance and focused on the back of his neck. “I’m warning you not to open that door.”

  “You won’t do it. I hope it takes you a long time to die.” He reached for the knob.

  She threw her knife. It flew end over end and struck his back before he could turn the handle. He dropped to the floor with a thud, and made no other move. She’d hit his spinal cord and severed it, from his body’s reaction. Blood pooled around him.

  Dylan’s deep voice sounded just outside the front door. Another man spoke with him.

  Shit! If he opened the door, the other person would see the body. She dragged it to the kitchen, leaving a streak of blood down the tiled hall. Dylan laughed at something outside. The knob turned.

  She threw her abaya onto the blood by the fr
ont door and blocked the view of the body.

  The door opened. In a mere second, Dylan’s gaze moved from the black swath of material lying on the tiled floor and swept across the knocked-over lamp before meeting her gaze. She shook her head.

  He spun in place, keeping the door mostly closed. “We will have to have that coffee another time, my friend. My wife is indisposed at the moment.”

  She couldn’t hear what the other man said, but Dylan laughed once more before he shut the door.

  “What the hell?” he said to Sarah, as he looked into the kitchen.

  “It’s Zahir’s lover. He must have found out our address from Zahir.”

  Dylan shook his head. “I leave my wife for five minutes and she kills a guy?”

  She crossed her arms. “I may have killed him, but you’re getting rid of the body. It’s only fair we share the household chores.”

  His eyes widened, before he laughed. “You made a joke.”

  She smirked. “Actually, I didn’t. I need to get Jalila settled and then get ready for Amirah’s dinner party. You’re getting rid of the body before Jalila sees it.”

  “Dinner party?”

  “Oh, did I forget to tell you? We’re celebrating our marriage tonight.”

  16

  Dylan sat in the living room with Jalila, watching Disney’s Mulan in Arabic.

  They’d rolled the body in a rug in Rakin’s bedroom and cleaned up the blood trail before letting Jalila come upstairs. The poor kid had been terrified. She snuggled into him. It felt oddly good to have his arm around the girl, watching the cartoon. It felt normal, as if he sat with a younger sister or cousin.

  He didn’t like that they had to leave her alone tonight, but they’d be only three houses down. He’d have to send her downstairs soon if he was going to sneak the body out without her seeing.

  It was almost dark. They’d have to hide the body and then go to Amirah’s. He wasn’t looking forward to tonight. This was all more than he’d planned when he’d stayed back to make sure Sarah had a safe way out of the city.

  “I wonder if there’s a game on.” He’d love to have a beer and watch a hockey game. That would be way better than dressing up and playing good husband all evening. Though if it led to their playing husband and wife in bed later, he could handle it.