by Jade Kerrion
When he lunged at her, she allowed his weight to slam her down. Her skull rattled from the impact with the ground, but she swung her feet up, and their joined momentum rolled him over her head. She scrambled to her feet. Ducking beneath his swinging fists, she stabbed out. Her blade sank into his groin.
His scream was the ravaged cry of a wounded animal.
She yanked her dagger out as he dropped to his knees, his hands turning crimson with the blood spurting from the wound. Zara surged to her feet. Their eyes met for a split second. They both saw death—his. His fingers as taut as claws, he reached up, too late to stop her dagger from slicing across his throat as she twisted to the side and rolled over the curve of his back.
She stumbled into a graceless landing and grabbed a rifle off the ground. The gurgling sounds of a man choking on his own blood swamped the quiet murmurs of the night. A quick burst of bullets from the rifle dropped the man, silencing him.
The sole survivor, the spotter she had disarmed and gagged her earlier, stared wide-eyed at her. He jerked at the cuffs that bound his hands and pulled away from her when she yanked the gag from his mouth.
“Who sent you?”
“You killed them all.”
“Not yet. You’re still alive. One of you said something about the SEALs.”
His lip tugged into a sneer. “You think the SEAL brotherhood is sacred, don’t you? It takes just one selfish man to screw it up. Brothers will turn on each other, kill each other—”
“Who did? Who took out the SEAL team?”
“Someone who understands what it means to protect women, to keep them safe.”
“So why are you attacking my home where I’m keeping them safe?”
His jaw dropped. His repeated blinking made him look like an astonished goldfish. His lips moved but no sound emerged for several moments. “But he said—”
“Who said?”
He shook his head. Lines furrowed his brow. “But…it’s not right…it doesn’t make sense.”
Nothing had made sense since she’d hooked up with the SEALs; her mistake, obviously, for assuming that the government had its shit together. “Who sent you?”
“The SEAL—”
Bullets tore up the ground, kicking sod into the air. Zara dove away from the airborne trail of death and tumbled down the hill. Curses tangled in her mind, and she swung her weapon up as the sound of return fire came over the hilltop.
A lean figure clambered over the hill. “Zara!”
Klah?
Her finger twitched against the trigger. A SEAL was involved; was it Klah?
The memory of his face, his eyes, flashed through her mind. His voice, quiet and reflective, as he spoke of his wife and daughter, reminded her of Danyael.
Was Klah involved?
Her instincts quietly stated no. Her finely honed paranoia insisted she kill him anyway, just in case.
Her finger tightened imperceptibly.
The image of Klah’s eyes transformed subtly. They became darker, like infinitely deep pools. The pain in them—so vivid they would have driven anyone else mad—was muted by compassion and tempered, oddly, by a sense of humor. Flawless self-control encased emotional anguish beneath the veneer of perfect equilibrium.
Danyael.
What was the worth of Danyael’s influence on Klah, and perhaps more importantly, on her?
Zara drew a shuddering breath and lowered her gun. A muscle ticked in her cheek. It didn’t mean she trusted Klah; she just wouldn’t shoot him. Yet.
He sounded out of breath. “Are you all right?”
She nodded.
“Saw you fall.” He shook his head before glancing over his shoulder. “Got the two bastards who came up behind you.”
“The one I was talking to?”
“Dead. Friendly fire.”
Convenient. With a low grunt, Zara pushed to her feet. “Idris…”
Klah’s face tightened. “I couldn’t find a pulse. I’m sorry.”
“The house?”
“The perimeter’s clear. I confirmed with Nazrol. They have one injured, but everyone else is all right in there.” He frowned. “Are you—?”
“The blood’s not mine.” She shoved past him and climbed up the hill to retrieve her sniper rifle, before turning toward her house. Klah led the way. Zara raced behind him, but each step jolted agony through her. Icy cold tendrils coiled through her. Close it out. She groped for focus; his face filled her mind. Danyael.
Danyael had unintentionally taught her how to close out the pain; it had been the only way she could stay beside him when he slept. His unshielded emotions would have wrung tears from a marble statue, but she had learned to endure him, a second at a time. She had fought his anguish and her panic. She had learned to breathe through the certainty that she would die. That hard-won skill kept her going even as her vision blurred. One foot, and then another. Her world slowed into dribbles of sensation, each one blending into incomprehension.
“Zara,” Klah’s voice boomed like a foghorn through her skull. Something gripped her upper arms. “Damn it, you’re bleeding. Zara? Zara, can you hear me?”
Something tugged her off her feet. She fell, but did not land. Rapid up and down motions continued to jolt pain through her, but the ice within kept her numb.
“What happened?” Nazrol’s voice cut through her mind.
“She fell,” Klah said. “I turned and caught her before she hit the ground.”
“She’s bleeding. You shot her?” Nazrol sounded angry.
“Of course not. Move aside. I need light to see how badly hurt she is.”
The cool of the night gave way to a comfortable warmth, and darkness to a muted orange glow. The jolting movement conceded to a soft surface. Her vision cleared slightly now that she lay level. She could make out Klah’s face, and Nazrol’s. Hands fumbled at the straps of her body armor, lifting it away from her skintight black top.
Klah hissed, “Damn it.”
Zara tried to raise herself on her elbows, but Klah held her down. “One of the bullets grazed your side, and you’re badly bruised. Couple of cracked ribs, and a really bad cut across your stomach. We need to get you to a doctor.”
She placed her hand on the tightening sensation between her hips. “The…”
“Baby?” Klah’s eyes widened. “The baby’s coming?”
“She’s pregnant?” Nazrol gaped. “You let a pregnant woman go into battle?”
“You’ve obviously never tried telling Zara what to do.” Klah glanced over his shoulder at someone standing by the door. “Amal—”
Amal pressed gently on Zara’s stomach. “How many months?” she asked in Lebanese.
It was almost too hard to shape the words. “Six…”
“Too early. The baby will not survive. We have to stop the contractions.” She looked over her shoulder and barked instructions at the cluster of schoolgirls standing by the door. Klah and Nazrol were dismissed, and Zara found herself tended to by teenaged girls under Amal’s strict instructions. The bleeding gash was cleaned and bandaged, and cloths soaked in cool, herb-infused water were placed over her bruised ribs. A steady stream of herbal teas and food came in from the kitchen, together with a half glass of red wine.
Zara tried not to count the passing minutes, but the urgency weighed her down. She pushed the glass of wine aside.
“You have to rest,” Amal said. “Too much exertion will make the baby come out.”
No time.
The older woman pressed a hand firmly into Zara’s shoulder. “You have to take care of two people now. Lie down.”
“Nazrol. His men.”
“One was shot in the arm. The bleeding has already stopped. You must rest; you’re hurt worse than any of them.”
“This wasn’t their fight.”
Amal’s lips pressed into a thin line. “This fight belongs to all of us. If we will not protect our children, our daughters, who will?” The older woman dropped her gaze. “I am proud Nazrol did the r
ight thing. Perhaps it is Allah’s way of balancing the wrongs of the past.”
“The wrongs of the past?”
With a quick glance over her shoulder, Amal dismissed the schoolgirls. They scurried out, closing the door behind them. She drew a deep breath. “The day you and your father buried your mother, I buried my brother. He had joined Haria.”
“Your brother fought for Palestinian freedom.”
Amal snorted. “If only. No, he wasn’t out there fighting for Palestinian freedom. The boys he associated with were Haria in name only. They were idle troublemakers roving through the countryside. When he passed through Baalbek, he lived with me for a few days. He was in the kitchen when you and your mother visited me.” A bittersweet smile curved her lips. “He did not come out—it was not proper—but he saw you. You were only twelve, but pretty, like your mother.”
A cold shard lodged in Zara’s chest. She tugged her hand away, but Amal did not let go.
“Two days later, I heard that men had attacked your home. The men tried to rape you.”
Zara remembered. She had been dancing that day in the courtyard of her home. The warmth of the sun kissed her bare arms, and her laughter rose above the lively melody of the qanun and rebab, traditional Lebanese stringed instruments.
She paused in her dance and looked up at the sound of booted feet approaching her home. Shadows fell across the entrance of the courtyard. For a moment, she stared up into the sun-darkened faces of men wearing the colors of one of Lebanon’s many warring factions. The scream caught in her throat. She spun around and dashed toward her house, but strong arms seized her and clamped over her mouth.
She fought, but they were many and they were stronger. They tore off her clothes. She got off only one scream when one of the men stepped back to loosen the belt around his waist.
That one scream had been enough.
Her mother, her violet eyes flashing, had stepped out of the house, an AK-47 braced against her shoulder. Unflinching, Valeria Itani, the daughter of Venezuelan freedom fighters who had grown up playing with assault rifles, mowed down the men attacking her only daughter.
The rapid rattle of gunfire fell abruptly silent. Her heart pounding in her chest, Zara pushed up. Her home, her sanctuary, was as bloodied as the rest of Beirut. Unmoving bodies sprawled around her. Her mother slumped against the doorframe of their house, crimson blooming across her white blouse. Blood leaked from her mouth, but she stared with defiance at the man, the sole survivor of the militia group, as he stalked toward her.
He dropped his assault rifle and pulled out a dagger. His other hand clenched into a fist. He cursed the woman and swore to teach her what happened to bitches, to whores—
Zara snatched up a dagger from the ground. Her feet raced soundlessly over the sandy courtyard. Her right foot landed on his right calf, and she used the momentum to propel herself up along the length of his body. Before he could react, she yanked his head back and sliced the edge of the blade across his throat.
He collapsed, blood frothing from his throat.
Valeria smiled. On the threshold, her hand moved feebly toward her daughter.
Hot tears streaming down her face, Zara curled against her mother’s side. Valeria’s breaths caught with pain, growing weaker. The hand she had extended to wipe Zara’s tears from her face slipped to the ground. The violet eyes that had always glittered with passion finally emptied of life.
Zara’s father had found her hours later, still coiled around her mother’s cool body. Valeria had been buried the next day.
And so had Amal’s brother.
“His throat had been slit,” Amal whispered.
The breath Zara drew in made her chest ache. “I killed him.” Her first kill. She had never known who he was.
Amal nodded.
Zara looked at Amal. “Did you love him?”
“I did, but what happened to him, he deserved. He and his friends murdered my best friend. Your father lost his wife. You lost your mother. You were—you still are—the hand of Allah’s justice. Now, Nazrol…he is a good man. Do you remember, he would come to visit sometimes, and you used to play together?”
Of course she remembered the dark-haired boy with the shy half-smile who had sneaked into his aunt’s kitchen to steal candied almonds for Zara. Nazrol. She had forgotten his name, though, in much the same way the nuances of her life had vanished into the mental and emotional void following her mother’s death.
Perhaps life did make a full circle after all. A smile tugged up at her lips. “Where are Klah and Nazrol?”
“In the courtyard.”
“I have to talk to them.”
“You must rest.”
“We have to get the girls safely home. We’ve got hours, no more.”
“Then you will stay here, and they will come to talk to you.” Amal pointed at the tray of chicken stew and herbal teas. “Now, you eat and drink, and don’t move from the bed.”
Several minutes later, Klah and Nazrol strode into her room. Klah frowned. “You don’t look any better.”
“I will, when I get my hands on some makeup.” Zara bared her teeth in a smile. The baby squirmed, apparently more annoyed by the contractions than Zara was. “Did you two compare notes yet?”
Nazrol shrugged. “I don’t have any notes. They came. They shot stuff up. They died.”
Klah’s disguised his chuckle with a snort. “I couldn’t get close enough before they deployed.”
Zara stroked a gentle hand over her wriggling baby. “A SEAL’s involved.”
Nazrol whipped out his handgun and turned it on Klah.
“Oh, put that away.” Her eyes narrowed irritably. “If I thought he was responsible, I would have shot him.” She eyed Klah. “You said you saw your friends’ bodies. Who exactly did you see?”
“But a SEAL wouldn’t—” Klah shook his head sharply and refocused on Zara’s question. “Pick. Hall. Perry.” He hesitated between each name. Was he reliving the memory of finding their bodies? “Bland. God…”
Zara drew a deep breath. “You didn’t see Grass or Annie.”
Klah buried his face in his hands. He shook his head. “They would have contacted me on our secure channels—”
“You didn’t see their bodies,” Zara repeated.
Klah’s shoulders sagged as he dropped his hands away from his face. He looked like he had aged ten years. “No,” he whispered. “I didn’t see their bodies. But they wouldn’t—”
“A SEAL’s involved,” Zara repeated. “Someone who was prepared to take out the entire team to protect the girls. Whoever did it believes he’s in the right.”
Klah shook his head. “But that’s crazy. We would never hurt the girls. Grass would never have permitted it. No one would have even attempted it.”
“How long have you known Grass?”
“Seven years. We went through hell week together.” Klah stopped pacing long enough to shoot Zara a fierce look. “He would never have hurt any woman, and he would never have taken out the team. He was our leader. He looked out for all of us.”
Zara breathed deeply through the contractions. “And Annie?”
“Annie’s been with us for a year. He joined up the same time as Hall and Bland.”
“What’s his history?”
“Nothing unusual.” Klah frowned. “Midwestern. Suburbia. Regular folks. Just like Grass.”
“Really? And they’re both missing in action?”
Klah glanced up sharply. “Are you are suggesting that they worked together to murder the team?”
“You know it was a SEAL. Who else could have sneaked up on God and caught him unaware?”
Klah’s throat worked. “No one. It had to be someone God knew and trusted. But it couldn’t have been Annie. He hurt his leg on the landing. He couldn’t have gotten around—”
“Or perhaps the injury was a sham. I don’t like convenient explanations or coincidences, Klah. The fact that you’re alive also seems rather coincidental. The way my s
nitch died when you showed up—”
“I killed the two men who tracked and opened fire on you. They killed your snitch.”
“So you say. The effort you’ve gone through to ingratiate yourself with me—”
“Ingratiate?” His eyes widened, and then narrowed. “We talked about Danyael. That’s ingratiating?”
“The only way to get through to me is by connecting yourself to the one man I trust implicitly.” Zara smiled without humor. “As an empath, you would have known it. As far as I’m concerned, you’re as much a suspect as Grass and Annie.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Then why don’t you shoot me?”
“It is tempting,” Zara confessed. “Eliminate one of the pieces in play. It clears out the board. Makes the end game simpler.” Except that Danyael would have vouched for you.
Nazrol arched his eyebrows. “So do I put away my gun or not?”
Klah stared at Zara. Suddenly, his lips twitched. “I don’t believe it.”
“What’s so funny?” Zara asked.
“You wouldn’t believe it or appreciate it.” He shook his head. “It’s not important. All that matters are the girls. They’re not safe here.”
“We have to get them back to Beirut. How many men do you have left?” she asked Nazrol.
“Nine uninjured, including myself.”
“So we’ve got eleven—”
“I can’t let you include yourself in that number,” Klah said.
“If you can magically come up with other resources, I’m happy to step aside. Until then, you’re stuck with me.”
“You’re having contractions.”
“On a pregnancy I don’t want. No loss.”
The two men stared at her.
“Stop it,” she snapped. “We’ve got a tiny window. Tomorrow’s the summer solstice. The tour buses will arrive early—the tourists love their ruins early in the morning—and the place will be packed, more so than usual. If we can get the girls down to the ruins before dawn, we can load them onto the tourist buses going back to Beirut.”
“We’re getting tourists involved?”
“No, we’re getting my resources involved.” She reached for her smartphone and selected a number from her directory.