“You’re not going to get away. They’ll see us.”
“Not if I can help it.”
A narrow defile led down the steep flank of mountain scree. Beyond that lay a copse of trees. Golden leaves. How much time had passed? Shit, the attack on the Chinese reactor could happen any day now.
Fear pushed him faster, until Khadija stumbled, slid on the loose rock, and almost pulled them both down. He slowed. At the copse of trees he stopped briefly. Golden leaves rattled overhead. He could smell the snow coming, even this far out of the Pamirs. Time had passed without him. Soon.
Beyond the wind in the trees came the comforting sounds of civilization. Jeep horn. Truck dieseling. The cries of men. The scent of salt and charcoal in the air.
He had been right about Feyzabad and right about the phone. In the city they would be loading salt and lapis at the old caravanserai. When he was last here five years ago, they had donkey-packed the goods over the mountains into Pakistan—a trip of two weeks from the border. Longer from here.
At the sound of voices he drew Khadija deeper into the trees and clamped his hand over her mouth. “Don’t try anything.”
He could feel her rebellion as the voices came closer. He should have left her trussed in the cave. Here, she was nothing but a threat—and she’d slow him down. But he dared not leave her here. She’d tell them his condition and which direction he headed.
A simple answer existed.
Kill her. A simple twist of his wrists would break her lovely neck. Her eyes locked on his as if reading his thoughts. Yaqub’s eyes.
“Shit.”
He looked at the sky. Mohammed Siddiqui had experienced enough loss. Killing his daughter was out of the question. There was no help for it, then—taking her with him was the only option.
The voices barred the direct route to town and there wasn’t enough cover to wait for Hashemi and his cronies to pass so he marched her through the trees. When the voices came closer, he swore and pushed faster.
Brush tore at the baggy remains of his salwar kameez. There was no way he could trust her. His only hope was to get her away and then release her in Feyzabad. It wasn’t that far.
Then she bit his hand. Her elbow found his side.
Breath whooshed from his lungs. His hand released her and she screamed.
He barely held onto her wrist as he fought back the pain. Eyes blinded, like a fool he dragged her after him through the trees. Just leave her behind. She was Mohammed Siddiqui’s daughter.
“Help!” she screamed again and he yanked her to him, slammed his hand over her mouth once more.
“Do you think they won’t blame you for my escape?”
Her eyes flashed fury. “Then shut up.”
A shot parted the air near his head and exploded in an aspen trunk. Another hit the medical pack he carried, almost tearing it from his grasp. He’d already left one Siddiqui behind. Hew wasn’t leaving another.
He dragged her through the trees, fighting the struggling woman, his weakness, and his anger. Dammit, they were forcing him eastward across the mountain slope, away from the city and safety. There were few good roads, little vehicle traffic, and little-to-no chance of communication eastward. He needed to go south or west to get the warning out.
The trees ended in an open slope and battered stone fences—at least down to the road and the river. Behind came his pursuers. They were closing on his position.
A sound of diesel and a cloud of dust spoke of a truck heading east from Feyzabad. It might not be where he wanted to go, but a ride would get them out of range of gunfire. He could come back to town after dark and release Siddiqui’s daughter then.
He dragged her down slope, his body waiting for the shot, the wounding, the death…. The woman stumbled, unwilling, beside him. Pain hitched each stride, but he was fucking stronger than this. With his training he should be able to do this in a heartbeat.
Dust outraced the truck as it labored up from the river. A shout came from behind just as the truck crested the hill. It was one of the late model trucks with brightly painted wood slatting walling the cargo deck. There would be cover in the cab or in the cargo area.
Michael half-dragged the woman over a stone fence that lined the road and waved to the truck. The sound of the down shift was music to his ears. Upslope, two men cleared the trees—Hashemi and Farhad. Both carried AK-47s. A hail of bullets slammed into the stone wall. He and Khadija were sitting ducks, so the poor aim meant Hashemi still wanted his information.
The truck ground to a stop and Michael yanked open the passenger door. He passed the struggling woman up, but bullets slammed into the driver’s door. The driver swore and stomped his foot on the gas. Khadija tumbled back into Michael’s arms and the passenger door slammed shut.
“Wait!”
The driver didn’t. The weight of the full load slowed the truck’s getaway, but he wasn’t going to let them on.
Michael dragged Khadija after the truck, fighting to keep it between them and Hashemi, but the damn vehicle was picking up speed.
Soon there’d be no shelter. Nothing but recapture.
The truck passed them and Hashemi yelled just as Michael spied an opening in the rear of the truck. Space between bales of cloth and dry goods.
Michael threw Khadija into the back of the truck, threw in the medical pack, and leapt in behind her. Pain shot through his side. Bullets exploded the wood around him. Close. Too close. He pressed further into the truck, shoving his prisoner before him as Hashemi and Farhad made the road. Bullets peppered Michael’s hiding place, pinged on aluminum pots and pans like some horrific hail, and tore into crates and blankets.
Michael swore at the truck’s sluggish acceleration. When the bullets stopped, Michael chanced a look back. Hashemi and Farhad loped towards town. They’d pursue soon enough, and the city would be aswarm with informants. Feyzabad no longer offered a way to get the message out.
He glanced at the woman at him. The alternative would not be easy.
Chapter 19
Panic woke Khadija. Where was she?
The stench of diesel, the roar of the engine, and the lurch as the truck shifted down all conspired to remind her. Abduction and anger. She twisted to glare at Michael Bellis.
His chin bobbed on his chest in exhausted slumber. The iron scent of his fever filled the small space where they crouched. It was hours since they leapt onto the truck, but the pursuit he had predicted—her prayed-for chance of escape—had not yet arrived.
She should have pushed him off; his injuries weakened him enough. Then she looked at her hands in resignation. They were small compared to Michael Bellis’s fists.
Praise be to Allah, Lord of Worlds…
…Show me your straight path,
not the path of those who earn your wrath
She was kidding herself if she thought she could hurt him. She was a messenger. A woman who wanted revenge and so she pretended to be a soldier.
nor those who go astray.
It was a painful admission. At least she didn’t help the enemy who slumbered beside her. The truck bucked through a pothole and he winced, his copper-tinged hair falling over his brow.
He’d dragged her into this danger. He was why they had shot at her. Amrikaayi.
He was also the one who had shoved her into the deepest corner between the bales of cloth and shielded her from bullets. She still felt the hard press of his chest, the warm strength of his arms around her, but damnation she wouldn’t have even been in danger if he hadn’t forced her here.
She would not feel grateful!
She swiped at her arms, her torso. The scent of him—man and fever—still filled her nostrils.
His slack body bumped against the bales of clothing. His face had the look of the boy he once must have been and she softened at his vulnerability. But when they’d first climbed aboard he’d pulled a new, loose-fitting, cotton salwar kameez from one of the bales and changed right in front of her.
The memory reki
ndled her anger. The way he’d looked at her…. Laughed at her, more like it. He was so unlike soulful Mizra. Michael Bellis was a man to be feared in too many ways.
“Allah, help me to earn my honor. Let me help my country revive like a phoenix from ashes.”
She was kidding herself.
She was no soldier. What she really wanted was to curl up into a ball and have her father protect her—but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even avenge Yaqub.
A small moan escaped Michael Bellis and her first instinct was to help him. Or was it just that she wished to see his bare flesh?
She pressed her fists to her eyes, hated questioning herself. The man eroded her faith. Let him die of his wounds. Let her escape.
She peeked past him out the back of the truck. Dust had hidden the road behind, but now the truck labored slowly up a hill.
Green fields ran beside the road and down to a glittering slash of river. The moisture in the air only reinforced her thirst.
Cragged, brown slopes ran up and up—like layers on one of those hideous Western wedding cakes—to peaks higher than any she’d seen before. Poplar and aspen made a line of green-gold in the thin soil along the base of the barren slopes. The road stretched back, a long, uncoiling snake. In the distance a V-shaped cloud rose from a vehicle moving fast.
Khadija strained to see. She scrambled to her feet. If it was Hashemi and his friends she would be rescued. She just needed to get free.
And she needed a chador.
She hauled at the black edge of one caught in a bale stacked beside her. She would be decently covered when they found her. Finally the garment came free and with relief she swept the stolen cloth over her head and pulled the front closed around her. The truck engine sounded different now and the vehicle felt like it picked up speed. If she was going to escape, it had to be now.
Quietly, carefully, she stepped over Michael and clung to a steel stanchion that held the wooden siding in place. One more step and she’d be free. Just another step and she’d be returning to her father. A pothole almost sent her sprawling.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He was on his feet faster than she had thought a man could move; his fist tangled in her chador.
The truck’s speed had increased. She had to go now.
She turned, but his fingers clamped on her arm. He wouldn’t let go, but he couldn’t hold her. She was strong enough and he was injured.
She leapt, and the road slammed into her.
Something heavy smacked into her back.
Scalding gravel. Pain in her hands, her side, her knees. When she quit rolling, she fought the pain until Michael Bellis yanked her to her feet. She jerked free and straightened her chador.
“What the fucking hell were you thinking?”
His fury was clear and his hands were fist. She thought he might hit her.
“What do you think? Ridding myself of you, Amrikaayi! Going back to my father.”
“We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.” He motioned around them.
“You might be, but my friends are coming.” She turned down the road.
On one side, a steep slope led down to the river, and on the other, the slope became a mountainside. Whoever came was hidden by a jut of mountain, but in the quiet of the truck’s departure came the faint sound of another motor.
Michael Bellis grabbed the back of her chador and hauled her towards the river.
“You don’t need me,” she said as she tried to pull free. “I’ll only slow you down.”
“Damn straight,” he growled, but he never let go.
Chapter 20
Every f’ing step of the way the damned woman fought him. Over the lip of the road into the loose scree of the bank where the footing shifted until the bank became a river of its own, and took them with it.
Everything moved. Khadija lost her balance and pulled him down. They slid-slipped-tumbled down, down the twenty feet to the river’s narrow bank. When they stopped all Michael could feel was the pain in his side. It stole his strength.
But she was already getting her feet under her.
Dammit, he was too slow. It took all his will to catch her ankle and he paid for it with her boot in his chest. His vision exploded. He held on, but barely managed to grab an arm.
A frigging hell-cat, to be sure—difficult to hold on to even if he was healthy. Now it was only the bloody chador trapping her arms that allowed him to restrain her.
“You’ve done this to yourself,” he said, trapping her arms between them. “I was going to leave you in Baharak—the next town—but I can’t leave you here. They’ll know where I left the road and where to hunt me.”
“I hope they shoot you. You’re no better than an animal.”
“And where is the dishonor in the noble falcon or the leopard of the mountains? I died an animal and was born a man.” He grinned.
“Galamjam!” Carpet trader.
It was such a quaint epithet his smile broadened, but the sound of the Jeep engine was closer. Along the river there was no cover—just the tumble of gravel down the slope to the water’s edge. They had to reach cover.
Across the river, a green field rolled to the base of the mountains. Five horses grazed there and there were trees for cover on the far side of the field.
Somewhere southeast of here the Darya-ye Kowkcheh—one of Badakhshan’s five rivers—joined the Kokcha on its route to find the Amu Darya. If he could find the Kowkcheh, he could follow it southwest towards safety. If he could make it to the Panjshir Valley and the leader who had taken over after the assassination of Massoud, the Lion of Panjshir, he would have communication.
He dragged her to the river and she swore at him again.
“Watch your mouth. You should be praising Allah. The water’s low at the end of summer.”
“Don’t you dare use his name! You defile it as your kind defile Afghanistan.” The Jeep was coming fast.
He chuckled as he pushed her into the torrent. The swift water quickly reached his thighs as he followed, the current making it hard to stand. Her chador flowed around her, billowing like a dark cloud, until unsteady footing sent her down, her head sucked under the surface.
Michael hauled her up as she spluttered and splashed him with her free hand as he half-carried her to shore.
“You okay?”
“As if you care.”
The green grass filled the air with a sweetness he’d wondered if he’d ever smell again. Michael dragged his captive towards the trees. The five horses raised their heads as she protested. Dammit, they had to move faster. Just reach the trees. Just reach their cover and he might keep his life.
The Jeep came around the jut of mountain and he heard the engine rev, saw it fishtail to a stop as it came even with them.
“Come on!” He ran, fighting the woman every step of the way. He considered abandoning her, but knew they’d kill her or worse. Hashemi was ruthless and vindictive. Shouts came from two men with Kalashnikovs.
Just move. A few more yards and they’d be beyond the four-hundred-yard range of the weapons. Just a few more yards. A few more.
The woman stumbled and he half turned to support her.Instead of thanks, she plowed a hand into his injured side.
His lungs emptied. The sky went dark as his knees gave and she twisted free, hefted her chador and ran—back the way they had come.
“No!” He heaved himself up. These men were not here to help her. She was a tool to be discarded, no more.
The first bullets slammed the earth in front of Khadija.
“No! It’s me!”
She kept running. The bloody woman was going to run right into their fire.
A bullet tore through the edge of her chador. Another exploded earth close to her right foot, but she still didn’t stop. Michael chased her, swearing at her unerring belief these men would help her. Hashemi’s men wouldn’t miss forever—it was only because they were almost at the end of the weapon’s range.
He tackled he
r, covering her with his body. Softness under him. Vulnerability even as she struggled and bullets pinned them down. They wanted him alive. They wanted his information.
Across the field, one of the armed men started down to the river.
“Come on.”
He grabbed her and rolled once, twice, keeping her close to his chest. Just get out of range. Then he sprang to his feet and dragged her with him. At least some of the fight seemed to have gone out of her.
Just reach the trees. Follow them southward around the jut of the next mountain—that should give onto the Baharak Valley and the juncture of the two rivers. Reach the Kowkchek. That had to be his focus. Don’t care about the woman. Leave her here because she’d just slow him down and he had to move fast.
But he couldn’t leave her for too many reasons and too many debts. Life was cheap or precious in this country.
The horses thundered across the field. The scree on the river slope had taken down their pursuer. He lay at the river edge. It gave them a chance.
The light changed, dappling the earth as Michael dragged them among the pale trunks of the aspens. The golden leaves applauded his efforts. Shadows dampened the sun’s heat.
Michael propped himself, panting, against a tree and peered back the way they’d come. Hashemi himself was climbing down the slope from the road, his black turban dull in the sunlight. His man lay beside the river holding his leg.
“Inshallah, the man is hurt. It may give us a chance.”
He turned back to Khadija. She stood quietly, shrouded in black. The cloth clung to the form of her face and shoulders and down over her jalabiyya. She swayed as if all fight had been stripped from her.
“We have to go. They’ll be after us,” he said gently.
For once she said nothing, but that only left him pondering what scheme she hatched. He caught her hand and hurried them along a path. Shepherds and their flocks had worn the trail into the base of the hills over the thousands of years this countryside had been inhabited.
Leaves scattered the ground. The air smelled of dust and the tang of fall. Just how long had he been a prisoner? The sunlight gradually dipped towards the western mountains behind them and shadows lengthened. Only the sound of their breathing and the twitter of the sparrows carried. It could almost lull one into thinking they were safe.
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