He knew better.
In Afghanistan danger could come from anywhere. Even your closest friends could betray you, if they thought doing so would benefit their family or clan.
But he had no family.
When his father died, that lack of family had made Michael perfect for this work. No ties meant there was no one who could be used against him.
They had come to him at Harvard, catching him as he sat studying beneath a tree on the spreading green lawn of the Old Yard between Matthews and Grays Hall. It was three months after his father had died in an accident in Afghanistan.
Michael considered his future. He could take an advanced degree in languages. He could take over his father’s business. Neither option was particularly appealing. Neither would meet his need to somehow move—change—make a difference—except for the fact that the business would return him to Afghanistan. He still missed the country and its people.
He closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. Maybe he shouldn’t worry about it. Maybe he should just wait for the choice to come to him.
“Michael Bellis?”
He had looked up at the figure that draped shadow across his sun. The man stood so his face was hidden, and Michael had a sudden sense of unsteadiness in the earth. He nodded.
The man squatted in front of him, revealing a hard face under grey hair. “I’m Ron Hall. A prof of yours told me I’d probably find you here.”
Michael studied the stranger, alarm bells going off. There was something lean and hard about the man. Something in his gaze that would not take no for an answer.
“I was a business associate of your father,” Ron Hall continued. “My partners and I wondered if you might be interested in continuing your family’s association with our firm.”
Michael had gone with his father to business meetings many times—both in Afghanistan and America. But this man—he had an edge more like the Afghani Mujehaddin he’d seen in Iran after the Russian invasion. Men fighting for their country’s freedom.
“What kind of association?” Michael asked cautiously. He had his suspicions. His father had always disappeared for short times on their business trips, had occasionally had business meetings and phone calls he would not allow Michael to attend.
“Come on, Michael. You’re bored. It’s written all over your face. Even your profs have noticed. What’ve you got ahead of you? More school? You can only bury yourself here so long. Besides, you’ve got other talents. My partners and I—we’d like you to keep up your father’s import/export business. We’d like you to go back to Iran and Afghanistan—on our behalf.”
They’d talked to his professors.
Michael looked at the man’s eyes. They were brittle blue—too much like his father’s—always assessing. It had been that assessment that always made Michael feel like he could not measure up. In consequence he’d always excelled at school, in sports, with women.
“Who the hell are you?”
Ron Hall smiled. “Good question. Now why don’t we take a walk and we can discuss who I am and who you might be.”
That unsteady feeling again, but the mystery of Ron Hall raised a surge of adrenaline that made him feel suddenly alive, suddenly as if he knew his future.
He had stood.
A year later he had been in Afghanistan again. Then he met Mohammed Siddiqui and Yaqub. Michael grimaced and tightened his grip on Khadija. Over fifteen years the Siddiquis had become family.
The mountain slope turned back on itself, ending in a pile of scree and the broad valley that spread eastward towards Baharak. In the east, the sky was indigo fading to black. Only the peaks of the Hindu Kush were lit like the faces of ancient gods.
This country was like that—full of the works of God, as if the divine lay close to the surface here. Perhaps that was why so many of the world’s religions had lain across this land at one time or another. Perhaps that was what had brought him back so many years before.
There you go, again, Bellis. Lying to yourself. You came for the adrenaline—to feel alive.
Smoke hung over distant Baharak and the smaller villages that sat along the blue ribbon that gleamed in the last of the daylight. The Varduj River. Nearer, a second thread of blue joined the Varduj.
The Kowkcheh. Follow it south and he might have a chance. The world might have a chance. He followed the course of the river with his eyes.
Now would be the time to leave Khadija—if he was going to. From here, she could make her way back to Feyzabad where Mohammed waited. The old man would be frantic about her.
He glanced back. The wind pressed the chador around her showing hints of the body he recalled from her father’s house. She was slim, feminine even, with the green-brown eyes of a fawn—in the unguarded moments when one could see past the anger. And she was the enemy. He had no business taking the enemy with him.
Soon.
Had the events that would start the war occurred? Had the rhetoric before war begun? He was flying blind here.
To the east, only the first stars glittered over the distant peaks of Tajikistan. Beyond them lay China and the nuclear reactor.
“Has there been news?” he asked.
“News?” She almost spit the word.
“From China. Of war?”
“The only war is the one against Islam.”
He rolled his eyes. “Who taught you that?” he muttered.
It was hopeless arguing against it. Eastward, though, the war was coming—he felt it in his blood like the precursor shock to a major earthquake. Any serious conflict between America and China could easily go nuclear.
Leave her, the logical part of him said. Your task is too important. But he knew he couldn’t let her go.
Chapter 21
“We’ll stop here,” Michael Bellis said from out of the dark. His hand tightened on Khadija’s wrist and she winced at his bruising hold. He’d brought them to a halt by an old stone fence close by a river. The scent of the water and green grass filled the night air.
Khadija sagged to the ground, the pain in her leg and her exhaustion almost more than she could bear. She wondered how Michael Bellis kept going.
She’d never walked for so long or so far, and certainly not when injured. Her feet were sweating in the Western boots she wore, but the rest of her was shivering. Shocky cold that made the darkness something to be feared.
She didn’t like it in the darkness and that made it hard to breathe. Even in Feyzabad there were fires in the street and braziers cooking kebabs, the faces of the men illuminated in the ruddy light. In Kaabul during power outages there were candles in her father’s house and the blue gleam of the propane stove as dinner was prepared.
The wind blew through the night-darkened fields they had traversed, carrying the scent of wood smoke and sheep and late melon ready for harvest. Overhead was the steady swoop of bat wings and the eerie cry they made. Her shivers deepened.
She rubbed the circulation back into her hand, trying to rid herself of the feel of him. His touch, the fact she was alone with him spelled disaster. If she only dared remove the chador she could decide what to do. With the dousing, the chador’s headband had tightened around her forehead. That made it hard to think. Or maybe it was the pain in her leg.
They had shot her.
Hashemi and Farhad had shot her.
It had probably been an accident, a stray shot when they were aiming at Michael Bellis. She kept telling herself they could not afford his escape.
She glanced up at him as he moved through the darkness seeking wood and old grass to make a fire. The way he moved—his Amrikaayi pride showed in everything he did regardless of the mess he’d made of her plans.
This was supposed to be a simple trip northward. Help her father and deliver a message and learn what she needed. So what if Mirri and Mizra and Ratbil had asked her to do more? So what if Hashemi had forced her to use her medical knowledge? Michael Bellis was the one who had turned everything on its head and brought her to…this.
He returned from beyond the stone wall carrying an armload of sticks and branches.
“The nights are cold here. There’s not much fuel, but I think we can manage a small fire. The wall will shelter it and us.”
She knew he was right, but turned away as he fumbled in the medical pack.
“Are there matches in here?”
She ignored him. The medical pack held what she needed to treat her leg. The pain was bad enough she didn’t know if she could stand, and the last thing she needed was infection. She thought of the supplies still secreted in the pockets of her jalabiyya and wondered if the vial of antibiotic had survived her falls. By feel, it seemed intact, buried among the syringes and dressings.
A grunt came from him and a match flickered to life. The acrid scent caught in her nose. He held the flame to a bit of dried grass under a pile of tinder. The fire caught and soon the darkness receded to beyond the circle of boulders, revealing her captor in the warm glow.
Michael Bellis eased himself down against a boulder pushed near the fence. His craggy face was half-hidden in shadow, but she could see pain cross his features as he settled his side against the stone. When he caught her glance, the pain smoothed away.
“You did a good job of this dressing. One of mine wouldn’t have lasted through today.”
She didn’t bother answering. She’d simply had training and been forced to use it on him.
“I was going to free you, but I don’t dare, now. Hashemi’s going to be out for blood. He’ll blame you.”
“So he’ll take his anger out on someone else.”
She turned back to Michael Bellis, hating him for the truth of his words. Hashemi—truth be told, he terrified her. He was the kind of man who would follow through on his threats to her father.
“Your father must have soldiers with him and he’ll stay in a well-guarded home. He’ll be safe.”
Her gaze jerked back to him. How did he always know what she thought? She studied her captor through the lattice of her veil. He was everything she hated, and yet he seemed to know things. And he was strong. Very strong to do what he had done today.
“I heard Hashemi and Farhad talking about your father.” Again he knew her thinking.
She had to admit there was something extraordinary about this man. He must be in pain and yet he acted like there was nothing wrong, had not even limped though the burn marks on the balls of his feet would have halted anyone else.
A sound startled her and she looked past him to the night.
“Horses. There’s a group of them in the field. They’re probably coming for water.”
How dare he be so calm when he’d brought them into danger, had left her father alone, had destroyed her delicate, reconstructed honor. A woman alone with a foreign man—even Mizra wouldn’t want her now.
“So what do we do now, oh Great Amrikaayi Leader? Sit in the middle of a field and await some great Amrikaayi general to rescue you? Perhaps a helicopter will swoop out of the sky?” She spat the words, pulled her chador closer around her and tried to curl her knees to her chest. The movement made her gasp.
“Are you alright?” He was at her side in a movement like the smooth flow of a leopard. She could smell his heat.
“I’m fine.”
“I know the sound of pain, Khadija.”
There was concern in those pale, hungry eyes and it made her angry. If he’d just left things alone, she wouldn’t be hurt. She wouldn’t be here.
Michael Bellis might be dead. She shuddered. The explosion in the Kaabul market had been enough. She didn’t want anyone else dead.
“I can deal with it myself.”
“Spoken like a true Afghan.”
The sarcasm made her want to slap him. That was what she hated most about this man in particular. He made fun of her and her faith and her people at the same time his presence and strength made her feel—safe?
He didn’t go away. Instead he crouched between her and the flame.
“You’re blocking the heat.”
He didn’t move. “We’re out here together. If you’re hurt, we need to do something about it.”
“You’re hurt. You do nothing for that.”
He shrugged. “I can manage. It’s you we need to take care of.”
He touched the edge of her chador and she jerked away. A gasp escaped her. She was dishonored enough. She would not make things worse.
“That’s it. To hell with your propriety.” He caught the edge of her chador. She fought to hold it in place, but he wouldn’t be stopped. He forced her fists open and lifted the chador until she felt the full impact of his gaze on her.
She suddenly realized she was sobbing “No. No. No. No,” like some small child. She swiped the tears away.
“It’s not proper. It’s bad enough they forced me to care for you. It’s bad enough we’re out here together. What will people say?”
His pity felt hot on her skin. She should not be crying. She was a soldier, wasn’t she? A warrior. A messenger.
“I can care of myself,” she ended, weakly.
His gaze was locked on her jalabiyya. A rough tear in the long coat allowed the paler color of her salwar kameez to show through—except it was wet red in the firelight. A black stain ran over the left side of the dark fabric.
“Allah, above.” His voice was soft. He didn’t wait for her response. His hands were already slipping open the row of buttons on the coat, flipping it open as she cringed back. He swore.
She numbly considered how the blood stained her salwar kameez from thigh to ankle. She realized what the moisture in her boot must be. Not sweat.
“I need to see your leg.” His voice rumbled with anger.
“I can take care of myself.” But her breath came in quick, sharp gasps and she knew she was in more shock than she’d realized. The night buzzed in her ears.
“Like hell. We’ve got a hard journey ahead and there’s no way you’ll make it like this. Now let me see.”
She fought to slow her breathing.
She shook her head, though it was foolish.
Her fingers picked at the trouser fabric embedded in her flesh, but her hands were shaking. Then Michael Bellis’s large hands eased them away. He caught her gaze, held it.
“The Chosen One came to bring intimacy and compassion.” He gently turned her leg towards the firelight.
Pain and she wanted to cry, wanted to close her eyes, but she must watch what he did, make sure he did things correctly.
“You’ve got two choices. I tear the trouser, or you haul them down. Your choice.”
Allah, the ignobility of having this man see her private flesh. But to tear the trouser meant she would be bared to him for as long as they traveled together. It would mean she would be too ashamed to escape.
“Look away.”
He turned to the flame, leaving her to struggle one leg out of the trousers and then carefully cover herself with the chador and salwar kameez.
When she was ready he turned back and she felt herself color, wondering if he’d truly looked away. She flinched as he gently eased the tattered cloth from the gaping lips of the wound. Those, he pulled apart.
The world went dark. Then his hands left her skin.
“I think you got lucky. It wasn’t a bullet that hit you, thank the Prophet. One must have shattered a rock. Shrapnel burst the skin, but I don’t think it’s left anything inside.” He raised his brows in his infuriating manner. “Do you concur, Doctor?”
It took all her strength not to swear at him, not to tell him what she thought.
“I’m not a doctor yet.”
“Aah, so you intend to go through with your training, then? Things have changed since we met in Kaabul.”
She looked away, uncertain where her statement came from. It was so hard to think and she was so cold her shivers seemed to go on forever.
He pulled a worn plastic bag from the medical pack and left her for the river, returning with clear water running from a thous
and tiny holes in the bag. The cold water washed away the worst of the dried blood and left her fighting for breath. Then he dug in the medical pack, frowning at the stale-dated antiseptic cream.
“Dammit, no antibiotics. No proper dressings either. How the hell do you run a jihad like this?” He grinned up at her. “Sorry. But just using a strip off my tunic isn’t going to cut it for this.”
Freezing, Khadija leaned her head back against the cold stone. Cold and death just like everything in Afghanistan. Cadavers and ruins and bleeding bodies and she was one of them.
Just let him do whatever he would and let her be a burden to slow him down enough so Hashemi would catch him. Then she could go home to Papa.
Her shaking hands pulled the dressings and the vial from her pocket before she could reconsider.
“Where the hell’d you get this?” His eyes glittered as he read the labels. “Standard U.S. Army issue.”
She couldn’t bear the question, his closeness. She closed her eyes as he tore open a package and then his hands were on her again. So intimate on her flesh, so close to her privates. Heat radiated from his hand up into her body.
“This is going to hurt.”
He squeezed the lips of the wound together and sutured it in swift, certain stitches. When he was done she grudgingly had to admit she couldn’t have done better.
“Just put a dressing on and I’ll be fine,” she said, fighting the pain and the way the darkness seemed to pulse in and out. She drowned in the darkness and in the feel of Michael Bellis’s hands on her flesh.
Then everything went away.
Chapter 22
Rock grated against rock and Khadija’s eyes flew open. The tickle of grass on her face. Above the stone fence was the watered blue sky that existed only before sunrise. The color of Michael Bellis’s eyes.
She remembered where she was.
The sound of water over rocks was an incessant rush. Her nose and ears were cold. The petu thrown over her had a rime of frost but carried the scent of him.
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