by Susan Cliff
“I bring food,” Ashur said. “You want to eat?”
His stomach growled with interest. “Yes.”
“Do you need a pot?” He mimicked the act of urinating.
“No,” Hud said, putting his feet on the tile floor. They were sore, but they held his weight. “Is there a toilet?”
“Yes,” the boy said. “Come.”
The stitches on his shoulder tugged as he followed the boy through the door. There was a closet-sized space with a squat toilet at the end of the hall. No sink, just a bucket with cold water. He rinsed his hands and let them air dry. He wanted to pour the entire bucket over his head. He’d kill for a hot shower and clean clothes.
When he emerged, Ashur escorted him back to his room and disappeared again. Hud went to the window to look out. The ground was about six feet below. There was a walled courtyard with a simple wooden gate. He could escape easily if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. He was safer here than out there, and he needed to regain his strength. He needed time to think about his next step.
Beyond the gate was a pastoral-type village with rolling green hills. He’d never seen this side of Iraq. It lacked the relentless dust and nothingness of Telskuf. He could feel moisture in the air, not just swirling debris. Mountains rose up in the distance, with jagged edges and snow-capped peaks. In this little valley, it was a pleasant spring day. At higher elevations, the weather would be harsh and unpredictable.
Had she really asked him to take her across the Zagros? Maybe he’d dreamed up the request. Surely he’d exaggerated the beauty of the woman who’d made it, as well. Angels didn’t appear out of nowhere in Iraq. They stayed hidden in voluminous black robes, faces veiled. He must have imagined the heat in her eyes as she studied him, as well.
His shoulders tensed when she entered the room. He knew it was her without looking. He could estimate height, weight and gender from the sound of footsteps. He also just felt her, like a whisper of breath at the nape of his neck.
He turned and saw that she was even prettier than he remembered. Her dark hair was uncovered, gathered in a sleek braid. She wore a long blue tunic and black leggings with Moroccan slippers. Her eyes were deep brown and thickly lashed, with a calm serenity that made him want to inhale her.
She was exquisite, but she wasn’t really his type. He had lowbrow tastes, truth be told. He liked party girls who weren’t afraid to show some skin. This one didn’t even reveal her hair in public. When she crossed her arms over her chest, he got the impression of nice curves hidden beneath layers of fabric.
“You should be resting,” she said.
He sat on the bed dutifully. She took the chair across from him.
“Do you remember our conversation?”
His gaze traveled over her figure. He remembered her bare thighs straddling his waist, and her throaty laugh as he suggested a better position. He liked her bedside manner—a lot. “About the Zagros?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think I can help you?”
“You are a Navy SEAL, and a mountain climber.”
“Who told you that?”
“My sources.”
He didn’t bother to deny it. The tattoo on his chest was a symbol of his military affiliation. The terrorists had known he was a SEAL. They’d enjoyed putting out cigarettes on his trident, searing his flesh with hot embers. He touched the spot absently and felt no remnant of the torture. No permanent scarring. He was lucky they hadn’t used a poker or a cattle brand. The minor burns had healed, the pain fading into a distant memory.
“You are a SEAL, yes? Sea, Air, Land?”
“You need an experienced local,” he said. “I’ve never climbed those mountains. I’ve never even seen a map of the route.”
“There isn’t one.”
“No map?”
“No established route. I have topographic information and satellite imagery, but no climbing details.”
“How do you know it can be done?”
“It has been done before. Just not chronicled.”
“Because it’s not legal.”
“The Kurdish government does not allow travel in this region.”
“I wonder why,” he said drolly.
“They do not wish for tourists to come to harm, or for refugees to get stranded and need assistance.”
“Are we in Kurdistan?”
Her lips pursed at the question. “That depends on who you ask. It is a Yazidi village, protected by Kurdish forces and threatened by the Da’esh.”
He couldn’t keep track of the different ethnic groups and shifting borders in Iraq. The map seemed to change daily, and he’d been out of the loop for months. Da’esh was an Arabic word that meant Islamic Front. He knew that much. “Is Mosul still under attack?”
“It was taken by the Da’esh, along with Telskuf and every other Assyrian town in the Nineveh Province.”
“You’re Assyrian?”
“I am.”
If his memory served, the Assyrians were Christians. Being Muslim in Iraq was no picnic, with the different sects in constant conflict, but other religious groups were even more persecuted. They had fewer numbers and less power. “My condolences.”
“Are you Christian?”
He shrugged. “I was raised that way.”
“Then you will help us.”
“Us?”
“My people.”
He gave her a dubious look. Her idea to cross the Zagros was crazy enough without adding a passel of refugees, like that maniac kid and the hunchbacked old man. The fact that they were Christians didn’t change his mind. He was loyal to his team and his country, period. “You can’t hire a guide who knows the area?”
“I have tried. I paid two Turkish mountaineers in advance.” She let out a huffed breath. “They came during the fall of Mosul and turned back.”
He nodded his understanding. There weren’t a lot of expert climbers in Iraq. It was a leisure sport that required time, travel and excess cash. They were in a war zone where people were struggling to survive.
“I need a man who will not quit.” She placed her hand on his forearm. “I think you are that man.”
Hud arched a brow at her touch. She was a beautiful woman, savvy enough to read the interest in his eyes. She knew he’d been denied every pleasure and comfort during his captivity. Although he liked having his ego stroked, among other things, he couldn’t do anything for her. He was a Navy SEAL, not a mercenary. He didn’t take money from refugees, and he doubted she had any to pay him.
“Why the Zagros?” he asked.
She removed her hand from his arm. “There is no other way. The Da’esh control the roads to the south and west. We cannot travel through Syria. We have to go over the mountains, into Turkey.”
“Turkey is safe?”
“Turkey is the least hostile border country. But they are closed to refugees, so crossing illegally is necessary.”
“What happens if I say no?”
“For your own sake, you must say yes.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It is reality. We are both prisoners here. I need you to get out of the country. You need me for the same reason.”
He made a skeptical sound, even though he believed her. In a remote location, with no communication or support from the US military, striking out on his own would be unwise. He couldn’t afford to get recaptured.
She offered a tight smile, aware of his dilemma.
He smiled back at her, determined to choose his own fate. She wasn’t the most formidable opponent he’d ever faced. Compared to the psychopaths who’d tortured him, she was soft. Soft and lush, with her flawless skin and alluring mouth. If he wasn’t so dirty and disheveled, he might try to seduce her.
“I need clean clothes and a shower.”
She bowed her head. “As yo
u wish.”
He wondered what else he could get from her. She didn’t look desperate, but her actions implied otherwise. She’d blown up the side of a building to rescue him. She’d risked her life for his. She was a daring woman, despite her modest dress and demure attitude. She’d drugged him and transported him against his will. That should have been a turnoff, but it wasn’t. He’d always been drawn to danger.
After she left the room, Ashur came back with a tray of delicious food. It was a feast fit for a king, and Hud ate like a half-starved wolf. He devoured every morsel of kebabs and rice and hummus, his manners gone. He might have growled at one point. There was a green salad with tomatoes, pita bread, and other dishes he couldn’t identify, but shoved into his mouth nonetheless. He ignored the tea in favor of water.
“I have bira, if you like,” Ashur said.
“What’s that?”
“It is beer. We brew. Very good.”
“Beer, in Iraq?”
Ashur sneered at his ignorance. “My people invented beer, American.”
Hud had been under the impression that alcohol was illegal here, or rarely imbibed. “Assyrians invented beer?”
“The ancient ones, in Mesopotamia.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Do you speak Arabic?”
“No.”
“I speak three languages.”
Hud grunted and kept eating. He’d learned a few words of Arabic from one of his teammates, but he didn’t have an ear for it. Too many syllables and inflections. Too many different dialects, with sounds as unique and complex as the mix of cultures in the region. Interpreters were worth their weight in gold here. That was why the IF hunted them down and cut off their tongues.
Hud swallowed the last bite, with some difficulty.
“You wish to shower now?” Ashur said. “Come.”
Ashur led Hud down another hall and through a door that opened to a quiet courtyard. The shower was a rustic hut made of corrugated aluminum. Hud found a bar of soap and a nubby towel on a bench inside. He shut the door and stripped down. His trousers were bloodstained and stiff with dust. He stepped into the stall, cupping one hand over himself protectively. He wasn’t disappointed by the lukewarm trickle that emerged from the pipes. It was clean and it was wet. Any kind of water was a luxury to him. He hadn’t so much as splashed his face in weeks. He tilted his head back, eyes closed in rapture.
God.
His throat tightened with emotion as water flowed over him. During the darkest hours of his captivity, he hadn’t believed he would ever see the light of day again. He thought he’d become a pile of bones in that dusty tomb. Now he was standing in an outdoor shower, his shoulders warmed by the sun.
He bent forward and let the water cascade down his neck, humbled by the experience. He washed his matted hair and battered body, which still felt strong enough to fight. He was alive. He wasn’t sure he deserved to be, after what he’d done. But here he was.
He’d survived, against all odds. He’d endured weeks of near starvation. He’d been tortured and beaten and treated like an animal.
Now he was free, and determined to stay that way.
Chapter 4
Layah drummed her fingertips against her forearms as she waited for Hudson to return from his shower.
Her captive continued to surprise her. She’d expected more resistance. Navy SEALs were elite soldiers, but they were still soldiers. They followed orders from the higher ranks. She’d been prepared for him to cite United Nations regulations and demand transport to a US air base. Hudson hadn’t done any of those things. He hadn’t even turned her down.
She didn’t trust him to cooperate, no matter what he said. He might be waiting for his wounds to heal before he attempted an escape. But if he left, he wouldn’t get far. This village was sparsely populated, and the Yazidi guarded their land with rifles. They were more likely to shoot him than help him flee.
Hudson seemed to be playing along with her for now. Maybe he wanted money in exchange for his services. Maybe he wanted something else. He looked at her with desire in his eyes, the way men often did.
His interest wasn’t unusual, but her reaction to it was. Her pulse raced in his presence. She felt nervous and short of breath, like a schoolgirl with a crush. She wasn’t sure how to catalog her response. She hadn’t been drawn to a man since Khalil. Her physical needs had been buried with her husband, along with her broken heart.
Layah didn’t believe Hudson had resurrected her feminine longing. She was excited by the situation, not his searing gaze and hard-muscled body. He’d killed a guard yesterday. She’d rescued him from certain death. She wanted him to like her, and she had to keep him close. It was only natural to feel nervous around him. She’d been numb for so long that she’d mistaken an adrenaline rush for attraction.
Yes. That was it. Adrenaline.
She had to stay focused on her plan. Hudson was a means to an end, nothing more. She couldn’t afford to get distracted.
He emerged from the outdoor shower in the clothes Ashur had given him. The items were borrowed from one of her male cousins, and they fit well enough. Hudson was tall and broad-shouldered, rangy like Khalil had been. About the same age. Her husband would have turned thirty this year, had he lived. Her chest tightened at the thought.
There was a large open sink next to the shower hut for washing hands, dishes and everything else. Ashur provided Hudson with a new toothbrush, still in the wrapper. Toiletries were prized items in this remote area, but she’d splurged on a few luxuries for her captive. He’d been beaten and tortured by the Da’esh. Under her care, he’d be treated well.
When he was finished, Ashur escorted him back to his room. She gathered her maps and notebook, along with her medical bag, before venturing that direction. Ashur was carrying an empty tray down the hall.
“He eats like a pig,” Ashur said in Assyrian. “It will cost a fortune just to feed him.”
“He’s worth it.”
“That’s what you said about those thieving Turks.”
She shooed him away in annoyance. Ashur thought he knew everything, and was quite happy to argue with her about any choice she made. From the start he’d insisted that they didn’t need a guide, especially a foreigner.
She paused in the doorway. Hudson sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap. His trousers molded to his long legs and the polo shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. She found no fault with his appearance. He looked good. His hair was a honey-brown shade, like his eyes, and his skin had the same warm tone.
He was handsome. Striking, even.
She entered the room and placed her things on the table. “How do you feel?” she asked, aiming for a polite, professional tone.
“Almost human.”
“Any pain from your suture site?”
“Not really.”
“Can I take a look?”
He twisted at the waist to give her access. She sat down beside him and lifted the hem of his shirt halfway up his back. The bandage was still clean and intact, so she left it alone. The bruises on his side had darkened to an angry purple in some places. When she touched him there, he sucked in a ragged breath.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
She palpated his ribs gently. “Were you kicked?”
His expression was flat. “I can’t remember.”
She didn’t believe him. Perhaps he’d learned to give no information, even when pushed to the limit. She was barely pressing him. She didn’t feel any broken ribs, just warm flesh over hard muscles. She tugged his shirt down, trying not to imagine the horrors he’d endured. “I have painkillers.”
“I don’t need them.”
Her gaze rose to his. He’d shifted toward her when she finished her exam. Now they were side by side, and too close for comfort. She could
smell the soap he’d used, which conjured an erotic image of water flowing down his naked body.
She suppressed the urge to inhale deeper. “Do you need...anything else?”
His eyes darkened at the question, dropping to her lips. It wasn’t difficult to guess what he was thinking. She’d been a wife for long enough to know what men liked. What they craved, what comforted them.
“I wouldn’t mind a haircut,” he said.
“What?”
He let out a choked laugh and lifted a hand to his head. He made scissors with his fingers. “A haircut, you know. Snip snip?”
“Oh. Yes. I will get Ashur.”
“No, not him.”
“No?”
“I don’t want him near me with sharp objects.”
Her stomach fluttered with unease. “What has he done?”
“Nothing much. He’s okay. I just prefer you.”
“I apologize for Ashur. He is a difficult boy.”
“Is he your son?”
She rose to her feet abruptly. Anguish speared through her. “He is my brother’s son.”
Hudson gave her an assessing look, but didn’t ask more questions.
She busied herself by searching through her medical bag for a pair of utility scissors. “I will cut your hair.” She gestured to the only chair in the room, a simple wooden stool by the table. “Come sit.”
He sat down and stared out the window. A villager was leading his herd down the rocky hillside in the distance. She liked the deserts and the valleys of her homeland, but there was something tranquil about this mountain backdrop. She turned her attention to Hudson’s hair. “How short?”
“I don’t care.”
She did her best to cut sparingly, in even amounts. There were matted tangles and singed ends, as if he’d been burned. She tried to remove the damage without leaving any bald spots. When she was finished, she set aside the scissors and touched his newly shorn head. His hair looked choppy, but felt nice. She murmured in approval, running her fingers through it.
He made a grunting sound of pleasure.
She glanced down and realized he was staring at her breasts, which were about an inch from his face. She’d been so intent on her task that she’d forgotten to keep a polite distance. She hadn’t meant for this mundane act to become so intimate. The air between them turned electric, charged with sexual energy. He was leaning into her hands, like a cat that wanted more petting. She froze, her fingers still threaded in his hair.