by Susan Cliff
Ashur inhaled a sharp breath. “Look.”
Hud straightened as a small deer trotted across the clearing. It paused to nibble on tender spring grass. He couldn’t leave this golden opportunity to chance, so he put his arm around Ashur and made sure his sights were straight. Hud braced his weight against the boy’s shoulders to absorb the kick.
“Now,” he said.
Ashur squeezed the trigger. He kept his finger on it too long, peppering the ground with bullets, but that was fine. One reached its target. The deer’s front legs crumpled. Then its hind legs went down, and that was it.
“I got it!”
“You sure did.” Hud took charge of the gun and engaged the safety. “Good job.”
“I was steady,” Ashur said. “My hand didn’t shake.”
Hud grunted his agreement. “You’re a natural. Let’s go dress your kill.”
“My kill,” Ashur repeated with a smile.
They strode across the clearing together until they reached the deer. It was a male fawn, still twitching. Blood huffed from the animal’s nostrils as it took a final breath. Then it went still, legs stiff.
Ashur didn’t appear quite as pleased as he had two minutes ago. “It’s a baby.”
“It’s a juvenile,” Hud said. “A good size for our group. Nothing will go to waste.”
The boy’s dark eyes filled with tears. He blinked them away, seeming embarrassed by the display of emotion.
“There’s no shame in feeling sad about taking a life.”
“Are you sad when you kill a man?”
“No,” Hud admitted. He hadn’t cried over any of his kills, but he’d never shot a baby deer, or a defenseless man. “I killed a bunch of squirrels and birds one day, just because I was angry. I cried then.”
Ashur nodded his understanding. He studied the speckled fawn, his face solemn. There was something familiar about his expression. Something that stirred Hud’s memories.
Hasan.
It came to him in a flash of recognition. Hasan Anwar was the interpreter Hud had recruited in Syria. Ashur looked like a younger version of him. Had Hasan been Assyrian? Hud couldn’t remember. He probably hadn’t asked. Layah and Ashur were well educated, like Hasan. They’d been in Syria. They’d known Hud was a SEAL.
The pieces fit.
But why had they kept this connection a secret?
The hairs at the nape of his neck prickled with unease. Hud had brushed off Ashur’s anger toward him as anti-American sentiment and general teen angst. Now he realized it went far deeper. Hasan had been executed because he worked with Team Twelve. US forces hadn’t done enough to protect him.
If Ashur was Hasan’s son...he had every right to be angry.
“How do I clean it?” Ashur asked, kneeling beside the fawn.
Hud showed him what to do. The boy wasn’t squeamish about the unpleasant task. When he was finished, Hud dragged the carcass away from the mess.
“I will carry it,” Ashur said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It is my kill.”
Hud hefted the carcass onto the boy’s shoulders. It weighed about twenty-five pounds, but Ashur didn’t buckle. He held on to the hooves and started walking. The fawn’s head flopped against his back with every step.
“How do I look?” Ashur asked, just before they reached camp.
“Like a badass,” Hud said honestly.
Ashur flashed a grin. He had blood on his face, hands, neck and shirt. Layah screamed when she saw them. She rushed forward, speaking in their native language. She seemed concerned that he was hurt. Everyone else cheered with approval. Ashur put the deer down next to a pile of firewood someone had collected. Aram and Yusef patted Ashur on the back, ruffling his hair in celebration.
They were going to feast tonight.
Hud walked to the lake’s edge to clean up. He had gore up to his elbows. Layah followed with Ashur. When she tried to scrub the boy’s neck and ears, he jerked away from her to do it himself. After a sharp exchange of words, he left.
“You can wash me,” Hud offered.
Layah’s lips curved into a sad smile. She dipped the cloth in water and approached him. She swept the damp fabric over his forehead, the bridge of his nose, the nape of his neck. “You are not bloody. Just dirty.”
“He doesn’t like to be touched,” Hud said.
“No.”
“That’s a common symptom of PTSD.”
She dropped her hands. “I know.”
He wanted to kiss her again, despite his earlier revelation. He wanted to kiss her and confront her at the same time. But he did neither. She could keep her secrets. They were in Turkey now. She didn’t need his guide services anymore. As soon as they reached a developed area, he would leave her.
Damned if that didn’t feel like a punch in the gut.
Yelda appeared to collect water from the lake, and they broke apart like guilty teenagers. Hud used the interruption as an excuse to walk away. The tents were already set up, so he ducked inside the smaller one. Her pack was sitting right there. After a short hesitation, he started rummaging through it.
Toiletries, makeup, panties, female products. Nothing suspicious.
He found the ridiculous map she’d been using, which had no borders or labels. She’d sketched a path across the mountains. There was a dot on the other side of the lake, perhaps to mark the Yazidi village where they were headed. The path continued along a U-shaped river and curved north again.
He wanted to tear the map into shreds. It embodied his feelings of anger and frustration. The journey had been stressful, dangerous and thrilling at turns. He liked Layah, and he admired her tenacity, but that didn’t mean he forgave her deception. The only thing worse than being stranded in a war zone was being stranded in a war zone without clear borders.
He folded the map and put it back. As he pulled his hand free, he felt a distinctive rectangular shape against his fingertips.
Bingo.
He found the opening of a small pocket and searched it, his pulse racing. What he discovered inside wasn’t the cell phone he’d expected. It was a pair of passports, secured with a rubber band.
He released the band and opened the first passport book. It was Layah’s. She’d been to Syria, Jordan, Israel, Greece, even France. Her travel itinerary didn’t scream “destitute refugee” to him. The second passbook belonged to Khalil Al-Farah. Hud studied his photograph. He was dark and handsome, with laughing eyes. Hud flipped through the pages, noting that Khalil had visited many of the same countries Layah had. He’d also been to places she hadn’t, like Egypt and Saudi Arabia.
Hud pictured the stunning couple on sunny beaches together, or visiting ancient sites. He pictured them on a romantic honeymoon. This was the man Layah had married. The man who’d seen and touched all the places she kept hidden.
Hud was intensely jealous of Khalil Al-Farah, who seemed very much alive in her thoughts. Two years after his death, she’d stayed true. She spoke his name in her sleep. His passbook was intimately entwined with hers.
She was still in love with him.
Hud returned Khalil’s passport to her pack and slipped Layah’s into his pocket. He wanted to separate them for stupid, possessive reasons. He had strategic reasons, as well. He needed something of hers to use as leverage. A little insurance, in case she tried to screw him. She’d promised him freedom. He had to make sure she delivered.
He emerged from the tent with a darker outlook. He’d been dazzled by her beauty, and that was understandable, but he couldn’t afford to get played. She was a very perceptive person. She sensed his desires, his preferences, his turn-ons.
She’d pegged him earlier. He was aroused by danger. He liked risky situations. And he’d always been attracted to the wrong women.
Take Michelle, for example. He’d met her at a bar, which wasn’t
unusual for him. SEALs were work-hard, play-hard types, and he’d indulged in his share of one-night stands. Michelle had been fun and hot and wild. He’d wanted to settle down, but not with someone boring. They went to Vegas one weekend for a quickie wedding. He’d known she was a handful—he just thought he could handle her. He’d imagined their marriage would have ups and downs, like a roller coaster. Instead it was a train wreck from start to finish.
He shook off the bad memories and sat down by the fire, near Layah. Yusef placed the skinned carcass on a rotisserie over the flames. For the next hour, Hud stared into the animal’s dead eyes.
The mood in the camp was jovial, with lively conversations punctuated by laughter. Husbands cuddled wives. Layah stayed quiet, and she didn’t translate for Hud. She seemed lost in her own thoughts. When Aram sent around a small bottle of liquor, she passed it to Hud. The bottle was almost empty, so Hud gave his share to Ashur.
The boy drained the bottle with relish. He sputtered and coughed uncontrollably. Everyone roared with laughter except Layah. Hud understood her concerns, but he also knew how it felt to be a sad, angry kid on the cusp of manhood.
They ate well that night. Hud went to bed early, his body sore and his mind in turmoil. When Layah joined him, he pretended to be asleep. She curled up on her side, facing his back. He sensed her reaching hand, suspended near his shoulder, but she didn’t touch him. He waited until her breaths were deep and even.
Then he let himself drift.
Chapter 10
Layah woke up shivering.
It was dawn, or even earlier. She could see her breath in the chilly air. Hudson was crouched at the front of the tent, looking out. He’d taken her sheepskin and her blanket. All the bedding was folded and stacked in the corner.
He glanced over his shoulder and made a series of complicated hand signals. It appeared to be some kind of military communication that she had no hope of understanding. Then he returned his attention to the tent flap.
She rubbed her eyes in confusion. She didn’t hear any sounds, other than someone snoring, and Hudson wasn’t actually looking outside. The mesh panel at the top of the tent flap was covered by nylon, zipped up tight. He couldn’t see through it.
He was dreaming.
She didn’t want to startle him by speaking, but she was cold. She reached for the blankets he’d stacked in the corner. He caught the movement and leaped into action. Before she could draw a breath, she was facedown underneath him. He straddled her waist and wrenched her arms behind her back. Quick as lightning, he grasped both her wrists with one hand and grabbed a handful of her hair with the other.
She smothered a scream, trying not to panic. He could probably snap her neck like a twig. “Hudson, stop. It is Layah.”
He loosened his grip on her hair. “Layah?”
“Yes.”
With a muttered curse, he climbed off her. She rolled away from him and sat forward, straightening her mussed hair. He stared at her in horror. Then he looked down at his hands as if he didn’t recognize them. “I hurt you.”
“No.”
“What did I do?”
“You were crouched like a tiger, and you jumped on me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I thought you were someone else.”
“The Da’esh?”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “There was a corner in my cell where they couldn’t see me. I would practice attacking from that spot, over and over again. One day I surprised the guard and broke out, but I didn’t get far.”
“What happened?” she whispered.
“They caught me and beat me unconscious. I couldn’t move for a few days. After that they stopped coming in my cell. The beatings stopped. Everything stopped. No one came to kick me or spit on me or wake me up at all hours. They pushed a food tray through a slot in the door. That was it.”
Her chest constricted with sorrow. She wanted to reach out to him, but she thought he might rebuff her, like Ashur often did. “I’m sorry.”
He started putting on his boots, his jaw clenched.
“The bruises on your side were from the last beating?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know. A month.”
“I should check your sutures.”
“They’re fine,” he said, tying his laces tight. “I’m fine.”
She watched him leave the tent. He wasn’t fine. No one could be fine after months of captivity. He was a strong man, mentally and physically, but he needed time to recover. She felt guilty about forcing him into this grueling journey. She grabbed a blanket to cuddle with, but she didn’t sleep. She was worried about him. He’d hardly spoken to her since that kiss at the summit. Something had changed between them, and she wasn’t sure what.
Did he regret telling her that he wanted her?
Getting involved was a bad idea for both of them. She assumed it was against the rules for a SEAL to have any kind of relationship with a refugee. He seemed irritated with himself for showing emotion, or revealing his desire. He was clearly angry with her for keeping him in the dark about their exact location. He was suffering from post-traumatic stress. He’d been distant while the others celebrated.
She didn’t blame him for withdrawing. She couldn’t have a torrid affair with an American, anyway. They were from two different worlds. He’d go back to his. If she wasn’t careful, he’d break her heart before he left.
The sun rose over the mountains and they ate venison stew for breakfast. Hudson’s dark mood hadn’t affected his appetite. Ashur sat down next to Layah with his stew. She still had mixed feelings about Ashur handling guns, and she hadn’t reacted well to the sight of him covered in blood last night. Now that she’d calmed down, she couldn’t begrudge his accomplishment.
He looked taller today, and so much like Hasan her chest ached. She resisted the urge to ruffle his hair.
“You know what I thought when you were born?” she asked.
“What?”
“I thought you were perfect. You had a crumpled-up face like a little old man. You cried so loud, and you held my finger so tight. I knew you would grow up strong and healthy. I thought, when I have a son, I want him to be just like this.”
He swallowed a bite of stew, giving her a skeptical look. When she’d come to collect him in Syria, she’d been numb with grief, not overjoyed to see him. They’d staggered along together, from one war-torn country to another. They hadn’t spoken about permanent placement for him. She’d been focused on survival and escape, not parenting.
“I imagined having a baby of my own one day. I never imagined that I would become your guardian.”
“You don’t have to be. I can take care of myself.”
“You’re not an adult.”
“I’m not a child, either.”
“Your father would want me to watch over you. So would your mother.”
He said nothing.
“I know I can’t compare to them. They had thirteen years to learn how to raise you. I will never be what they were.”
Ashur made a grunting sound. “You’re okay.”
She looked away, uncertain. It was difficult to reconcile her girlhood dreams with the crushing reality of the current situation. Instead of Khalil’s child, she’d been given a surly teenager. Ashur had her instead of two loving, experienced parents.
“When we get to Yerevan—”
“I don’t even speak the language,” he interrupted.
“I’ll teach you.”
“You don’t speak it.”
“I can get by. We’ll learn together.”
His brow furrowed at this claim, as if he didn’t believe she’d stay there with him. Her parents had fled to Yerevan two years ago. Her cousins planned to settle with their wives in a nearby Assyrian community and look for work. La
yah hadn’t made any decisions beyond this journey. Since Khalil’s death, she couldn’t bear to think too far into the future.
After breakfast, they said goodbye to Nadir and his family, who were heading west to reunite with relatives. Yusef gave Nadir his rifle before they parted ways. Layah offered him one of the tents, which he accepted. Then they continued east as a party of nine.
The route to the Yazidi village followed a steady downhill slope. It was the easiest trek of the journey, and quite picturesque. This side of the Zagros was all green meadows and rolling hills, with a spectacular mountain backdrop. She’d been surrounded by deserts her entire life, and they were majestic, but the rugged beauty of the skyline took her breath away.
It was a struggle to keep moving, nonetheless. She’d been pushed past her limits and she felt it in every step. She never wanted to hike again. Her muscles ached from overuse. She hated her pack and everything inside it. The lovely spring day was too warm, the sun too bright, the birds too cheery, the flowers too fragrant.
They stopped at noon to rest beneath a tree. Its branches were heavy with small green fruits.
“What are those?” Hudson asked.
“Sour plums,” she said. “We can eat them.”
He picked several handfuls, which they washed and shared. It was an acquired taste. Layah enjoyed the tart flavor, but Hudson grimaced at the first bite. He managed to chew and swallow, with some difficulty.
“We finally found a food he doesn’t like,” Ashur said. When he repeated it in Assyrian, everyone laughed.
“Is there no sour fruit in America?” she asked.
“We have green apples, dipped in caramel.”
“What is caramel?”
“Candy.”
“Everything in America is dipped in candy,” Ashur said.
“Or fried in oil,” Hudson said. “I had a fried candy bar once at the county fair.”
“Fried candy?” Layah couldn’t imagine it. “Was it good?”
“Delicious.”
“Where did you eat this awful thing?” Ashur asked. “Tea-fare?”
“The county fair. You might call it a bazaar, or a market. There’s food and amusement park rides.”