by Ronie Kendig
That’s when it hit him—she wasn’t wearing a red kaftan. It was covered in blood! “Harrier!” Dean sprinted toward her and heard the pounding of boots behind him.
“Easy, easy,” Harrier said as he lifted the boy from her arms.
“He … he … breathing,” she said, a trembling, bloody hand going to her forehead. Distress creased her brows. Lost, stricken eyes followed Harrier, who laid the boy on the ground and went to work. “Then … he …” She shook her head.
“We’ve got him.” Dean touched the woman’s shoulder. Assessing her, he noted the glazed expression sliding over her face. Shock. “Ma’am?”
“We were … the Talib … they—Fekiria! Ara!” She spun around toward the building, as if looking for someone. Her feet tangled. She stumbled.
Dean caught her. “Ma’am.” He held her shoulders. Had to get her—
“Fekiria!”
Resisting the urge to put her into a tight hold to help control her, Dean reminded himself of the protocols here. Of the propriety. “Ma’am, please.”
“Zahrah!” Another woman rushed out of the makeshift hospital. “Here, I’m here!”
The woman next to him stilled. Her gaze fixed on the newcomer. Relief bottomed out her fight and her limbs went weak.
Dean stepped back, aware that men should not touch women. He and Raptor team had worked hard to gain the respect of the Afghans. He wouldn’t screw that up.
“Fekiria!” She sighed and sagged, her hijab sliding down the back of her head, revealing glistening black hair.
No. Not glistening black hair. Glistening blood. His mind registered the crimson rivulet escaping her hairline and streaking down her temple. Registered the rubbery movement of her legs. The way she wavered. The angle her head went.
“Zahrah!” the other woman shrieked, her face wrought.
Dean lunged. Caught the woman. Her head thumped against his vest. Limp in his arms, she let out a soft moan. He lifted her as the thunder of choppers drowned the compound. Rotor wash fanned smoke across the chaotic scene as Dean lowered the woman to the ground.
“What happened, Captain?” Hawk asked.
“Head injury,” Dean said. He held the sides of her face as Hawk secured an inflatable brace around her neck. “Medic!” he shouted over his shoulder then checked Hawk’s work.
Rich brown eyes opened. Fastened on him. Then rolled back.
German Military Hospital, Camp Marmal, Afghanistan
28 May—0900 Hours
White light blinded. Streaked through her eye socket like an electric shock.
Zahrah cringed and ducked, squeezing her eyelids tight. She shook her head and forced her gaze back to the military doctor wielding his penlight.
“Sorry.”
She curled her fists around the blanket as he continued his checkup.
He flashed the light from the side, above, even below, but each beam stabbed her cornea. “Are you experiencing pain?”
“Only when you do that,” she said with a soft laugh.
He gave a sniff as he stuffed the penlight into his breast pocket and stepped back. He jotted some notes on her chart. “You have good reflexes and your vitals are stable. The stitches will take time to heal, but tests reveal no intracranial bleeding or worrisome swelling. All in all, very good, considering.”
“Then, I can go home?” Or back to her kaka’s house. She’d left home eighteen months ago.
“Yes, I’ll have the nurse get your discharge papers started. We’ll send you home with some anti-inflammatories and painkillers.”
“Doctor,” she said, braving his gaze and the question. “What of the children from the school?”
“I’m sorry.” He shot her a sympathetic look. “I can’t talk about the other patients. I’m just glad you came out with only a few stitches and a mild concussion. I’d hate to try to explain to your father anything worse.”
Zahrah studied the gray blanket. She’d prefer her father not be dragged into this. He’d retired for a reason. Told her not to come to Afghanistan for the same one. Never would he believe this was a very unlucky coincidence.
A female in ACUs entered, handed the doctor a file as he left, then presented Zahrah with a stack of papers to sign. “Your escape papers.” She smiled.
As Zahrah penned her John Hancock to the documents, the nurse set a bag on the portable wheeled tray. “Your cousin brought these clean clothes for you. She’s waiting in the hall.”
Zahrah finished the papers and returned them to the nurse, who went through them verifying. While she did that, Zahrah went behind the curtain and slipped into her long tunic and pants. She stuffed her toes through the thong of the sandals and emerged, running a brush gently—so very gently considering the stitches—through her hair.
The nurse handed her a printed sheet. “Your discharge instructions. Stitches will need to be cleaned with antiseptic daily. Keep it covered for the first couple of days. The prescriptions include an anti-inflammatory.” She handed her a bottle. “Take that twice a day until you return in two weeks to have the stitches removed. The painkillers”—she handed her another bottle—“you can take as needed. You probably aren’t feeling any pain right now because of the morphine IV you had, so I’d advise you take the first one about two hours from now, and then every four to six hours for the next forty-eight hours. Then as needed.”
Zahrah nodded, her head already thumping when she looked down.
“Any questions?”
Overwhelmed, she took in the soiled clothes, the bottles, the instructions, and shook her head.
“Good. Captain Watters has asked to speak with you, so I’ll notify him.”
“Who? Why …?”
“He’s captain of the team first on scene. He needs to get your statement for his review.”
Though her pulse sped, Zahrah told herself she had nothing to be afraid of, that she’d done nothing wrong. “Did I—?” She gulped. “Am I in trouble? Does he think I had something to do with the explosion?”
“He does not,” came a deep, firm voice.
Zahrah glanced to her left as a soldier entered, removing his dark ball cap.
“Miss Zarrick.” Very tanned and very athletic, the soldier eased into the room. “I’m Captain Watters, the commander of the team onsite shortly after the explosion. I have some questions about the incident.” He thumbed toward the female soldier. “Specialist Bramlett will stay with us while we talk. Do you remember what happened last night at the school?”
“I remember …” Not him. But the relief that pulsed through her veins when the uniforms spilled into the compound. “Honestly, it was a blur. I remember seeing smoke, then soldiers—you, I guess. Really, I was just so worried about finding help for Rashid …” As the pressure in her head increased, she leaned more heavily against the mattress, wishing to be pain-free.
His camo-clad arms were held in a V, large hands clasping a manila folder flat against his pants. Corded muscles strained against the sleeves that bore no rank or name patch. Dark brows framed hazel eyes that had the same effect a drill might, boring right through her. “Are you up to a few questions?”
“I …” She wasn’t. Not really. Not with him. He made it hard to think straight. But it wasn’t like she could escape his questions. “Sure.”
He lowered himself into a chair and set the file on his right knee before pinning it with his elbow. “Were you there when the explosion happened?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not here for any reason other than to hear what you know. Please tell me what you remember prior to the explosion.”
And she did. Zahrah told about leaving the compound, seeing the Talib, running back to the school with Rashid, Ara, and Fekiria. The chaos.
“I came to, covered in debris and choking on smoke. When I realized Rashid lay next to me, unconscious, I was terrified he’d died. Because of me.”
“Because of you?” Something sparked in his eyes.
Oh. “No, not like that—I didn’t
have anything to do with the explosion. I just … Rashid and his sister stayed late for tutoring. If they’d left on time, they wouldn’t have been there. How are they? Is Rashid okay? And Ara?” Zahrah’s stomach squeezed.
Captain Watters darted a look to the nurse. “I just spoke with the doctor about the boy. He’s in a coma, serious but good chance of survival.”
“He’ll live, then?”
“They think so, yes.”
Zahrah wanted to breathe her relief, but— “Ara?”
Captain Watters’s expression went stone-like. “I haven’t heard about a girl. Maybe she wasn’t involved.”
“No, she was there.”
“I’m sure they’ll find her.”
Zahrah grabbed the tendril of hope he offered. “She stayed at the school for tutoring, but she didn’t need it.” She managed a smile and a one-shouldered shrug. “Ara knew Rashid wanted to learn, but he was too afraid to ask their father. So on certain days, when he would come to walk her home, she would stay late with me, repeating the lessons so Rashid could overhear. Learn, we hoped.” Zahrah squelched the tidal pull of grief. “She’s such an amazing child—they have to find her.”
“Zahrah?” Fekiria stepped inside, her gaze questioning.
Captain Watters rose, a respectful, courteous gesture.
“Captain,” Zahrah said, smiling at him. “This is my cousin Fekiria Haidary.”
“What … what is going on?” Fekiria asked, a scowl digging into her olive skin.
Why did she suddenly feel nervous with her cousin here? “Captain Watters asked me to tell him what I saw at the school, what I remembered.”
“You saw nothing,” Fekiria spat out.
Zahrah stilled, confusion rippling through her. “What are you—?”
“You should leave,” Fekiria snipped at the captain. “It’s not right for you to be here with her.”
He looked at Zahrah, gauging.
Something in Zahrah squirmed under his scrutiny. She took her cousin’s arm and tugged her aside. “What has happened?”
“How could you be so stupid talking to them? Do you want those men to come after you?” Fekiria’s green eyes were a mixture of terror and rage. “Because they will. I promise those men will not care that you were born in America.”
Captain Watters demanded, “What men?”
CHAPTER 7
German Military Hospital, Camp Marmal
28 May—1000 Hours
Hands planted on his belt, Dean gritted his teeth as the two women hurried toward the main gate’s security checkpoint. He wanted to detain them, question them, but that would work back the hours he’d put into gaining the trust of the locals. The small ground he’d made with Zahrah Zarrick. She trusted him. Liked him—he could see it in her eyes. And that benefitted his need to gain information.
Until her cousin had entered.
Anger pulsed through him. They were hiding something. When the younger woman—the cousin—had hissed something about “those men,” Miss Zarrick’s face paled. Then neither of them would talk. Or speak against their people.
Wait.
“Those men will not care that you were born in America.”
Dean pivoted and started for SOCOM’s sub-base, the walk letting him work off the anger and think through the questions. The possibilities. He didn’t want to believe those young women were embroiled in something against coalition forces, but out here in the heat of combat, he couldn’t afford to rule out anything. He stepped inside, smacked by the stale, quasi-chilled, air-conditioned smell. A wheezing AC unit crowded out the whine of computers lining the walls.
Seated at his desk, Falcon looked up from a file—probably his AAR—and stilled. “What’s wrong?”
Had to admit—felt good that his first knew him that well. A bit scary, too. “What do we have on the female teachers from the school?”
A swiveling chair squeaked as Hawk rotated to face them from a table. “Dude. You mean the hot chicks?”
Dean ignored the comment. “Who are they?”
“That’s where it gets interesting,” Hawk said, green eyes pinched with amusement as he held up a file. “The hottie who got the head wound and passed out in your arms? She’s the daughter of the indomitable General Peter Zarrick.”
“General ‘Z-Day’ himself?” The man known for cleaning house when he assumed command of the coalition forces in a single day. Those in the know called it Z-Day. The day General Peter Zarrick revamped a flagging Army.
“So she’s American.” Falcon’s voice pitched.
“Half.” Hawk smirked. “Seems the good general met an Afghan woman and married her. What’s even more interesting is that her mother is the sister of one Jahandar Haidary.”
“Either tell us what that means or give up the file.” Falcon had a short fuse when it came to Hawk, the two sparking off each other like static electricity.
“The hottie’s maternal uncle is cousin to the physicist who went missing two years ago. Remember that? Dead of night tracking and”—he flashed his hand open—”poof! SEALs lose him.” Hawk grunted with a smart-aleck grin. “Should’ve let some real soldiers handle that mission.”
Dean took the file and scanned the information. Twenty-six-year-old Zahrah Zarrick had come to Afghanistan eighteen months ago with—Oh great. “Tss.” The weight of what he read pushed him into a chair.
“What?”
“Christian nonprofit literacy organization.”
Falcon gave a loud, clipped laugh. “Might as well paint a target on her back. Think that’s why the school got hit?”
“The cousin”—Dean flipped the pages looking for the other girl’s profile—“mentioned something about men coming after Zarrick if she talked to me.”
Easing forward, Falcon frowned. “What men?”
“That’s what I want to find out. Both of them looked like scared rabbits when Haidary mentioned them. After that, I couldn’t get Zarrick to talk.”
“Yeah, that’s not a good thing. Because she’s a hottie, and we need conversation.” Hawk winked.
Dean glared. “We need information. Whoever set that bomb is out there. We have to avoid unrest when we’re trying to scale things back in the region. Don’t need innocents dying and us getting blamed.” Even as the last words left his mouth, he realized how terse they sounded. How much like his father he sounded. He twitched away the thought.
“I need to talk to Zarrick. Without her cousin.” But with the rules of society here, Zarrick couldn’t be alone with him—so maybe he’d find common ground. “How bad is the school?”
“Half gone,” Falcon mumbled.
“Structurally sound, usable?”
His second in command eyed him without turning his head. “What’re you thinking?” Falcon set aside his AAR and straightened.
“That if they don’t have to leave, they won’t. We need information, and if the school has to be relocated, we lose a possible lead. That school was targeted for a reason. I want to know why and by whom, because once Z-Day finds out, he’ll be eating us for lunch.” Dean stabbed a finger at the file. “These women saw men who didn’t belong. What if the men were at the school?”
“Dude.” Hawk sputtered a laugh. “They could’ve seen the men walking to the school, walking to the market—anywhere in the city.”
“Maybe, but I have a feeling Miss Zarrick doesn’t loiter around the city—she knows the dangers here. She abides by the customs, wears local clothes, and even looks the part, but her speech gives her away.” Dean nodded, thinking through the facts. “As an American, she knows she’s an easy, soft target.”
“You know this isn’t our problem,” Falcon said. “We aren’t CID. Let them handle it. Besides, nothing’s happening at the school—a kid’s missing.”
“Our responsibility is securing the area, and since we were first on the scene and there’s a missing child, we own this. Finding out how that SCIF got into the village on the outskirts is priority one, but this upheaval—it’s might
y interesting that a stolen military computer is found the same time as this school is blown and mysterious men are reported in the city.”
Hawk smirked again. “No, that just sounds like a day in Mazar-e.”
Irritation clawed its way up his spine and pushed Dean from the chair. “I’m going to talk to Burnett.”
“And say what?” Falcon asked.
“That I want to follow up.”
“With who?”
“Zarrick. I have a feeling she’ll be forthcoming if I can get her alone.”
Hawk let out a catcall.
Dean balled a fist. “Without her cousin.”
Hawk hooted more.
Haidary Residence, Mazar-e Sharif
28 May—1020 Hours
The ride home had been made in stiff silence that strained Zahrah’s nerves. By the time they reached the compound of her uncle’s home, she withered beneath the thunder of another headache. She lifted the bottle of pills she’d been given and remembered the nurse saying she’d feel the pain soon enough. But it was not just the physical injury. The pain of Fekiria’s admonishment, the undulating disapproval from her uncle, who kept glaring at her in the rearview mirror … Zahrah drew in a breath and looked out as the car pulled up to the blue painted plaster wall. He honked twice and the gate swung open. Her half-dozen cousins, all younger than Fekiria, swarmed the car. Laughing, waving at Zahrah, running alongside as her kaka threaded the sedan through the gates to the compound.
He hopped out and stormed inside the house.
Car doors swung open and in flooded the children. Laily dropped across Zahrah and hugged her. “We were scared you weren’t coming back,” the five-year-old announced.
Arms around her little cousin, Zahrah savored the welcome home the others gave her as she climbed out. They clamored around her. All save thirteen-year-old Daoud, who wore the same severe expression of his father and older brother, Adeeb. Zahrah worried over her uncle’s temper.
“He is angry with you,” Fekiria said as they moved inside the two-story home.
“Why is Daoud angry?”
“Because Baba is angry.”
Zahrah set down Laily and turned. Her khala Hafizah scurried toward her, arms raised for a hug. “Salaam, bachem,” she said, tears pooling in her dark eyes.