by Ronie Kendig
It took them longer to make the trek on foot than she’d expected, leaving Zahrah sweaty and longing for a glass of water. As they walked the road that led to the main gate and checkpoint, one of the guards at the foot gate signaled someone from inside.
Razia clutched Zahrah’s hand. Squeezed tight.
“It’s okay. Probably just getting a woman to help us.” At least, that’s what Zahrah hoped was happening. Hoped they didn’t suspect them of being suicide bombers.
A female soldier emerged in her desert camo and waited as they approached, hands at her side. “Assalaam alaikum.”
Appreciating the efforts the soldier took to greet them appropriately, Zahrah smiled, gave Rashid’s mom a reassuring squeeze, and returned the greeting to the soldier. “Wa alaikum assalaam.”
Face tanned, the female soldier smiled at them—a friendly one that did little to counter the fully automatic weapon slung across her chest or the handgun strapped to her leg. Her name patch read HOMEWOOD. Her rank marked her a specialist—yes, sometimes it benefitted Zahrah, being raised by a general. “How can I help you this morning, ladies?”
Zahrah motioned to Razia. “Her son is the little boy injured in the school explosion the day before yesterday. She would like to see him again.”
“Very good. If you’ll come with me,” Homewood said as she turned, “I will need identification, and we can get an escort assigned.”
Zahrah hustled after the soldier, her father’s mission at the front of her mind. “I wonder … I … there was a captain I spoke to yesterday after I was released from the hospital. He is familiar with the incident and the boy—could he help us perhaps?” She needed a plausible explanation since it wasn’t proper for a woman to ask after a man.
“You were here, too?” Homewood stepped through a small door into a receiving area where Zahrah knew they’d be checked for threats they might possess.
“I was knocked unconscious in the explosion.”
“She is my daughter’s teacher.” Razia sucked in a hard breath. “Ara.” Tears welled in her eyes.
As the image of Ara popped into her mind, Zahrah drew the woman into her arms and held her, noticing the soldier watching. “Her daughter has been missing since the explosion.”
Another female soldier joined them, and the two conferred as Zahrah comforted Razia.
Specialist Homewood nodded. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” The woman bunched her shoulders. “I just can’t imagine. I will pray that they find your little girl. I have two children, and I miss them like crazy.”
Razia, made of tougher stuff than her initial tears bespoke, lifted her head. “Thank you.”
The other soldier asked for permission to do a pat down, and Razia consented.
“What was the name of that captain you mentioned?” Specialist Homewood asked.
“Captain Watters,” Zahrah said.
“First name?”
Zahrah stilled. “I … I don’t know.” Had he ever said his first name? “He was Special Forces, I believe.”
Specialist Homewood lifted a phone and dialed.
The other soldier patted her down, too, verifying they weren’t carrying weapons or bombs or anything else that could cause injury to the personnel on the base. Cleared, they were instructed to wait by the door.
“I’m sorry,” Specialist Homewood said. “Couldn’t track down Captain Watters. But I’ll escort you to the hospital.”
“Thank you.” Disappointment lurked behind her civil answer. She couldn’t give up on the mission. Her daddy would grill her for surrendering so soon. When they stepped outside, Zahrah was surprised when Specialist Homewood led them to a golf cart.
“No.” Razia gripped Zahrah’s arm and drew back. “I walk.”
Zahrah looked to the specialist for direction, concerned they were already creating tension.
“No problem.” Homewood set out on foot. “If you don’t mind getting more sweaty.”
Razia frowned, and Zahrah gave her the translation, eliciting laughter from the woman, who explained it wasn’t hot yet. This was cool to her.
“How have you come to speak English so well?” Homewood asked as they made their way across the base.
“I’m American,” Zahrah said. “My father is American.” No need to mention he commanded coalition forces. “My mother was from here.” Might as well explain why she was here, or they’d drill her, just like every other visit she’d had. “I came with a relief organization to teach girls, really to teach any child eager to learn.”
Homewood motioned to the right. When they rounded the corner, the hospital loomed ahead. “I’ve been in country twice, and I’m not sure I’d come here willingly ever again.”
Zahrah didn’t miss a beat. “That would be because your calling is different.”
The soldier eyed her from beneath the brim of her cap. “If you say so.” She tugged open the front door.
Broad shouldered and tall, another soldier stumbled out, apparently opening the door at the same time. “Excuse me,” he said in a deep voice.
And eyes … those brownish-green eyes hit hers for a split second. To her, time stopped. The heat is really getting to you, Z!
A second soldier followed, talking nonstop. The two looked at a folder.
Then the eyes snapped back to Zahrah.
CHAPTER 9
Camp Marmal, Mazar-e Sharif
29 May—0800 Hours
Dean stopped cold. His heart sliding into his throat as General Zarrick’s threat loomed in the back of his mind. From the corner of his eye, he caught the salute the female specialist offered and gave a curt nod with a return salute before turning his full attention to Z-Day’s daughter.
A smile teetered on her lips as she lowered her gaze in the customary fashion. “Good morning, Captain.”
Dean closed the folder and tucked it under his arm. “Miss Zarrick.” He acknowledged the other woman, careful to maintain appropriate distance with the Muslim. “Ma’am.” He caught the curious gaze of the specialist who’d escorted them in and knew he’d need to shed her if he intended to get information from Miss Zarrick. “Thank you, Specialist Homewood. Sergeant Russo and I can take it from here.”
“Yes, sir.” She headed back to her MP duties at the gate.
Hands clenched before him, Dean tried to muster as much friendliness as he could manage into his face and tone. “Russo said you were on base and looking for me. Is everything okay?”
Face encircled by a dark red hijab, she indicated with her head to the older woman. “This is Rashid’s mom, Razia Mustafa. She hoped to see him again today.” She then turned to the mother and spoke to her in Pashto.
Dean tucked his surprise in the same folder under his arm. The woman before him was an enigma. And there was something about her he was supposed to crack, or he had a feeling her father would be breathing down his neck, if not breaking it.
Mrs. Mustafa bent quickly, saying, “Manana, manana.”
He had no idea what she was thanking him for, but he needed these women in his court and the gates of communication open. So he put his limited Pashto to use and offered, “Har kala rasha,” which wasn’t just the quick, shortcut American “you’re welcome,” but a full commitment in Pashtun fashion of “you’re welcome at any time.”
Thin eyebrows arched as Miss Zarrick met his gaze. If he wasn’t mistaken, admiration sparked in her brown eyes.
Good. One more ball in his court.
“If you’ll come in, I was just visiting with Rashid.” Dean tugged the handle and held the door open for the women. “He’s awake.”
“Rashid?” Mrs. Mustafa repeated, obviously hearing her son’s name in his English. Miss Zarrick translated, taking the woman’s hand and leading her inside. Her gaze flicked to his for a second as they entered.
Russo gave him a nod, a silent “this is working” indication. And it was. They just had to keep the dialogue open. He guided them to the ICU and to the private room. Dean faced them, noting they both kept a pr
oper distance. “Don’t let his appearance worry you. The doctor said he’s doing good.”
Zahrah again gave the translation. When Dean nudged open the door, she entered behind Mrs. Mustafa, but not before sending him an appreciative smile. “Thank you.”
That smile only did one thing: remind him he hadn’t figured out what General Zarrick referred to in her file. He’d gone over it several times.
A stream of joyful, yet worried words flew as the mother and son were reunited.
Dean leaned back against the wall, watching through the partially closed blinds in the window. What am I missing? At twenty-six, she had a killer résumé. Graduated high school at sixteen as valedictorian. College was mastered just as fast and impressively, earning her master’s degree shortly before she left the States to work here. Spoke multiple languages. Father the feared and famed coalition forces commander. Limited information on the mother, other than being an Afghan national and giving birth to a son and a daughter.
“Going well,” Falcon said.
“I’m flying blind.” Dean folded his arms and leaned his head against the wall. “It’s like if I blink, this whole mission will tank.”
“You’ll get it figured out.”
“I’d better. My butt is on the line.”
Falcon grinned.
“What?”
With a sniff, he shook his head and looked down. “Nothing.”
Dean wasn’t in the mood to drag thoughts out of his men. Not even Falcon, who’d served with him the longest. Though Dean had to admit he missed Candyman. Missed the way that guy seemed to read his mind and do what he needed to be done without asking or attitude. He roughed a hand over his jaw. “Speaks English, Pashto, Dari, and French. Lived here eighteen months. Family here.”
“Relax,” Falcon said. “It’ll come.”
Relax. Right. Easy for him to say. His name wasn’t on the radar of a man everyone feared and respected. Who Dean considered a true hero.
A creaking snapped his attention to the door. Miss Zarrick stepped out, fingertips to the door so it’d close quietly. She looked at him. A smile that spoke of trust, relief.
And he felt punched in the gut.
What. Am. I. Missing? He wouldn’t let this woman get hurt because he came up short … again. Involuntarily, he came off the wall. Straightened. Even he was aware of his own posturing.
“I think they needed time alone.” Zarrick didn’t join Falcon and him, her actions clearly dictated by Muslim customs. Men weren’t to be alone with women. Weren’t to touch. She’d need to keep her distance to maintain her “purity.”
“It’s rough,” he said, his throat dry. “I think I’d lose it if my kid died like that.”
“Died?”
Dean frowned. “Her daughter—”
“Hasn’t been found yet.”
If the kid was beneath all that rubble … “My apologies.”
Her thin brows seemed to ripple before her gaze slid to his left hand then back to his eyes. Why was she checking him out? “You have children?” Voice soft, she considered him.
Her question unplugged the false hope he’d caged twenty years ago when he decided having kids must be too hard. “No. But not having them doesn’t mean I don’t relate or that any of this violence makes sense.”
Zarrick eyed him. “True.” Her wide brown eyes shifted to the mother and son. “But they have lived this their whole lives. Their world is not safe, padded from reality the way it is in our country or the way it was before the Taliban.”
Dean noted Falcon slip back a few paces, making a call. More like giving Dean room to open the line of questioning with Zarrick again. To the mission. “If you have a minute, I need to continue our conversation from yesterday.”
Her lips twisted in a sardonic smile that, even though it was fake, brightened her face. “Let me guess—you got a call.”
No way would he admit that. Too many confidentiality breaches.
“A certain cranky general?”
Definitely not answering in the affirmative. Wouldn’t that be great—for her to tell the general that Dean said he was cranky. Yeah. He’d get slapped with an Other Than Honorable discharge so fast, he wouldn’t see it coming.
Rubbing the side of her face where a scab had formed, she sighed. “I talked to my father last night. He told me to come back and tell you what I know.”
Okay. Good. This he could address. “About the men your cousin didn’t want you mentioning.”
“Yeah. My dad thought it might be important, and now that I’ve had time to think about it, I believe he’s right.” Her gaze slid again to the room, but something in her expression—the narrowed eyes, thinned lips—told him she wasn’t thinking about the boy and his mom. “We noticed these men at the school. One day they weren’t there, the next they were.”
“When’d they first show up?”
“I can’t remember exactly.” Nose scrunched, Zarrick bobbed her head from side to side. “About a week ago, maybe two.”
Dean nodded.
“They were unsavory, left me feeling”—what looked like an involuntary shudder twitched through her torso—“unsafe.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“Not if I could help it. They stayed in the lower room, a place Director Kohistani forbid anyone from entering, which was what drew my attention to their presence the most.”
“What’s down there?”
She rubbed her left arm. “We weren’t allowed in there, so I can’t say what is down there or how big it is.”
“Fair enough.” Raptor would need to recon that place, see if anything remained after the explosion. Dean checked Falcon, who was probably recording the conversation on his phone. “What else—did they talk to you, did you hear or see anything?”
She swallowed, touched a hand to her throat. “The day of the explosion, the men left in a truck together. Then returned—one was bloody. Shot, cut”—she bunched her shoulders—“I don’t know. Later, one of them bumped into me. He grew very angry, threatening. Not with words, but with the way he towered over me. Glared at me.” Arms around her middle, Zarrick seemed to be holding herself together. “It was the first time I’ve felt unsafe since coming here.”
Bloodied men … could they be the same men who’d been in the village, the ones who tried to snipe heads off his team? Cowards like this man who harassed Zarrick made Dean want to be Allah’s personal messenger, delivering the wicked into the arms of the seventy-two virgins. “Did you mention this man to your father?”
“And have him send the four horsemen of the apocalypse here?” She laughed, but there was no humor in her voice. “No, I have to stand on my own two feet. I’m aware of this man, and I’ll stay smart by avoiding any further dealings with him.”
Dean shifted on his feet, watching Zarrick. She possessed a strength but also a vulnerability. Which was more dominant? Her eyes, the color of amber like that necklace his mom had, were looking past him, past the here and now … straight into the past.
Recollection tweaked her left eye. “That day—the day of the explosion,” she said, her voice quieter, “he held Rashid by the shoulder. Very roughly. It scared both of us. The man asked Rashid who I was.” She sniffed. “He would not even speak to me directly.”
Interesting. The man had taken note of Zarrick. Was it because she was pretty? An American? A teacher? All of the above? “Do you know why he was interested in you?”
Was this connected to what her father wanted him to figure out? The pressure gauge rose.
Zahrah nodded. “Rashid said I was his sister’s teacher then the man told Rashid to tell me to keep to my books and teaching if I valued those I taught.” She hauled in a shaky breath. “The whole time, he talked as if he was not right there in front of me, staring at me with those hateful, cruel eyes.”
Dean clenched his jaw. Sent a look to Falcon, who nodded and left. He’d get the team together so they could head out and track down something on those men and that lower room.
>
Zarrick looked at him. “Do you …?” She swallowed. “It doesn’t make sense that those men would bomb the school since it’s where they were staying.”
Straightened to his full height, he planted his hands on his belt. She was right, of course. But it meant another complication—it meant someone else didn’t like that those men were at the school. So, who had been the target? The women or the men?
“But,” Zarrick said softly. “I also don’t think the school would’ve been hit if it weren’t for those men.”
Jumping to conclusions only removed his feet from safe ground. Another possibility presented itself as he studied her creamy olive complexion. But with her dark hair and eyes, she didn’t especially stand out as a foreigner. Yet Americans were Americans. Hated by many. “There are a lot of Afghans who don’t agree with girls being educated. Especially by female American missionary teachers.”
Zahrah refused to take offense. But still, he’d basically just diminished what she did to something controversial rather than the mission field that brought her. And all the same, he had a point. “True, but that trouble is more common in the south—Kandahar and Helmand provinces.”
His eyebrow quirked. “Only 5 percent of children receive a primary education in Afghanistan.”
She smiled. “True, but again—the vicious attitude toward girls getting an education is more prevalent in the south. Far from here. It’s not so surprising that I would know and love my mother’s country so well, is it?”
“Most who come over don’t care. They get in, do the job, and get out.” How did he look casual yet powerfully intense? Just like Daddy.
“Ah, that’s the difference.” She smiled.
“What?”
“You said ‘job,’ but I don’t see what I’m doing as a job.”
“Then what is it?”
“Passion. I grew up with a mother who performed during my father’s military balls, entertaining officers’ wives, doing her duty, but she would then be in bed for days afterward. She never felt like she measured up to the American woman because she struggled with the language. She felt isolated and so very alone. My brother—I think it embarrassed him that she could not speak better. But rather than help her, he rebelled. It drove her depression deeper till she could not take it anymore.”