Comeback

by Doranna Durgin

  "Good. Then eat."

  Cole made a snarly face at the man and took a bite of the laden flatbread. "You're right," he said. "This is excellent." In truth it was as leaden in his stomach as he'd imagined it would be, but he couldn't blame that on the cook…and she was listening.

  After a few moments and several more forced bites, the boy came into the room. "My father is away," he said, slowly and distinctly and obviously operating under the assumption that they would understand more Berzhaani than they spoke. Not a bad assumption in this area, actually. "Until he comes back, my mother asks me to ease you. I have a tea."

  And be dulled by whatever painkillers were in the thing? Herbs…just because they were natural didn't mean they weren't strong. Could be laudanum in that cup for all he knew. Cole shook his head, firmly—and then had to swallow hard when those bites of food tried to reappear. That would just make Aymal's meal complete, he was sure.

  The boy was no fool…and not dealing with his first fugitive. Perhaps not even his first fugitive with tea-brown skin and bright blue eyes.

  Then again, this area's penchant for resistance activity was the very reason he'd come.

  "For the fever," the boy said. "You will stay awake."

  Cole took a long look in those wise dark eyes and decided that if the boy was that good at lying and was working against them, they were sunk in any event. He took the tea with thanks.

  He hoped it would stay down easier than the food.

  "My mother, she also asks me to—" and here Cole's ability to understand broke down. He looked to Aymal, who shrugged. With infinite patience, the boy retrieved a jar from one of the wicker drawers, and showed it to Cole. It appeared to be bag balm. For cows. "This is most excellent for the wound gone bad. Only until my father returns with proper full treatment."

  The wound gone bad. Even the kid knew it. Had he even looked? Cole twisted to peer at the spot—still couldn't see it—and to give a little sniff. Not quite that bad yet. The kid saw him, though, and grinned. "A little," he said, and gestured for Cole to move to the bed.

  "Jeez, how old are you, kid?" This in English, just slipping out. "You sure you want to do this?"

  "I can—" Aymal started, but Cole shot him a look that said I probably wouldn't be in this fix if you'd done it right the first time and eyed the distance between the table and the bed. Surely he could make that step or two without falling on his face.

  He'd damned well better. If the infection got into his blood, then he'd be in trouble. Real trouble. Sepsis. Organ damage. No field kidney transplants here in Oguzka.

  If. Very good at denial when he wanted to be, Cole was. Believing he could do the impossible sometimes allowed him to go out and damned well do it.

  "Sir?"

  The look on the boy's face told Cole this wasn't the first time he'd tried to get Cole's attention in the past moments. Dammit. "Okay, kid, I'm moving. The bed. Me. Moving."

  Aymal snorted, and Cole figured he knew at least that much English.

  In the adjoining room, conversation broke out; Cole figured someone had arrived and he didn't give it much thought until the voices—both female—rose in tension and emphasis. The kid, too, knew there was something wrong. He shoved the jar into Cole's hand and ran into the other room. In his wake, Aymal stood, gathering his things around him and tossing Cole his abaya.

  Cole didn't move fast enough to catch the heavy robe; it landed half on his shoulder and hung there. "You understand them?"

  "No," Aymal said shortly. "But I know well enough to get ready to move when I hear voices in such discussion."

  In spite of himself, Cole grinned. Not totally inept, his defector terrorist. In slow motion, Cole shrugged on the robe, finally standing to straighten it all out. Aymal ducked beneath the table and came up with Cole's satchel, handing it over with an expression that said see, I had the gun anyway. Just in time for the kid to turn around and run the few steps back into the room, speaking so quickly neither of the men had a chance to decipher his Berzhaani words.

  "Whoa," Cole told him, in Russian this time. He put a hand on the kid's shoulder, gave it a little squeeze. "Slowly, yes?"

  "Big something on the road," the kid said, and seeing the incomprehension on both men's faces, flung his arms out wide and said, "Boom!"

  "An explosion?" Cole exchanged a glance with Aymal. "No kidding."

  It might have nothing to do with their presence at all.

  And then again, it might.

  Either way, this family was smart to make sure Cole and his defector were well away from their house before whoever had caused that explosion, whyever they'd caused that explosion, got anywhere near.

  "Hide!" the kid exhorted them, gesturing emphatically. Follow me and hurry up! all in one. He scooped up the salve Cole had placed on the table and thrust it back into Cole's hand, then gave his arm a tug that had no concern whatsoever for the way it pulled on Cole's back.

  Well. Priorities, he supposed. Couldn't say as he faulted the kid's. With effort, Cole got the jar into his courier bag and courier bag over his shoulder—and then was surprised to find Aymal there, ready to prop him up. He got cranky fast. "I'm fine," he said, in English, then repeated it in Russian. "Just go."

  Aymal looked as convinced as he ever did, but gestured for the kid to move on, following him out of the room and taking a sharp turn to a back door, never impinging on the family's personal space. Cole lurched after them, but after a couple of steps got his stride and by the time he emerged into daylight, felt steady enough. Sleep, food, tea…see? All is well.

  As long as they didn't slow down and check the momentum he'd built up. That could be bad.

  He needn't have worried about it. The boy chivied them along as fast as they could go, and for Cole that was a stumbling jog that took them behind and between blurry houses and blurry, surprised people and over to the other edge of town. Before he knew it he looked up the rock-strewn path of a steep hill, and only then did he realize, his thinking muffled, that they were headed for the old temple.

  Not so abandoned after all?

  The boy looked back at them—it seemed he was halfway up the hill already, spry and ready to sprint to the top. "Hurry!" he shouted. "Boom!"

  Right. Boom.

  Of course, if the guys who'd made the boom had cars, the kid was right. Hurry it was.

  Then again, maybe the boom was good. Selena was here; she'd have her ear to the ground. The boom would tell her look at me and she wouldn't miss the significance of the location.

  Yeah. Except for this hill, the boom was good.

  His own breath sounded harsh in his ears, and he'd lost track of his feet When he stumbled on a rock—since his eyes weren't doing him too much good either—Aymal caught his arm and hauled him back up, tucking his shoulder beneath. "I'm fine," Cole said. "Really."

  Aymal acted as though he hadn't heard, and then somehow they were at the crest of the hill—or as far up as they'd have to go, for they'd come upon a shallow bench in the side of the mountain, and upon the temple—rocks and walls and nooks and crannies and the stone enclosure for the eternal flame that no doubt deserved more respect and reverence than Cole had to give it just now.

  The boy ran on, looking over his shoulder, his feet too nimble to falter despite the uneven ground. "Over here!" he said. "You can hide—" But he seemed to realize that the shouting was counterproductive to the hiding, and cut himself off, waving at them emphatically.

  At that moment, Cole was quite certain that the image of this child endlessly urging them onward would become a staple of his nightmares. "Coming," he muttered to himself, wasting precious breath. Past the imposing remains of the temple they went, past the oval, exposed interior lined with tiny underground pilgrim cells, past square pillars that weren't holding anything up and maybe never had. Past the temple itself completely, and around a small point of rock to what could only be called the other side.

  "Here!" the boy said proudly, stopping before yet another pile of rock. Co
le stopped when Aymal stopped, regaining his own balance well enough to move away and stand on his own, not certain what it was that had made the boy so triumphant. He exchanged a wary glance with Aymal, who returned it in kind, and finally gave the kid an "eh?" expression.

  Pride turned to frustration. "Here!" And he disappeared.

  Cole blinked, and straightened in offense. "I'm not that bad off," he said, and meant to say it in English so Aymal wouldn't understand, but the words were out of his mouth in Russian before he knew it.

  And Aymal just gave him one of those looks and said, "There must be a cave."

  Of course. A cave. Aymal would know about those, what with the whole terrorist hideout thing. The kid popped back into view, and this time they needed no urging. As they rounded the final few feet, the slash of the cave opening became obvious.

  As did its regular use. It had all the basics—pallets, a stash of pilfered MREs, a few tattered paperback books, a kerosene lantern and fuel can…home sweet home. Even a bucket off to the side.

  Way off to the side.

  And Aymal was talking to the kid, a voice that seemed farther away than it ought to. Exhortations to keep quiet about their presence here should anyone come looking—

  Not counting Selena!

  And beyond that, quick words about Aymal's worth, how he could help the Berzhaani people—

  Say again? The Berzhaani people? What was that about?

  How he had information that was important to them, could keep the Kemeni from making one last final, violent statement—

  The Kemeni? The Kemeni were dissolved, broken by Selena's defiance at the capitol. A defiance Cole wished he could muster now, with the cave going fuzzy around him and Aymal's words lingering in his ear. His heart hadn't settled from the dash up the hill; his breathing still came hard. Maybe some more sleep was in order after all. Yeah, that would do it.

  Aymal's voice rose. "Tell your people I can save the capital!"

  What? The capital? Again?

  But they were Cole's last thoughts before the world went gray to black with only the faintest awareness that the hard rocky floor of the cave had come up to slap him hard.

  Chapter 16

  For once, Dobry's dour voice perfectly suited the occasion. "This certainly turned out well."

  Selena kept her hands away from her pockets, not quite reaching raise 'em high altitude. The generous number of gun muzzles pointed their direction trapped her gaze and didn't quite let her look to the people beyond. She risked a glance over her shoulder, slowing her ragged breathing by sheer force of will. Inside she raged for freedom, wanting to strike and fight and even lose rather than stand here unresisting.

  The tiny jeep-thing that had chased them the last quarter mile to the village had turned around, leaving a dust trail behind.

  She cleared her throat, resisting the urge to spit out the crud at the back of her throat, dust and thick saliva left over from the chain of events. Car crash, explosion, gunfight…and the unexpected foot chase at the end of it all, with the jeep-thing coming up behind them fast and mean, the village within reach…

  The men in the jeep-thing had known better than to encroach upon the village so directly.

  And the village had known better than to let two strangers under pursuit enter unchallenged.

  "There's a good side to this," she said, back to back with Dobry, her backpack taking up the space in between. "The village is still strong. Reports of its role in squashing the Kemeni during that distraction attack before the Kemeni took the capitol last year—"

  "I read it." Dobry cut her off, his voice as close to snappish as she'd heard it. "I'm not seeing how it does us any good at this particular moment."

  To Selena it couldn't have been any clearer. "It means if I'm right and Cole did come here, they didn't just hand him over to whoever might've come along looking for him." Was it her imagination, or had those guns moved in closer, hemming them in like two wild animals, a crowd of faces and loose clothing and robes blending together beyond?

  Dobry stiffened, alerting her. A man's voice rose above the general chatter of the well-armed welcoming committee. The arrival of someone new, someone commanding. "Who are they?"

  "Who knows?" a man responded. "They speak English. And they haven't shut up since they got here."

  "They also speak Berzhaani," Selena said, her voice calm in spite of her inner turmoil.

  The new arrival pushed to the front, fully visible. "There," he said, as dry as this harsh land around them. Most definitely someone in charge. Probably the village magistrate. "They also speak Berzhaani. Blessed are we to have such enlightened visitors, bringing their violence to our homes."

  A leader with a dark sense of humor. Great. Selena offered, as humbly as possible, "That was an…unexpected development."

  "Does the man not speak our language as well?"

  A leader steeped in his testosterone-centric culture with a dark sense of humor. Even better.

  Dobry shocked her then. "Not with skill," he said, meaning, as far as Selena knew, barely at all. "And this woman is the one who knows your people. Who has saved your homes in the past."

  The pause was excruciating, long enough for the people surrounding them to drop back slightly, guns now pointing at the ground, and for the magistrate to walk deliberately around Dobry to examine Selena. An older man with a full, gray-shot beard, his hair hidden under a turban, flowing white-and-blue-striped clothing worn with as much dignity as the most formal dress. He looked her up and down, and Selena winced inwardly. Her hair was exposed, the hajib slanted across her shoulders. Her long coat was battered, her face stiff with a dozen cuts, the blood dried and crusted. Just as well he couldn't see how many weapons she carried, or that the Cougar was well within reach, inside her coat pocket.

  When he finished his examination, the man let the moment stand a little longer. Then he said, so mildly, "Is that so?"

  Selena suddenly realized that this man would not hesitate to order their deaths if he truly thought they were a threat. Their own intentions wouldn't matter, only the potential dangers from their presence. Ruthless in the defense of his people…and probably a lesson hard learned. She bit her lip—not so much from nerves as from the effort to hold back her words until she thought she had the right ones. She kept her gaze carefully just south of center from his own, not challenging him, and waited for the slight nod he eventually gave her. "I was here this past winter," she said. "I was visiting the temple. I called for help when the Kemeni attacked."

  "There was a woman here," he agreed. "We are quite grateful to her. We would look amiss at anyone trying to gain favors with her name."

  "You don't even know her name," Selena grumbled.

  That made him narrow his eyes, ever so slightly. "We do. We know she is Selena Jones—"

  "Selena Shaw Jones." Selena let her cranky tone come through, not sure they had much to lose. Dobry nudged her. He stood beside her now, facing this man who held the key to their next moments.

  The man didn't bother to acknowledge either of them. Selena knew his type—strong, decisive, the very glue holding his small village together. She'd dealt with many of just that nature in her legate work. Unfortunately, he hadn't been one of them. He said, "We know she was of the American FBI. We know she worked here against terrorism." Then he smiled. "What we don't know," he said, "is who you are."

  She opened her mouth.

  Closed it again.

  Eyed Dobry and found him eyeing her back.

  Because of course they didn't have papers on them. Dobry might well be able to prove he was Kenneth Goff, but not Steven Dobry, CIA, working against the terrorists thank you very much. And Selena…

  She'd simply not gotten used to a mind-set where, while in a country she'd worked officially as a legate, she'd have to prove her true identity to anyone. She'd rushed out of that hotel room thinking only of finding Cole, certain they were closing in. She had only the most cursory of ID. Nothing that would convince this man
. Damn, didn't they have television here?

  Out of the corner of his mouth, Dobry said, "Don't tell me—"

  "No," she said. "I don't." After a moment of silence all around, she said to him, "Just shut up, okay?"

  "No problem," he told her, all his dourness set to full. "Words fail me."

  Had he been even a whit less dignified, the man before them might have rolled his eyes. He pointed to a big rock at the edge of the village, looking no more significant than any other rock in this landscape where they were so generous. "There is the bus stop. There should be a bus here around midday." He glanced over his shoulder at the crowd. "Today is bus day, yes? Or is it tomorrow?"

  A dozen murmurs came in return, assuring him this was the day.

  "But your village has a reputation for resisting those troublemakers—for providing sanctuary to those hiding from such men." Selena mustered patience, trying to wrap her brain around the magistrate's unexpected response. Oguzka hadn't been known for its refusal to offer sanctuary.

  Then again, Selena had changed in the intervening months. Maybe the village had, too.

  The man seemed to think so. As their magistrate, he probably had a lot more schooling and worldly experience than he was letting on. His demeanor had turned almost offhand by the time he said, "We've filled our quota for the day. You may wait for the bus there, or you may start walking."

  With the Kemeni gathering to have their revenge? It would be a short, hard walk. Those Kemeni…they were a development she hadn't counted on. Her presence seemed to have galvanized them right out of retirement and into action.

  Dobry nudged her. "Your hijab has fallen," he reminded her, and it was his way of reestablishing his dominance in the eyes of these people—and of restoring the respect she showed for their culture when she wore it. She hastily re-gathered her hair into a ponytail, snatching up the rebellious stray locks from the side of her face. By the time she'd settled the featherweight cotton scarf into place, the magistrate had turned to a quiet, serious conversation with several of the men—grim men, handling their SKS rifles with easy familiarity, who split up and headed out of the village with obvious intent to make sure the Kemeni in his little mini-jeep didn't return.