Darkest Before Dawn

by Maya Banks

  It was the husband who spoke first.

  “The outcasts are here, and it was heard that they plan to stay in the area past sunset as it is known you travel exclusively by night. There is a group of people here for the market who came from the north, the direction in which you travel. You need to leave with them while it’s still light. You’ll blend in and the militants won’t be looking for a woman traveling with others when she’s strictly been solitary until now. It’s your best—and only—chance. If you leave at night, they’ll capture you for certain. And if you don’t appear this night, they’ll search the village and those harboring you will be killed instantly.”

  Honor looked to the couple in horror over the danger she’d put them in. She’d acknowledged that they risked much in helping her, and realistically she knew from the beginning just how much they risked, but hearing it said so matter-of-factly rattled her to the core. She didn’t want these people to die because of their kindness to a complete stranger.

  “And this is where my idea comes in,” the woman interjected, as if sensing Honor’s rising panic. “They won’t be expecting to see you traveling during the day, accompanied by others, but they could possibly be tipped off to your disguise as an older lady hunched with age and a shuffling walk.”

  Nerves attacked Honor, instantly increasing the dread already present in the pit of her stomach. The taste of hopelessness and impending failure was bitter in her mouth. To have come so far, to have come so close, just a few days from the border into a safer zone with a U.S. presence, a place A New Era hadn’t yet dared to encroach on, and be captured with freedom in sight. It was more than she could bear. She lifted a knotted fist to her mouth, determined not to show the depth of her despair to these courageous people. She felt it dishonored them when they’d shown so much of what she now lacked.

  “Just listen to me,” the woman said soothingly. “I think you’ll agree this is a good idea. We will redarken your face and hair but smooth the lines in your face, making you appear younger. We will remove the padding that makes you appear larger, and though it may be painful given the injury to your knee, you must walk normally, as if you are unhurt. I’ll apply the salve to your knee and other areas that pain you so you’ll receive temporary relief.

  “And there are men in the group, one who will act as your husband and walk just ahead of you as is customary. All of these factors—these changes—combined will throw those who wait for the old lady traveling under the veil of night off course. I believe you won’t even draw their notice because they won’t be looking for what you are. A young woman, in a more vibrant, younger woman’s manner of dress, traveling with a group of people—family—in the daylight hours.”

  “I believe it is your only chance,” the husband said in a resolute voice.

  The absolute certainty in the husband’s tone overrode any fear Honor had of venturing into the daylight. She pondered the woman’s wisdom, and her idea had merit. She would, in fact, be the reverse of all intel A New Era had on her. They might not fall for it ever again, but if she didn’t get past them this time, there wouldn’t be a next time to worry over anyway. She had to take it one step at a time. Avoid one trap at a time. And as the husband had said, it was her only chance. Her only choice. She had to do this, because if she was discovered leaving under the shield of dark, the militants would know that someone in the village had given her sanctuary, and they would retaliate by murdering every single man, woman and child. The thought sickened her. These people had been kind to her, risking their lives to help her, and she’d be damned if they were repaid with violence.

  She simply nodded her agreement as the woman first thoroughly cleaned Honor’s face, removing the embedded dirt and debris disguised by the dye to make her look older, with age-weathered skin. Then, with great care, she rubbed the dye into Honor’s skin and then began reapplying it to her hair so that the natural blond was nearly black. She redarkened Honor’s eyebrows, which were already brown, but a light brown color, in contrast to the honey blond of her hair. Honor, not wanting to take any chances, had dyed them the first time she’d used henna to cement her disguise.

  Next she gently applied a thick layer of the odorless paste to Honor’s swollen knee, whispering a prayer as she worked. Tears burned the edges of Honor’s eyes because the woman prayed in the language of religion. Arabic. And she was asking for Allah’s blessing and for his hand to guide her path to freedom.

  When she’d meticulously applied the medicinal concoction to the many other scrapes and bruises, she instructed Honor to hold out her hands and then carefully went over each finger and rubbed the dye into the lines and cracks in her skin. Then she did the same to Honor’s feet, but then she produced a pair of shoes, the kind the natives wore, soft and comfortable, but the woman assured her they were sturdy and would withstand the amount of walking Honor had to do.

  “The shoes you wore are a giveaway,” the woman patiently explained. “Not shoes a woman here would wear. Fortunately no one has seen them or they would have been noticed. But with you now wearing a different garment and shoes of a native, and the fact that you’re departing well before the sun sets, you should have no difficulty in getting way beyond the village. There are no reports of anyone departing the market in any direction being stopped and searched or questioned. By all accounts, the snakes are just lying in the grass and waiting for you to magically appear in front of them. One would think they would have learned by now not to underestimate you, but their arrogance is too much for that. They think they have the advantage now because they know your habits and your patterns, and so they’ve set a trap and are waiting for you to fall neatly into it.”

  “I have you—both of you,” she added to include the husband, “to thank for my not falling into their trap because that is precisely what I would have done had you not warned—and aided—me.”

  “Come, come now,” the woman said, producing the garments for Honor to wear out of the village. “They wait at one of the booths, pretending interest until you arrive. You must hurry, though. We don’t want to do anything that will arouse suspicion.”

  Honor put it into high gear and within minutes she was dressed appropriately, the strap of her bag secured cross body and a new hijab and robe folded carefully over her arm. She walked briskly to the door, testing the strength of her knee now that she was to walk normally. It protested the quicker movements and more weight being borne on the leg, but it was much more bearable than before, probably due to the woman’s doctoring. But most importantly, she could maintain a normal pace without giving away her injury. It pained her, yes. But it had subsided to a dull ache and sheer determination would make it impossible for her to falter. At the door, she paused and turned back, needing to at least try to put into words her overwhelming gratitude.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You risked much for a stranger. I’ll never be able to repay my debt to you.”

  “May Allah be with you on your journey,” the husband said in a solemn voice. “We will pray daily for you.”

  “And I you,” Honor vowed in return. “Allah be with your family always. I will never forget you. You will forever remain in my prayers.”

  “Good journey,” the woman said as Honor opened the door and stepped into the sunlight.

  The woman had directed her to which group to blend in with and she walked toward them, carrying her market purchases, but before she reached them, her way was suddenly blocked by a large, looming man. Her pulse leapt and her fight-or-flight reflexes screamed at her to be set free. It took every ounce of discipline she possessed to lower her head in subservience and murmur an apology in the local dialect.

  “Very impressive, Honor. Doing the unexpected. Now I understand why you’ve been able to evade capture for so long. And your accent is flawless. I wonder. How many of the languages in this region do you speak?”

  The American accent, a hint of the south, a drawl so subtle it nearly wasn’t audible. But she had an affinity for languages and accents
, and her ears were sensitive to subtle nuances others would likely be unaware of. But he too obviously had a talent for languages or at least the one she’d spoken to him since he’d been aware that he could detect no accent, and he’d been looking for one.

  Her pulse leapt again, this time thundering like a tornado through her veins but for a different reason altogether. He was American. He knew her name. Was he here to rescue her? Had news of her survival and of the militant group turning the earth over in search of her reached the public? Had he been sent to extract her? And if so, why hadn’t he simply identified himself and stated his objective? Had he been concerned that her relief would give them away? That she’d become a hysterical, shrill twit and attract the focus of everyone in the entire village? Something about this—him—just didn’t feel right.

  Trust no one.

  The woman’s words filtered through her mind, dimming her excitement, and she forced herself to act indifferent, puzzled even, as though she didn’t understand the language he spoke. Daringly, she turned her head up, meeting his gaze, forcing hers into one of confusion.

  She cocked her head and shook it slightly, frowning even as she said in the local dialect, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I don’t speak your language.”

  A glint of amusement briefly flickered in his eyes before his gaze hardened and his expression became equally hard—and gravely serious.

  He wore the clothing of a native and yet there was no attempt on his part to hide what he was. Caucasian. Perhaps the reason he didn’t show fear was that he was protected by his membership in a terrorist organization.

  “I don’t have time to play games. You don’t have the time to waste. You were probably told that the men hunting you are waiting until dark, when you are normally on the move and that they will be looking for an older woman with a slow, shuffling gait and that they aren’t checking those leaving the village. But that’s untrue. They’ve set a perimeter well beyond the outskirts of the village so it doesn’t appear that anyone is being investigated, but in fact, they’ve stopped every single person departing since the market opened and they are not simply waiting around for dark for you to fall into their hands. And despite the clever change in disguise and doing the unexpected, it will do you no good. They will stop your entire group and search each of you thoroughly and when it’s discovered you are with this group preparing to depart, they’ll slaughter every single one of them and they’ll take you—alive—and into your worst nightmare.”

  The iron will that had kept Honor alive and moving since the day of the attack crumbled and lay in ruins around her, and she knew stark fear shone brightly in her eyes, giving herself completely away to a man whose agenda she was ignorant of. She didn’t know if he was friend or foe. And it was obvious he knew a damn lot about her, which put her at a distinct disadvantage because she didn’t have the first clue who he was. Only that he was American, which should have relieved her, but there was something in that rock-hard face, the ruthlessness she could see lurking in the shadows of his eyes. At this moment she didn’t know whom she feared more, the American or the militants lying in wait for her.

  “Why are you telling me this?” she asked bluntly in English as she stared directly into his gaze, trying to pick up on any tell, any indication of his intentions.

  But he remained devoid of emotion, his expression utterly inscrutable. He gave nothing of himself away, which frustrated Honor. Everyone gave up something. It was always there for a trained eye to see. But this man was impossible to read, as though he’d had years to perfect a facade that no one could penetrate.

  He could be military. She hoped with all she had that he was U.S. military and that his hard shell was a result of his training and experience in a region of the world where bloodshed was more common than running water.

  “Because I’m going to take you with me so you aren’t captured by the men who won’t stop until they’ve captured their prey.”

  She studied him for another long moment. “So you’ve come to rescue me? Who are you? Who sent you?”

  He arched one eyebrow, clearly surprised by her resistance. Perhaps he’d expected her to fall into his arms, sobbing hysterically, thinking him her savior. But she hadn’t stayed alive as long as she had by blindly believing anything. Or taking anything at face value. And she couldn’t afford to start now. Not when she was so close to her ultimate goal of finding her way home.

  “Does it matter?” he asked mildly. “All you need to know is that my men and I will get you out of the country and out of A New Era’s reach. Or would you prefer to take your chances with your group of protectors and lead them blindly to certain death?”

  Honor bit into her lip, deeply conflicted. Why wasn’t she happier to see him? Why wasn’t she falling into his arms, relieved and grateful? Was that not why she was so desperate to cross the border into a country where there was an American presence? And that presence had just planted itself in her path, offering her safe passage. Perhaps it was because it had been too easy, too convenient, the timing either impeccable or coincidental. And she wasn’t a believer in coincidences. Especially when it came to her life.

  “If they’re searching everyone leaving the village and if they have, as you say, a perimeter set up encompassing all routes leading out of the village, then how do you and your men possibly think you will be able to get past their roadblocks, impervious to the very thing you’ve sworn will happen if I leave the village with a group of people? Aren’t you a group of people just the same?”

  White teeth flashed and she was reminded of a predator’s teeth set in a snarl as they closed in on their prey. A shiver of apprehension skated down her spine and she absently rubbed at one arm through the heavy material of her garment.

  “I plan to drive right past them.”

  Honor went rigid with fear. The people who’d awaited her were clearly uneasy and were inching away, clearly wanting to be out of this place. And to be rid of her. They well knew what they risked by allowing her to travel with them, and now, with the arrival of this ominous-looking stranger, they were even more nervous. She couldn’t blame them. And neither could she consign them to certain death. She couldn’t take the chance that this man wasn’t telling her the absolute truth. She would not be responsible for these people’s deaths.

  She waved them off, making that sudden decision when it became clear that they knew she was a death trap. The American was right. She wouldn’t simply lead her supposed saviors meekly to the slaughter when it gave her absolutely no chance of escape. He, on the other hand, was offering one, and his arrogance suggested he actually thought—knew—he would be successful.

  It came down to the lesser of two evils. One known and one unknown. She knew what fate awaited her at the hands of the savages who hunted her. She didn’t know what the American’s intentions were, but given that her only other option was certain torture, endless agony and death, it made the decision to go with the unknown the only logical choice.

  “You’ve made your decision. Now move it,” he said, no gentleness to his voice.

  Somehow she’d imagined her rescue a little different. Perhaps at the hands of American soldiers who would at least acknowledge her as a sister, inquire as to her health. Not taunt her into making a decision. For that matter, shouldn’t he have identified himself as a member of the U.S. military? Shouldn’t he have identified himself, period?

  She frowned. The military didn’t just order people around for their own good, did they? But then she supposed that was exactly what they did on a daily basis when rescuing captives or hostages. Time was critical, and following orders was essential to their survival.

  “What branch of the military do you serve and where are your dog tags?” she blurted, even as she stumbled along beside him, attempting to match his much longer stride.

  She bit into her lip to quell the sound of pain as her knee protested the vigorous motion it was unused to. It was silly, but she didn’t want to show weakness in front of this w
arrior. And he clearly was a warrior. She wanted to show only strength, give him no reason to fault her, and she’d be damned if she’d slow him down.

  Again his teeth flashed, but in no way was it in a smile. Quite frankly, he scared her every time he did it. He reminded her too much of the big bad wolf about to devour Little Red Riding Hood, only in Honor’s case, she’d been wandering through the desert, not the forest, and there were no wolves here. But there were plenty of demons. Spawns of Satan himself. Evil ran strong here, stained with the blood of the innocents.

  “It’s a little late to be asking me for ID now,” he said mildly.

  He arrived at a military-looking vehicle and for the first time her blood pulsed wildly with excitement. It looked American, and while that might sound like a stupid thought from a clueless civilian, she’d worked throughout this region for a good while and she’d come into contact with all manner of military equipment and vehicles. She’d quickly learned to recognize friend or foe by subtle things maybe others wouldn’t notice. But when your life depended on knowing, and assuming would get you killed faster than a stray bullet in a fight zone, you tended to fast become an expert on learning the differences between those who would kill you and those who would save you.

  He all but shoved her into the back and slid in beside her, slamming his door closed while she struggled to right herself from where her head had plunged toward the floorboard and the heavy material covered her and twisted around her, preventing her from gracefully extricating herself. Then the vehicle lurched into motion, flattening her once more. Frustrated and angry with the lack of care her “rescuer” had offered thus far, she planted her hands on the floorboard and attempted to push herself upward and out of the tangle of material effectively trapping her legs and obscuring her vision.

  To her shock, he planted a firm hand in the middle of her back and shoved her even farther down onto the floor. Another man already seated in the back of the utility vehicle pushed her head underneath his legs, but he used care that the first man forwent.

  When she would have protested, a hand circled her nape and fingers tightened around the slim column of her neck in warning. And though she’d been acquainted with the man who’d intercepted her in the village for merely a few minutes, she knew it was his hand on her neck, not that of the second who’d helped pushed her to the floorboard.

  He squeezed once more and then, in direct contradiction to the brute strength of his grasp and seeming disregard for whether he hurt or scared her, he rubbed his thumb up and down the line just below her ear in a soothing manner, even as his grip remained tight.

  “Do not move,” the man ordered.

  Material similar to the aid blankets they stocked at the relief center fell over her, blocking the light and encasing her in darkness. But it was too heavy to be one of the simple blankets handed out in relief packets. This was more of a utility blanket, or canvas perhaps. It was hard to make out the feel and texture when she was already swathed in a pool of her own garment.

  The heat was suffocating. Sweat moistened the roots of her hair and bathed her forehead. It felt as though she were slowly baking in an oven. Even the air she inhaled was scorching, made stuffy by the heavy blankets covering her, giving her little space to breathe.

  Her mind was ablaze with confusion. Had she merely traded one form of hell for another? Made a bargain for her life when both outcomes would result in her death?

  The vehicle moved far too fast over the bumpy terrain, and Honor felt every single one of those bumps. The hand still wrapped around her nape remained firm though the American’s thumb continued its idle, soothing, up-and-down motion. So she focused on that one simple comfort when she’d been denied comfort for so long and blocked out the battering her already bruised and sore body was taking.

  She sensed the decreased speed the moment the vehicle slowed and she went rigid, holding her breath, knowing they hadn’t gone far. Were they being stopped? He’d very arrogantly stated that he planned to drive right by the roadblocks, and something in his voice had given her faith that he’d be able to do just that.

  Very real fear took hold, paralyzing her. She didn’t realize that she had begun shaking and still hadn’t drawn a breath until the grip around her neck loosened and his fingers stroked through her hair beneath the layers of material covering her.

  “Hold it together, Honor,” he said.

  For the first time she heard gentleness in his voice, felt it in his touch. It made her want to break down and sob. So maybe she needed him to be a ruthless asshole. As long as she stayed pissed, she remained focused and didn’t risk falling apart at the seams.

  “I need you to calm yourself.” This time his voice was more authoritative, all hints of gentleness gone. “You’re shaking like a leaf and the blankets are jumping around like they cover a litter of squirming puppies.”

  Her chest burned and she latched on to his command, willing herself to obey.

  “Breathe,” he said harshly. “Goddamn it, breathe or pass out. But pull yourself together. You aren’t out of the woods yet, and now is not the time to let yourself go.”

  Honor heard other muttered curses, and she could swear she heard someone say, “Bad mojo.” Maybe she was finally losing her weakening grip on her sanity.

  The American tightened his grip around her nape as he’d done before and shook her, though not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to get her attention. And it did the job.

  “I’m okay,” she whispered.

  Sweet, healing air flowed into oxygen-starved lungs. Her body relaxed and the burn subsided as she went limp on the floorboard of the now-stopped vehicle.

  “Thank fuck,” the American muttered, loosening his grip and then withdrawing his hand from beneath the blankets entirely.

  As absurd as the sensation was, she felt bereft and cold the minute the warmth of his flesh left hers. She clamped her jaw shut and kept it so tight that pain rushed her, but she did so to prevent her teeth from chattering.

  It humiliated her that she’d fallen apart and acted like a complete nitwit in front of these men. It didn’t matter if they were ally or enemy. Just as she refused to ever be in a position of begging the assassins who hunted her to kill her and end her endless misery, pride also stiffened her spine when it came to these men. She was acting like a helpless heroine in a dramatic novel where the female’s sole objective was to highlight the manly alpha male’s heroic ability to save her useless ass time and time again.

  She’d come this far—for so many days—on her own, relying on no one but herself and her determination to survive. She mentally chastised herself and firmed up her resolve to not show such weakness in front of these men, regardless of who they were, ever again.

  A thousand questions burned her lips. She wanted to demand answers. It took all her discipline not to interrogate her “savior” and ask him what the hell his plan was and what he planned to do with her. Because she wasn’t entirely certain that he was one of the good guys, despite knowing the bastards gunning for her weren’t the good guys.

  Quiet descended over the interior of the vehicle, and she heard the sound of a window sliding downward. She closed her eyes and remained limp, pushing her thoughts into a blank void of nothingness. Calm was the only thing that would save her, and so she simply did as she must and drew it around her like one of the soft quilts her mother created for her loved ones.

  She allowed herself to drift into those happier memories, pulled images of her parents, her brothers and her sister into her mind and surrounded herself with their love. It allowed her to float free of her current circumstances, the danger cloaking her like a dense fog, and remain still and serene, blocking everything but the smiling faces of her loved ones.

  So ensconced was she in her alternate reality that she didn’t register the vehicle lurching into motion again. It wasn’t until the American’s hand delved beneath the blanket, lifting it, and then his fingers slid over her chin, turning it so she was angled to partially face
him, that she realized they had resumed traveling.

  “Honor?”

  The one-word question conveyed it all. He was asking if she was all right. If she was still with them in the mental realm or if she’d lost the battle for her sanity and retreated deep into herself.

  “Who are you?” she asked hoarsely.

  CHAPTER 7