Safe Passage

by Loreth Anne White

  His brow lowered over his eyes. The sound of the chopper died. It had landed somewhere. Somewhere not far away.

  “Do what alone? Talk to me, Skye.”

  “I’m—My name is not Skye.”

  He went rigid. Something shuttered instantly in his eyes.

  “I’m not from Holland.”

  The muscle in his jaw jumped wildly, but he said nothing.

  Terror leached into her chest. “Say something, Scott.”

  Don’t let me lose you.

  He jerked his eyes away, took a bottle of water out of his pack and swigged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m listening.” His voice was hoarse.

  But she couldn’t talk. She couldn’t do it. Her mouth was dry like crumbled bone. The sides of her throat stuck together. With a trembling hand she reached for his water bottle, took it from him, drank deep.

  He watched her carefully. “You’re scared.”

  She nodded her head.

  “Of me?”

  A lump caught at the base of her throat. “No.” She closed her eyes, gathering her thoughts. Then she opened them and looked directly into his. “I’m scared of losing you.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m afraid that after I tell you my story, you’ll hate me for what I’ve done. For who I am.”

  Something unbelievably tender flashed through his features. But it was fleeting. There. Then gone. Replaced with a hard set of his jaw, a sharp glint in his eyes. He reminded her of an animal poised to leap on its prey, tear its throat. “Everything. Tell me everything, Skye.”

  She wanted to hear him say that whatever she told him, it would be okay, that he’d understand. But he didn’t. He was glaring at her. Eyes angry. But she was committed now.

  “All right. This is my story. And by God I hope you understand. I need you to understand.” She could feel the hot wetness of emotion in her eyes. She swallowed it back. But the edge of it cracked through her voice. “I need you, Scott,” she whispered.

  He raised his hand, as if to reach out, touch her. Then pulled it back.

  “Everything, Skye.” His voice was thick. “Now.”

  She bit down on the pang of hurt, threw back her head, looked up at the evening sky. Birds played on currents of air.

  “When I was a child, I always envied them.” She motioned with her chin to where the birds soared above. “They always seemed so free. They could go where they wanted…I couldn’t.” She choked over the ball of pain that blocked her throat. This was even harder than she’d thought, putting into words for the first time what she’d always kept buried deep in her soul.

  This time he did touch her; his hand rested warm on her arm. It fed her courage.

  “Start at the beginning,” he said softly.

  “Okay.” She nodded, sucked in her breath. “I’m not Skye Van Rijn. I assumed the identity of a dead child with that name. I was not born in Holland. I was born in northern Greece, near the Albanian border. I don’t know who my father is. My mother was a soldier of the communist movement, a member of a terrorist cell tolerated by the Greek government because of its commitment to act against Turkey.”

  He was dead silent, a muscle pulsing at his temple. Then he spoke. “Like the Greeks tolerate the Kurdistan Workers Party?”

  “Yes. But this has little to do with the PKK. It masquerades as a splinter of the old PKK. But it’s something far more dangerous.”

  “What group is it?” He barked the question. Her stomach jumped.

  “It’s…it’s the heart of Anubis, Scott.”

  Every muscle in his body tensed. The muscle pulsed faster. His brows dropped down like a hawk. His eyes scorched.

  “They…they have a training camp. I was born in that camp. Raised there. Schooled there. I never knew about the real world—”

  “The leader?” His fingers dug into her arm. “Who runs this camp?”

  “They call him La Sombra.”

  Scott’s fingers bit harder. “You know La Sombra?” His voice was ominous, foreign.

  She nodded, afraid at the depth of hate in his face.

  “What is his name? His real name?”

  “Malik Leandros. It means Master. And if he finds me, he will kill me for telling you.”

  Scott dropped her arm like something gone bad.

  She winced.

  He dragged his fingers hard though his hair, pulling at the roots. “That tattoo on your hip—”

  “Malik’s idea.”

  “He branded you?” There was disgust in his voice.

  “In a way.”

  “What about the sword?” He spat the question.

  “I am the sword. The Sword of Anubis. I was christened Zeva, which means sword.”

  He lurched suddenly to his feet, turned his back on her, stared out over the lake to where Honey was chasing bugs. He clenched, unclenched, fists at his sides.

  He swung abruptly back to face her. “You were his lover,” he said simply. “You’re a terrorist.”

  She leaped up, tried to take his hand. He wrenched free. Something ripped in her heart. Her chute. It wasn’t going to open for her this time. She’d made a mistake. She flailed wildly. “Scott, please, let me explain.”

  He stared at her, his face all hard planes devoid of any emotion whatsoever. “Yes. Explain.”

  “I can’t talk to you, standing like this. Please, sit.”

  Slowly he lowered himself back down to the bank. She joined him. “I escaped, Scott. I’ve been running, hiding from Malik for thirteen years. I am no more a terrorist than you. All I want is an honest life. All I want is to be free.”

  Scott rubbed his hands brutally over his face. “What happened? How did you end up here?”

  “I never had a choice, Scott. Remember that. I was born into Malik’s camp. I was taught he was Master. Then, when I turned eighteen, I caught his attention. He wanted me. In the way a man wants a woman.”

  His body stiffened. His obvious distaste shot pain into her heart. She swallowed. “Malik always got what he wanted. A part of me was even flattered. I was young, insulated, schooled in the dogma he preached. And he was like a god, beautiful, dark and powerful like Zeus. He took me into his private residence and personally taught me the art of sex and languages. He taught me to fight. He wanted to deploy me to other countries. To seduce secrets from men.”

  Scott winced again. Pain sliced through his features. He looked away.

  “But I got pregnant when I was nineteen. He said I must get rid of my baby. He said a child would make a warrior weak. He said there were lesser women for the task. But I couldn’t do it. I felt this new life growing inside me and I began to question everything. Him…the camp…my ideals…. I wanted another way for me, for my baby. It made him furious. I told him I was leaving. We had a terrible fight. I used all my skills, but he hurt me. Badly. I was bleeding.” Skye choked back a sob.

  Scott turned back to face her. “What then?”

  “An older woman from the camp took pity on me, got some other women from the nearby village to smuggle me over the Albanian border. They knew people there who helped me get to Amsterdam. But I—” Her voice cracked. “I…lost my baby.” Pain spilled wet from her eyes. She clutched her knees tight into her chest, rocked as the sky began to darken.

  Scott’s mouth was set in a tight line. “What happened then?”

  “I was put in touch with an Iranian refugee named Jalil.”

  His eyes snapped to hers. “Jalil?”

  “Yes. He became my one friend, still is. He helped me get to Canada. He made me Skye Van Rijn. Gave me papers, a new life.” She took a deep breath, shuddering as she exhaled. “I owe him my life.”

  Something new crossed his features. Confusion pulled at his brow. He opened his mouth to speak. Shut it. Looked away. “And the degrees? Your doctorate?”

  “Those are mine.” She snapped. “They are me. The real me. I earned them.”

  “And now La Sombra has found you.”

  �
�Who else could have sent those men?”

  Scott blew out a long stream of breath. The sun was sinking behind distant mountains. Cold shadows crawled out from under crevices, crept toward them.

  The haunting cry of a loon echoed.

  He felt smacked in the gut, couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know if he should believe her. He had to tell her about Jalil. But he had to be sure she wasn’t playing him.

  “Scott, I’m…I’m sorry.”

  He nodded. That’s all he could do. And he searched her eyes, tried to see. Was she lying again? Playing the victim when in fact she still might be working with La Sombra, with Nakiskas. She could still be responsible for the RVF outbreak in the States. She could be telling him this now in a desperate attempt to keep him on side, until she no longer needed him. She was brilliant. He’d seen that from the information in her dossier. He’d be a fool to think she wasn’t capable. He’d been a fool once already.

  She laid her hand on his arm. “Can you find it in yourself to try to understand?” A forlorn desperation snaked through her voice.

  He tore his eyes from hers. Stared instead at the livid orange strips of cloud streaking the evening sky, catching the last rays of sun as the day died. “You have to turn yourself in, Skye. You have to come forward.”

  “I know. Can you help me? You said you’d be there for me. Can you, now that you know? Can you go all the way?”

  He forced himself to look at her. And his gut clenched. His heart, his instincts, screamed at him. Deafened him. She wasn’t Skye Van Rijn. She was Zeva, a Greek warrior. But still—Skye or Zeva or Sword of Anubis, whatever name she bore—deep down he believed he knew this woman. He’d felt a connection.

  Skye. Zeva. They were just names. It was the woman inside that he’d glimpsed, touched. Who’d touched him. It was the person inside he cared about. That strong fighter. That vulnerable woman. That inner beauty.

  His brain may be trying to tell him different. But his heart told him she was true. He struggled to suck in air.

  Right here, right now, he stood at a cusp. Like the Janus Creek. And he was Janus himself, with two faces. He could see one road one way and another leading the other way. He lurched to his feet, bit back the pain that exploded into his knee, clenched his teeth. His nails dug into his palms. He could no longer stand in the middle of nowhere. No longer teeter on the cusp. No longer wear a mask of two faces. Screw Janus. He had to pick a road. He couldn’t hide anymore.

  “I will.”

  Her gasp of relief was audible.

  “I’ll be there for you.” He reached a hand down, pulled her gently to her feet, held her at arm’s length. “But, Skye, we have to talk.” Because he had to tell her, too. Everything. Like her, he had to come clean before they could move forward and face the world. Before they could fight La Sombra. Together. But it was getting dark. And he’d heard the helicopter land somewhere in the forest. It would be safer to move inside, to talk in the cabin.

  “It’s getting cold out here. Come. We’ll go back to the cabin, make a fire. We can talk there.”

  “Thank you, Scott,” she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Thank you. Oh, God, thank you.”

  Her words twisted like a dagger in him. Telling her he was not McIntyre was going to be a killer. So would telling her about Nakiskas, about Charly…about Jalil.

  He whistled for Honey, turned, leaned heavily on his cane, started up the trail. It led steeply uphill from the lake. He felt drained. Going down hadn’t been too much of a problem for his knee. Going up felt like hell. He slipped, caught himself, doubled over his cane as he swallowed the pain.

  “Here, lean on me. Put your arm around me. Let me help you.”

  He bit back pride, put his arm around her slender, strong shoulders. And something slipped in his stomach. Not in nine years had he had someone to lean on.

  “You have to rest that knee or you’ll never mend.”

  “I know.”

  But as they neared the cabin, Honey froze in her tracks, the hackles on her neck rising. A low growl emanated from her throat. Scott felt the fine hairs on his own neck rise. He could smell it.

  Danger.

  He laid a hand on Skye’s arm, stilled her as they listened. It was dark under the trees, but silent. Only the roar of the nearby river could be heard.

  Still, it didn’t feel right. The road was closed because of the bridge. But they’d heard the chopper land in the distance. And he knew the stakes now. La Sombra would stop at nothing.

  “Come,” he whispered. “Let’s get into the cabin. I’ll get backup.”

  “Backup? How?”

  “I have a phone.”

  “There’s no cell reception here.”

  “It’s satellite.”

  She halted. “Who would give you backup? Why do you have a sat phone?” A wary edge crept into her voice.

  “I’ll explain in the cabin. Move. Quick.” He felt in his pack, withdrew his gun.

  She stared at the weapon, her eyes huge.

  “Move, Skye. Come on.”

  She peered up at his face in the dark shadows, but she didn’t move.

  “Now.”

  That’s when he heard the crack. He whirled around. Scott saw the dim shape in the trees the same time Honey did. The dog snarled, exploded into a charge. Metal glinted as a man in the shadows whirled, raised a gun. Honey lunged for his arm, tore flesh. Scott aimed, yelled at Skye to get in the cabin.

  He fired. The man reeled under the impact, pulling the trigger as he went down.

  The slug tore through Scott’s upper left arm. He wheeled back from the force.

  An utterly eerie shriek sliced the air behind him. The battle cry of a warrior. Scott clutched his arm, staggered around. Skye. Through a haze of pain he saw a second man lurch out of the cabin toward her. He wielded a knife low, aimed straight at her belly. But she braced, swiveled the instant he slashed at her. The knife swiped air. He flailed forward with the momentum. Before he could regain balance, Skye unleashed another scream, a kick. Her heel caught him under his throat. The man’s head cracked back.

  For an instant he was still.

  A grotesque frieze in the dusk air.

  Then he slid slowly into a limp pile on the porch. Skye lunged for the knife.

  Scott felt the wet warmth of his own blood seeping through his fingers, his legs giving out under him. He heard Honey snarl. Another shadow. Behind the canoe stacked up on the far side of the porch. Going for Skye.

  Scott opened his mouth to scream a warning. But Honey had already alerted her.

  Skye whirled, flexed. Before Scott could blink, the knife left her hand, flew true. The man bellowed as metal sunk deep into his jugular. His hands flew to his throat, clutched. Blood pumped through his fingers. He slumped back against the canoe, leaving a fat trail of gleaming black ooze as he went down.

  Scott stumbled toward the deck, toward her. He’d been right. From the instant he’d first laid eyes on Skye, he knew she’d been trained to kill. “Skye—”

  “Look out! Behind you!” Skye yelled, diving for cover on the porch.

  Scott whirled just in time to catch another glint of metal. In a last-ditch attempt, the man he’d left for dead under the trees raised his arm and fired.

  Scott flung himself sideways, tearing his knee. But the bullet slammed the sat phone in his chest pocket and glanced to the side. He sank to the ground.

  “Scott. Oh, God, are you all right?” Skye was at his side. “Your arm, you’ve been shot.”

  “Flesh wound,” he gasped, coughed.

  “Your chest?”

  “Phone…saved my life.”

  “Can you get your arm around me?”

  He struggled into a sitting position. He couldn’t breathe. A vortex of nausea swallowed him. He felt as if his knee joint had been ripped apart, as if a mallet had smashed his ribs. He wheezed, trying to suck in air. She grabbed his arm, pulled him up, shifted her shoulder into his armpit.

  “Steady,” she
said. “We can do this.”

  He held tight on to her. “This…isn’t…right.” The words rasped from his lungs. “I’m…supposed to be the hero…saving you…”

  “Shh. You have saved me,” she whispered. “In more ways than you’ll ever know.” She edged him slowly into the dark cabin, helped him across the room, eased him onto the bed. He slumped back, vision narrowing into a dark tunnel of pain. He fought it, holding on to the pinpricks of light.

  Skye lit a lantern, fingers moving fast. She had to stop the bleeding. “Where’s the first-aid kit?”

  “My pack…dropped it outside.”

  Skye wadded a small towel and pressed it firmly to Scott’s arm. “Hold that tight. Keep the pressure. I’ll be right back.” She could see he was wobbling on the edge of consciousness. She grabbed the flashlight and ducked back out into the dark.

  A quick check told her two men were dead. The third was unconscious. Black blood dribbled from his ear. She held back his lids, shone light into his eyes. They were filling with blood. Signs of brain damage. And his neck was broken. He wasn’t going to make it.

  She retrieved the Smith and Wesson that Scott had dropped, took the Glock from the man under the trees, slipped it into the back of her jeans. She felt in his pockets. They must have had some form of communication. Then she found it. A stubby satellite phone. Damaged, of no use. She held it in her hand, stared at it under the gleam of the flashlight.

  Her hand begin to tremble.

  He’d found her.

  Malik’s men had found her.

  And between her and Scott, with the help of Honey, they’d wiped out three of his assassins. Just snuffed out their lives.

  A wave of anguish crashed in her chest.

  Malik had done this to her.

  He’d trained her to kill. And he’d sent the men. He’d forced her. He’d made her into something she despised.

  She detested him. More than anything on this earth.

  And now the person she cared most about in the world was bleeding in the cabin. And she’d brought him here. He’d gotten himself hurt for her.

  Her fault.

  She dropped the phone to the forest floor, grabbed the backpack and ducked back into the cabin.

  She lit a second lantern, set it on the table, fumbled in the pack. The first-aid kit was at the bottom. She felt it with her fingers, yanked at it. It was stuck. Hooked on a piece of nylon or something. She turned the pack upside down, shook out the contents. It was still stuck. She reached in, groped around, found the strap that was holding it, pulled.