“Now,” Mason said quietly, “I’m not going to press too much. Just tell me if you have any pain.”
Mike watched the surgeon’s long, almost artistic hands move very gently across the area where the incision had been made. He checked it to make sure it was secure, no swelling around the site, and looked pleased. He carefully pressed down here and there across her abdomen. “No pain?” he asked.
Khat shook her head. “Just—sore feeling…”
Mason nodded to the nurse and she replaced Khat’s gown and pulled up the sheet and blanket to her waist. Pulling off the gloves, Mason stuffed them into a waste container. “You’re doing exceptionally well. I’m going to have Nurse Black monitor you and maybe, tonight, if you continue to improve, we’ll get you moved to a room. Do you have any questions for me, Sergeant?”
Mike stood there, impressed with the surgeon. Mason spoke slowly to Khat, giving her time to process his questions. Nurse Black couldn’t help but continue to smile, and Mike felt much, much better. The crisis was over.
“N-no, just…thirsty….” Khat whispered hoarsely.
“Do you think you could drink some orange juice?” Mason asked. “It will give you a shot of sugar, and you won’t feel so weak.”
“Sounds good,” Khat whispered, closing her eyes, exhausted.
Mason nodded to Black and he gave her an order of fluids and soft foods she could eat, such as Jell-O. “Take her off the saline IV, too. Let’s keep the antibiotic and morphine IV levels where they’re at.” He nodded in Mike’s direction and left.
Khat had fallen asleep. Nurse Black removed the one IV from her arm and then left. Mike felt a world of heaviness beginning to dissolve from his tense shoulders. He sat down, resting his arm on her bed, holding Khat’s long, warm fingers. Whether he wanted to or not, Mike dozed off, his head falling to his chest.
*
KHAT AWOKE, FEELING as though she were in a floaty world she recognized as morphine. She slowly moved her hand to her tender abdomen. She turned her head, seeing Mike asleep in the chair. His chin was dropped against his chest. He wore a tan T-shirt, dog tags beneath it, and a pair of cammie trousers. Her heart opened toward him. His hand still held hers. Licking her dry lower lip, she closed her eyes, trying to remember what had happened to her. Only bits and pieces—odors, sounds and stranger’s faces—blipped chaotically through her fuzzy mind. Mike was here and that anchored her as nothing else ever would. Her mind was sluggish and one thought didn’t necessarily follow the other. She felt Mike stir, his hand momentarily tightening around hers. She heard the chair squeak as Mike shifted. Opening her eyes, she met his drowsy, exhausted gold gaze. The corners of her mouth pulled upward and she whispered, “Hi…”
Mike sat up, rubbing his eyes. This time, Khat’s eyes were far clearer. She was present. He stood up, his back killing him, stiff and sore. Mike wasn’t used to sitting around in one place this long. He moved his hand to her cheek. “Hi, yourself. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” she managed. “Thirsty…”
Mike glanced at the tray. There was an orange juice in a container packed with ice. He walked over, poured some into the glass and placed a straw into it. “Doc said you could have orange juice. Does that sound good to you?”
Nodding, Khat tried to sit up. She failed miserably, feeling more than a twinge of pain at the site of her surgery incision. Mike slipped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her upward so she could drink the cold, sweet liquid. As it slid down her throat, Khat closed her eyes, the coolness soothing the rawness in her throat. Finishing it off, she tipped her head up, gazing at his strong face. “Thank you…”
Mike nodded. “Want more?”
“No…but I like you holding me.” She closed her eyes and leaned wearily against Mike, inhaling his masculine scent. He tunneled his fingers through her hair, gently massaging her, creating tiny little shivers of delight. She moaned softly as he held her a little tighter. Just being able to lean against Mike, have his fingers caressing her, dissolved some of her tiredness and fed her. “I love you so much,” Khat quavered, nuzzling against his tan T-shirt.
Mike pressed a kiss to her temple. “I know you do,” he rasped unsteadily. “It’s been a long time coming back to me, angel, but you did it. I love you so damn much it hurts.”
Chapter Three
KHAT RELEASED A SIGH, appreciating her private room. She’d hated being in ICU and was glad that Dr. Mason had given them permission to move her. Nurse Linda Black had brought her in a tray with a cup of red Jell-O, with a warning to eat just a few spoonfuls. If it didn’t make her nauseous, she could eat a bit more. Mike sat at the end of her bed, with a tray he’d brought up from the cafeteria balanced on his lap. She was getting some of her strength returned, sitting up, and was glad Dr. Mason had been right about the orange juice giving her more energy.
“I think your tray looks better than mine,” Khat grumped, eyeing it. Mike sat facing her. He grinned.
“Sorry, angel, this is off-limits to you for now.”
She pouted a little and picked up the spoon, curving her hand around the container of Jell-O. Although she still felt weak, she was able to feed herself. “At least this tastes good.”
He smiled between bites of his hot beef sandwich. The change in Khat the past five hours had been heart-stopping. She had become fully conscious, expressing her discomfort of being in ICU. Mike thought her griping to Linda Black had gotten her a room faster than expected, but he kept that to himself. He’d braided her long red hair after getting to this room and it had made her feel better and less grumpy. Although she was stronger, Khat was still fragile, and Mike could see it.
He wondered if she remembered that her horse, Zohra, had died. He wasn’t going to bring it up.
“If you eat all of that,” he goaded with a grin, “I’ll give you dessert.”
“Really?” Khat looked longingly at the strawberry shortcake that Emma had brought earlier for them.
“A kiss,” he promised. Mike saw her smile.
“Can’t I have your kiss and just a taste of your strawberry shortcake on your lips, too?”
“No, and you can’t wind me around your finger like you can the nurses,” he said, an amused glint coming to his eyes.
Khat finished off half the Jell-O, feeling suddenly tired. The move from ICU to the private room had drained her. “I hate feeling so weak,” she griped softly, leaning against the pillows, closing her eyes.
Mike got up and removed the tray. “Rest,” he offered. He saw her wrinkle her nose. He felt her getting emotional. There was nothing to indicate it, just a feeling. The quiet in the room was a godsend, Mike thought.
“How long can you stay?” Khat asked, slowly opening her eyes.
“Mac didn’t say. I need to talk to him about it.” He picked up the bowl of strawberry shortcake. “Why?”
“Did Mac give you this time to be with me?”
Mike nodded. “Yes. We’re in between patrols. It’s down time for the next five days. He wanted me to be with you as long as possible.” He saw darkness coming to Khat’s eyes, wondering if she needed to sleep. Linda had warned him Khat would nod off many times a day during the next week.
“I remember now,” Khat whispered, her throat tightening. “I was out on that ridge, trying to dig myself out of that hole from the last RPG that was fired at me. I was so cold that my fingers were numb.”
Mike heard the tremble in her voice. He set the dessert on the tray and pushed it aside. He quietly got up and moved closer to her. “I didn’t know what had happened to you, Khat,” he said, picking up her hand that was now cool to his touch. “None of us knew where you were.” And it had driven Mike crazy with anguish, but he said nothing. He gently squeezed her hand. “What happened out there?”
“I—I was lying on the ridge, becoming conscious, and it was raining. I closed my eyes for a moment and I flashed back to the time I was in the San Diego Naval hospital, recovering from my capture and torture five years ago
. It just hit me so powerfully, Mike.” Khat shakily wiped tears from her cheeks. “T-there was something else I didn’t tell you.” Her lower lip trembled. Khat closed her eyes and whispered, “When I was at the Naval hospital, my Afghan father who had immigrated to the U.S., came into my room, screaming at me. He said I’d dishonored him, his family and his tribe. He accused me of being a bad daughter.” Her brow wrinkled and she pressed her hand against her closed eyes as she fought not to cry. “When I was young, he was so loving toward me. And then, when I went into the Marine Corps, he was upset with me and he never showed me his love again after that.”
Mike sat there, frozen, feeling helpless. He knew about her being imprisoned by the Taliban five years earlier, and her subsequent torture. And to this day, she was still working through it. He saw the anguish in the shape of her lips, heard the animallike hoarseness in her voice. All he could do was wait. Wait and let her tell him what had traumatized her so deeply out there on that ridge. He watched the tears trail down her cheeks, his heart aching with the pain she was carrying. He wished he could take it on himself.
Choking back a sob, Khat pulled her hand away from her eyes. Mike’s face seemed blurred, the tears not stopping. “I was so shocked my father was screaming at me. I—I’d never seen him like that before. He told me he was disowning me, that he was ashamed I’d ever been born.” Sniffing, she said brokenly, “I tried to defend myself. I managed to sit up in my bed, telling him he didn’t understand, that I was defending his village—my village—and he came over and slapped me so hard I fell sideways on the bed. He yelled that a woman should never talk back to her father. Ever.”
Rage tunneled through Mike. He stared at her, his eyes narrowing. Swallowing, he wanted to curse. “Where the hell was your mother?” he demanded. Glenna Shinwari had met and married Khat’s Afghan father, Jaleel Shinwari, when he’d first come to America. She was an American and he was from Afghanistan. Was there anyone who could have protected Khat? Her face was strained, her eyes looking wounded, tears running silently down her face.
Khat shrugged weakly, forcing herself to look at Mike. His eyes were gold ice, his anger palpable. “My mother was completely intimidated by my father. He has always been stern and authoritarian toward us. She has always has been afraid of him in that way.” Khat gave him a sad look. “I couldn’t believe that I was lying up on that ridge and that awful moment came slamming back at me. Why then?”
Mike shook his head, opening his arms and gently sliding them around her shoulders, drawing Khat against him. She wearily rested her head on his shoulder, her hands sliding against his ribcage. Mike understood, in part, why she hadn’t told him the whole of this sordid story. Tribal customs were harsh in Afghanistan regarding women. Jaleel Shinwari had cowed his wife and had done indescribable damage to his daughter. Mike wanted so damn badly to face the bastard down, make him pay for what he’d done to Khat.
Gently grazing Khat’s shoulder, he said unsteadily, “You were shaken up by that explosion, angel. I’ve been dangerously close to RPGs and my mind didn’t work right for weeks afterward. I was coughing up a lot of unhappy moments in my life, too. The brain gets rattled. Maybe traumatic memories get jolted loose?” He pressed a kiss to Khat’s hair, feeling her relax within his embrace. All he wanted to do was give her a safe harbor. Some peace. That father of hers was old-school Muslim conservative, who believed strictness and physical abuse was warranted when controlling his wife. Or, in this case, his badly wounded daughter who had been tortured and nearly died at the hands of the Taliban.
“If I’d been strong enough,” Khat rattled, sniffing, “I’d have got out of that bed and thrown a punch at him. I hated him, Mike. I still do. I—I can’t forgive him for what he did to me. And I was so ashamed,” her voice grew strained. She lifted her head, holding his narrowed gaze. “I thought you might want to throw me away like my father had, once you found out about my father disowning me.”
Alarm moved through Mike. “Hey,” he growled, holding her at arm’s length, staring into her tear-filled eyes, “I would never do that, Khat. I’ve proven that to you over time. Your torture and scars have never defined you to me. Yes, I’m Saudi and American, but I was raised in a family that respected women, not abuse of them. Is that why you didn’t tell me this part of it before? You thought the customs of your father were also mine?”
Nodding, Khat gave him an anxious look. “I thought if you knew everything about me, that I wouldn’t be worthy of you.”
Mike wanted to put a fist through the wall. Better yet, put a fist through her father’s face. He knew of her capture, imprisonment and torture. What he didn’t know about is what she’d just revealed about her own father physically abusing her shortly after her rescue. Khat had nearly died from the repeated whippings she’d received from the Taliban. For her Afghan father to come into her hospital room like that and to physically harm his daughter even more shocked him. Khat knew he’d be enraged over it and had hidden that part about her recovery from him. He could almost hear what Khat didn’t say: that he’d throw her away as her father had. “Look,” he rasped, his voice growing emotional, “your father is caught up in Afghan tribal customs. I’m not, nor is my family like him in any way. My father loves my mother as an equal. He worships her. I was shown every day how a man can love his wife and his son. I’m nothing like your father, Khat. I’ll never be like him. I love you. I want you in my life forever. I would never lift a hand toward you. Do you understand that?”
She sat there, palms pressed against her eyes, head bowed. Her voice wobbled. “I knew if I survived that night alone on that ridge, that I had to tell you everything. I couldn’t let you think you loved me when you didn’t know the whole truth about me, my family and my heritage…”
Reaching out, Mike placed his finger beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him. She opened her eyes, lashes wet with tears. “I love you even more than before, Khat…”
*
MIKE WAS SLEEPING in the chair and snapped awake, hearing raised men’s voices drifting from down the hall. Sitting up, he saw it was 0700. He shook his head and stood up, feeling uneasy. He quietly walked over to Khat’s bed. She was sleeping soundly, her face peaceful. Beautiful.
What the hell was going on out there in the hall? He pulled open the door and stalked out into the passageway. Nurse Supervisor Linda Black was angrily shaking her finger across the desk at two civilian men. Rubbing the back of his neck, Tarik wandered toward the confrontation. One man was about five foot ten, wearing a brown pinstripe business suit, white silk shirt and light blue tie. He had both hands on the desk, leaning forward, yelling at the top of his voice at Nurse Black. The other man, taller, beefier and American, looked to Mike like a security contractor type. It wasn’t unusual in Afghanistan for a rich man to have a bodyguard. And the very best were Americans.
Mike drew closer and saw that the man in the expensive western suit appeared to be Afghani, his face narrow, his nose strong and hawkish. His voice was imperious and Mike was now close enough to make out the heated conversation.
“You cannot go down there,” Linda told the man tightly. “Visitor’s hours are not until 10:00 a.m.”
“You will tell me what room my daughter is in,” he snarled, pounding the desk with his fist. “Do it or I will have my security man walk around this desk and he will find it on your computer, anyway!”
“Linda? Do you need some help?” Mike asked quietly, halting at the corner of the desk. He noticed the other two younger nurses were standing back, scared, their mouths open.
Linda jerked around, breathing hard. Her face flushed. “Yes, I need help, Petty Officer Tarik.”
Mike eyed the two men who were now sizing him up. The Afghan businessman glared at him, made a sniffing movement with his nose and then turned his attention back to the nurse. The bodyguard, however, sized him up differently and more carefully. Mike figured the guy was probably an ex-Ranger. Maybe former Special Forces. He was way too big, beefy and muscular to
be a SEAL. They ran on the lean side in the black ops community.
“You will tell me what room my daughter is in!” the man shouted.
Mike blinked. Daughter? There was only one woman on this floor and that was Khat. The rest were injured military men.
“And I told you no!” Linda shouted back, losing her composure. “Now you get the hell back into that elevator and go back down to the lobby! Visiting hours are not until ten.”
Mike straightened, his fingers curving into his palms. “Linda, call Security,” he growled. “I’ll just stand here and make sure no one comes around your side of the desk or decides to make the mistake of trying to walk down that hall.”
Breathing hard, Linda gave a jerky nod and picked up the phone.
The man grabbed it out of her hand, slamming it down on the counter.
Mike moved. The bodyguard stepped back. Tarik grabbed the man by his shoulder, his fingers curving into the expensive material as he pushed him back three feet from the counter. He saw the man’s eyes grow to slits, hatred in them. “Back off,” Mike snarled in Pashto to him.
Linda picked up the phone, her voice trembling as she called for Marine security.
“Get your hand off me!” He slapped at Mike’s hand, struggling, his face turning red.
“What’s your name?” Mike growled.
The man’s eyes rounded, stunned the stranger was speaking his tongue. “Why…uh…I’m Jaleel Shinwari. Take your hand off me!” and he tried to jerk away. Mike held him, unmoving, rage roaring through him.
“Carter!” Jaleel yelled, “make him let me go!”
Mike’s gaze flicked over to the bodyguard. “Do you really want in on this dance card?” he calmly asked the contractor, holding on to the grunting, squirming Afghan.
On Fire Page 4
