The Enigma Series Boxed Set

by Tierney James

  With a new kind of urgency, he replaced the goggles, grabbed the rifle, and headed out into the darkness at a dead run. After trailing Massoud for fifteen minutes, he turned back toward the camp. He could no longer keep up with a running horse and lost the trail.

  After Chase returned to camp, he watched as Zoric released the tribesman who now sat Indian style on the ground. Clothes were removed from one of the dead men for him. After some first aid, the Kyrgyz man accepted some food and water. Zoric moved on to go through the belongings of the Taliban.

  “Anything?”

  Zoric shook his head.

  Chase kicked dirt onto the dying embers of the fire. Soon the darkness closed around them. They took any weapons, ammo, and food they found and they piled it in the back of the remaining Jeep. Chase jumped in but found the key missing, so he hotwired the vehicle in seconds and he concealed it in a pile of dead brush.

  Together, Zoric and Chase helped the tribesman to a covered area near the Jeep where they could spend the remainder of the night. With one last trip back to the camp, the two men lined up the dead Taliban side by side with their arms crossed over their chests. An artist when he wasn’t torturing terrorists, Zoric drew a helicopter in the dirt next to them then a line through it. At the feet of each dead man, he drew a laughing skull.

  “You’re morbid, you know that?” Chase growled.

  “They used to say those things about Salvador Dali and Goya.”

  “Are you sure you want to keep that kind of company?” Chase nudged his friend toward the darkness where the tribesman waited.

  “I am redeeming myself by painting angels now.”

  They sat down on each side of the Kyrgyz man. “Some of those angels are a little hellish, too.”

  “Except for one.”

  “Except for one,” Chase repeated, pulling up the image of Tessa.

  Zoric had all but abandoned his painting until he met Tessa Scott. Something about her drove him to create again. The paintings were large, violent, and told a story. They involved demonic forces of the world battling for the good of mankind. A warrior angel always resembled the Grass Valley woman. It irritated Chase that his image appeared in some of the art. The warrior angel always seemed to be saving the soldier, not the other way around. Whatever the reasons for the Serbian to return to his work, the art critics loved to hate him. But the art world couldn’t get enough of them. Like his work, Zoric stayed elusive and indifferent to the world around him.

  Chase spoke to the tribesman in his own tongue. “What is your name?”

  “Abdul.” He stared straight ahead as if half-expecting to be tortured again. “My horse?”

  “Massoud took it. What did they want?” He turned his eyes toward the camp of dead bodies.

  The tribesman spit some blood then touched his lips to remove a drip. “To know where we took the women and children.”

  “Did you tell them anything?” Chase continued. The Kyrgyz frowned at him with a smoldering rage. “Stupid question. Do they want them for ransom or just to get their pride back?”

  The man stretched out his legs then pulled them back up and circled his knees with his arms. “To kill us. We shame them. I hear they want the government woman because she knows a secret.”

  Chase translated for Zoric who ran his hand over his face in concern. “Do you know what the secret is?”

  Abdul shook his head then blinked as if saying no. He waited a few seconds to speak, touching the cut on his cheek. “They do not want her to leave alive. The blue-eyed woman.”

  “Yes?”

  “She know secret, too. Not sure if little girls know. Kyrgyz take supplies to camp in Wakhan Valley on south side of mountains. Animals have plenty of food for season. Women and children safe there. Will move soon for rest of season. One more trade trip before winter.”

  Chase cocked his head with suspicion. “Anyone hurt?”

  The tribesman stared at Chase for a few seconds before answering. “Blue eyes hurt.” He touched his head. “Here, I think.”

  An uncontrollable feeling of panic gripped Chase as he translated for Zoric then asked the tribesman. “Was she shot?”

  Abdul’s forehead creased. “Covered with Taliban blood.”

  Chase jumped to his feet as if he’d sprouted springs. He ran his hand across his face then stared out into the darkness. “I’m going to torture Massoud a hundred different ways before I kill him.” Several different scenarios raced through his mind as he envisioned Tessa Scott confronting Taliban monsters. He stared down at Abdul to try and calm himself. “So it wasn’t her blood.”

  “She fighter.” His lips turned up in amusement. “Hurt Kyrgyz with knee.” Abdul pointed to his knee and made a jabbing motion. “Stand up to us. Afraid but brave.”

  A wave of relief washed over Chase as he sat back down. “Why did you take them?”

  “Taliban might come back when we leave. We need children.” He continued to look amused. “My friend need wife. He like blue eyes. Maybe she is already wife.”

  Zoric frowned. “This keeps getting better and better. The woman is either a threat to national security or our best hope in defeating the enemy.” When Chase raised his head toward the sky, Zoric asked. “Are you praying?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Massoud hunkered down in a cave after riding for several hours, unsure if his injuries were severe. He hurt all over, even his head. After bringing the horse inside with him, he piled some rocks up, blocking the entrance the best he could to keep the animal from wandering out if he fell asleep. After patting himself down, he decided nothing appeared to be broken. Relief washed over him as he leaned against the wall of the cave. The cold kept him from feeling more pain than he did. After a few hours of rest, he could escape to places where he would be welcomed and nursed back to health. The scrapes and bruises would heal, provided he kept them clean. For now, he needed to stay hidden from the ghost warriors. How had they managed to find their camp? Were they overheard during their conversations about the government woman? Could the men who attacked understand Pashto?

  Chapter 17

  T he low light in the small yurt came from the cooking fire in the center of the room. Twin curls of smoke lifted up to the smoke hole in the center of the ceiling. The warmth inside contrasted with the air temperature outside that dipped low enough to see your breath.

  Each time she pushed herself to remember life in the States with a husband and children, it was always replaced with the image of a man dragging Shirin screaming for help. The memory of a knife in hand, how it felt before she rammed it into the man’s neck, kept pushing aside the faces of those she must love. The sound of a man wounded by her gunshot, mixed with the image of a hysterical Bonnie Finley, all came together to prevent her from forgiving herself. Without those actions where would they be today?

  Her thoughts turned to the last few hours. The Kyrgyz people didn’t show a great deal of joy. The dances they performed would never catch on in other parts of the world, considering they consisted of moving around in slow motion with a slight wave of the hands, but Tessa thought them beautiful nonetheless. Their voices sounded soft on the breezes sweeping down from the jagged peaks of the Pamir Mountains. The sight of all the orphan girls now dressed in red like their Kyrgyz hostesses gave Tessa something to dwell on with fondness. Bonnie, on the other hand, remained in the same clothes she’d worn for days. How long had it been? She couldn’t even remember.

  What she did know concerned the man who’d chased away the Taliban and saved them from a horrible death. It struck her for the first time how rugged and handsome he could be in his clean black clothes, wide embroidered belt, and pill-box style hat. He’d even danced with the men at one point. Not once did he steal a glance at her in her beautiful red dress and white head dressing. No declaration of love or flowery words to make her swoon. Nothing to reassure her everything would be okay and or that he planned to make her happy beyond reason. It was not the Kyrgyz way.

  Now, here she stood, a
lone in the marriage yurt which would be her home unless she could escape. But where would she go? Every direction showed no detail to use as a compass toward Kabul. Only the sun could provide those details. Even then, without horses, supplies, and protection, it would be impossible to run with little girls.

  The thick rug door opened. Darya stood there a few seconds, searching her out before letting the door fall behind him. She noticed he had to duck his head a little to keep from hitting it on the top of the door frame. His height, although average in America, remained remarkable here. Several steps brought Darya near to the fire where he stopped.

  Tessa eased against the wall, reaching back to flatten her hands against the canvas-like material. She wondered if snow leopards watched their prey in the same way Darya watched her. Moving to the side, deeper into darkness, gave her a sense of becoming invisible.

  “Come.” His words sounded more like a request than a command. She froze in place.

  Darya removed his hat then tossed it on the stack of yak hides. The belt came off next and it, too, landed on the bedding. She remained silent as the man who considered himself her husband put his hands on his hips as his legs parted in an irritated stance.

  “Come.” This time his voice deepened and sounded more like a command. When Tessa remained rooted in the dark recesses of the room, Darya lunged forward and caught hold of her arm, pulling her toward the light of the stove. “I want to see you. Not hurt Tes-sa.”

  Tessa shuddered with fear. She stared down at her feet. Somewhere she’d read if you’re ever kidnapped, don’t make eye contact. Be submissive. Don’t challenge them. It all seemed a wise thing to do at this moment.

  He reached out and touched her head covering, causing her to flinch away. His hand paused in midair. “I want to remove your covering.”

  Tessa stood still as he used both his hands to remove the long white scarf from her head. He laid it on a nearby table then returned to her side. This time, he stepped into her personal space. At her step back, he reached out and took both her arms. Tessa sucked in her breath and lifted her gaze to meet his.

  “Tes-sa.” Darya’s eyes roamed her face. “You are beautiful wife.”

  Without knowing why, Tessa couldn’t prevent the corners of her mouth turning up in a moment of relief. “Thank you, Darya. You are beautiful as well.” He chuckled.

  “Talk first or…”

  “Talk. Definitely talk.” Her words were hurried. She hoped he understood.

  “Tea?”

  Tessa moved toward the table. She placed her hand on his arm after he came up beside her. “Let me. Please. You sit.” At least, off his feet, he wouldn’t be leading her to the bed piled with yak skins.

  After she fixed the tea and joined Darya on the rug, they sipped in silence. Her hands shook a little and a few drops splashed on her hands, burning her skin. She sucked in her breath at the pain. He relieved her of the cup she grasped like a holy chalice.

  He stood and retrieved a small jar the size of a shot glass from a saddlebag. He dipped two fingers inside a red-colored gel then took her hand. With the utmost care, he massaged the gel into her palm and between her fingers, over and over until it disappeared. The burning evaporated and her skin felt soothed once more. She held up her hand to examine then touched it to her face.

  “Better?” he asked as he set the jar aside.

  “Yes. Thank you, Darya.” She wondered if her voice sounded submissive and appreciative enough.

  “Tessa have husband in America?” He tilted his head, his forehead pinched as if trying to understand.

  “Yes.”

  “Why he let you come here? Kyrgyz men do not let their women go about on their own. Stupid.”

  Tessa couldn’t agree more at this point. “Women in America don’t like to be told what to do by a man.”

  He blinked several times as his forehead creased in what may have been confusion. “Do you miss this husband?”

  Tessa turned her head to stare at the embers in the stove. “I. I don’t know. I can’t remember much about him.”

  Darya touched the back of her head. She flinched, still feeling a little pain where she’d hit it. “This make you forget husband, who you are, and the place you left.”

  His hand on her head somehow gave her comfort. “I guess so. I’m starting to remember a few things. I have children.”

  Darya withdrew his hand from her head. “I had son three years ago. Would be size of Arzo. He died.”

  Something inside Tessa snapped and she laid a hand on his arm. Pain showed in his voice and face. “And his mother?”

  Darya turned an icy stare into the fire. “I killed her.”

  Tessa snatched her hand back, catching her breath. Darya sat like a statue as he spoke. “I run away. These people take me in and I marry a girl very young. Seventeen, maybe. Too young for man like me. I…” Darya turned his attention to Tessa and continued to speak in Pashto. “I loved her. Life hard here. We were happy about a child. I wanted to take her to Kabul where there were doctors, but she afraid they would find me. She died when my son born and he died two days later. My fault.”

  Tessa reached around him and held tight. “I’m sorry, Darya.”

  “I thought when I saw you…” Darya stopped and pushed her back and let his eyes trail across her face and hair. “You are older. Not have children. We could live in another place, not so high. We keep Arzo for our child.”

  “Arzo needs to go back to Kabul. This is no life for her. The other girls want to go to school. You must take them, Darya.”

  “No.” He stood up and carried the cups to the table.

  Tessa stood as well, but it felt awkward in long clothes. She thought about threats then considered a tantrum, but guessed men like Darya had a way of dealing with discipline issues like every other harsh thing in life. “Who were you running from, Darya?” Tessa wanted to keep the conversation going to put off the marriage bed as long as possible.

  “You like to talk.” Darya’s eyebrows lifted as he untucked his shirt and moved toward Tessa. She backed up. “It will be good to have someone to talk to again.” He pulled his black shirt over his head, revealing a well-muscled chest. Two scars trailed at an angle from his shoulder to his waist. They drew her eyes in curiosity. She hadn’t noticed them when he’d grabbed her in the water. Something else had caught her attention on that day.

  Like a snake striking at a victim, Darya reached out and captured Tessa in his arms. “Stand still while I help you out of this.”

  With a shove, Tessa jumped away to escape, but he easily pulled her back by catching her hand. “I will not be your wife. You can force yourself on me all you want…”

  “Thank you.” He switched to English. “I would much rather you participate with your free will.”

  Then it dawned on her Darya spoke with very little broken English. She stared at him as he took his time undoing the clasps on the front of her shirt. “Darya?”

  He stopped. His stare traveled over her face as he reached the top of her braids then slid his hands down to the tips where they rested above Tessa’s breasts. “Yes, Tessa?” His next movement tugged her braids pulling her against his chest.

  “Who are you?”

  Darya lowered his mouth to her neck and kissed her firmly. “I used to be American military intelligence. Now I’m your husband.”

  This time when Tessa shoved him, she added an elbow to his side, making him cringe. “Get away from me,” she fumed.

  He stood with his feet apart, his arms crossed on his chest. Tessa wondered for a split second if he joked about her predicament, but signs of amusement didn’t register on his face. The emotion on his face continued to be unreadable. “I’m Kyrgyz now. This is my home. You don’t remember your home, so I give you mine.”

  “Stop with the humble mountain tribesman routine. I’m not buying it. To think I fell for that story you told about a wife and child.” Tessa watched as the mask of apathy morphed into anger.

  “Tha
t was true. I became so disillusioned with this war, one step forward and three steps back. People dying on all sides and for what? When told I had to shoot a kid if I suspected he was wired with explosives…You cannot change a tribal society. I’d had enough. So one day I didn’t go back. I came here to my mother’s people.” He glared at Tessa who stood rigid.

  “Tell me the truth. All of it, Darya.” Her voice softened in hopes he’d reveal more of his character. She took a step toward him and he dropped his arms.

  “My mother was Kyrgyz. My father Russian. He, too, ran away seeing the war going nowhere. I was born here among these people. But my father wanted a better life for my mother and me so, when I turned seven, he took us across the mountains. He found an American CIA agent. With his help, we made it to America. It came with a price, of course. For our citizenship, my father worked for the CIA.

  Tessa moved closer. She stood less than two feet away. The anger drained from his face and it became unreadable again, his features classic Asian, but she could see now the Russian influence. The broad shoulders, the height, and the lips that appeared a little thicker than the other Kyrgyz now made sense.

  “Did you ever come back here after you became an American?” Tessa’s voice turned to a whisper. “You seem more Kyrgyz than…”

  “American?” he interjected. “My mother grieved for this harsh place. She always talked about the beautiful land and mountains. I’m glad my father didn’t take us to Russia. It is tradition with the Kyrgyz for the bride to go to the husband’s family.” His eyes searched her face inch by inch, focusing on minute details. “We lived on a ranch in Montana. My father bought sheep to please my mother.” He smirked. “He even found an old yak from a bankrupt zoo in Canada. It made her cry.”