by Loye, Trish
She was, she knew. And now he knew it too. She wanted to curl in on herself for protection from his derisive gaze, instead she swallowed hard and lifted her chin. She was Sarah Ramirez and she had a job to do.
“It doesn’t matter now anyway,” she said.
“Of course it doesn’t, Agent Ice.” She flinched at the use of the nickname. He’d never called her that before. Not him. “Not sure what I was expecting,” he continued. “An apology?” He laughed harshly.
“I’m s—”
“Save it,” he said. “You’re five months too late.”
Something inside her shriveled up. She turned away, not wanting him to see how this hurt.
“Let’s just agree to keep this professional,” he said. “Tell me about the girl. What are you going to do with her? Any family to take care of her when you go?”
The mournful sound of a man singing the long notes of the call to prayer echoed outside. It was the adhan for Fajr, the first of the five daily prayers.
She knew she should get some sleep, but she wouldn’t. Mostly because she wouldn’t be able to relax with Dylan here. He was only here until Rakin got back; then he’d leave, she assured herself.
She pulled her tins of flour and sugar from the cupboard. She didn’t need any more cookies in the house, but she found herself gathering ingredients anyway.
“She said her parents are dead,” she finally answered Dylan. “Though she thinks she still has family at the refugee camp in Duhok. Her older sister is being held in the same place I rescued her from. Jalila wants me to get her out too.”
“You know how dangerous that would be.” He moved closer to her.
She nodded and measured two cups of flour into a bowl, trying to ignore his large presence so close. Her skin felt flushed. She would make more hajji badah cardamon cookies.
“But you’re going to rescue her anyway,” he said.
She opened her baking powder, not looking at him. Memories of the first time she’d cooked for him crept into her mind. He’d been amazed at her skill, comparing it to both chemistry and magic, but with better results. She’d laughed at his comment, and almost burned the beef wellington when he’d distracted her with kisses and more laughter.
They’d laughed so much that month.
“Sarah? You listening to me?”
She started. “Of course.”
Not.
She snagged the baking soda and measured a quarter of a teaspoon.
He sighed. “When are you planning to do this rescue?”
She mixed a touch of salt and a teaspoon of cardamom into her dry ingredients in the bowl. “When Rakin returns. He wants out, so I need him to help me before I have to train a new agent in this position.”
“Are you kidding? Rakin is leaving?”
She gritted her teeth and measured one and a third cups of sugar into another bowl and added four eggs. “He wants to go home. I don’t blame him.”
He shook his head. “Not what I meant. If Rakin can punch out from this assignment, then so can you. But you’d stay in this shithole even though your partner is leaving? Those ISIS bastards are executing people every day. What more can you do here?”
“I am helping women and kids escape every week—”
“Then they’re going to catch you soon.”
She put her hands on her hips. “I am an excellent operator.”
“You’ve been here too long. You’re taking unnecessary risks.”
“You don’t understand.”
He stepped closer to her. “You’re emotionally involved. I don’t know how it happened, Agent Ice, but you are. That means your judgement is compromised. I have to report that.”
Agent Ice. The nickname lashed her again. She sucked in a breath but steeled herself not to show any hurt. Their relationship was long over. This was a professional matter. If he told Blackwell her judgement was off, then she could be pulled from her assignment and it would go on her record.
Anger seared over the initial hurt of his words, cauterizing the wound. “You’d better not report me.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Then show me that you’re not personally involved. That you’re not making decisions based on emotion and I won’t say a thing. Even if you are wasting your life, hiding in this shithole.”
“I’m not hiding.” She whirled back to the counter and stirred all her ingredients together. She slammed the bag of ground almonds on the counter next. “You should take a shower. You stink.”
She measured two cups and then stirred the cookie dough and gave a glance over her shoulder. Dylan was gone. Presumably to the bathroom. The damn man moved too quietly.
She turned back to her dough. A muffled curse hit her ears and she smiled. Looked as if the hot water was off again.
“Welcome to my shithole,” she said.
It took her long moments to calm down. Her emotions weren’t compromised. Rakin had called her cold. Even Dylan didn’t think she had emotions. A twist of pain in her chest startled her. She swallowed. It didn’t matter what Dylan thought. She did her job and she helped people; that mattered. It made her matter.
It was past sunrise and she still worked in the kitchen while sorting out her thoughts. She hummed tunelessly as she dropped spoonfuls of dough on a cookie sheet. She also had a lamb stew simmering on the stove. She gave it a stir and added more cumin.
Being in the kitchen had always soothed her. She had hazy memories of when she was really little, when her dad had been around and her mother had been happy. Her mother had stood, smiling, at the stove while Sarah ate a hot churro, almost burning her fingers on it. She couldn’t even remember her father’s face.
Her father had left one day, saying he’d found a woman who loved him more. After that, her mother had started the drugs, and there was no more laughter in the kitchen. Just takeout and a little girl’s attempts at spaghetti and grilled cheese.
After her mother overdosed, Sarah didn’t spend time in any of the kitchens of the foster homes. She couldn’t. She didn’t want anything to remind her of what she’d lost, of what she’d never really had.
Only books made any difference to her in those dark years growing up. They didn’t demand trust, ask her questions, or put restrictions on her. They just let her escape. She learned to only depend on herself. That is, until she met Abuela, who’d showed a scared girl how to trust again.
Now the smells of cooking made her think of what a real home should smell like, not the stale beer and cigarette smoke of the foster home when she’d been ten. Nor the smell of too many cats of the home when she’d been twelve. She wanted her home to smell of cookies and…she inhaled. Delicate spices scented the air. But something was missing.
Cinnamon.
Cinnamon and sugar from the churros her mom had made. She wanted her home to smell of cinnamon and love.
“What’s that look on your face for?” Dylan asked.
She spun to face him and gaped. He stood in a pair of Rakin’s loose black pants, tied low on his hips. In only pants. His muscled arms and sculpted chest showcased the strength and power he’d used to climb the building.
It had been five long months since she’d seen that chest and those arms, had them wrapped around her. She swallowed against a dry throat.
“You looked sad.” He used a towel to dry his hair as he spoke to her. “Well, not sad really, but…wistful.” He draped the towel around his neck and stepped farther into the kitchen; his bare feet made no sound. “What were you thinking about?”
What had she been thinking about? Could she tell him? She turned back to her stove.
Tell him what? she berated herself. That she dreamed of having a home of her own one day? A family? People like them didn’t have families. Not when most homes couldn’t survive the necessary secrets and time away.
Besides, if she told him she wanted a home, he’d naturally assume she meant with him. And then she’d see him run for his exfil, whether it was safe to go on the streets or not.
“Don’t do that.”
She turned to him. “Don’t do what?”
“You don’t have to open up to me. I’m not expecting that anymore,” he said. “But don’t lie to me. I deserve better than that.”
He left her then, and she shivered against a chill despite the fact she stood by the stove.
* * *
Sarah couldn’t sleep. Jalila lay beside her in her bed. It was midmorning and they’d all decided they needed some sleep. She’d shown Dylan the hidden room in the basement and he and his gear were there. She had no reason to feel anxious. No one knew he was there and he was safe. As safe as anyone in this blasted city.
She stood and put her robe on. She couldn’t leave the house today. Not without Rakin to accompany her as her mahram. And Dylan couldn’t go out with that blond hair of his. There were quite a few foreigners in Mosul, come here to fight the jihad with ISIS, but Dylan’s fair hair and blue eyes would make him stand out too much, even though his pale skin had been tanned by the sun and a short beard darkened his jaw.
She closed the bedroom door behind her and went to make coffee. Rakin had gotten milk and sugar at the corner store that also served as their mini grocery. She usually did her bigger shopping at the souq, with Rakin following her.
She grimaced. What was she going to do all day, stuck inside with Dylan? She could just imagine the stilted conversations and awkward silences.
She heard a pounding on her neighbor’s door. A man shouted something. She went to her front window in the sitting room and pulled aside the curtain just enough to see outside.
A group of about twenty men, all wearing the black clothes of ISIS fighters, milled about on the street. The men seemed to be working in groups of three, going to each door and pushing their way inside.
Three men strode to her door.
“That doesn’t look good,” Dylan said from behind her.
“Dammit.” She dropped the curtain back into place. “Stop sneaking up on me. Go back to the secret room. Don’t come out, no matter what happens.”
He stared at her. “I won’t let them take you.”
She shook her head. “You won’t have a choice; there are too many of them.” She pushed his chest. He didn’t move. “Go hide. Trust me. I’ve survived for five months.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Don’t let them take you, or I’ll be coming up.”
The men pounded on her door.
“Go,” she said to him quietly. “I’ll be fine, but you won’t if they catch you.” He finally left and she called out in Arabic, “I’m coming.” She grabbed her scarf from the coffee table and wrapped it around her head and neck. The pounding increased in volume.
She unlatched the door and at the same time pulled the end of the scarf across her face so only her eyes showed. She opened the door and stood behind it, peeking out at the men.
“As-salamu alaykum.” She said the standard greeting in a soft voice, keeping her eyes down.
“Wa-alaikum salaam, sister,” the first man said. His gaze moved past her and into the house. “Where is your mahram?”
“He left for work.” She stayed by the door. The man, his full beard emphasizing his thick lips, moved farther into the house when the tall one behind him barged past and went to her bedrooms.
Her heart leapt. Jalila!
If the man checked the bedrooms, he would find her. Her mind raced, trying to think of a cover. She made a small sound of protest when he went into her bedroom, as she suspected any woman might when strange men entered her home. He didn’t immediately say anything. Had Jalila hidden?
“Do not fear us, sister,” the first man said. “We are looking for an agent of the CIA.”
She let him see her eyes widen in surprise before she lowered them again. “Do you think that he might be hiding here?”
“I found someone,” the tall man in her bedroom yelled.
The other two pushed past her. She hurried with them to the bedroom, knowing who they’d found.
Jalila stood, shivering, with her head down. The man who’d yelled had a grip on her upper arm, as if the terrified girl were going to run.
“She was hiding under the bed,” he said.
“Please.” Sarah kept her voice as soft as she could. “She scares easily.”
“Your daughter?” the man who was the leader asked.
“No,” she said, thinking quickly. “My friend is very sick and I’m taking care of her girl for a few days.”
“Very kind of you, sister,” the leader said. “Let the girl go, Qadir.” He nodded at the third man, who went into Rakin’s room.
“A man’s bedroom, Hisham.” He came to stand behind Sarah. She wanted to move so he wasn’t at her back, but that would look too suspicious.
Hisham pursed his thick lips and stepped closer to her, boxing her in. She couldn’t step back with the other man behind her. “Whose room is that?”
“My brother’s.” Sarah inched to the side.
Hisham stepped even closer. Sarah clutched her robe at her throat, held the scarf tight across her face and kept her gaze down. Anger rose as they boxed her in. She wanted to punch the asshole, but knew that would land her in prison or worse.
“There were no men’s clothes in your room. Where is your husband?” he asked.
“He’s dead.”
The men stepped back. Hisham looked her up and down. “There are many warrior brothers who need a wife.” He glanced at Jalila. “It is sad for a woman not to have a husband to care for. She is without true purpose. Is that not right, sister?”
Sarah knew that if she answered yes, she’d be brought today to the ISIS headquarters and given as a bride to whichever fighter they favored at the moment. She had to be careful about what she said.
“I am still mourning my husband. I am sure I will be ready for a husband again soon, inshallah.”
“I could use a wife tonight,” Qadir said. When the tall man leered at her, it highlighted the gap in his yellowed teeth. She forced herself not to shudder. She would kill these men before she ever let one of them lay hands on her.
“Qadir,” the leader said sharply. “She is a sister. Treat her with respect, as you would your own sister.”
Qadir scowled. “My sister’s a whore and Allah will see her punished.” He left the apartment.
Hisham sighed. “My apologies, sister. He is a foreigner. He will soon learn our ways. Maybe a sister like you could help show him.”
Sarah lowered her gaze and said nothing.
“As-salamu alaykum,” he said.
“Wa-alaikum salaam,” she murmured, but they were already moving to the next house.
She sighed and looked up. Her neighbor, Ahmed, stood across the road in front of his gate. He stared at her and she could feel the malice from where she stood. He started to walk across the street. She slammed her door. A glance out the window showed him standing in the middle of the road before he finally turned back to his own home.
7
Dylan holstered his Sig when he heard the men leave the apartment. They hadn’t checked the basement; they’d been so concerned with Sarah. He hated the thought of leaving her here by herself when men like that had the authority to bust in and harass her. And no matter what she said, Mosul was not a place for a woman on her own, even if she was as skilled as Sarah. The thought of her in ISIS’s hands made his blood curdle.
It had been ingrained in him by his military father to protect those weaker than himself. It was why he’d joined the military. To protect and defend. It was a part of who he was.
Sarah wasn’t weak, but she couldn’t take on the world by herself, no matter what she believed. No one could.
His high school girlfriend had taught him that lesson. And yet here he was. Trying to protect another woman who didn’t trust him to help.
He found her in the front room, peering out the window with the curtain hiding
her from view. She hugged herself.
“Will they be back?” he asked.
She let the curtain drop. “Not for a while.”
Jalila went to her, standing close, and said something in Arabic. Sarah dropped to one knee and said something back.
Dammit, he needed to learn more of the language.
Sarah smiled and gave the girl a hug. Jalila stood stiff at first and then hugged Sarah back, squeezing her eyes shut.
Something in his stomach twisted at the sight of Sarah hugging the girl so close. She was becoming attached, and that was dangerous. It could affect her decisions.
And her safety.
Sarah hadn’t known this girl long, and yet she was more attached to her than to him, whom she’d slept with.
Fuck him.
Was he jealous of a child? He clenched his jaw. He was not that type of man. He was only concerned for her safety and that of the girl, he told himself. It wasn’t that he wanted Sarah to hug him like she actually cared.
He left them to their quiet murmurs and went to the small kitchen. Sarah had made coffee. Thank God. He took out two cups and poured coffee in both and added milk and sugar to hers.
He would keep Sarah safe. And the girl too.
He turned with the coffee in hand and stopped.
Jalila smiled at him. “Qahwa?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Okay?”
“O-kay.” She went to the cupboard and pulled out another cup.
Sarah stood in the kitchen doorway. “You just told her she can have coffee.”
“I did?” He looked at the girl, who frowned with concentration as she lifted the heavy coffeepot. “Kids here drink coffee?”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “No, but they like to have lots of warm milk and sugar.” She helped Jalila pour a little coffee into her mug and then watched as the girl filled it with milk and proceeded to add sugar.
“Four teaspoons?” he said. “Is that good for her?”
“You’re the one who told her she could,” Sarah said.
“Right. Want to run it by me what she said?”
Sarah spoke to Jalila in Arabic and then pointed to the kitchen table. Jalila grinned and with two hands around her mug went and sat.
