by Loye, Trish
A note of pleading entered Jalila’s voice as she spoke next. A gentle touch on his hand and his eyes opened as he set the barrel down, but he didn’t look at his weapon. He looked at Jalila and knew that somehow this girl had wormed her way into his heart. How could he not respond to her bravery? She reminded him a bit of his own sister Cat at that age.
He knew he wasn’t going to make a smart decision.
Fuck.
“I’ll get your sister out.”
* * *
Sarah stacked the plates on the counter. Dylan could rinse and put them in the dishwasher. She put the rest of the stew in Tupperware and into her fridge before soaking the pot. He could wash that too.
She wanted to dirty more pots for him to wash, but she wasn’t that petty.
Yet.
She heard the low voices of Jalila and Dylan conversing. Jalila chattered away about her home before ISIS had come. And Dylan spoke about Canada. She frowned. How much did they actually understand each other? Their conversation didn’t make sense, but the fact that they both spoke of home told of the connection between them.
A connection she didn’t share. What home did she have? Her sparse apartment in Montréal? The group home in Miami where she’d lived as a teenager? Now that Abuela had passed on, Miami held no appeal to her.
She grimaced at her thoughts. No. She was not going to have a pity party. She had too much work to do.
It was almost seven o’clock. She knew there wasn’t much light left in the day, but she had no window in her kitchen to see it. It was something she missed about her apartment in Montréal. Her kitchen had a view of the St. Lawrence River. Her apartment didn’t have much in the way of decoration, but it did have lots of windows. They ran along one wall with a sliding door to her balcony.
Her apartment consisted of a bare amount of furniture but nothing that showed who she was as a person, besides her bookshelf in her bedroom, which overflowed with novels. Novels of every kind: mysteries, thrillers but most especially romance. She loved to escape in those.
The call to prayer sounded. Isha, the last prayer of the night.
She went to the front window and pulled the curtain aside slightly so she could peer out. Men flooded the street, heading to the mosque. Where was Rakin? He should have been here by now.
Her neighbor Ahmed stared at her door, and then focused his eyes on her. She didn’t drop the curtain, though she knew he expected her to. She wouldn’t back down from this man. His pettiness no longer just irritated her; now it made her angry. His spying could endanger them all.
He started across the street toward her door.
Dammit. What did he want? She debated leaving, but she didn’t like the look in his eyes, intent and malicious. This was one snake you didn’t walk away from.
He pounded on the door, vibrating the thin wood. She clenched her jaw.
She drew the veil across the lower portion of her face and opened her door. His fist was still upraised.
“Where is your brother?” he demanded in Arabic. “He hasn’t been to the mosque all day.”
“Sick,” she said, sticking with the story she’d told Amirah. She went to close the door, but he stopped it with his hand.
“Let me see him.”
She scowled and didn’t bother hiding it. “No. It’s Isha. You should go to the mosque, not pester us.”
He pushed on the door. She blocked it with her foot rather than be seen to push against it with her shoulder. Her leg power far exceeded his ability to push with his arm.
“I’ve been watching you.”
“Well, that’s creepy.”
He pushed harder. “You’re too willful,” he said.
She held the door easily. She might be petite but it was all compact strength, and these situations were exactly why she kept up that strength.
“Are you done, Ahmed?” she asked, putting just a touch of boredom in her tone.
“You need a man to keep you in line,” he continued. “Someone strong, who will make you behave with modesty.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “Someone like you?”
“I have the strength to do that, yes.”
She glanced at his hand on the door, before looking back at him. “I’m not so sure about that.”
His eyes widened. “Such insolence. I will beat that out of you.”
She let the knowledge of all the people she’d killed enter her eyes. “You could try.”
He blanched.
“Good night, Ahmed.” She shut the door.
A quick peek out the window showed Ahmed crossing the street back to his house. He looked back only once and then turned quickly away.
The man was a coward, but she had no doubt that at some point he would try to bring charges of being a nonbeliever against her. She put him on the list of things to take care of.
She checked her watch. It was time to call in. E.D.G.E. needed her report and could tell her where Rakin was. She hoped Blackwell had another assignment for her. Maybe getting out tonight would settle her back to herself.
10
Sarah went down to the hidden room. Gun oil scented the air. Jalila sat on the floor across from Dylan; his assault rifle lay beside him.
“It’s time to check in.” She pulled the encrypted satellite-linked laptop from the shelf and sat at the small desk. She opened it and typed in the password. A secure communication app opened, which allowed a visual connection with E.D.G.E.
Colonel Blackwell appeared on the screen moments later. “Report.”
“Nothing new to report, sir,” Sarah said. “We’ve had some ISIS fighters sniffing around, but I don’t think they suspect anything.”
Dylan raised his eyebrows and deliberately looked at Jalila, who sat out of the screen’s view. His question was clear: Wasn’t she going to mention the girl?
She ignored him. Blackwell knew of her side mission to rescue enslaved girls, and he had no problem as long as she gathered the intel the coalition needed and didn’t blow her cover with the al-Khansa Brigade.
“Good to know,” Blackwell said. “The plan has changed. The zone is too hot and Tea-man isn’t coming back.” He rattled off coordinates for a new exfil closer to Kurdish territory. “Two days’ time at twenty-hundred hours. There will be a team waiting for both of you.”
Sarah shook her head. “Sir—”
“Your mission is over, Ghost. You will be on that bird,” Blackwell said. “You and Cowboy.”
She took a deep breath. “But, sir, I can’t. I need more time.”
Blackwell leaned back in his chair. “Explain.”
“The work Tea-man and I do—”
“He’s not coming back. He’s been reassigned.”
“Then the next agent—”
“There will be no other agent.”
“Sir,” Sarah said. “The women and girls in captivity need someone. There’s too many to leave behind.”
Blackwell sighed. “I admire your dedication, Ghost. But the situation is becoming too hostile. You need to pull out.”
How could she leave these people? People like Amirah and Jalila couldn’t just leave. She lifted her chin. Hostile be damned. She opened her mouth to continue to argue when Dylan moved in front of her.
“Two days till exfil. Twenty-hundred hours,” he said. “We have the location, sir.”
“Be there.” Blackwell focused his gaze on Sarah. “The coalition forces have planned a drone strike to coordinate with your exfil. At twenty-hundred hours, the strike will be taking out multiple targets. Most from the information you’ve supplied us over the past months.” Blackwell eyed them both. “Ghost, you’ve given us good intel on ISIS’s leader in Mosul, Mahmoud al-Baghdadi. Since he moves his household every week, we need to know with certainty where he’ll be in two days’ time. Can you get that info?”
Sarah thought about her options. Tonight was Wednesday night. They were in luck. “Yes, sir, I can. I should have his location by tomorrow morning.” She signed off and
cut the connection.
Dylan watched her. “We’re going out tonight?”
She gave a sharp nod. She didn’t want him along, but she’d show him that she could work in a team. “As long as you don’t get in my way.”
His eyes narrowed, but she didn’t have time to worry about that. Sarah went back upstairs. In the kitchen, she opened cupboards and scanned through her ingredients, letting recipe ideas go through her head.
“Don’t you think we have enough cookies?” Dylan leaned against the doorway to the kitchen. “You even have a cookie jar in the hidden room.”
Baking helped her think and plan. Besides, they wouldn’t be able to leave until after midnight, and she needed to think of a way she could stay in Mosul and help the girls here.
“That cookie jar contains a flash drive with incriminating photos of the contact we’re going to meet tonight.” She shut one of the cupboard doors precisely before opening another. “Besides, no one’s making you eat the cookies.”
“Why do you bake and cook when you’re upset?”
“What does it matter?” She pulled down the sugar. She would make kleicha again. Amirah’s favorite.
“It’s a part of your personality I haven’t seen. I just wanted to know where it came from.”
She set out a mixing bowl and lined up the necessary measuring cups and spoons. “I just like to,” she said. “It’s nothing special.”
Dylan shook his head slowly. “Nope. It’s more than that. I’ve never seen you like this. Something about this place has gotten past your armor and this is how you deal with stress.”
“Don’t make a bigger deal about this than it is.” Sarah forced her voice to be even and quiet, as she creamed butter and sugar together.
“Who taught you to cook?”
She froze for a moment and then cursed herself. There was no pretending the question hadn’t thrown her. “A woman at the group home I lived in. We called her Abuela.”
“Grandmother,” he said.
Sarah nodded. “A tough woman, but a kind one.”
“Like you.”
Was she? Tough, yes, but was she kind like Abuela had been? She thought of all the times she’d lied to Amirah. How she’d left Dylan with only a note for good-bye. Abuela wouldn’t have done those things. Sarah wasn’t as brave as the only woman who’d cared for her.
She shook her head. “I’m nothing like her.”
He stayed silent for a moment. “Are you going to treat me like a partner or a lackey tonight?”
“That depends on you,” Sarah said, dropping her spoon into the bowl.
“Really?” His intense blue gaze held hers. “How is this about me?”
“Are you going to listen to what I have to say?”
“Are you going to just keep ordering me around?”
“Fuck you.”
He pushed his hair back off his forehead. “I need you to trust me.”
She scowled. “I do trust you.”
“No, you don’t. You hide parts of yourself.”
She dumped flour into the mixing bowl, not just unwilling to answer him, but unable to. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
He sighed. “What I want and what I need are two different things. I need you to be open and honest with me. We need to work together seamlessly, without wondering what the other person would do in a certain situation. You’re too used to working by yourself. Working with a teammate is completely different.”
“I had Rakin.”
Dylan snorted. “You ordered the guy around. He was never your teammate.”
She ignored that. “We’ll leave at midnight.”
He growled. “Don’t spend the whole time making cookies,” he said. “Get some sleep. I need you sharp.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”
* * *
Later that night, after the cookies had been put away and she’d slept for a couple of hours, Sarah tucked Jalila into the cot in the hidden room. She gave her a book and her favorite Disney video, Mulan. Rakin had bought the DVD player at the market, along with some translated Disney films that he figured would calm down any children they hid.
“We’ll leave after you’re asleep, but if you wake up, you can watch the movie. We’ll only be gone a couple of hours,” Sarah said. “But there’s always a chance we’ll be out until morning prayers. I don’t want you to stay up too late.”
The girl nodded, her eyes too wide in her young face.
Sarah swallowed hard against a constriction in her throat. “If for some reason we don’t come back, then cut your hair and pretend to be a street boy. You can survive. Get out of the city. My friend Amirah will give you food for your trip. Tell her who you are. She won’t turn you away.”
Jalila’s eyes got even wider and her breathing increased.
“You’ll be fine,” Sarah said. “And we will be back.”
“Promise?”
Instead of answering, Sarah gave the girl a hug. Jalila’s arms came around her neck and squeezed tighter than Sarah expected. Something twisted hard inside Sarah at the feel of those thin arms around her.
“Good night.” Sarah eased Jalila away from her. “And no more cookies, even if you wake up, or you’ll never get back to sleep.”
The girl nodded, but didn’t say anything. Sarah felt like she was abandoning the child, but she wasn’t; she was just doing her job.
A job that would soon end, according to Blackwell and E.D.G.E.
Who would help girls like Jalila then?
“Are you sure we should be leaving her here by herself?” Dylan asked when she stood in the kitchen again.
“She’s not an ordinary ten-year-old. She’ll be fine.”
“She’s still just a kid.”
Sarah put her hands on her hips. “Stay here then.”
He scowled. “We’re a team.”
“Then stop complaining. Besides, I was left alone when I was younger than that. She’ll be fine.”
He studied her. “Who left you alone?” he asked quietly.
Her eyes widened. Damn. She felt as if she stood in the middle of a minefield. Any misstep would let Dylan further into her soul, and once Dylan knew something, he wouldn’t let it go until he dug out every aspect of her life. “This isn’t a conversation I want to have.”
“You never spoke of your childhood growing up. I guessed it was because it wasn’t a good one, and I let you steer clear of those conversations.”
“Well, aren’t you sweet,” she muttered.
He continued on, undeterred by her sarcasm. “Having a crappy childhood fits with your choice of work, though.”
“What are you? An amateur psychologist?”
“Rescuing kids, having Jalila here—it brings out something in you, doesn’t it? Is that why you cook all the time?”
Her teeth clenched. “Now is not the time for this, Cowboy.” She said his handle on purpose.
“There’s never a good time for this discussion.” He checked his webbing and the magazines. “But you’re right. Time to get on target.” He caught her eye. “But I won’t forget. We will discuss this.” He went into Rakin’s bedroom.
“Presumptuous asshole.” Sarah went to her room to change and get ready. With each step she took, she tamped down the emotions stirred up by Dylan’s words and her worry over Jalila before locking them in a box inside her. Then she stuck that box on top of the many others deep inside her.
* * *
An hour later, Dylan waited by the back door with his game face on. Sarah came out of her bedroom with her face painted in dark browns and blacks, the same as his. She’d wrapped her veil around her head with a swath of it lying on her shoulder, ready to cover the lower part of her face. Black cargo pants, sturdy boots, and a long-sleeved black shirt covered her body.
Dylan wore basically the same, but instead of a veil, he wore a black cap and a black keffiyah pulled up over his face.
She’d strapped a pistol on one leg and a knife on the
other. She fiddled with her shirtsleeves and he suspected she’d hidden her throwing knives under them. She looked confident and dangerous. And sexy as hell.
Focus, Dylan.
“What’s the plan?” he asked.
“My contact always works late on Wednesday evenings. We’ll catch him at the office.” A slightly evil grin accompanied her words.
“Where’s his office?”
“The ISIS HQ.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Was this woman crazy? “The two of us are going to attack the HQ?”
She shook her head. “Not attack. I’ve surveyed the building extensively and been in and out enough times not to be worried. I know the guard schedules, our infil and exfil. We can do this as long as you listen to me.”
It was time for him to trust her skills. He nodded. “Fine, but how do you know he’ll even be there?”
“Oh, he’ll be there.” She strode to the back door. “He’s always there on Wednesday evenings.”
Dylan clenched his jaw. Sarah wasn’t exactly winning any points with him at the moment. The woman seriously didn’t understand teamwork. He checked the pistol strapped to his leg and carried his MP5 rifle for quick access before joining her at the door.
She nodded at him and he opened it. After a glance, he stepped out into the night, with Sarah following. Damn, the smell of that dead dog made him want to gag, but holy hell it was effective. No homeless squatted in this alley.
According to Sarah, the top guys in ISIS moved around at least once per week, because the leaders were paranoid. But she said her contact would know where the leaders were at any given time. That meant her contact had to be pretty high up in the pecking order. And it was the building his team had freed the CIA agent from.
If they could have driven, it would have taken about thirty minutes off their time, but at one in the morning, the only ones driving were ISIS soldiers guarding the streets—or more likely making sure no resident made a run for freedom.
They ran silently through the back alleys, barely disturbing the cats, dogs, and one homeless person who lived in them. They ran at a steady mile-eating pace.
