Wings of Gold Series

by Tappan, Tracy

  Farrin’s mare let out a high-pitched complaint as the bumper of the moving jeep clipped one of its back hooves. Her horse skittered into a few sideways paces, its muscles trembling with plain fear, and she grappled at both the saddle horn and the reins to keep from falling off. Her heart thundered with as much alarm as her poor mare was experiencing. If only she knew how to stay on one of these things better!

  Although…oh! Farther down the road, it looked like Shane had collided with the rickety cart being pulled by a braying ass. He was flat on his back on the ground, still in the process of being dragged by a foot caught in a stirrup. Shane’s horse wasn’t putting much spirit into it, though, and in another two steps, the mare just stopped and shook its head wearily with a rattle of harness and bit.

  Poor man. No doubt Farrin would be re-stitching Shane again tonight.

  Shouts rose from near the barricade jeeps, and she twisted in the saddle to look behind her. The movement was apparently a signal for her mare to come to a complete stop, too.

  She conducted a quick search of the area and—Where was Jason? Dear Allah! Didn’t he make it through? Squinting at the shifting miasma of smoke, she saw intermittent images of bad guys dashing pell-mell and yelling. Several rifle muzzles spit sparks and sharp cracks rang out.

  The oxygen arrested in her lungs. Jason! Had he been shot? Was he—?

  And then there he was, shredding the black vapor…

  Her mouth went lax as she watched horse and rider make a magnificent leap over the hood of one of the jeeps, man and beast moving in beautiful, synchronized harmony. Their landing was equally spectacular, done with both power and grace, the jump hardly slowing their breakneck speed.

  She blinked. How in the world had Jason done that? She couldn’t keep her butt in the same spot in the saddle for more than a moment—bump, bump, bump: she might as well be playing the bongos with her glutes—much less try to jump a half-ton beast.

  More shots cracked.

  Jason rampaged toward her. As he barreled past, he whipped his reins down on the hind end of her mare.

  Her horse shot forward.

  Farrin gasped as she was flung back in the saddle. She fumbled with the reins.

  Crack! Crack!

  Bullets pattered the ground around her mare’s hooves. It was too much for the scared old girl to take—the horse screamed and reared.

  The world flipped in front of Farrin’s vision, trees smashing into the sky as she tumbled head over heels out of the saddle. She landed hard on her back. Stars sparkled. She tried to groan, but couldn’t find the air. Her lungs refused to fill. She stared up at the sky, slit-lidded. Pale clouds bouldered together like lumpy mashed potatoes. She managed to wheeze in a breath, then craned her head over to check on her horse.

  The mare was galloping away, dust kicking up from its hooves. Now you decide to gallop? Farrin lay on her back for the length of another difficult breath, then the crunch of boots on sandy terrain shot a bolus of adrenaline through her. Someone was coming at her from the barricade! She swayed to a sitting position, her hair hanging in her face. A few feet away her hijab humped on the ground like a dark blue, sleeping turtle. She shook her head against the dancing stars still using the inside of her skull as a ballroom. Through the curtain of her hair, she saw several of the enemy coming for her. The man in front had a beard trimmed down to a narrow line along the edge of his jaw, a rifle slanted across his back, and a cruel look about him. No, not just cruel. Sadistic.

  Her heart faltered into a sick throb. Snatching up her hijab, she scrambled to her feet and ran in the direction Jason had gone. Up ahead, she was just seeing the last of him—he was looking over his shoulder at her, and… He didn’t slow. Just kept thundering away in escape, the boom of hooves fading down to the sound of keys metrically clacking on an old-fashioned typewriter. Farrin went cold.

  The crunching boots behind her were running, too, gaining on her…

  Fear put wings on her feet. She ran faster, staring at the hazy stir-up of dust on the path—the empty path—in eye-fluttering shock. She couldn’t believe how astonished she was by Jason leaving her. But based on the way he’d consoled her last night, she’d gauged him to be a caring man. All right…exactly. He wasn’t leaving her for good. He was merely riding away now because he was following the adage of he who fights and runs away may live to fight another day. He would sneak back later and save her. Eventually. When he could. She had to comfort herself with that certainty.

  And you’re trusting your instincts about men because, why, Farrin?

  Her lips quaked. She bit into them. Because of evidence. Hadn’t Jason saved her life before in the cave? If you run headlong out of this cave, you’ll be shot or captured. I need you not to do that. Hadn’t he come back for her before in the post-op ward? I’ll double-time it to your tent, get the phone, then double-time it back here.

  Yes, he had.

  He would come back for her.

  But meanwhile…

  She was about to be taken into the custody of some very bad men.

  The sound of heavy breathing seemed right behind her, practically on her nape. She twisted her head back. The bearded terrorist was very close to grabbing her!

  Her tongue went tacky and stuck to the roof of her mouth. Terror pounded against her sternum and all the bones making up her ribcage. Terror festered into panic, consuming and overwhelming, and—

  No. Stop it.

  Was she going to make a complete fool of herself again with hysteria?

  Absolutely not.

  I’m a grown woman with a good head on my shoulders.

  Swallowing with effort, she skidded to a stop and jerked on her hijab—the devil if she’d face down this antar20 with her hair shamefully uncovered. Breathing in gasps, she turned and stood erect, making her spine go as straight and proud as she possibly could. She lifted her chin.

  I’ll never be afraid again.

  She needed to remember her vow. Now more than ever. She needed to stick to the promise she’d made to herself eighteen years ago, after the petrifying experience of fleeing Iran…

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Eighteen years ago

  Tehran Imam Khomeini International Airport, Iran

  Nasrin Farrin Behzadi sat in the metal chair with her spine braced, her purse clutched seizure-like on her lap, and the one suitcase she’d been allowed on the floor beside her.

  A large plate-glass window on her right gave her a view from the security office out to the busy airport. The glass must’ve been very thick, because sounds were muted down to a low hum. People hurried by in both directions in a never-ending stream. Wheels on suitcases rolled, spinning, spinning, spinning. No two pairs of shoes were alike: fancy, casual, bright colors, muted. Children—sleepy or reluctant or wide-eyed—were tugged along.

  Nasrin checked the large digital display of time near the Arrivals and Departures board. Her flight was scheduled to take off in twenty minutes, yet she was still sitting here. A niggling unease bristled the hairs on her arms. She should be boarding the airplane right now, all the details already settled. What was taking so long?

  She glanced between the two men in the security office with her.

  An Iranian in his twenties, wearing black jeans and a plain gray T-shirt, sat in the metal chair next to hers. He was youthful, with a studious air, probably a college student.

  The second man, thirtyish and dark, was currently leaning back against a desk across from her, a phone pressed to his ear. The phone was super-sized, like a walkie-talkie, so it was obviously special…maybe encoded. He was dressed in the lime green, button-down shirt worn by airport security.

  He wasn’t airport security.

  He was the CIA agent assigned to see her safely into her new life as an American.

  Nasrin hugged her purse closer. Why couldn’t the kind and honest man from the Tehran Peace Museum have been put in charge of her? Or even the polite MI6 agent from the British embassy? She didn’t like or trust this m
an. To start with, he wasn’t a local. His skin was a shade too dark, his nose a smidge too wide—Turkish, maybe?—and he smelled like his shaving lotion had been liberally doused with cumin. He also didn’t speak Persian. Which was why the college student was here. Introduced to her simply as Sekka, he was her translator.

  But mainly there was something about the Turk’s eyes she didn’t like. They looked dishonest.

  Finishing his conversation, the Turk aimed those awful eyes at her as he set down the large phone on the desk. He spoke to her in English.

  “Mr. Birol says,” Sekka translated, “that the situation has changed. His superiors are insisting you turn over all the evidence you have before being allowed on the airplane.”

  “What?” She glanced sharply at Sekka. “What situation?”

  Sekka asked the agent.

  The Turk gestured offhandedly as he answered.

  Sekka shrugged. “Mr. Birol wasn’t told the reason.”

  “But…” She dragged a finger over her upper lip, wiping away a mustache of sweat beads. She didn’t understand. “I’ve already been promised asylum. They can’t change things now, at the last minute.”

  Sekka spread his hands, as if to say what do I know about it?

  Her unease grew. She looked at the Turk, but pulled her eyes away after only briefly glancing at him. She couldn’t seem to hold his gaze. “What happens if I refuse?” she asked Sekka. “Will Mr. Birol and I sit here and stare at each other for the rest of the afternoon? Or am I just supposed to go back to Raham and somehow explain to him why I left the house today with a suitcase?” If she bolted from the security office now, she could beat her husband home from the ministry, but it didn’t matter. Raham would already know about her suitcase—the men who followed her would surely have reported to Raham by now. “And how will I explain ending up in an airport security office?” Again, her guards would know this. After all, she was sitting right in front of a—

  She whipped her head abruptly toward the large plate-glass window, the strangeness of it just now occurring to her.

  Why put an asylum refugee someplace so visible?

  She whirled back on the Turk and scrutinized him through narrow eyes. Had this CIA agent exposed her on purpose in order to heighten her fear and apprehension? Was he trying to trick her into handing over Raham’s bank statements quickly—unthinkingly—just to get safely on the airplane?

  If he still allowed her on the plane once she’d relinquished all her negotiating power.

  A fresh claw of foreboding scratched at her nape. Maybe this agent had no intention of letting an Iranian woman become a citizen of the United States.

  Braiding her fingers tightly together over her purse, she managed to speak to Sekka in calm and precise syllables. “Please tell Mr. Birol to remove me from this room.”

  Sekka didn’t translate. He sat there looking confused by her sudden change of subject.

  The muscles in her face constricted. “Right. Now.”

  The Turk shot a glower between them, a flare of irritation knitting his brow. Clearly, he was unhappy about being left out of so much conversation. “What?” he insisted.

  She understood that English word. She kept her focus on Sekka. “Please tell Mr. Birol—”

  And then it was too late.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of something in the main airport to demolish in one second her anger and righteous indignation…

  A glimpse of a navy suit, a hint of gray hair.

  Heart thundering, she bounced her focus all over the crowd of travelers. Anxiety crept into the pit of her stomach. That glimpse could’ve been any of a dozen Iranian businessmen, but some sub-brain instinct for survival told her it was one man in particular. “My husband is here,” she croaked out.

  Sekka’s eyes spread wide. He reeled off a quick sentence to the CIA agent.

  In the next second, it turned out she hadn’t lied.

  Raham shouldered through the steady stream of people, two other suited men behind him.

  Nasrin’s belly rolled, a new rush of alarm dumping acid into her stomach. Vomit rose up, and she gripped her throat with a chilly hand.

  Raham’s glare locked onto her through the plate-glass window.

  Her mind sank under a cold wave of horror. Her next breath was an ineffective half-gulp, bringing in only a morsel of air. “He has seen me. Oh, sweet, holy Allah, I am dead.”

  Sekka rattled urgent English words to the Turk.

  Unmoved, the agent’s tone was even.

  Sekka translated: “Give Mr. Birol the papers right now and he’ll make it look like you’re being detained here by force.”

  Raham came to the plate-glass window and crashed his fist against it. “Nasrin!”

  She jumped so hard, her bottom lifted an inch or two off the metal chair. Her heart scurried like a cockroach after the lights come on, searching for a place to hide.

  The CIA agent hissed two words at her.

  “The papers!” Sekka hissed, too.

  A broken dam of blood boomed against her temples. The situation has changed. You must turn over all evidence before being allowed on the airplane. Her lips pulled back from her teeth. The Turk was trying to cheat her! She rounded on Sekka, her eyes hot. “This lying slime is going to take my papers, then throw me to my husband like old meat to a wolf.”

  Sekka paled.

  Raham’s fist battered the glass again. “Nasrin!” Wham! Wham! “What are you doing in there?!”

  She glared at the Turk. “You double-crossing pig,” she cried, “you’ve killed me!”

  Sekka’s face blanched a more ghostly shade. “What…what do you want me to tell Mr. Birol?”

  That she was an idiot. A complete and absolute fool for believing the CIA would deal fairly with her, a fifteen-year-old Iranian girl.

  The locked door handle to the security office rattled as Raham tried it.

  A maiming panic tore her stomach to pieces. Each breath she drew was torture. She slapped a palm over her lips as she threw up a little in her mouth. Stop! Stop! Stop! Panic will just turn you into more of an idiot. She needed to think clearly. She must block out her fear, stay calm, be in control, figure out how to survive this.

  Bending at the waist, she spat the bile on the carpet. Her mind raced chaotically, bumbling around for a way to explain herself to her husband. How was she supposed to think with Raham pounding on the glass and yelling, the Turk glowering at her, and her dreams of freedom and a new life disappearing as rapidly as water down an open drain? Little wonder she couldn’t come up with anything. Every thought that came into her mind merely led back to the same place: she was at the Turk’s mercy. There was nothing she could do but give him the papers, then pray he would keep his word and pretend she was being forcibly detained in—

  She snapped straight. Wait…

  Why couldn’t she pretend the same thing? Once released, she could rush into Raham’s arms, and weep and weep in gratitude for him saving her from these horrible security officers…perhaps even shyly kiss his throat. A kiss might distract him from asking too many questions she couldn’t answer. Because as much as her husband adored her innocence, he also wanted her to be more…accepting of his attentions. Sweet kisses and a confession that she’d come to the airport to plan a surprise romantic getaway for them might save her.

  Without further thought, she sprang to her feet. “Tell the American pig,” she clipped out to Sekka, “the deal is off!” Dashing to the large window, she banged on the glass where her husband was. “Help me, Raham!” she screamed. “I came here to buy tickets for a vacation to England for us, and these men…these men took me, and…”

  And what? Her belly slammed into her esophagus. She was stuck already! What believable reason could she give for these “security officers” holding her? And her suitcase…? What excuse did she have for bringing luggage? How could she explain such a thing?! Another scream spiraled up her throat. Quicksand pulled at her feet.

  Behind h
er, a rapid exchange of conversation was going on.

  Raham wore a mask of wild rage.

  Her head filled with darkness. She could no longer think or feel or make herself speak. She could only bang louder on the window.

  Outside in the airport she heard the muted announcement: “Final boarding call for British Airways flight 256 to London at Gate 29B…”

  Wasn’t that her—?

  Her arm was seized in a bruising grip.

  She cried out as the Turk yanked her back from the plate-glass window and hauled her toward the rear of the security office.

  Eyes blazing with inhuman fury, Raham threw his weight at the locked door. The wood bowed inward.

  Something came out of her…an unhn of animal fear. Rage would give her husband the strength to break in and get her.

  The Turk towed her through the rear door, bringing her into the main security section. The door clattered shut behind them, making Raham disappear. She was escorted swiftly through a network of carpeted hallways, Sekka pattering behind, carrying her bag and her purse. Closed doors stretched out on both sides of the corridor, but not a single noise emerged from any of them. The acoustics of the hallway made her heavy breathing sound deafening. It was, actually. She was sucking air through her nose and open mouth, quick, hard, fear-drenched pants.

  The Turk growled a string of words into his oversized phone, then around the next corner, a door opened.

  A dark-suited man stepped into the jamb.

  What was happening now?

  The Turk stopped in front of the man, letting go of her arm to accept a lightweight synthetic, blue jacket. He quickly put it on, zipping it up to cover his lime green security shirt. He was also given three plane tickets, three passports, and a briefcase. He grabbed her arm again and aimed for a door at the end of the hallway. Passing through it, they emerged into the airport.

  They were in front of Gate 29B.

  The Turk barked a word at her.

  “Hurry,” Sekka translated urgently.

  She was hustled down a gangway onto the airplane, then urged into a seat between Sekka and the Turk, and belted in.