“You don’t need to do that. Really, I’ve got supplies. I’ll be okay.”
She quickly turned toward him. “Have you told him, Reed?” She eyed her husband.
The doctor looked away. “It didn’t come up,” he said quietly without looking at his wife.
She lifted another tomato and dropped it in the bucket of water. “Tell me, Lieutenant Calton, did you ever run into a Captain Bradley?” she asked. “He was an Apache pilot. Flew with the Third Battalion of the One Hundred and First.”
Bono thought, then shook his head.
The brown-haired woman with the soft hands turned around to face him. “That’s too bad,” she said. “Arnie was a good man. Too young. Too kind sometimes. Too trusting. Not careful enough. But he was a good boy, our son. He was killed eighteen months ago in Afghanistan.”
Bono stared at her without speaking. “I’m very sorry,” he said.
Jasmine turned back to her tomatoes. “So are we.” She pulled some homemade bread from the cupboard. “We don’t have a lot, you understand, but I’ll put together what I can.”
Bono started to argue but could see it wouldn’t do any good. And he was thankful anyway, and willing to accept her generosity. He watched her spread some peanut butter and homemade jam across thick slices of bread. Standing again, he said, “Thank you, sir,” to the doctor, his voice determined. “Thank you for what you’ve done, but I really have to go.”
The doctor stood beside him. “You’ll never make it in your condition.”
“Maybe not, sir, but what choice do I have? I think if I start slow and pace myself . . .”
“I really can’t allow it.”
Bono stared at him without replying. Turning, he headed to the kitchen door. His clothes were drying on the fence outside.
“Let me ask you something,” the doctor said as Bono walked away. The officer turned back. “Do you know how to handle a horse?”
Bono hesitated. “I rode a horse in Afghanistan.”
“If I give you a good animal, will you take care of her?”
Bono’s eyes moved from the doctor to his wife and back again. “I promise you, I will.”
The doctor nodded. “Figured you would.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
East Side, Chicago, Illinois
It was almost two hours before Sam returned. By then the sun had risen, bringing light to the day. He stood in front of the broken window on the door, his back to it, looking out on the crowded streets. Then he quickly pushed the door open and backed in. “Azadeh,” he called softly.
She was nowhere to be seen.
“Azadeh,” he called a little more loudly. Still no answer. He pulled the Beretta from his holster. The handgrip was already warm. He’d been holding it before. “Azadeh.” This time he whispered, his nerves on end. He listened, waited, then slowly started moving toward a door on the back wall. Passing the store’s counter, he found her asleep on the floor. “Azadeh,” he whispered, kneeling down beside her. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, confusion in her eyes, then sat up instantly, wrapping her coat around her waist. “I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I must have fallen asleep.” She rolled over to her knees.
Sam put a hand on her leg to reassure her. “It’s okay. I’m glad you got some sleep.”
She stood up. “I am ready.”
He looked at her and laughed. “Ready to what, Azadeh?”
She looked confused again and then embarrassed. “I don’t know. Whatever you tell me to do.”
He put his arm around her. “Come with me,” he said.
She nodded toward the street. “What did you find?”
“I’ll tell you as we walk.”
“It is good though, no? It is good. Lights? Electricity? Many people go there. They are all excited. I think it must be good.”
Sam shook his head sadly and pulled her toward the door. “I’ll explain everything, but we’ve got to leave right now.”
Azadeh’s face fell. “You are not happy?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“It is not good?”
“No, it’s not.”
* * *
They moved against the flow of people who were rushing toward the shoreline. The crowds were larger now, and more desperate, most of them running, pushing, screaming, cursing, whatever it took to make their way along. Almost all of them carried something to hold water: buckets, plastic containers, empty milk jugs, water packs. One man carried an old metal sink and Azadeh stared at him, her eyes wide in disbelief. There were children with their mothers, babies in tired arms. All of them were moving down the street toward the shoreline, leaving Sam and Azadeh to push against the tide, like fish trying to swim upstream. Four or five blocks farther west, the crowd thinned out and they could finally talk.
“What happened back there?” Azadeh asked him as they walked.
Sam kept his eyes moving. “The United States government has brought in a portable water purification facility. They got it from Canada, apparently. Shipped it across the Great Lakes. It’s got its own power generator, pumps, filters, distribution outlets, the whole bit. They’re pumping water from the lake, purifying it, and making it available to anyone who needs it.”
Azadeh looked relieved. “That is good, no? Water . . . we all need it.”
Sam adjusted the water pack on his back. Azadeh reached out and pressed it, feeling its weight and pressure, noting it was full. “What is bad about this, Sam?”
He frowned, a fist of worry growing in his gut. Everything was tumbling around him and he didn’t know how to explain. He thought back on what he had seen and heard at the water station. Someone had shoved him; others pulled him back. The water master had stared at him, his face a threatening scowl. “Where you from?” he had demanded. Sam was slow to respond. What difference did it make? The city official had glared at him and said, “You’re the wrong color.” Sam couldn’t believe it and he stared, his mouth open. “Where do you live? What neighborhood? We need to ration. What family are you from?”
* * *
Walking with Azadeh, he felt another cold chill run through him and he wondered how he could explain it. Azadeh looked at him, her eyes wide. She reached out and touched his arm. “Sam, are you okay?”
He shook his head. “There were soldiers there. They were from a unit I didn’t recognize. They wore dark uniforms and red headgear.” He stopped talking. He was angry. And confused. His face screwed up tight.
Azadeh froze, her mind flashing back to the soldiers with black uniforms on the mountain in Iran. Her father tied up to a tree. The gasoline. The matches. She felt suddenly sick inside. Sam stopped beside her, glanced behind them, then pulled on her elbow, picking up the pace. “There were other soldiers,” he went on. “Light blue uniforms with the U.N. symbols on their helmets.” He paused again. “And other soldiers too.”
Azadeh didn’t understand. “Other soldiers?”
“Yes, Azadeh. Soldiers from other countries. Some of them appeared to be from private security organizations.” He huffed in disgust. “Yeah, I saw them in Afghanistan and Iraq. A bunch of blowhard wannabes with big guns but little brains. It isn’t good, Azadeh. It isn’t good at all.” He gestured to the crowded streets around them. “There should be U.S. soldiers everywhere. Every corner. Every street. If not active duty, there should be National Guard soldiers here.” He paused, as if realizing it for the first time. “I haven’t seen any U.S. soldiers since we got here.” His voice was low. “Where is everyone! Why aren’t they around?”
Azadeh didn’t answer. Of course she didn’t know.
“Our leaders have chosen not to deploy our own soldiers. Why wouldn’t they deploy our soldiers? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Azadeh hurried by his side. “There were soldiers, though.” She gestured to the water station. “Maybe from another country, but still, that is good.”
Sam turned and looked at her. “No, Azadeh, it isn’t good. If anyone should know that, it is you. Ther
e are good soldiers and bad soldiers.”
She nodded slowly and dropped her eyes. That was something she understood. “But this is America, Sam. There are no bad soldiers in America.”
Sam reached out and pulled on her hand. “There are now,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sam and Azadeh were still five or six blocks from the apartment where the rest of their family was just waking up. A six-story, gray brick building was ahead of them on the corner. The main doors were open and a gang of men were waiting, watching them. As they approached the building, the gang moved off the stairway and onto the street, moving quickly toward them. Sam leaned into Azadeh as they walked, nudging her toward the other side of the street. He kept his eyes ahead, avoiding eye contact with the men. She kept her eyes down, too scared to look up. Her dark hair flowed over her shoulders, blown back in the morning breeze that was funneling down the street. The men adjusted their direction to intercept them. Underneath his jacket, Sam’s hand moved toward his gun.
“Hey there,” one of the men called to them. “Hey there, woman. Where you from?”
“Keep walking,” Sam whispered.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!”
“Don’t say anything!” Sam whispered, nudging her again. They were on the opposite sidewalk now, pressed against the dirty building on the other side of the street.
Three of the men doubled their pace and moved out in front of them, two hemmed them in on the side, a couple more stood at their back. The apparent leader of the gang stepped up beside them. Reaching out, he grabbed a fistful of Azadeh’s hair. She held back a scream, but knocked his hand away. Turning quickly, Sam swept her to his side, pushed her against the building, and moved to stand in front of her, positioning himself between Azadeh and the gang leader. The Beretta M9 was in his hand now but he kept it hidden between his jacket and his ribs. “What’s the problem, buddy?” he demanded of the men. The hoodlums gathered around him. Too confident. Too cocky. They weren’t afraid of him. They didn’t have their guns out, but it was obvious that they were armed. Most criminals kept their weapons in the front of their pants—easy to conceal but also easy to retrieve—and their pants bulged in all the right places.
Sam kept his Beretta hidden. If he had to use it, he was dead. He couldn’t kill them all—a couple of them, maybe more, but he wouldn’t get them all before one of them shot him in the head.
He stood his ground, his shoulders square, his eyes unflinching, his body between the men and Azadeh. Pressing against him, she kept her head down and stifled a cry of fear.
The gang leader looked past Sam, taking in the girl, his eyes a dull and angry fire. It wasn’t lust that burned inside him, it was black ache for revenge. “Where you from, pig!” he demanded.
Azadeh didn’t answer.
“SPEAK TO ME!” he screamed.
Sam leaned toward him. “Look, man, she isn’t part of the problem, okay? I know you want to hit them—hey, we all do. Believe me, no one wants revenge any more than me. But this isn’t anything to do with her. She’s been here in America for a long time. She’s . . .”
“ . . . one of them!” the man sneered. “And we’re going to kill them. Every freakin’ Arab in our country. None of them will live.”
“She isn’t even Arab!”
“I know an Arab when I see it. They all look the same. They smell the same. I can smell her Arab stench from here.”
“She’s isn’t Arab, she is Persian.”
“Persian. Arab. They’re all the same. And all of them are going to die.”
Sam forced himself to stay calm, keeping an even voice. “Listen to me, buddy. Maybe you don’t see them as different, but think about this, okay? There is innocent and there is guilty. And this girl has done nothing wrong.”
The man shook his head in heedless rage. “Don’t play your stupid games on me!”
“She is just as much a victim here as you are . . .”
“Are you freakin’ kidding me! You and I are the only victims, baby. But that’s about to change.”
A crowd began to gather, pressing closer and closer to the men. Faces of desperation. Faces filled with anger and the deep lust for revenge.
A sudden motion in the street caught Sam’s eye and he looked past the pressing crowd around them. Four soldiers in dark uniforms were moving down the street. They walked together. Too close together. Was that fear Sam saw in their eyes? He studied them quickly: heavy uniforms, Kevlar body armor, dark glasses, leather gloves. One of them carried a Minimi light machine gun. Standard model, 5.5 mm. Another, the lowest-ranking sergeant, carried a NATO squad support weapon. Sam caught the first soldier’s eye, then motioned
desperately toward him.
The soldier stopped, looked at him, and took his protective glasses off, but he didn’t say anything.
“Who you with?” Sam demanded. It was a soldier’s question with many meanings: What unit are you with? Who’s your commander? What’s your specialty? What’s your army? What nation are you from?
The four soldiers stared but didn’t answer.
“Look, guys, I could use your help here,” Sam yelled, incredulous that they hadn’t acted to do anything. The gang members seemed completely unconcerned. None of them made any effort to hide the handguns that were stuffed inside their pants, and Sam saw the knowing look they shot each other.
He took a quick step toward the soldiers, his heart sinking in his chest. “My name is Lieutenant Brighton. United States Army, Special Forces.”
The soldiers only stared.
“As one soldier to another . . .”
“They’re not going to help you,” the gang leader sneered.
Sam called to them again.
The gang leader wrinkled his nose in disdain, then turned around to face the soldiers. “Hey there, boys. We ain’t got no problems with you here.”
Sam hissed in desperation. “Can’t you see what’s going on?”
The nearest soldier motioned weakly. “No Englis,” he stammered, as if that excused everything.
“You don’t have to speak English,” Sam shot back. “All you have to do is not be stupid!”
The foreign soldier looked away. A second one stepped forward, then turned and looked anxiously up the street. Sam saw the nation flag that was Velcroed to the shoulder of his uniform. Uganda. Are you kidding me? “Listen,” he commanded, “I need you to—”
The foreigner raised his hands again. “No Englis,” he repeated.
“No English! Man, don’t be so stupid.”
The gang leader laughed and then whispered, “They’re not going to help you, soldier boy.”
Sam swore, then turned and shot a deadly glare toward the dark man. Laughing again, the leader said, “The soldiers are our brothers now. After a hundred years of police oppression, we’ve got brothers in uniforms. To show our appreciation, we sent them up a couple of our women. They’ve been very friendly ever since. And ya know what—once we established we were brothers, I found out their instructions are pretty clear. Protect the food. Protect the water. Other than that, they can’t do nothing. U.N. regulations, they tell me. They’re peacekeepers. That’s it. That’s all they do. You got the water boys of soldiers here. So I don’t think they’re going to help you. Don’t think they’re going to help anyone at all.”
Azadeh looked at them, her eyes pleading.
The gang leader saw her eyes move. “They ain’t gonna help you, girlie,” he leered. “Can’t do a stinking thing for you.” He turned to Sam. “What do you soldiers call it? Rules of engagement? Is that right? Well it seems the U.N. has very limited rules of engagement for their soldiers.” He cursed in sarcasm. “Might as well send over a bunch of kindergarten teachers. Funny thing is, these goobers are working under the same stupid rules over here that they’ve been working under everywhere. They can’t be cops. No law enforcement duties. They can’t fight. They are peacekeepers, baby. They’re not ready for any war. They’re not here to participat
e in any conflict. Now, uptown, I hear things are a whole lot different. Thousands of real soldiers on the streets. But that’s only for the rich boys. The white boys. We don’t get no protection down here in the d’hood. So what? We get along. Things ain’t no different than they’ve ever been, even with these baby-blue U.N. soldiers all around.” He turned and spat. “Seems kind of stupid, if you ask me, but I’m just a po’ boy. What do I know?”
He turned and stared at Azadeh. Her head was low, her shoulders slumping, her hands quivering at her side. She felt his eyes boring into her and pressed against the wall again.
“Kinda crazy, ain’t it,” the gang leader sneered. “Here they are, four good soldiers, and they won’t do a freakin’ thing to stop me. I could rape and kill you right here on the street, and they won’t even raise their guns. Sure, they might go back and file some kind of worthless report. U.N. Form 1592. Observance of the Locals. But that is all they’re going to do.” He bent his head and leaned to Sam, looking at him below his upraised eyebrows. “Amazing, ain’t it, buddy. Welcome to the Twilight World.”
Sam motioned toward the soldiers. “Listen to me, captain . . .”
“No Englis,” the squad leader said again. Then they turned and started walking away, shoulder to shoulder, four scared men, all weak and worthless, going through the motions but too frightened of their own shadows to accomplish anything.
The gang leader watched them go, then spat a wad of dark phlegm at Sam’s feet. “You thought they were going to help you. Disappointed, you gotta be.”
The four soldiers disappeared into the crowd.
Sam’s chest was quick and tight. He kept his hand behind his back, the Beretta warm inside his grip. “Look at me,” he whispered as he leaned toward the man. “Do you see this uniform? You see these jump wings and combat badges? I’ve spent my entire adult life over there. I’ve dedicated myself to killing the enemy, and I’ve killed a bunch of them, I guarantee. But this woman behind me, she isn’t one of them.” Sam gestured to the filthy streets and chaos, then lowered his voice a little more. “She had nothing to do with this, man. She’s just like you. She’s just like me. She’s just trying to live through this, you know what I mean.”
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