Night Hush

by Leslie Jones

  When the soldiers’ shouts could barely be heard, Jace increased their pace. Heather’s legs, frozen into the half-­crouch they’d been using, screamed in protest, and she hobbled. Jace stopped and turned, catching her as she staggered again. He wrapped a hard arm around her waist, holding her securely against him. Her legs trembled and shook. She gripped his shoulders helplessly, willing strength back into them. The days of near starvation, little water, and constant fear had taken their toll; their flight had drained her. With a silent sob, she dropped her forehead to his chest. Just for a moment. For strength. Just for a few seconds, wouldn’t it be all right to lean on someone besides herself?

  “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

  The brusque words so surprised her she jerked. His arm tightened, as it had in the cave when he’d looked like he wanted to kiss her. Heat rose in her cheeks. Her own response had astounded her. Rather than feel suffocated or threatened, something had sparked and leapt inside her. The scarf she’d wrapped around her face puffed with her expelled breath. She tucked it back into place, then took a shaky inhale, confused. So who was Jace? Was he the sweet, gentle man who’d cradled her while she broke down in tears back in the cave, who supported her now as though they had all the time in the world for her to get her strength back? Or was he the merciless warrior who’d attacked the terrorist training site?

  Heather had trained in small unit tactics during both Air Assault and Jungle Warfare Schools. These men were something different. They moved as one, thought as one, but their methods were like nothing she’d ever seen. He and his team must be freelancers, she thought, not military. Civilians with military or paramilitary backgrounds employed by one of the hundreds of private security firms infesting this region of the world. Heather knew of the atrocities committed by Blackwater and other private security firms. Sanctioned thugs, nothing more. And now, they had been given even more rein, with the mission to locate and kill terrorists. Enemies of the West and whoever got in their way, no doubt.

  She gave her head a quick shake, trying to dislodge the buzzing in her brain. Mercenaries could not be trusted. She did not dare put her faith in this one. Yet wasn’t that exactly what she was doing?

  Life slowly flowed back into her legs, evidenced by furious pins and needles. Heather pulled away, light-­headed again. Was it her imagination, or did he hesitate before letting her go? He turned away with a gruff, “Let’s go,” and the endless trek began again.

  Jace led her steadily southwest. He stopped several times to let her rest and drink from his canteen. Each time they stopped, he tried to contact his teammates from both a throat mike and his satellite phone. Despite his failure, he kept trying, betraying no agitation or frustration. She didn’t know why he couldn’t get through on the sat phone. Maybe the sandstorm interfered?

  Thankful for the respite, she eased herself to the ground, pressing a hand over her left side and the peculiar tightness and stabbing radiating from that spot. Jace sat nearby, deep in thought. He turned to her, seeming to be sifting through options until he finally spoke.

  “Do you . . . remember how you came to be in that camp?”

  It wasn’t the question she had anticipated, and the odd phrasing threw her. He had asked it in English; she feigned confusion and answered in Turkish, certain he would not understand her. “My name is Necia Kuzuou. I live in Ma’ar ye zhad. Please, can you take me back there?”

  His grim, unsmiling gaze rested heavily on hers, as though he could see inside her head, as though he could tell she was lying through her teeth. “You’re Turkish?” he asked. “But you speak English.”

  She started, realizing she had, without thinking, been either speaking or following his English instructions for miles. Oh, shit! She lowered her eyes, counting on her scarf to hide her expression. Her brain finally unfroze. “Many ­people speak English. It is only Americans who refuse to learn another language.”

  There was another long silence.

  “Why did you pretend not to understand me, just now?”

  Heather’s breath caught at the back of her throat. “You frighten me,” she said, realizing after the words left her mouth that it was true.

  The man said quietly, “I won’t hurt you.”

  “Who are you?” she challenged abruptly, hoping to startle him into revealing something. He only exhaled a soft laugh.

  “I’m the guy who saved your ass,” he said. “And the guy who’s going to take you to safety. To Ma’ar ye zhad.”

  Keeping her head lowered to mask her relief, she said, “Thank you for your many kindnesses. I did not mean to . . . I am grateful you took me away from that . . . that terrible place.” Her voice wobbled against her volition.

  He hesitated. “How, um, how did you come to be there? You were a prisoner, right?”

  Heather blew out a breath. It was an inevitable question. She chose her words carefully.

  “I attend university in Ma’ar ye zhad,” she said, in deliberately stilted English. She smoothed her hands over her knees. “I speak out against the atrocities building in this country. I speak out for freedom, for . . . for fairness. Justice for the women who are being forbidden to learn, to be educated. To work, even when they are doctors, biologists, mathematicians, engineers. Many groups do not like when I speak this way. I was threatened, do you understand?” She was lying outrageously, but the sentiment was true. She hated the fundamentalist trend attacking women’s rights in this formerly progressive country.

  Jace rubbed his chin. “So someone kidnapped you?”

  “I was taken against my will to that camp and held there.” That much, at least, was true, and it was easy to let her fear show in her voice. “Shouldn’t we . . . should we not keep moving?” Heather could feel the trembling in her legs getting worse, and the longer she sat, the stiffer her feet would become. Walking was becoming excruciating. “The sandstorm . . .”

  “In a minute. We’ve got a long road ahead of us.” He dug into one of his many cargo pockets and pulled out a ­couple of power bars. He held one out to her, and she barely stopped herself from lunging for it. It was gone in two bites. He stared at her, his expression unreadable, then proffered the other. She cleared her throat.

  “No, thank you. You, also, must eat.”

  “I think I’ve eaten a lot more often than you have,” he said quietly. “In that camp. What hap . . .” He stopped, shook his head. “Here. You need your strength. I’m sorry I didn’t, um, think of it sooner.” He handed her his canteen, as well. “We’ll rest here for five minutes. I’m sorry I can’t give you more time. We have maybe an hour before the storm crosses the valley and reaches us. We have to find shelter. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Heather forced herself to eat the second bar more slowly, trying to give her cramping stomach time to adjust. She uncapped the canteen. Her survival instincts screamed at her to swallow huge gulps as fast as she could; but, as she had earlier, she forced herself to take small sips.

  “We’ll rendezvous with the guys after the storm passes. They know where.” The information was grunted grudgingly; this was not a man who explained himself often.

  Heather nodded. “Thank you for the food. And water.”

  The man searched her face again. Heather knew the scarf covered her. What was he looking for?

  “Do you know this area at all?”

  “No. I am sorry. You do not?” Heather could have told him she didn’t even know where in Azakistan she was, or even if she was still in the country. Her tormentor had choked her into unconsciousness; she didn’t know for how long.

  “A bit. We’re three klicks from our rendezvous,” he said. “Um . . . we’re three kilometers from where we’re going to link back up with my team.”

  “I understand, but . . . Where are we in Azakistan? You said we are close to Ma-­ar ye zhad, but south? West?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “We’re n
ot close to Ma-­ar ye zhad. We’re three kilometers from Bhunto. We missed our ride.”

  “Bhunto?” As carefully as she’d studied the maps of the Middle East, she couldn’t recall any city with that name.

  He laughed. “Yeah. It’s a three-­goat village near the border. From there, it’s eighty miles to Ma-­ar ye zhad.”

  Aw, hell. The middle of nowhere. “We need to get to Bhunto fast. Come on.” He rose and held out his hand. Like before, Heather turned away. She pushed herself to her feet, swayed, and barely avoided falling. The pain was bearable, but only just. Her own weakness was now her greatest enemy.

  He seemed to know exactly which way to go. Heather could have figured it out, with a map and compass and muscles that didn’t shake with fatigue. The wind picked up, swirling around them in warning. She drove herself forward. It seemed to take forever to walk less than two miles. By the time a small collection of mud huts came into view, menacing clouds obscured the moon and stars, and the wind tore at them. When the storm finally hit, hell would seem calm in comparison.

  Jace flicked on a flashlight. None of the buildings showed any signs of life. No candles or fires, no movement, no animal noises. It looked like the tiny village had been abandoned. He checked several huts before leading her inside one. It held a table, cupboard and bed, but no dishes, clothing, or decorations of any sort.

  Jace dropped his pack on the floor and handed her the flashlight. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and walked out. Heather ran to the door. She found him right outside, piling rocks into a seemingly random arrangement. She recognized the trick. This way, his team would know which hut they had occupied.

  He glanced at her. “I’m not going anywhere. Go sit down.”

  Pale pink spread over the tops of the mountains to the east. It seemed incongruous that a sweetly gentle sunrise would soon disappear beneath the onslaught of the haboob.

  Despite her shaking limbs and fuzzy head, she drew on her training and inspected the walls of the hut for holes, the cupboards for anything useful. Nothing. The tenants had cleared out long ago. She glimpsed his rucksack. He had food and water. They had shelter. They would be fine.

  Jace came back inside. “The team’ll be along in a bit.”

  “You spoke with them?”

  “Yeah. They ran into some trouble. Nothing they couldn’t handle, but they went to radio silence.”

  “Are they . . . unharmed?” Like a mother hen, she worried about her guys at 10th Group every time they went on a dangerous mission.

  “They’re good to go. They’ll be along.”

  Was he trying to reassure her she would not be alone with him for very long? Strangely, her fear had evaporated.

  “Sit down, Hea . . . here, Necia.” He pointed to the bed.

  Instead, Heather sat down cross-­legged in the middle of the floor. It was possible she would never again voluntarily crawl onto a bed.

  Jace made no comment. Setting his weapon against the side of the hut, he opened one of the side pockets of his ruck and tugged out a tan plastic pouch. Heather’s mouth watered. Meals, Ready to Eat. Army field rations. Right now, they would taste better than the finest lobster she’d ever eaten. He also grabbed two candles. Lighting both, he turned them so the wax dripped onto the floor, then set the ends into the wax, securing them. The light, though feeble, filled the mud hut. Heather switched off the flashlight.

  Tearing open a flameless heater bag and setting aside the enclosed carton, he stuffed the pouch—­she couldn’t see what it contained—­into the bag, added a little water from his canteen, and placed both bag and pouch into the carton. The water generated a chemical reaction inside the bag, producing heat that warmed the food. In a few minutes, she smelled spice and chicken. He found a spoon, cut open the top of the pouch of food, and handed both to her.

  “Careful. It’s hot. Hold it by the edge.”

  “Thank you.” Heather dug in. The power bars he’d given her earlier had given her stomach time to adjust to the thought of food, and she was able to eat it all, albeit slowly.

  Jace removed his Kevlar helmet, setting it atop his rucksack, then went to sit on the bed and untied a boot. He banged the heel against the floor, dislodging a fall of sand. She needed to do the same, but right now she’d fight to the death anyone who tried to take the food from her. It was chicken fajita, and it was heaven. When she swallowed the last bite, she looked up to find him studying her again.

  “Better?”

  Nodding, she set the empty plastic pouch aside. “Much. Thank you.”

  He gestured to the canteen. “Drink it.”

  Heather swallowed exactly half of what was in the canteen. It, too, tasted delicious. Wind now howled around the small hut.

  “How long were you in that camp?” Jace’s voice was gentle. Again, though, he seemed to be choosing his words with care. “How were you transported there? Do you remember?”

  She shivered involuntarily and crossed her arms to hide it. He saw it anyway. He slipped out of his uniform top, handing it to her. She dipped her chin in gratitude, pushing her arms into it over the top of the one she already wore. Jace was so much larger than the young soldier, Ahmed, that it slid onto her thin frame easily.

  “Necia . . .” Jace cleared his throat. “You’re bleeding at your shoulder and around your ribs. I hate to do this to you. I can’t begin to imagine, um, what you might have . . .” He scrubbed a hand through his sweaty hair several times. “But I should see how serious your injuries are. I have a first aid kit in my pack, and some training. It’s not much, but . . . Will you let me examine you?”

  No, she wanted to say. No way was she giving up the only advantage she had. Her anonymity meant that if she needed to slip away from them, she could make her way, unobstructed, back to her command.

  “We have a bit of a wait ahead of us,” he added. “God knows how long this storm will last. When it’s over, I’ll find us a ride, but we have to worst-­case it. We’re not exactly in friendly territory here. I have to know how badly you’re hurt. If you’re too injured, we might need to make some sort of stretcher for you.”

  Heather spoke with more certainty than she felt. “That won’t be necessary. I can handle it. I’ve managed so far.” She immediately kicked herself. A Turkish woman would not have used such a colloquial expression.

  “I don’t doubt it. So far, you’ve gutted it out more than some guys I know, which is . . . pretty amazing.”

  Uh-­oh. The very lack of expression, either in his face or voice, warned Heather he was suspicious. She thought fast.

  “Our country used to be very progressive, Mr . . . Jayyse? I was an athlete.”

  One corner of his mouth twitched up. “In college. University of Ma’ar ye zhad, wasn’t it? You were an amateur triathlete, maybe?”

  She rubbed her palms over her knees. He wasn’t buying her story. Stick as close to the truth as she could: one of the basic tenets of a good liar. “Long-­distance runner. May I sleep for a while?” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the bed. Not that she would go near it. Maybe she could curl up by the door instead.

  “Sure. After I check out your injuries.”

  Heather sighed. His implacability was no different from that of her guys at 10th Group. She wasn’t getting any rest until he examined her. Reluctantly, she acceded.

  “Very well.”

  Without a word, he pulled his pack close and reached inside; again, he knew exactly where the first aid kit was. He crouched next to her.

  “You’ll have to, uh, take off your . . .” Jace gestured up and down her body.

  Heather’s chest tightened as she nodded, hyperaware of him, of her own vulnerability, of this isolated shack. He scared her, and yet some deep instinct told her he’d been truthful—­he wouldn’t hurt her. He wanted only to help her. She dipped her chin, eyeing the breadth of his shoulders, the strength of
his arms. His large hands, resting on his knees. The planes of his face. The intensity in his eyes. But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t make her hands reach for her buttons. She couldn’t bare herself to him—­to anyone.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  His gaze fixated on the cloth covering the lower half of her face, fluttering slightly with every breath she took. Her lips parted. Jace jerked his head away and busied himself opening the case at his feet, as if she’d unnerved him as much as he had her.

  “Look . . . about before. In the cave. I hope I didn’t frighten you. You’re safe with me.”

  Heather liked his straightforward approach. No hemming or hawing. No pretending he hadn’t thought of kissing her. In fact, she liked his unapologetic leadership, the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands rubbing along her back. He’d protected her with uncompromising skill. No doubt former military, he might even have been Special Forces once. What made him choose to hire on with a private security firm?

  But no matter who he was, she felt too raw, too vulnerable to trust herself to anyone at the moment. He met her eyes. She tried to think how a Turkish woman would respond.

  “It is forgotten.”

  Jace nodded. “Thank you.” He shifted from a crouch to kneeling on one knee, his back to her. “I’ll start with your shoulder, okay?”

  She shrugged out of his uniform jacket reluctantly, then did the same with Ahmed’s smaller jacket. Suddenly nervous, she crossed her arms under her breasts. “I’m ready.”

  He swiveled back, his gaze fixed firmly on her shoulder. “I’m going to pull up your shirt, all right?” His voice was soft, reassuring.

  Her shoulders hunched. Jace wasn’t going to like what he found. He raised the T-­shirt carefully from the back, pulling it up to her neck with both hands. A sound chuffed out of him, a sudden exhalation as though he’d been hit.