Night Hush

by Leslie Jones

  News media coverage had been ferocious. Heather Langstrom was a national celebrity, with vigils held around the country for her safe return. The intelligence community and 10th Group had been frantic for any word. The White House had made her liberation a priority.

  “There were survivors?” Heather’s face lit up. “Oh, I’m so glad!” Just as quickly, her face clouded. “I’m . . . I forgot to ask about them.” Genuine distress laced her tone. “God, I’m . . . I never meant to forget about them. I didn’t know if I was alone in that camp, or if there were other prisoners. Even when I escaped, I didn’t think to . . .” She tensed, starting to sit up on the litter. Jace placed a hand on her shoulder to prevent her from raising any higher. After a moment, she gave in and eased down, but both hands fisted in her hair. “What kind of soldier . . .”

  “Stop that!” Jace made his voice sharp. He knew where this was heading. There was no room in their line of work for second-­guesses. “You were a lone female prisoner snatched from a convoy and taken to the middle of nowhere. Given how you escaped, there’s no shame . . . good God, Heather, you barely made it out of there alive. You know that, right? You might not have been released for years. Maybe never. Most likely scenario is they would have killed you. And that’s the nicest they would have done. Or did.” She flinched, and he knew he’d hit a nerve. His fists clenched. What, exactly, had they done to her? “Heather, I . . .” He leaned forward, ready to comfort her, to erase the self-­condemnation he could see simmering in the depth of her gaze.

  She jerked away as though she knew his intention, raising an arm to keep him at bay. “No. I didn’t do what I—­” Her breath hitched, her voice filled with self-­loathing. “What I was supposed to do. I only thought about my own situation. I didn’t even consider that there might be more prisoners. So much for my training.” Her arm dropped as though she no longer had the strength to keep it aloft. Jace knew the sudden movement triggered a wave of morphine-­induced muzziness by the way her eyes slackened and glazed. He relaxed back into the seat. She wasn’t ready to hear anything he had to say at the moment.

  “How many survived?” she asked after a moment, voice slurring.

  “Four dead. Seven wounded.”

  “Four? Who? Do you know?” She tried to catch his gaze, but her eyes no longer focused. Jace stroked a gentle hand over her head.

  “Relax, now, Heather. Everything will be all right. Shh, baby. Sleep.”

  Chapter Eleven

  August 16. 8:15 P.M.

  Near the Samarra Mosque, Ma’ar ye zhad, Azakistan

  THE ENGLISHWOMAN, CHRISTINA Madison, was in trouble. Aa’idah peeked through the kitchen curtains, watching her walk through their tiny wrought-­iron gate and turn left, into the after-­dinner bazaar. Straight toward Aa’idah’s brother Shukri and the imam, Salman Ibrahim, who would be returning from evening prayers. That was not good.

  Maybe they would not see her?

  Aa’idah raced to her mother’s sewing room, which looked out onto the bazaar. Her ballet flats whispered along the ceramic tile, past the cutting table to the counter with the brand-­new sewing machine. She wedged herself into the small space between the sewing table and the window, raising her veil across her nose as she pushed the window open and peeped through the sheers.

  Christina stood out among the Muslim men and women, her fair skin and lack of head scarf setting her apart. Aa’idah herself had the typical dark hair and brown eyes of the region, although her nose was a shade longer and her face was perhaps a bit more square than others.

  Christina had passed the storefront piled high with baskets of every imaginable size and construction and eased around a cart stacked with tomatoes, cucumbers, and lumpy brown potatoes. She paused for a moment next to the two carts filled with soccer balls and lifted her nose into the air, inhaling deeply. Aa’idah mimicked the move. The air had cooled and was now spiced with an aroma of roasting lamb and falafel. Delicious.

  The brunette Englishwoman stood almost directly below her open window. Aa’idah’s heart began to pound as she saw her brother and the imam cutting a path straight to her. Yes, they had seen her leave the Karim household. This was not good.

  Christina picked up a brass water jug and appeared to admire the wide bottom, tapered top, and swirled handle. Her fingers traced the intricate design and rubbed across its scratchy surface, but the glances she darted toward Shukri and Salman Ibrahim spoke a different story. She knew who they were, and their approach made her nervous. Which meant the timing of her visit to Aa’idah had been no coincidence, as she had suspected.

  The vendor approached eagerly, speaking in halting, broken English. “You like? Very beautiful. For flow the water, yes?” Aa’idah knew the merchant. His English, like her own, was nearly flawless. For some reason, he believed Westerners bought more expensive pieces from him because they saw him as poor and needy.

  “I give special to American. Good price.” He named a price that probably represented a hundred percent profit for the man, but would seem low enough to Christina.

  “I’m with the British Education Foundation,” Christina said, her London accent firmly in place. “We’re here rebuilding bombed-­out schools. Great Britain. Not American. English.” Aa’idah’s brother and Salman Ibrahim drifted closer. Aa’idah hoped they could hear Christina. She hoped they believed her.

  “Good price. American,” the merchant said stubbornly.

  Sighing, Christina pulled a few crumpled bills from her pocket and offered the money to him, spreading it out to show the amount, clutching it with both hands. The merchant hesitated a moment, then reluctantly nodded and took the bills. He wrapped the jug in paper and handed it to her, face still registering disappointment. Christina nodded her thanks, trying and failing—­to Aa’idah’s eyes, anyway—­to appear contrite and grateful. The deal had been a good one for both parties. Aa’idah knew the moment Christina turned, a smug look would appear on the merchant’s face.

  But Christina did not have the chance to turn, and the merchant did not have the chance to gloat. Shukri reached her, roughly grabbing her arm and yanking her around to face him. The self-­proclaimed English relief worker tensed. Aa’idah thought she might fight, but instead she shrank away and clutched the paper-­wrapped jug as though she thought she was being robbed.

  Shukri, wearing the dark pants and tunic hanging past his knees he always wore to Friday prayers, muscled Christina out of the street and into the space between the brass seller and the carts piled high with soccer balls. She eased back, anxious that neither her brother nor the imam catch her eavesdropping. Christina pulled and twisted, uttering cries of distress. Aa’idah’s heart fell. The action would not garner her sympathy. Shukri pounced on weakness like a cat after a dormouse. True to form, he shoved her against the stucco wall. The light material of Christina’s blouse caught on the rough surface. Both Shukri and the imam faced her now, twin lasers of hostility and anger in their gazes.

  Christina shrank back, one hand flat on the wall behind her, the other clutching the jug to her breast like a shield. “Who are you? What do you want?” she rasped.

  Salman Ibrahim jabbed a finger at her, voice venomous as he upbraided her for strutting in the marketplace as though she were an empress, then in the next breath accused her of being a shameless whore. Aa’idah’s cheeks heated with embarrassment for the other woman, even though the stream of angry words issuing from the imam’s mouth was clearly too fast for the Englishwoman to follow. Christina shook her head, a bewildered look on her face; but Aa’idah knew she got the gist of it loud and clear.

  “What do you want? Who are you?” Christina asked again. Shukri put up a hand, and Salman Ibrahim subsided.

  “Why did you speak to my sister?” he asked, in clear, British-­accented English. The evening shoppers maneuvered around the confrontation, heads down, pretending they saw nothing. Christina straightened, looking Shukri in the
face. Aa’idah’s heart hammered against her rib cage. In this ultraconservative section of Ma’ar ye zhad, the imam could beat her to death right in the street, and no one would interfere.

  “Your sister?” Christina asked. “I’m very sorry, but I don’t know you.”

  “I am Shukri Karim.” His voice swelled with arrogance. “My sister is Aa’idah Karim.”

  “Oh, yes. I talked to her just now. She is a teacher at the Thenoon al Fattah school for girls,” Christina said, voice puzzled but respectful. “The school is nearly fully rebuilt. When it reopens, the children will need their teachers back. I asked her to return to teach. That’s all.”

  “You spoke to her alone,” he said accusingly.

  In fact, Aa’idah remained convinced Christina had arranged the timing very carefully, approaching her door just after Friday prayers and on a day when her mother had gone to visit her aunt. And yes, they had spoken of the school, and the girls who urgently needed an education. But they had spoken of so much more. Things Shukri must never hear.

  Christina continued to look up at Shukri, her brows pulled together. “No one else was home.”

  “This is not permitted. A male member of her family must be present.”

  The imam grabbed Christina’s arm, looming over her as he shook her. His fist clamped so tightly around her bicep that Aa’idah knew Christina would carry the bruises for a week. Shukri translated as the imam snarled. “Salman Ibrahim is a Shi’ite cleric, imam of the Samarra Mosque. He says you have behaved in a disrespectful manner, shaming the home of Mahmoud Karim. He says you are brazen and not of good character, that you walk outside with no male escort to ensure your virtue. He says you do not lower your eyes submissively, as a woman should. He’s going to beat you to teach you to behave properly.”

  Blood pounded through Aa’idah’s head. If Salman Ibrahim followed through on his threat, did she dare interfere?

  Christina pinned her gaze to the cleric’s feet and gripped the water jug tighter. Aa’idah imagined the other woman’s hands were probably shaking as badly as her own. “Please tell him no discourtesy was intended.” Christina’s voice cracked. “My group is staying at a hostel near the school. Your government places no restrictions on us. I’m a British citizen. Please call the consulate. I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding.” Her voice became pleading. “I’m a relief worker. I’m here to help you.” Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.

  “We do not wish your help,” Shukri said harshly. “Your corrupting influence has spread far enough. My sister will not be returning to teach.”

  Aa’idah’s heart sank even further. She had suspected as much. Her father seemed to be fading, allowing his eldest son to make decisions for the family. And Shukri had become angry. Bitter. And determined to force his traditionalist ideals onto his family whether they wanted it or not.

  “All right. I’m sorry.” Christina tried to disengage her arm from the cleric’s grip. He growled something, his voice too low for Aa’idah to hear. When he glared into the woman’s face, yanking her closer, a cold frisson of fear slithered down Aa’idah’s spine.

  Shukri spoke, sounding neither sorry nor concerned. “Salman Ibrahim says,” he reported, “that you are under arrest.”

  This was very bad.

  Chapter Twelve

  August 19. 2:30 P.M.

  Base Hospital, al-­Zadr Air Force Base, Azakistan

  THE STEADY BEEP of the heart rate monitor was driving Heather crazy. The tubes running from her arms to various drips annoyed her. She’d been swarmed the moment the helicopter touched down. In short order, she’d been whisked from a rapid bedside ultrasound to a CAT scan, and in less than an hour she’d been in surgery. The doctor had taken one look at her battered body and been generous with the pain meds; the first days had passed in a blur.

  This time when the doctor made his rounds, she would be coherent enough to get some answers. She pressed the button that raised the head of the bed so she could sit up, wincing as her bruises made themselves known, and drummed her fingers against the bed rails.

  Finally, Dr. McGrath came in, followed by a straggling group of interns. He picked up her chart and flipped through it, then handed it to the closest one. “Dr. Sottile, run down the history for me.”

  The intern cleared his throat, glancing at Heather and away again. He ran quick fingers over his trimmed beard, the red in his face matching the red of his hair. “Patient is a twenty-­six-­year-­old female presenting with a grade three blunt trauma splenic injury, causing intra-­abdominal bleeding in the retroperitoneal space. Failed observation with dropping hemoglobin . . .”

  Heather tuned the intern out. She wasn’t interested in what had happened; she wanted to know when she could get out of the hospital. Finally, his litany and the subsequent questions died down, and the group turned to leave.

  “Dr. McGrath,” she called.

  The group stopped and turned as one, staring at her with mild curiosity. Dr. McGrath came back to her bedside and gave her a gentle smile. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “When can I go home?”

  The smile turned into a grimace. “I’ll move you from ICU onto the medical-­surgical floor tomorrow, but only if your vitals remain steady and the infection in your shoulder starts responding to treatment. If you continue to improve, you might be released as early as Friday or Saturday. Just so you know, though, the base Public Affairs Officer approached me about moving you into an inpatient room to control media access when I feel you’re fit enough for that particular impending circus.”

  Four more days. Heather groaned. Military health care was much more conservative than its civilian counterparts; in the civilian world, she would probably be home already. Still, she was not a hundred percent yet. A lethargy that had nothing to do with the morphine running through her veins tugged at her. Her skin felt hot and dry.

  Dr. McGrath checked her wrists, rewrapping them in soft gauze. “These are healing nicely.”

  Heather frowned. “Can you at least make that beeping noise go away?” she grumped.

  “Sure. The danger’s past. Try to get some rest.” He patted her hand and left.

  As soon as Dr. McGrath closed the door behind him, it opened again. Expecting the nurse, Heather sat up, ready to yank the leads off her body.

  “Hello.”

  Her head swiveled around in surprise. The broad shoulders filling the doorway sent an immediate wave of relief through her. Jace.

  “Hi.”

  “You’re awake,” he said.

  “For the first time in days, I think. I’ve been pretty much out of it.”

  “I know.” He entered, glancing around a room that suddenly seemed smaller. He rolled his shoulders, looking uncomfortable. “So, ah, how are you?”

  “I’m doing all right.”

  The banal chitchat felt odd to her, as though somewhere in the past week her veneer of civilization had slipped.

  “They still have you on pain meds. That’s not the same as being all right.” He pointed to the IV in her arm. “Demerol, right?”

  She nodded. Her head felt too heavy, so she eased it against the pillows.

  “Can I, uh, get you anything?”

  “A little water, please.” Her skin prickled as he came closer and filled her small cup from the pitcher on the table beside her bed. Instead of handing it to her, he leaned over her, one arm braced near her head and the other holding the plastic cup to her lips. His gaze snared hers, and she found herself lost in his eyes as she sipped. It felt surreal. Her vision tunneled and grayed around the edges.

  Jace set the water aside. His hand came up to cup her jaw, carefully, and he brushed her lips with his mouth; just a whisper of sensation that she felt to her toes. He came back again, just as softly, and Heather deepened the kiss without conscious volition, tracing his lips with her tongue. He made a soft s
ound of pleasure, but then straightened. Heather looked up at him, confused, her throat already dry again. A headache seemed to have banded itself around her head.

  He smiled down at her, but his hand slid away. “Sorry. I know you’re still hurt, but I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

  “Ahem.”

  Heather jerked away guiltily. Jace was slower to move back, glancing over his shoulder at the nurse without embarrassment or apology. The nurse came farther into the room, her eyes twinkling.

  “Your EKG showed a sudden spike. I now see why.” She grinned. “The doctor says we can unhook you. I’d say I have to agree. You seem healthy enough.” She made a shooing motion with her hands, and Jace obediently stepped back. “Now just let me unhook the electrodes.”

  Face heating with embarrassment, Heather turned her face away as the nurse whisked the small round pads off her chest and back. Thankfully, the beep-­beep-­beep finally stopped. The nurse left with a stern admonition not to tire Heather. Silence descended in the room.

  “They’re being ultracautious with me,” she finally said.

  Jace eased himself into the blue plastic visitor’s chair. “I know. I’ve been checking up on you.”

  Heather didn’t know what to say to that. “Why?”

  He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “I always check on damsels in distress once I rescue them.”

  Dismay coursed through her, but there wasn’t much she could say. He had rescued her. She had relied on him to get her to safety. Her relief at seeing him turned to chagrin.

  “What did I say?” Jace cocked his head. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  Heather shook her head, not looking at him. “I’m just . . . used to making my own way. I don’t rely on ­people. They let you down.” It wasn’t his fault. He had been doing his job, the same as she had been doing hers when she had been taken. He couldn’t know the many disappointments of her childhood as her parents ignored her pleas to go to space camp or join the Civil Air Patrol—­anything meaningful—­in favor of their own ambitions, nor the subtle or open contempt of male soldiers as she struggled for acceptance and respect.