Night Hush

by Leslie Jones

  She lifted the T-­shirt to her nose. It smelled like him, kind of spicy and woodsy. Well, it wouldn’t hurt anything to stay for a bit. He wouldn’t be back for hours. And Heather would feel so much better after a shower and a nap.

  She dragged herself off the sofa and up the stairs. The bathroom was right where she expected it to be, but she bypassed it to peer into the other two rooms. One was an office; the other was the master bedroom. It was surprisingly neat. The bed was made. No piles of clothes on the floor or shoes scattered around. There were, however, books. A lot of books, on the dresser, on the night table, even two on the bed itself. Heather took a tentative step inside, then laughed at her timidity. She was an intelligence officer, after all. She was expected to be nosy, wasn’t she?

  Driven by a curiosity she couldn’t explain, she picked up a few books and read the titles. There was one on white-­water rafting, and another on rock climbing. Two histories of the Peloponnesian War. Two? How interesting could that war have been?

  The bed looked inviting. She drifted closer, and even trailed her hand along the plain blue bedspread. Maybe if she just lay down for a moment?

  No. Jerking away, she forced herself to turn and walk back into the hallway. She had absolutely no business snooping in Jace’s home. Determined to grab a shower while she could, she locked the bathroom door and turned on the water. Stripping out of her clothes, she sighed with relief as the spray sluiced over her body. More than two weeks in the hospital with restricted shower time had given her an appreciation for unlimited water.

  She stayed under the spray until the water cooled and her skin pruned. Finally, she turned it off and used the towel hanging on the rod to dry herself. It also smelled of Jace. She rubbed her hair as dry as she could, then looked at her jeans. There was nothing wrong with them. They had been clean when she put them on this morning.

  But Jace’s well-­worn shirt looked much more enticing. She slipped it over her head and breathed in his masculine sent as it cascaded toward her knees.

  Leaving her jeans and T-­shirt where they lay, she borrowed his comb and went back downstairs to sit on the sofa. She flipped on the television in time for the two o’clock broadcast. As she detangled her long hair, she caught up with local and world news.

  There was an update on her own condition, to her embarrassment. An interview with the chief medical officer at the base hospital, whom she had never met; comments by a public affairs officer on local insurgent activity; a medical analysis of prison conditions in third world countries, as if that had any bearing on her experience. They did their utmost to keep the drama alive. She wished they would move on.

  Finally, her hair was, if not dry, then at least manageable. Sliding down a little, she swung her bare feet onto the cushions, glancing out the window at the afternoon sunshine. After another moment, she laid her head onto the couch’s arm. Her eyes fluttered, and closed.

  Chapter Twenty-­Five

  September 6. 12:12 P.M.

  Ma’ar ye zhad, Azakistan

  AA’IDAH SAT STIFFLY, legs pressed together, hands clasped in her lap to stop the shaking. This time, her father had given permission for her to eat with Zaahir al-­Farouk. They sat inside, which was a shame because the noontime weather was mild and enticing. The ceiling-­high windows flaunted rich orangish curtains, which were swept back and tied. Traditional low tables, inlaid with intricate geometrical patterns and polished to a high gleam, waited in front of long seats to be filled with dishes: chelow kabab, Tah-­chin rice, appetizers, bread, condiments, and side dishes. It was much too fancy for lunch.

  Her father and Zaahir sat at right angles to her, and she sat beside Shukri. Zaahir beamed and nodded and seemed very pleased. She felt his eyes on her frequently as he spoke with her father. The men discussed politics, which inevitably led to complaints against Prime Minister al-­Muhaymin’s government and his pro-­Western leanings. Zaahir pontificated, her father and Shukri attended him, and Aa’idah wretchedly tried to find a way to derail the catastrophe bearing down on her.

  She could not—­would not—­marry him.

  Zaahir was a monster. She had eavesdropped when he and the slender boy she thought must be Rami had visited her home. Zaahir had lamented the loss of a ballistic missile, cursing the government as spineless dogs. He had intended to use that missile against the Americans. Now, though, he planned something else. Some way, and she did not understand how, he had devised a way to make an explosion on the American military base look like an accident. This “accidental” explosion would have so incensed her ­people and her government that Najm al-­Najib, the conservative party leader, could force early elections and take control of the government.

  Her father and brother worked in tandem with Zaahir’s vile machinations; she could no longer ignore their complicity. Allah condemned the wanton murder of the innocent. Anxiety crawled through her innards. She needed privacy to dial the number Christina Madison had left her.

  “Is the food not to your liking?” Zaahir asked. “You’re not eating. Shall I order you something else?”

  She jolted, having been caught up in her thoughts. “The food is delicious, honored sir. I simply did not wish to eat greedily.”

  Her answer pleased him. He glanced at her father for permission, who gave it with alacrity, then reached past him to take her hand in his. Zaahir’s palms were warm and dry, his touch confident. He was handsome, in a rough sort of way. If she could not see the monster crouching within him, she might enjoy his attentions.

  But she did see it.

  Her entire body trembled and shook. Repugnance clenched her gut and threatened to bring the food right back up. “Please release me.”

  “It would please me for you to call me Zaahir. I like you very much, Aa’idah. We shall become well acquainted, you and I.”

  Aa’idah nearly gagged on a bite of lamb. Taking a swift sip of water, she tried to ease her hand from his. He tightened his grip.

  “I’m unworthy, honored sir,” she choked out. “Truly. This is not false modesty. I would not suit you. I have many faults.”

  “You are beautiful and young enough to learn. Your father and I have similar interests and beliefs. Shukri works with me toward our noble purpose. It is good that we join together.”

  Aa’idah yanked her hand from his. “No. I will not.”

  Something ugly flashed through his eyes, gone so quickly she might have imagined it. “You will do as your father tells you.” Zaahir turned his gaze to her father, challenging him.

  “It is a good match, daughter,” he said. “He is an honorable man with many fine qualities. I have given my permission for Zaahir to court you.”

  Uttering a cry of despair, Aa’idah stumbled to her feet, backing away from the nightmare. Ignoring Shukri’s sharp command, she turned and fled.

  Chapter Twenty-­Six

  September 6. 12:50 P.M.

  Forward Operating Base Hollow Straw, al-­Zadr AFB

  JACE PULLED INTO the Tactical Operations Center at the same time as Gabe Morgan. He swung his long legs onto the gravel and slid out, lifting a hand to greet the junior officer. Placing his palms at the small of his back, he stretched, grateful Delta focused on action rather than pomp and circumstance. They very rarely had to wear the starchy and uncomfortable Class A uniforms the rest of the Army had to endure. The two walked to the plain, unmarked building together.

  “Where’d you disappear to yesterday? I’d complain, but it meant we could slack off at PT this morning,” Gabe said.

  He would have given Gabe a chiding look, but he knew in his absence, the young lieutenant, if anything, pushed the A-­Team even harder at physical training than its commanding officer. “I went to see how Heather Langstrom was doing. Turns out she got called up to go talk to a detainee, so I drove her over there.”

  Gabe cut his eyes toward Jace as he pulled off his sunglasses. “Uh-­huh.”
He tucked the dark glasses into the front of his “I’m having a good day—­don’t screw it up” T-­shirt. “You doggin’ ’er?”

  Jace pushed into the Tactical Operations Center and swung the door back hard. It banged into Gabe’s quickly outstretched hand. The other man, with his overlong blond hair and hooded eyes, always looked to Jace like a fallen angel. The Archangel Gabriel, Messenger of God. Women flocked to him, apparently drawn by the intense look in his eyes and the symmetrical perfection of his features. Jace wasn’t going to go so far as to describe Gabe as great-­looking, but the constant stream of women throwing themselves at him must mean they liked what they found.

  Gabe came inside and mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key, then made a production of brushing his hands together. “Message received,” he said, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Subject off-­limits.”

  The Tactical Operations Center, or TOC, bustled with activity twenty-­four/seven. Terrorists and insurgents did not stop at sundown, and neither did the US Special Operations Command. Two rows of computers lined each side of the room. Four flat-­panel monitors mounted above the computers displayed CNN, enlarged maps of the area, and a complex battlefield assessment system. More conventional paper maps and a number of diagrams covered the back wall. A huge table took up the center of the room, around which sat the other members of his team. Jace and Gabe joined them. The ribbing started immediately.

  “Jace, you gone soft? Sleepin’ in to all hours?” Thomas ‘Mace’ Beckett’s Cajun drawl matched his relaxed slouch. He slung an arm across the back of the chair. “I think I want to be an officer. The hours are better.” His black T-­shirt, straining across his chest, had the sleeves torn out to show off the barbed-­wire tattoo across his upper bicep.

  The Sandman wagged his tongue and made an obscene gesture. “Bet he’s balling some sweet hoochie. Give us the blow-­by-­blow . . .”

  Jace didn’t see it, but by the sudden silence he knew Gabe had made a shut-­up gesture. They shut up. Just as well, so he didn’t have to beat the hell out of Scott Griffin. The Sandman had grown up rough, in a run-­down, blue-­collar neighborhood in Pittsburgh. He was vulgar, crude, and went through women like other men drank coffee. He was rock solid in the field, though. There was no one Jace would rather have at his back.

  The downside to the silence was that he was now being treated to speculative looks.

  “Tag, what’s the latest word on the president’s visit?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation away from himself. “Is my team supporting the Secret Ser­vice or not?”

  The sharp rap of bootheels on plank flooring preceded the arrival of their boss. “Another team will be assigned to that mission,” said Lieutenant Colonel Bo Granville. The squadron commander yanked out a chair and spun it around, straddling it as he smacked his arms onto the backrest. “Thanks for the update on the situation with the biological agents.” He held up a hand to forestall any comments. “Yeah, we’ll all be relieved if it turns out to be someone’s piss to fake a urine test. Meanwhile, I found out this morning that the National Security Agency’s Signals Intelligence guys came across an interesting conversation. Guy by the name of Demas Pagonis, a Greek scientist working in Turkey for Galatas Chemicals, had a conversation with one Omran Malouf, who works for a major politician here. Subject was a delivery of some sort. Shrouded in doublespeak and euphemisms, of course. Two things make this interesting. One, Malouf has known ties to the Salafist jihadists, a loosely knit group of terrorists who believe the only way to purify Islam is to kill all nonbelievers. Al Qaeda are Salafist jihadists. So are the Jund Ansar Allah and the Kongra-­Gel.

  “The other thing that makes this conversation worth note is his assistant found Pagonis dead in his lab on August twelfth, almost three weeks ago. Reason we tied it together was the vials on that embassy courier. What’s-­his-­name. Fakhoury. With Pagonis dead, they poked around a little and found out he was working on a little project on the side.” He stopped and looked around the table. “Well? Isn’t anyone gonna ask me?”

  Jace slouched back in his chair. “Why don’t you enlighten us, sir?”

  Granville pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and stuck it into his mouth. Chewing around it, he said, “Phosgene.” He yanked the cigar out and pointed it around the table. “Specifically, weaponizing phosgene by loading it into a warhead. And guess what killed the poor bastard? Phosgene poisoning.”

  Holy shit. Jace bolted upright. “What?”

  Granville jerked his finger behind him, and a female soldier materialized. She flicked a single-­paged document across the table; it landed directly in front of Jace. She did the same six more times, each page landing in front of a member of his team.

  “Hi, Stephanie,” said Alex, a shy smile forming on his broad, farm-­boy face. She smiled back at him, a quick flash of dimples. Jace cleared his throat sharply and narrowed his eyes at Alex, who instantly became busy reading the handout. Fraternization of any sort between operators and their Delta Force military support staff was strictly forbidden. If Steph were a civilian, it would be different. As it was, Alex’s puppy love needed to be quashed, and sooner was better.

  “Private, why don’t you educate us on phosgene?” said Granville.

  “Me? Oh, I’m not . . . I mean, I just . . . Yes, sir.” She looked down at the printout in her hand. “Um . . . phosgene is a gas. It’s, uh, nonflammable, and colorless. It has a molecular weight of . . . well, you don’t need to know that. It was used during World War I as a . . . as a chemical agent. It’s classified as a choking agent.” She stumbled to a halt, glanced at Alex, who nodded encouragingly, and took a deep breath. “Okay. More than eighty-­seven thousand ­people died during the First World War from phosgene gas. That’s combined Axis and Allied forces. It’s prohibited as a chemical weapon, of course, but it’s also legal. Well, I mean it’s legitimately manufactured, for a lot of reasons. A billion pounds are produced every year, to be used in the manufacture of pesticides, dyes, and plastics. Pharmaceuticals, too. Synthetic antibiotics, if that doesn’t send a chill down your spine.” She cleared her throat. “It can be compressed and cooled into a liquid for storage or transport.”

  Gabe ran a hand along the top of the table. “So, what . . . the vials are liquefied phosgene?”

  Granville stuck the cigar back in his mouth. “Believe so. Won’t know for sure till that SAS biochemicals guy reports back. We have to make sure we get a copy of that report. Guarantee we’ll be asked to help out.” He jabbed a finger in Jace’s direction. “You know this guy? Be easier than waiting around till someone decides they should fill us in.”

  “I’ll get a copy, sir.”

  “Good man. Meanwhile, I got a little job for you.” He stood abruptly and paced over to the maps. Jace followed him. “Pagonis is dead, but Malouf is hiding out in a house in Tiqt. Love to have a chat with him. Well, the Yoo-­nited States Intelligence and Security Command wants to talk to him. But we’re going to go fetch him.”

  “Yes, sir. When do we leave?”

  The commander moved to one of the larger monitors. Without being told, the operator brought up Google Earth and punched in an address. The view shifted and zoomed in, and Jace found himself looking at a run-­down neighborhood on the east side of the city. The 3D graphics amazed him. He examined the surrounding buildings and the roads leading in and out.

  “Whip up a plan. Transport will be ready by 0230. Quick in and out, a’right?”

  Jace acknowledged his boss, jerking his head for his team to gather around.

  Ken Acolatse, the Troop’s Sergeant Major, joined them. Muscles rippled and flowed under his dark chocolate skin, which gleamed under the artificial lights. His feral grin slashed across a burly face. “You gonna need a second sniper, Jace. I’m bored. Want me to come along and babysit Mace?”

  Mace bristled. “Old man, I can outshoot you any day of the week.” He straightened up, but
his six foot three was still two inches shorter than the giant top sergeant.

  “Sure, if the target’s standing in front of you.” Ken mimed letting the string of a helium balloon go, then blowing it to smithereens with a shotgun. “Time Papa came out to play with the kiddies. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

  “Yeah. Right. Uh-­huh. Sure.” Narrowed eyes and a flattened mouth marred Mace’s good-­looking features. “Imma ’bout to hurt you.”

  Acolatse’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction at having gotten a rise out of the younger man.

  Jace snorted. Had he ever been as young as Mace? “All right. Archangel and Sandman will be one direct action team. Tag, Alex, and I will be the other. Ken and Mace will provide overwatch. Let’s get to work.” He was eager to get home and check on Heather.

  An hour later, they had a solid plan in place.

  “All right, kiddies,” said Jace. “Be here by 0200. We depart at 0230. Should be home before dawn.” With any luck, Heather would have decided to stay. “Any questions?”

  Through the chorus of negatives, he loped out the door.

  As he drove, he replayed the events of three weeks ago out in the desert. The original mission, to destroy the newly delivered cache of weapons purchased by this faction of the Kongra-­Gel, had been derailed—­first by the discovery of the SCUD, then by the need to keep an injured Heather away from the insurgents.

  The thought of how close he had come to snuffing out her life, her incredible vitality, made him break into a cold sweat. If he hadn’t caught the whiff of perfume, if he had moved just a fraction faster, if his nose had been stuffed up . . .

  And that started him on an entirely new train of thought. It clearly hadn’t been her own perfume. She had bathed recently, yes. The perfume, though, was pretty standard for Muslim women. Shared with her by one of the females they had seen at the permanent camp? Or forced on her . . . Bile rose in his throat. Whether or not she’d been raped, she’d sure as hell been through some serious shit. She wasn’t trained for something like that, whatever she said. How badly would it scar her? The welts raised by the caning would have faded by now. Even the bruises from where someone had beaten and choked her would be nearly healed. The hidden scars, though . . . some of those never healed. She would never be the same; no one who experienced torture walked away from it without damage.