“You,” she breathed. It was indeed the American. From Lartet’s bar.
From this morning at the Français.
Oh, God.
Ah, God.
During their scuffle this morning, Decker had given Sophia Ghaffari a black eye.
And, from the way she was standing, left arm wrapped around her torso as if holding herself together, he’d probably also broken one or two of her ribs.
“Remember this morning, when I said that I wanted to help you?” he asked her now.
She didn’t move. She just stared at him.
“I meant it,” he told her. “I still mean it. I’m going to help you. But you’ve got to help me a little here, too—you’ve got to start by lowering your weapon before you accidentally hurt one of my friends.”
Sophia glanced over at Nash, who was still shielding Tess—bless him.
Decker wanted that sidearm pointed in a different direction now. It was a small enough caliber, but at close range it could really do some damage.
But Sophia didn’t lower the damn thing, and Nash didn’t back off. In fact, if Decker knew Nash—and Decker did—he was about to move toward both Sophia and that little handgun.
Decker held up one hand, a silent order to Nash and the rest of the team to keep back. Wrestling Sophia to the floor of the barn would certainly give them possession of her weapon. But there definitely was a better way to do this.
One that didn’t include Murphy sewing shut the latest extra hole in Nash’s body.
“Think, Sophia,” Deck told her. “If we were going to hand you over to Bashir, we would have done it already. I mean, why bring you back here? Why not just have Bashir’s men pick you up at the Tea Room?”
It was a damn good question.
“I don’t know.” As she looked up at him again, he saw what most people would think were mere tears in her eyes. But he recognized it for what it really was.
Hope.
Thank God.
He kept talking. “You know, I busted my ass trying to find you again.” He nodded at the questions he could read on her face. “Yeah, I did. We all did. Tess, in particular, deserves some serious overtime pay. But truth is, it was dumb luck—Dave knowing you. You knowing Dave.” He paused, letting that sink in, then pushed it. “You never had reason to mistrust him before, did you?”
She shook her head.
Come on, Sophia, lower that weapon. . . . “Dave, tell her we’re not going to let Padsha Bashir anywhere near her,” Decker ordered, his eyes never leaving her face.
“Bashir will never so much as touch you again, so help me God.” Dave’s normally flat voice rang with emotion, and Decker realized that the former CIA operative must have had detailed knowledge of what the rest of them could only imagine—just what it had been like for Sophia to live in Bashir’s palace for all those weeks.
“You’re safe now,” Tess said softly.
The tears in Sophia’s eyes were dangerously close to the overflow point.
“Lower your weapon,” Deck told her. “And please put the safety back on. Keep it holstered—both of your weapons—will you? At least while you’re here with my team.”
And with that—the fact that he wasn’t asking her to surrender her weapons—he won.
As she lowered the damn thing, tears slid down her face. He wanted to cry, too.
Instead he kept on talking. “I have no idea if you’ve had any training in the handling of this type of weapon,” he told her. “But it’s been my experience that ignorance—or even lack of experience—plus firearms often results in accidents of the very fatal kind.”
“I’m good,” she said, using one hand to quickly wipe her face. “I usually don’t miss.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I guess I owe you an apology.”
She really knew how to deliver a convincingly brilliant Brave Little Soldier.
Decker shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m the one who should apologize to you.”
What was it about this woman that pushed all his warning buttons? Before they’d located her, he’d been worried damn near sick. How could he have mistrusted her? How could he have missed reading what must’ve been pure fear? What was wrong with him? And how the fuck had he let things get so completely out of hand between them?
But now that she was here, he was picking up all kinds of weird vibes. She was still afraid—maybe of him, of them all, of being caught. He wasn’t sure of exactly what. But he was sure that she was playacting again.
She was presenting herself to him—to them all—as the person she thought they wanted her to be.
Jesus, she fascinated him.
Which was the answer to the question, How the fuck had he let things get so completely out of hand?
“I didn’t know who you were,” Decker told her now. “This morning. I couldn’t be sure that you didn’t work for Bashir or one of the other warlords. I apologize for . . . hurting you, but I’m sure you can understand my need for caution.”
As far as apologies went, that one was completely lame. An apology shouldn’t include a “but.”
Decker tried again. “Sophia, I am truly sorry for—”
She crumpled. She just went down, onto the floor. Decker didn’t see it coming—he’d been watching her, and there was no indication at all that she was going to faint.
Before he could so much as blink, Murphy had scooped her into his arms.
“Bring her back this way,” Tess ordered, reaching up to take the lamp down from the hook.
When Decker moved to follow, Nash blocked him.
“Let Tess,” he said.
Tess saw Sophia’s eyelids flutter as Murphy set her down on several bales of hay they’d dragged into the empty stall. The wooden half walls made it slightly more private than the rest of the barn. They’d brought in the team’s first aid kit and a bucket of rainwater for washing. It was part medical examination room, part bathing area.
“I can do it,” Sophia said, pushing Murphy’s hands away from her robe. She looked up at Tess. “I don’t want you in here.”
“I think you should let Murphy stay and look you over, especially since you fainted,” Tess pointed out, ignoring the fact that the other woman obviously meant that as a plural you.
But Sophia sat up. She didn’t seem at all dizzy or groggy. If anything, it was her side that was hurting her. Her ribs. It was as if simply breathing hurt her.
Poor Deck. He’d surely noticed that, too. And the look in his eyes when he saw that bruise on Sophia’s face . . .
He seemed to have forgotten the fact that Sophia had tried to kill him. Avoiding a bullet in the head seemed justification for a bruise or two.
“I didn’t faint,” Sophia said to Tess. “Not really. It just seemed like the easiest way to end the conversation. I was afraid he was going to apologize right in front of everyone for—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “Clothes, water, antibacterial ointment,” she said instead, gesturing to the supplies that were laid out. “I’ve got everything I need—I don’t need help.”
“What’s best for a broken rib?” Tess asked Murphy.
“Really,” Sophia said.
He shrugged. “Time and rest,” he told Tess. “And a definite ban on Farrelly brothers movies. Laughing hurts like a bitch.”
“I’ll keep the jokes to a minimum,” Tess said.
“Although some people claim it feels a little better with an Ace bandage wrap,” he told her. “It’s worth a try. Not too tight, though.”
She nodded. “I’ll call you if we need you.”
“You sure?” he asked, his worry for her in his eyes. Sophia was still carrying a weapon. Or two.
Tess smiled at him. “Go.”
“I don’t want either of you to stay,” Sophia said as Tess rummaged through the first aid kit, searching for the Ace bandages.
Her back to Sophia, Tess waited until Murphy was out of earshot before turning to face the other woman. “You could probably use help bandagi
ng your feet,” she said. “And I know you can’t wrap that rib by yourself.”
Despite the sweat and grime, Sophia Ghaffari was remarkably beautiful. It was her nose that completely made her face. It was slightly too large and somewhat uniquely shaped—just enough to change her from girlishly sweet to regal Queen of the Faeries. Heart-shaped face, clear blue eyes, baby-smooth skin, delicately graceful mouth . . .
Okay, don’t think about where Sophia Ghaffari’s mouth had been.
Sophia was examining Tess’s face just as intently. “You have quite the little fan club,” she said.
Tess smiled. “They do tend to be overprotective.”
“For good reason. They don’t call Kazbekistan ‘the Pit’ for nothing,” Sophia told her. “Is that ring you’re wearing for real? Because a wedding ring doesn’t offer the same amount of protection here that it used to. In fact, you might be safer taking it off.”
“It’s real,” Tess told her. Decker had thought it best not to share all their secrets with Sophia. “And it’s crazy, really. I just got married—I’m in way over my head.”
“Not to Dave, I hope. He’s just too cute. I’ve got him at the very top of my short list of second husbands—third. Third husbands.” Sophia laughed. “Although maybe he’d rather wait to be number five or six. Maybe by then I’ll get it right—figure out a way to keep ’em from dying on me.”
How could she make a joke about that? “No, not Dave,” Tess said.
“And it’s definitely not Murphy. The vibe I got from him was more devoted friend.” Sophia said. “That leaves Decker and what’s his name. Mr. I’m Too Sexy for My Shirt.”
“Jim. It’s Jimmy,” Tess told her, even as Sophia continued to talk.
“Can you believe that out of all of the great music produced each year in the U.S., that song, along with ‘YMCA’ and ‘Achy Breaky Heart,’ continued to be the top requested karaoke CDs right up until the bars were shut down? My husband owned an import business—music, books, movies, clothes. Pretty much anything American. Pop-Tarts. He brought in a shipment of Pop-Tarts once, made a killing. A real killing.”
Sophia fell silent, just shaking her head. She’d zoned out, staring at nothing, temporarily caught in the past.
And Tess knew. It was all an act. The breezy conversation, the big smiles—Sophia Ghaffari was as big a poser as James Nash.
“Do you need help getting those sandals off?” Tess asked her briskly.
“Oh. Thanks. No.” They were loose enough so that Sophia could slip them off without bending over to unfasten them. They hit the floor, one at a time. “I’m not going to get rid of you, am I?” she asked, looking up at Tess with her very blue eyes.
Tess moved the sandals aside. “Nope. Sorry.”
“This is really strange, you know. Being here. Talking to you. In English. I haven’t seen another American woman in years, and . . . here you are. So . . . friendly. So . . . normal. You look like you might’ve stepped out of Survivor.”
Tess laughed. “Is that what normal looks like these days?”
Sophia shook her head. “I don’t know. I lost normal years ago. But I do know that normal American women don’t look like the cast of Friends.” She smiled and it didn’t seem forced.
You do. Tess kept herself from saying it.
“Dimitri loved both of those shows.” Sophia could really keep up both ends of a conversation. “Right up until satellite TV was outlawed. So, when exactly did you get married? You and . . . Jim, is it? Jim . . . Decker?”
Oh, dear. Sophia apparently thought that—
“Jimmy Nash,” Tess quickly corrected her. “Decker’s first name is Lawrence—although I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone call him that. At least not to his face. He’s Decker. Or Deck. Or sir.”
Sophia covered her face with her hands.
She wasn’t crying—at least Tess didn’t think she was. She just sat there, bent over, absolutely still. Tess wasn’t even sure if she was breathing.
It was such a total contrast to her Kelly Ripa impersonation. “Are you all right?” Tess started to say.
And Sophia sat up, pulling her hands down so that she could look at Tess over her fingers, her mouth and nose still covered. “Thank goodness,” she said, her voice muffled. “I thought . . .” She closed her eyes, shook her head. “Never mind.”
“I know what you thought,” Tess told her. “Decker told me what happened this morning—not to embarrass you,” she added quickly, when Sophia looked up, aghast. “It was so I could reassure you that . . . I think he wanted you to know that you were as safe as possible here—from more than just Padsha Bashir.”
Sophia—the real Sophia—looked back at her, her eyes haunted. “Why didn’t he tell me who he was?” she whispered.
“How could he?” Tess said. It wasn’t meant to be at all chiding, just an explanation. Complete trust was a rare and valuable commodity here in Kazbekistan. Surely Sophia knew that better than most. “You didn’t believe him when he said he’d help you.”
“You have no idea where I’ve been these past months, what I’ve—” Sophia’s voice shook—no act. “The thought of going back there . . .”
“Actually, I do know where you’ve been.” Tess thought of exactly what that property transfer meant, along with that withdrawal of funds from Dimitri Ghaffari’s account, both signed by Padsha Bashir. Decker had said that it was likely Bashir had killed Sophia’s husband in front of her. “I can imagine what it must’ve been like, living at Bashir’s palace.”
Sophia began unfastening her robe. Without a word, she took it off, along with the flimsy gauze dress she wore underneath.
And Tess knew that she was wrong. Before this moment, she absolutely could not have imagined what it had been like to be a prisoner—a possession—of Padsha Bashir.
The expression on Tess’s face must have been more than Sophia could stand, because she tried to bring the poser back.
“I think we should cut my hair before we dye it,” Sophia said, but her voice shook. “Don’t you?”
Tess couldn’t keep the tears from her eyes as she brought the water closer. “You really are safe now,” she told the other woman.
“Yeah,” Sophia said, but Tess knew that she didn’t believe it.
Jimmy was just about to give up and go when Tess emerged from behind the pantry curtain.
“She’s finally asleep.” She looked from Decker to Jimmy. “I promised her one of us would be out in the kitchen all night.”
Decker nodded. “I’ll be here,” he told her, speaking just as quietly.
Sophia wasn’t the only one sleeping. Rivka and his wife had turned in hours ago and were fast asleep in the office up on the second floor.
“I’m heading out in just a few minutes,” Jimmy told Tess. “Alone.”
She barely even glanced at him. “Sophia is certain that Sayid wasn’t staying at Bashir’s palace.”
Decker, however, looked at Jimmy long enough to send him a clear message. You are the world’s biggest idiot.
Jimmy felt compelled to defend himself. “I’m just saying that I slept all day so I’m going out.”
“She took the news pretty hard,” Tess told Decker. “You know, that Bashir’s still alive.”
Deck nodded. Sighed.
“That palace is huge,” Jimmy pointed out. “How can she be certain—”
“She is.” This time he got a look from Tess that was hot with anger.
And okay, maybe Deck was right. Because only an idiot wouldn’t have known that now was not the time to argue with the woman, let alone allow his words to drip with disbelief. “You’re telling us that someone who was little more than a palace concubine knew what was going on in every corner of that—”
Tess cut him off again. “A palace concubine who was used—repeatedly—to entertain Bashir’s important guests. Apparently the son of a bitch got off on debasing and humiliating some of his so-called wives—Sophia in particular. She said that out of all Bashir’s
guests, Sayid was . . .” Her voice shook. “He was a very religious man. Unlike the others, he never cut her.”
“What?” Decker swore softly.
This time, even Jimmy managed to keep his big mouth shut.
Tears brimmed in Tess’s eyes, and he realized that the look she’d shot him before wasn’t anger—at least not anger at him.
Please, Jesus, don’t let her cry. If she broke down and cried, he’d have to put his arms around her—how could he not? And once he had her in his arms, he wouldn’t want to let her go. Self-indulgent prick that he was, he’d hang on to her way too long—long enough for her to realize that everything he’d said this morning was fiction.
Troubleshooters 08 Flashpoint Page 29
