Navy SEAL Rescue

by Susan Cliff

  Layah set aside her bitterness and focused on their escape. They had to reach the farm on the outskirts of town, where she could give the man medical attention. If he didn’t recover from his injuries, she’d have to find another guide.

  She glanced at Ashur, who sat like a stone beside her. She couldn’t believe he’d defied her by rushing into the building. “You were supposed to stand watch.”

  “Yusef was afraid to go in.”

  “So he sent you?”

  Ashur didn’t answer. She knew he hadn’t waited for permission. He’d just acted in his usual fashion, with recklessness and impatience.

  “I heard gunfire.”

  “The American shot a guard in the head.”

  Layah’s chest tightened with unease. Ashur had seen too much violence in his short life. He was becoming inured to it. Or worse, infatuated. He had a glint in his eye that suggested he’d enjoyed the excitement.

  She wished she could shield her nephew from the most devastating effects of war. Instead, she’d recruited him as a spy. She hadn’t expected any bloodshed on this mission, but the possibility always loomed. Maybe the narcotics they’d given the guards hadn’t worked. Ashur had delivered the spiked tea this morning, after the usual errand boy had been delayed by her cousins.

  “Did he recognize you?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Ashur had met several Navy SEALs in Syria two years ago. His father, Layah’s brother, had worked for them as an interpreter. Ashur remembered a SEAL with a tattoo on his forearm, blue and green lines in a distinctive mountain shape. Last month, Layah had learned that the Da’esh’s new captive bore this tattoo.

  He was exactly what she needed for the journey north. As long as he lived.

  She led the donkey down cobblestone alleyways and dusty side streets. When the cart went over a bump, their passenger groaned in protest.

  “Water,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  She was glad he was awake, but she couldn’t give him water. “Tell him to be quiet.”

  Ashur leaned toward the injured man. “No water for you,” he said in stilted English. “Now shut up or we die.”

  Layah frowned at his harsh words. “Speak with care, nephew. We need his help.”

  Ashur shrugged, unconcerned. He’d gotten his point across. The man fell silent. Perhaps he’d passed out again.

  She focused on the road, holding the reins in a sweaty grip. It was a pleasant spring day, sunny and cool. No storm clouds loomed on the horizon. They were almost out of danger. She set her sights on the archway at the south end of town.

  “Halt!” a voice shouted in Arabic.

  The native language of Telskuf was Assyrian, so she knew the speaker wasn’t local. He was a Da’esh invader.

  Layah pulled up on the reins and reached underneath the wooden seat for the tar she’d hidden there. She stuck it over her front teeth. Then she grabbed a pair of dusty spectacles from her pocket. The thick lenses distorted her vision. When the Da’esh militants reached her, they found a homely creature.

  “What are you doing?” one of the men demanded.

  “Delivering a load of straw,” she said. “My husband is too ill to accompany me, and my brother just died from the same sickness—” She broke off, hacking until she wheezed. “I hope it’s not contagious.”

  The man retreated a step, his lip curled. “Who are you?” he barked at Ashur.

  “I am someone who belongs here.”

  “What?”

  “He’s simple,” she said, coughing again. “Don’t mind him.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Eleven,” she lied. He was thirteen.

  “Telskuf is under the control of the Islamic Front,” the militant announced, as if she didn’t know. “Those who enter without permission are considered enemy combatants. Even women and children.”

  She bowed her head. “Please forgive me.”

  He pardoned the trespass with a flick of his hand. She continued toward the archway, her heart pounding. Although the majority of townspeople had fled during the first strike, some residents had stayed. The sick, the stubborn, the desperate. They hid in their homes and prayed for the occupation to end.

  Layah took off the glasses and put them in her pocket. Her eyes hurt from squinting through the dusty lenses, and her throat ached from fake coughing. A glance over her shoulder revealed an empty road. No one was following them.

  When they arrived at the abandoned farmhouse, Ibrahim opened the wooden gate and closed it behind them. Then he returned to his post, leaning heavily on his cane. She maneuvered the cart under the shaded awning on the terrace and turned to Ashur.

  “Someone who belongs here?” she repeated.

  “We are the native people of this land. Not them.”

  “You think pointing that out will make any difference?”

  “You think making yourself ugly will stop them from raping you?”

  She removed the tar from her teeth, rattled by the question. He knew more than a boy his age should. He was angry and difficult and he broke her heart daily.

  “You’ll never be too ugly for them. Goats aren’t too ugly for them.”

  Laughter bubbled from her throat, despite the tension. Goat-fornicator was a common insult in their language. Ashur shouldn’t repeat the crude talk of adults, but she didn’t have the energy to scold him all the time. She was overwhelmed with other responsibilities. Her people were prisoners and outcasts in their own country. “If you worry about those men hurting me, you should not bait them.”

  “I will kill them,” he asserted, thumping a fist against his chest.

  She hoped he wouldn’t get the chance. As the oldest male in her immediate family, he’d taken on the role of her protector. Which was ironic, because she was his legal guardian until she found a more suitable arrangement.

  Their conversation was interrupted by the American, who shoved aside two bales of straw with a furious heave. His eyes were red-rimmed, his nostrils flared. He appeared larger and more dangerous up close, without her cousins holding him. She was pleased, and a little scared. Neither Ashur nor Ibrahim was capable of defending her against this man, who looked ready to tear her apart. He was bloody and disheveled, with a tangled beard that couldn’t disguise his strong features.

  “Water,” he snarled.

  “Bring it,” she said to Ashur, afraid to break eye contact with the man.

  Ashur filled a tin cup from the nearby barrel. The American drank in huge gulps, rivulets streaming down his dusty throat. Then he leaned against the straw bales, eyes closed. His face was pained, his breaths ragged.

  Layah didn’t think he felt well enough to attack her. He wouldn’t try to run with bloody wounds on his feet. The gate was locked. He had nowhere to go. She motioned for Ashur to fetch the tray she’d prepared earlier. Ibrahim kept one eye on her and one eye on the road, squinting in disapproval. He didn’t trust Americans. Neither did Layah, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  She unharnessed the donkey and pushed the remaining bales off the cart to make room. Then she climbed onto the platform and sat down. “Your wounds need to be cleaned.”

  He grunted, but didn’t move.

  Ashur returned with shawarma and the special tea. After delivering the tray, he led the donkey away to graze. Taking care of the American was Layah’s job. She needed him to make a swift recovery.

  He took an experimental sip from the teacup. “What is this?”

  “Chai.”

  Nodding, he moved on to the shawarma. His appetite was promising. He ate in ravenous bites, barely chewing. She thought he might choke on the meat, but he didn’t. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. He had another tattoo on his upper chest. It was a military symbol, a flying eagle with a trident and an anchor. She wasn’t a fan of Western bo
dy art, but she recognized the quality in the work. She also saw beauty in the canvas. His hard-muscled torso was undeniably attractive.

  Her gaze rose to his face and connected with his. Heat suffused her cheeks as she realized he’d caught her admiring his bare chest. She was no longer accustomed to being alone with strange men, or men in any state of undress.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Layah Anwar Al-Farah,” she said, bowing her head.

  “Layah,” he repeated. His voice was husky, with a pleasant rumble. She got the impression that he liked the way she looked, which was good. She wanted him to like her. She could use it to her advantage.

  “What is your name, sir?”

  “Hud.”

  “Hud?”

  “Hudson. William.”

  “Hudson,” she said, which felt more familiar on her tongue than Hud. She had trouble with monosyllables in English. They sounded bitten-off and incomplete.

  “Why did you rescue me?”

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  His eyes darkened with interest. “What’s that?”

  “Please. Finish your tea.”

  He emptied the cup, eager to hear more. She wondered if he thought she’d rescued him to warm her bed. She found the idea amusing, considering his condition. He was unwashed, dehydrated, malnourished and wounded. And yet, still appealing.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Better. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You look familiar.”

  “We haven’t met.”

  “I know. I’d remember. But there’s something about your face...” He touched his own cheek with his knuckles, contemplative. Then he frowned into his empty teacup. “This is drugged.”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced around, as if searching for an exit. They were inside a small compound, surrounded by concrete walls. “Where are we?”

  “In a safe place.”

  “In Iraq?”

  “Telskuf.”

  He set the cup aside. “I have to make a phone call.”

  “You can’t. The Da’esh cut all the phone lines and tore down the cell towers.”

  A muscle in his jaw flexed. He seemed agitated, but unfocused. She’d given him a hefty dose of narcotic. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to lie down and let me take care of you.”

  He blinked drowsily, studying her face. She patted the wool blanket she’d placed in the middle of the platform. He stretched out on his stomach with a wince. She waited a few moments, until his shoulders relaxed and his breathing deepened. She studied his sleep-softened features. His eyelashes were dusty, his forehead creased. The blood on his back had dried into a sticky red-black paste. He had a scar on his elbow from an old surgery. Faded bruises spanned his rib cage from his lean waist to the underside of his right arm. He’d been kicked by his captors. She felt the strange urge to soothe him, stroke his hair.

  “What are you doing?” Ashur said, startling her.

  She gave him a chiding look. “You should be at your post.”

  “I want a gun.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t stand guard without a gun.”

  She pointed at the far wall. “Go keep watch.”

  He went with a scowl, kicking a rock across the courtyard. Sometimes she didn’t know what to do with him. She’d inherited a teenager who seemed hell-bent on destruction, and destruction was everywhere they went.

  She gathered her medical supplies to tend to the American’s wounds. First, she washed his feet, which were covered with shallow cuts. He stirred as she flushed out the debris, trying to push her hands away.

  “I don’t work for the government, you bastards.”

  She blinked at his harsh tone. He seemed to think he was still a prisoner, being tortured by the Da’esh.

  “I already told you. I’m an independent contractor.”

  She applied some healing ointment and wrapped his feet in strips of muslin. As long as he didn’t get an infection, the cuts would heal quickly. His back was a different story. He had a deep laceration that needed sutures. She knelt beside him and cleaned the area as best she could. The work was painful enough to make him lift his head.

  “Be calm,” she said. “It is Layah.”

  He stared at her blearily. “Layah?”

  “I’m taking care of you.”

  “I should bathe, before we...”

  “Hush.”

  She didn’t have any local anesthetic, so she applied a numbing agent. Then she hiked her skirt up to her knees and straddled his waist, because she didn’t trust him not to jerk away from her when she sank the needle in. The contact felt unbearably intimate. It reminded her of stolen nights with Khalil.

  “This would be more fun if I rolled over.”

  She let out a breathy laugh, resting her hand on his back. She was surprised he had the energy for sexual suggestions. “I have to stitch your wound.”

  He groaned in protest.

  “You are strong. Stay still.”

  His shoulder twitched as the needle penetrated his skin. “Are you a doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “In Iraq? I was born here.”

  “In Telskuf.”

  She closed the cut with neat sutures. “I came for you.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you to take me across the Zagros Mountains.”

  “I’m not a pilot.”

  “We go on foot.”

  “That’s...impossible.”

  “I disagree,” she said, placing a large bandage over the wound. “But we can debate later. First, we have to escape this town alive.”

  He slipped back into unconsciousness. She didn’t expect him to go along with her plan. She had no money to pay him, and he wouldn’t volunteer his services. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. SEALs were bound by professional regulations. They didn’t do freelance missions. He would never be allowed to guide a group of refugees on a dangerous journey.

  So she wasn’t giving him a choice.

  Chapter 3

  Hud woke with a mild headache and a queasy stomach.

  He jerked upright, almost falling out of bed. He was in a bed? It was a narrow bed with a pillow and a wool blanket, in the corner of a quiet room. He couldn’t fault the accommodations. It was a hell of a lot better than an underground torture chamber. This place had air and light and even a window—an open window with muslin curtains that fluttered in the breeze. Goats bleated and bells clanged at a distance.

  They weren’t in Telskuf anymore. He wasn’t in his cell, and he wasn’t alone. There was a boy in a chair by the window, glowering at him. Hud searched his memory for a clue to his identity.

  Shut up or we die.

  This was the boy who’d rescued him, with the help of that woman.

  “Layah,” he said. He remembered her.

  “She is not here.”

  “Who are you?”

  The boy rose to his full height, which was about five and a half feet. He had hair that stood up on top and ears that stuck out to the sides. His thickly lashed brown eyes were set in a hard glare. He looked like Bambi, if Bambi were an angry adolescent.

  “I am Ashur,” the boy said.

  “I’m Petty Officer William Hudson.”

  Ashur stepped forward. Instead of shaking hands with Hud, he brandished a dagger. “If you try to leave, I will kill you.”

  Hud studied the blade warily. He didn’t know who these people were or what they intended to do with him. They could be allies. They could be opportunists. Ashur reeked of antagonism, but that didn’t mean anything. Some Iraqis hated Americans as much as they hated the terrorist invaders. There was a lot of r
esentment about the involvement of foreign governments, most of which had done more harm than good. It was a goat-screw of a situation, as his comrades would say.

  That didn’t mean he was going to let this little punk threaten him. Hud reached out to grasp the boy’s skinny wrist, lightning-quick. When Ashur tried to twist free, Hud applied pressure until the dagger fell from his hand. “You couldn’t kill a turtle. You’re slow and small, and your blade is dull.”

  The boy said something in Arabic, probably curse words.

  “Also, your eyes reveal too much.” Hud picked up the dagger. “I know what you’re going to do before you do it.”

  “Teach me.”

  “Teach you what?”

  “How to kill like you.”

  Hud met the kid’s fervent gaze. It was a chilling request, made more so by the fact that Hud had already supplied a brutal demonstration of blowing someone’s head off. “You just point and shoot.”

  “Layah will not allow me to have a gun.”

  “Layah is a smart woman.”

  “Why do you say this?”

  “Who do you want to kill?”

  Ashur lifted his chin. “The men who killed my father.”

  Hud returned the boy’s dagger, handle first. His old man had died when he was about this kid’s age. After the funeral, Hud had taken an air rifle into the woods and shot at everything that moved. Every innocent little bird and squirrel. He didn’t want to think about that day, or to relive those feelings. He certainly didn’t want to teach this boy how to be like him. “I’ll give you some tips if you do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Bring me a cell phone.”

  “There are no phones in this village.”

  “Where are we?”

  He rattled off an Arabic name with about twenty syllables. It might have begun with S.

  Hud knew that they weren’t in Telskuf anymore. Last night they’d loaded him into the bed of a pickup truck. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness while they traveled over miles of dark, dusty road with no headlights.

  Ashur handed him a cup.

  “What is this?”

  “Water.”

  Hud drained the cup and passed it back.