Читать книгу Taking Fire - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 11
ОглавлениеWHILE KHAT MADE tea for them, something she loved doing every night before she slept, she felt the SEAL’s eyes on her. She had a small copper kettle on a grate and used an old-fashioned magnesium tab to create the intense heat to make the water boil. There was the chemical equivalent in her MREs, but she preferred this way.
After setting it up, she moved out of her crouch, turned and went to find a rubber band. Her hair was thick and long. And it often got in the way, which was why she tamed it into a ponytail or a single, long braid down her back.
Out of the corner of her eye, as she did so, Khat saw a vulnerable expression fleetingly cross Mike’s face. A wistful sort of look, and then it was gone, replaced by his game face once more. It made her feel things she’d never felt before. Bewildered by all these new emotions, Khat brought two chipped mugs from another hole and placed them on a nearby tray.
“Do you like sugar with your tea?” she asked, barely turning in his direction.
“SEALs can use all the sugar energy they can get,” he answered wryly, half smiling. Mike liked the way shorter, softer strands had stolen out of her ponytail, caressing the sides of her face, emphasizing those breath-stealing green eyes.
“Ah,” she said, nodding.
“How do you take your tea?” He watched her work on the drinks, her fine, long fingers mesmerizing him. Mike wondered if she’d ever taken dance lessons because that is what she reminded him of—a ballerina.
“Plain.”
And then Khat joked, “Like me.”
Scowling, he said nothing. “Why did you warn my team there was a Taliban ambush set for us?”
Pushing a tendril of hair away from her face, Khat looked up. His eyes were hooded, his face contemplative. He was trying to figure her out. “Because it’s my job.”
“Do you always shadow SEAL patrols?”
Shrugging, Khat said, “Luck of the draw.” She loved teatime, having grown up with it. Taking some of her favorite cookies, shortbread, that her mother had sent to her, she pulled some out of a tin box from another hole in the wall.
Mike shouldn’t enjoy watching her so much, but he did. “How tall are you?”
“Too tall for a woman,” she answered. Bringing over a tray, she set it next to him.
“Six foot?”
“Close.”
“How the hell were you able to get me out of wherever you found me?”
Khat gave him a serious look. “Very carefully. I rode my mare into the wadi and retrieved you.” She watched the steam starting to rise out of the spout. Placing a tea bag in each cup, she removed the teakettle and poured the boiling-hot water into the awaiting cups. As she did, she told him how she got him from the wadi to the cave.
Mike shook his head in disbelief, turning and giving the black mare, who had eaten and was now resting, an appreciative look. Her head was drooped and one rear leg cocked, resting on the other three, eyes closed. “Unbelievable.” And he gazed at Khat as she walked toward him with the two cups in her hands.
Kneeling, she set them on the rusty tray, gave him three cookies and three for herself. She nudged the open jar of sugar with a spoon in it toward his good hand. Settling down, crossing her legs, she faced Mike. He did everything with focus. Adding a teaspoon of white sugar to his cup, he stirred it and set the spoon on the tin tray.
Khat held the cup with both hands, inhaling the scent of the tea. It always made her smile. It reminded her of happier times when she was young and at home with her family, until she joined the Marine Corps. Her father strongly disapproved of her choice. Her mother remained loyal to her, however, and sent her these tasty shortbread cookies every few months. She worried constantly about her.
“Is this something you do every night?” Mike asked, picking up the cup. He saw her eyes half close, a look of satisfaction on her face as she sniffed her steaming tea.
“When I can.”
“Does that mean you usually operate at night?”
“Like the SEALs?”
“The night’s our friend.”
“Sometimes, during the day, sometimes at night.” Khat sipped the tea, the taste giving her pleasure. She regarded him through her lashes, watching him think and plot and try to get something out of her that he could use. But to what end? Khat didn’t feel threatened by Mike, surprisingly. Was it his driving curiosity? Most likely.
“If I were a man in black ops, you wouldn’t be asking me so many questions, would you?”
He raised his brows and grinned. “Probably not. No women I know of in black ops out here in Dodge City.” He saw her lips curve just a little, her eyes gleam with amusement and secrets known only to herself.
“There are many ways to fit in and not be seen.”
“Do you like doing this?” Mike gestured to the horse.
Shrugging, Khat murmured, “It is my destiny.”
Mike felt that damned sadness around her again. A sort of surrendering over to the inevitable within her. She avoided looking at him, as well, paying attention to eating a cookie with her delicate fingers instead. Okay, he’d try another approach. “What touches your heart, Khat?”
His voice was deep with sincerity, and it riffled pleasantly through her. Lifting her chin, she met his thoughtful-looking gaze. Lion-gold eyes. A fierce warrior. But her instincts told her this man also possessed strong morals and values as all SEALs did.
She licked her lower lip and bent her head. “To walk out into the desert as a storm hits. To smell the perfume of the dry earth rise up and embrace me. To—” she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze “—have a baby born and slip into my hands and hear her first lusty cry.” Khat sipped her tea and added, “To see my people free and unafraid, to be able to walk out of their homes and not get their leg blown off, or to lose their children to those who would abuse and kidnap them.”
His heart squeezed with pain over the last whispered words. Her brows had drawn down, her gaze moving away, looking into the darkness, eyes filled with anguish. Mike heard it in her voice, too. “Those are heart-worthy passions,” he agreed, powerfully moved by her words.
“Why are you a SEAL?”
His mouth twisted. “That’s a long story. My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps, which most first sons do when their father is from the Middle East. I was a wild child, loved riding the Arabian horses, loved anything athletic, track, hurdles, gymnastics. You know, boy sorts of things?”
“Mmm,” Khat said, sipping her tea, enjoying sharing something important with him that had nothing to do with black ops. “Did you not want to become a surgeon?”
He laughed a little, holding up his right hand. “With these hands? Look at them. They’re good for fixing cars, fixing weapons, but I sure as hell wouldn’t trust these hams with a scalpel, would you?”
Khat laughed softly, feeling her heart blossom at his engaging smile. She liked his humbleness. His eyes... She sighed inwardly. His eyes gleamed with gold in their depths beneath the low light within the cave. “You have a point,” she agreed. “But you have hands of a man of the land who would work the soil, shape things and coax plants to grow.”
He didn’t want to be affected by how she saw him, but Mike was. “Farmer hands?”
“Maybe. I love looking at people’s hands. They tell me so much about them.”
He looked at his. “What do my hands tell you?” He saw redness come to her cheeks. “No, really. I’m not teasing you. I’m interested in how you see the world, Khat.” And God help him, he was. Her face was so damned readable, it shook him. There was no coyness. Just shyness. And gentleness that she tried to hide from him, but she couldn’t. Mike was having a hell of a time seeing her out there as a sniper and then drinking tea with her now. Two very different people.
“Your hands—” she shrugged “—are hands meant for molding and shaping things. Such as a loving father who would mold his children by supporting them, showing them the way, but not pushing them. You have hands that are sensitive to texture, to how something feels beneath your fingertips. I could see you being very gentle with a baby or supporting an elder who had trouble walking. You have helping hands.” Khat was so taken by his hands that she wondered what his fingers would feel like across her body. It was a vivid curiosity. And at the same time, Khat knew that would never be. No man would ever want her.
Mesmerized by her low voice, the almost lyrical quality of it, Mike was shaken by her insight into him. He set the cup down and stared at his right hand. “Then I’m in the wrong business,” he said, grinning. SEALs took the fight to the enemy.
“Not necessarily,” Khat said, picking up the second cookie from the tray. “I know many SEALs who do charity work with the villages they are near. Some bring in clothes, others shoes, food or medical support. They care about the people of the village. To those SEALs, they are not just a number. They are human beings with a heart. With a soul.”
Mike considered her quiet, passionate response. This woman lived in her heart. Something terrible had happened to her, though; that was why she was here. “Many of our guys do help out villagers,” he agreed somberly. “It isn’t always about killing the bad guys. It’s really about nation building, giving those who have practically nothing, something.”
“I like the way you see your world,” she said softly. “Your eyes tell me you see much more than you reveal to others.” And he was a passionate person just like herself, Khat realized. But he hid that element of himself, too, but not from her.
“Now you’re making me nervous,” Mike joked. Looking into her green eyes was, he swore, like looking into a well so deep that he couldn’t see the bottom. Khat had complexity and levels to herself. Maybe layers like an onion. Peel one layer off by asking the right question, and you saw another side or facet to her. She was an enigma and a mystery.
“My mother called me a seer,” Khat admitted fondly, remembering her happy childhood. “She said I had the power to see through people with my eyes.”
“I think your mother was right,” Mike said. He saw a faraway look in Khat’s eyes, her lips softly parted, not really there for the moment. “What would you say about your hands?” he asked, gesturing toward them.
She looked at one. “Oh.” And then she shrugged and made a sound. “My mother said I had beautiful hands. I played the piano when I was a child.” She looked at her left hand, moving her fingers. “She wanted me to play piano, but I wanted to dance.”
“As in ballet?” Mike guessed.
“Yes, I dearly loved ballet. But my parents could not afford it, only piano lessons. I love music, but I loved dancing and movement even more.”
“So, do you have dancer’s hands?” he wondered, seeing the animation in her eyes, hearing it in her husky voice. He saw her eyes grow dim, her expression grow closed. Nothing like stepping on a land mine with her. Mike felt bad because they were beginning to build a trusting connection with one another. He didn’t want to lose it.
“I have hands that—” her mouth quirked, brows drawing down “—that heal and kill.”
The silence fell heavy in the cave. Mike felt a sharp, jagged energy around her, as if some unknown thing was a constant abrasion to her heart, perhaps. He was very attuned to the subtleties of energy. Maybe it was reading a person’s body or their voice. Mike really didn’t know. “I think your hands are beautiful, Khat. When I first saw you, I thought you might be a ballerina.” He gave her a gentle look, hoping she wouldn’t take his compliment the wrong way.
Sitting up, she shrugged. “I dance every day. I dance on the edge of a sword. On one side is life, the other, death.” She finished her tea and abruptly stood. “One day, I will fall on death’s side. It is inevitable.”
Near midnight, she gave Mike pain pills to take so he could rest comfortably.
“I will be gone when you awake tomorrow,” she told him. “And I won’t return until dark. I’ll leave you everything you need.”
“My gear?” he demanded. If he was going to be alone in this cave, he wanted his own weapons in hand. He watched her expression become serious as she cleaned up the area and walked to the cave with the gate across it. She brought out his rifle and pistol, placing them near him. If Mike had any doubts about whose side she was on, it was gone now. Next came his heavy rucksack.
Khat moved to her medical ruck and opened it. “I’m leaving you enough pain pills for while I’m gone tomorrow. Take them every four hours. And if you can, get over to the waterfall and get cleaned up.”
“Can you leave me your sat phone? I have one but it’s got a bullet hole through it,” he said, watching her walk back and forth, collecting items.
“No. I’ll need it.” Khat saw him frown. “When I’m done with my day, on the way back here, I’ll check in and see if your people are willing to come in and pick you up. Much depends on you getting to your feet and being able to walk without falling sideways.” She gestured to his head wound. “You took a hard hit when you landed. And I can’t move you until you can walk and stay on your feet.”
“You’ve got a point,” Mike admitted. He saw her pull a sleeping bag from the cave that had bales of alfalfa stored in it. She gave her horse another bucket of water and then picked up her M-4 rifle and headed into the other cave. Khat silently melted into the darkness, but he could pick up faint sounds of where she was moving.
When she walked back, minutes later, she said, “I’m leaving you the kerosene lamp. I’ll be sleeping in another cave, keeping guard. I have motion-sensor detectors at the opening. If you hear shots, take cover and hide. I don’t think the Taliban will find us because we’re so far back in this mountain, but you don’t count on anything.”
“Got it,” Mike said. He pulled the kerosene lamp toward him. “Do you have a flashlight?”
She held a small one up in her hand. “Sleep well,” she whispered, and turned and disappeared into the black gloom.
Mike waited a few minutes. He placed his rifle nearby, his pistol within easy reach. Dousing the flame in the old lantern, he set it aside and lay down on his back. He worried about Khat. He wanted to protect her, not have her protecting him. Frustration overwhelmed him as he closed his eyes. Tomorrow he was going to be on his feet and become ambulatory—or else.
* * *
MIKE HEARD A horse approaching his area in the darkness. He stood near the cave opening to the waterfall area, M-4 in hand. The glow from the kerosene lamp revealed Khat leading her mare out of the gloom.
To his surprise, there was another horse behind her, but it was packed with supplies beneath a tarp. Khat looked tired.
When she spotted him, she lifted her hand in greeting. Khat was dressed differently than yesterday. She was in Afghan male clothes, dark brown trousers, boots, a black shirt with a brown vest over it. There was a white-and-blue-checked shemagh around her neck, the ends of it hanging down between the front of her breasts. He saw no weapons on her. What had she been doing? And why the change of costume?
“We’re clear,” she told Mike. For a SEAL, clear meant no enemy was present. And he needed to know that.
Khat felt her heart surge as she caught sight of him. He stood alert, the M-4 in his right hand. She saw he’d taken the sling off his broken arm. His eyes were narrowed, and his mouth was in a hard line, as if expecting trouble. Fortunately, there was none tonight. The Taliban had moved off the mountain and were north of her location.
She brought the two horses to a stop and dropped Mina’s reins. Lifting the stirrup, she put it over the horn of the saddle and quickly loosened the cinch and hauled the gear off her tired mare. “How was your day?” she asked as she passed him and walked down to the cave that held the hay.
“Better,” Mike said. “Can I help you at all?”
She disappeared inside the cave and came out a moment later, pulling off the shemagh. “No, thank you. How is your arm doing?”
“It hurts like hell when I let it hang too long,” he admitted.
Nodding, Khat saw his chagrin. “Took it off to wash up?” He looked clean. His hair was mussed, but the dirt and sweat were off his body. She was sure Mike had taken off the sling to get out of his blouse. He’d done a poor job of closing it up, however, but considering he had one hand, he’d managed to get his clothes back on.
“Yes. No choice.” Mike walked over to the second horse, a black Arabian that looked identical to the one she had ridden. “What’s under the tarp?”
Khat led Mina to her place, where she fed her and took the bridle off, tying the halter lead rope to a large iron ring in the wall. “Medical supplies,” she said.
“I didn’t know you had two horses.”
“I need two,” she said, patting Mina’s rump as she walked up to the other mare. Leading the horse closer to the tunnel, she added, “If Mina goes down with a sprain or something, I have to have a backup.” She managed a slight smile in his direction. “I’m like the SEALs—one is none, two is one.”
Nodding, Mike put the rifle down against the wall where his sleeping bag was located. “She’s nice looking, too. Are they sisters?”
“Yes. Her name is Zorah.” Khat quickly unstrapped the canvas over the load the horse carried. In moments, she had the tarp pulled off and folded it up. “This one is eight years old. Same sire and dam as Mina.”
Mike saw two huge leather panniers, one on each side of the small horse. Inside, he recognized American bottles of drugs and other medical supplies. “Can I help you carry these things somewhere?”
“Yes,” she said, grateful. He looked like he was bored out of his skull. SEALs didn’t sit down well doing nothing for twelve hours. His skin looked better; his eyes were clear. “Did the pain pills work okay?” she asked, removing a carton.
Mike was able to reach in with one hand and find another box and draw it out. “Yeah, fine.”
“Follow me,” she said, moving past the cave with the gate.
In minutes, they had the horse unpacked, the harness taken off, and Khat tied Zorah to a second iron ring a few feet away from where Mina stood. Giving them each a flake of alfalfa hay, she said, “Okay, you’re next, Mike. Take a seat on your sleeping bag.”
Mike sat down, back resting against the cave wall. She was a marvel of efficiency, as if she had done this all her life. Khat brought her medical ruck to her side as she knelt by him. “Why are you dressed in male Afghan clothes?”
She met his gaze. “Now, I think you know the answer to that one,” she said, and she quickly cut away the dried bandages around the splints. They’d gotten wet when he’d bathed and had become wrinkled and loose. Quickly, she removed the dressing, took the splints away and gently held his forearm between her fingers. Mike’s arm was black-and-blue and swollen. She moved her fingers lightly across it. His fingers looked like sausages because he didn’t wear the sling. “No heat,” she murmured, pleased. “Rest it against your chest.” She turned and gathered the supplies she’d need and dug out a new sling.
Mike looked forward to her gentle touch. He did as she asked, watching her. The lamplight emphasized her green eyes. He saw shadows beneath them. “Tough day?” he wondered. Her lips thinned for a moment and then relaxed.
“It’s always a mix,” she murmured, re-splinting his arm. Leaning up, she fashioned the dark green cotton sling so it supported his broken arm once more.
The nape of his neck tingled wildly when her fingertips brushed his flesh as she tied a knot in the sling. “Thanks,” he murmured, “it feels a hell of a lot better in this position.” He inhaled her scent, a mix of sunshine, fresh air and her. It made him very aware he was hopelessly attracted to Khat.
Khat eased away, wildly aware of Mike’s nearness, his maleness. For whatever unknown reason, he never felt threatening to her. Instead, she felt protection radiating from him, surrounding her. She saw the liquid darkness in his eyes as he followed her movements. His look held desire, and she once more felt flummoxed by the feelings Mike automatically ignited deep within her body.
Almost breathless, Khat said, “I’ll bet it does feel better. Your fingers are swollen because your arm hung down for most of the day. It’s hard for the circulation to get back up into the area of the break because the tissue is swollen around it.” She took his fingers, squeezing them gently, assessing the situation. Khat would never admit she liked touching this man as she gently massaged each finger, pushing some of the fluid out of them and into his arm. “The swelling will probably go down in a few hours,” she murmured.
Picking up her stethoscope, she listened to his heart and lungs. With her small pen flashlight, she moved it across his eyes, watching his pupil response. Moving to his other side, she took his pulse and wrote all her observations down in her small notebook.
“Am I going to live?” Mike asked drily, absorbing her profile, the light glinting through the thick strands of her hair that she had captured in a ponytail.
“Definitely,” she murmured, looking up at Mike. He was so masculine but dangerous to her in a new and unexpected way. Her throat tightened. “I figured you’d rebound today. You’re in great shape, and your body is responding quickly.”
“When can I be picked up by Medevac?” Part of him wanted to get back to the FOB; the larger part of him didn’t. Mike found her lifestyle fascinating. And he knew Khat put herself on the line. Taliban were all over these mountains like fleas on a dog. She had to be careful where she rode so she wasn’t seen or discovered.
Khat stood and put everything back into her medical pack and closed it up. “Shortly. I took a chance you’d be improved today.” She hauled the ruck to the wall and then pushed some tendrils of hair off her cheek. “One is scheduled in at 0100 this morning.” She glanced at her Rolex. “It’s 2200 now. I’ve got time to change, eat and get the horses ready. It’s going to take us an hour to ride down a steep goat trail to reach the valley below.” She saw his face light up, and she smiled a little. “Then you can be with your own kind once again. I imagine everyone on your team is looking forward to seeing you back in the fold.”
Mike sat there watching the shadows across her face. “I’m going to miss you.” That wasn’t a lie. He saw her cheeks grow pink as she walked to her kitchen hole and brought out the grate and a magnesium tab.
“You’ll be happier back at Camp Bravo, Mike. This kind of life isn’t for a SEAL.” She brought out the teakettle and set it on the grate. Khat would miss him, too, but she bit back the comment.
Rubbing his beard, Mike growled, “I’ll worry about you.”
She made a sound in her throat. “I’ve been out here for five years, and very few people know I’m here. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” She was touched by his gruff reply and sincere concern. She rocked back on her heels, watching the magnesium tab begin to heat the water.
Scowling, Mike said, “Don’t you get lonely out here?” She was young, beautiful and he couldn’t imagine this kind of isolation for a woman her age.
“No.”
“If you took a packhorse with you this morning, you must have gone somewhere to render medical aid. To a village, maybe?”
Khat grinned at him. “I’m going to miss all your observations and trying to put them together to figure out who I am.” She saw his eyes narrow upon her and once more, her heart started a slow pound. Her gaze fell to his hand resting on his knee. Beautiful hands for a man. If only... And Khat gently tucked those thoughts away. She was damaged goods. Her parents had been shocked by what had happened to her. Her angry, upset father had said no man would ever consider her wifely material.
Khat brought the two mugs down and placed the Darjeeling tea bag into each.
“Have you saved other men like you saved me?”
“Yes. But not often.”
“Was I the heaviest?” He grinned.
Khat laughed softly. “Yes, you were.”
“Were they SEALs?”
“One was. The other was a Marine Force Recon sniper.”
“And you got them out of here like you’re going to get me out? By horseback?”
“Yes.” Khat poured the boiling water into the cups. Placing them on the tray, she stood and brought down her box of shortbread cookies. “Different locations, but the same scenario. They were wounded, too.”
“Did they make it?”
Khat placed the cookies on the tray and then closed the box, taking it back to the hole in the wall. “Yes.”
Mike watched her bring the tray over. She set it on his right side and knelt down on the other side of it. Picking up the spoon, she placed the sugar into his cup and stirred it for him.
“I don’t want to lose touch with you, Khat.” Mike held her startled gaze as he picked up the mug.
“That can’t be.”
“Why not?” He watched her expression over the rim of his mug. For a moment, Mike swore she wanted to keep their connection, but then decided against it.
“I have all the help I need.” Her heart was doing funny things in her chest. He had seen her naked beneath the waterfall. That realization alone had shocked her. But Mike had treated her with nothing but respect. He didn’t try to grope her or speak in sexual innuendos to her.
There was a reflective look in his gold-brown eyes now as he considered her answer. She watched his lips curve around the mug’s rim, and she felt a sudden, white-hot heat stab through her lower body. Surprised, she hid her reaction. No man had ever affected her like he did. All they were doing was drinking a cup of tea together!
“Well,” Mike said gruffly, “out here, you can never have enough. Bravo is roughly twenty-five miles from here.”
Giving him a sad look, Khat whispered, “I know your heart is in the right place, Mike, but we don’t operate the same way.”
He grimaced. Yeah, he got that. The black ops food chain had a lot of levels. And she was somewhere unreachable, far above him. “Still,” he said patiently, “I’d feel better if you’d take my platoon’s sat phone number. If things happen, we might be the QRF you need.”
“You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?” Her lips twitched with amusement. He was endearing with his stubborn protectiveness, and it made Khat feel good. No one else ever cared that she was out here, operating on her own, an American surrounded by enemy Taliban every day.
“You’re alone out here,” he said in a low tone. “I’ve got five rotations under my belt in this area, and I know it crawls with Taliban. You might someday find yourself in a situation. And if your handler, or whoever he is, can’t cut loose the air or ground assets you need, you might find us an alternative. That’s all.”
“There’s no harm in taking your platoon’s number.” So much of her wanted to remain in contact with Mike. The past five years had been some of the loneliest times in her life. Khat knew he was drawn to her; he’d made no bones about that from the beginning. A man didn’t ask the questions he did if he wasn’t interested in a woman. She knew he’d remember everything she’d said, trying to put the pieces together on her operator status. Khat hoped she hadn’t given him a direct line into her black ops mission. She could see that strong willed look in his darkening eyes that he was damn well going to turn over everything he knew about her in order to find out who she really was, what she did and who she worked for.
Khat seriously doubted, though, that Mike would ever uncover her status.
“Good,” Mike said, relieved. Khat was contemplative, her eyes half-closed, those green tourmaline eyes shadowed beneath her thick red lashes. She was torn between saying nothing and divulging more to him. He could feel it. And dammit, he was going to research her when he got back to Bravo, no question.
He had some contacts in the black ops community. His good friend, Gabe Griffin, who had just left the SEALs to marry Bay Thorn, had been in this area. Maybe he knew something about Khat. Mike was sure as hell going to find out from his best friend. If he tried to go up the black ops food chain, they’d stonewall him. No, he’d have to search among the SEALs at Bagram and J-bad, nose around to find out if they’d seen her or knew anything about her. And he wasn’t the type that let something go until he got the answers he was seeking.
“When we leave, I’m going to let you ride Zorah, my packhorse. I have only one saddle, and I want you to have it. I don’t think your balance is all that good yet, and I don’t need you to fall off.”
“Good planning,” he said drily. “Last time I threw a leg over a horse was just before I left to join the SEALs.”
“I’ll ride bareback.” Khat gestured to her legs. “I’ve got thighs of steel from being in the saddle so much.”
The words, you have the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen, almost tore out of Mike’s mouth. She’d take it the wrong way, of course, and he wanted to leave their relationship, as thin as it was, intact between them.
“That’s fine,” he murmured. He sipped the tea, branding Khat’s clean profile, the shadows and light across her face, into his mind and heart. “What’s next for you after you get rid of me?” He said it half in jest, but he wanted to try and get something out of her that would give him a lead. Any lead.
“Every day is different.” Khat smiled a little sadly, feeling his protectiveness embrace her. “I’m like the wind. You never know which way I’ll flow on a certain day.”
“Were you always like this, Khat?”
Her smile dissolved. She held the mug in both hands, sipping from it. “No.”
“What were you like as a little girl?” Desperation clawed at his chest. The hunger to know her was eating him alive, and no woman had ever intrigued him like Khat did.
Sighing, Khat placed the cup down beside her and clasped her hands around her one leg that was drawn up against her body. “Happy.”
“Do you have brothers or sisters?”
Shaking her head, she said, “I was an only child, but a very welcomed child into my parents’ lives.”
“I know you have Middle East blood in you,” he said, watching her expression closely. “I’ve wondered all day whether one of your parents came from another country and moved to the States like my parents did.”
“Yes,” she said, holding his sharpened look. “We share a common background in some respects.”
“The way you speak English,” he pressed, “it sounds like you’re Afghani.”
Khat gave him a wry look. Mike was part Saudi. He would be able to hear the dialect differences, the pronunciation of certain words, and most likely be able to know if a person was from one Middle Eastern country or another. “I think you missed your calling. You should have been a linguist.”
He snorted. “No chance in hell. Not my game. I like doing what I do as a SEAL shooter.”
“Mmm,” Khat said.
“Your profile reminds me of the women in this region of Afghanistan. Each province has different bloodlines, different gene pools. This region saw a Mongolian influence.” Which would account for the slight tilt of her eyes, but Mike didn’t add that important point.
He was getting too close for comfort, and Khat avoided his direct, digging gaze. “I think you had too much time on your hands today, Mike.” She forced a smile she didn’t feel. He was like a bloodhound on a scent. Khat agreed with him that the genetics of each tribe were unique. And there were marked differences in hair color, eye color and skin color, as a result.
“I’ve seen a lot of red-haired women in our area. Green and blue eyes. Fair skin,” he continued. “And you fit that model.”
“I could be Irish,” she teased, now uncomfortable beneath his intense scrutiny.
“No way. At least,” he amended lightly, “in this province we’re in.”
“I’m not giving you any information, Mike.”
“And,” he went on, ignoring her statement, “the women and men in this area are much taller than the other tribes in other provinces. You’re about an inch shorter than I am, and I’m five foot eleven inches tall.”
Khat said nothing. He was on a mission of discovery, and she could see it in the tenacious look in his gold eyes. “I need to get something to eat before we leave.” She unwound from her position on the floor, feeling his unrelenting inspection.
Following her with his gaze, Mike felt tension rising in Khat due to his interrogation of her. He sensed he’d gotten close to the truth about her but he wasn’t going to gloat about it. The more he questioned her, the more he saw fear deep in the recesses of Khat’s eyes. And that delicious, full mouth of hers had thinned, as if a defensive reaction. Why? His gut told him it had to do with the scars across her long, beautiful back and shoulders.
She brought back some dried beef jerky and handed him some. “I’m sure the first thing you will do once you land at Camp Bravo is call your wife. And then your parents. They will breathe a sigh of relief and be glad to hear from you.”
“I don’t have a wife,” he said, watching her sit down near his feet, long legs crossed. He saw surprise in her widening eyes.
“Surely, a special woman, then?” Khat couldn’t conceive of this ruggedly good-looking man, who obviously was intelligent, not being in a relationship. That simply wasn’t possible.
“I don’t have anyone.” So what did he see in Khat’s eyes? Surprise? Shock? Desire? Happiness? Mike decided to turn the tables on her as he chewed the salty beef. “What about you, Khat? Do you have a husband?”
Heat swept up from her neck and into her face. “No.”
“Someone here in Afghanistan that you love?” He could think of a hundred men who would stand in line to get her. She suddenly became nervous, licking her lower lip. Shy with him, unable to hold his gaze.
“No one,” she answered softly. “My line of work is too dangerous.” That wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth. No man would consider her whole. Her back and shoulders were nothing but scars, ridges and were ugly. Men did not want a scarred woman with a shameful past. Her father, who had been born in this province, once he had seen her scars for the first time, had cried. He had told her mother that no man would ever consider her for marriage. He cried for the grandchildren he would never hold in his arms. He was shamed by her scars.
Khat had felt even more wounded by her father’s patriarchal Afghan attitude, but she was at a place in her life that his words had cut even deeper than the lashes she had received during interrogation by the Taliban. And when she had survived and healed physically, she’d come back here four years ago. Her father said she was a dead woman walking. He was right.
Mike felt Khat leave, her thoughts elsewhere, her eyes growing clouded. Sensing pain or suffering around her, he said, “You’re right, in our business, we can have a short life. It’s hell on anyone who loves us. That’s why I’m not in a serious relationship. I wouldn’t want someone worried about me all the time over here.”
Pensive, Khat forced herself to eat because she knew her body needed the nutrition and energy. “My parents are very unhappy about what I do. They don’t understand it. Or me.”
“That’s too bad. You’re doing important but dangerous undercover work.” The hurt in her face moved Mike. He wanted to open his arm and ask her to come and lean against him. Khat needed to be held. It was so clear in her darkening eyes. Her mouth was pursed, as if holding back unknown pain and memories.
If one of her parents was Afghan, it was probably her father. He would have made the decision to move the family to the States, not the woman. And Afghan males were patriarchal as hell, superprotective of their daughters, wanting only two things from them: being a virgin upon their wedding day and giving them grandchildren to carry on their family lineage. He imagined if his thinking was accurate, Khat was seen as a misfit as a woman to her father. And it would have put a lot of pressure on her to live up to her father’s expectations of her, versus what she wanted to do with her life as an individual. Which was to become a Marine Corps sniper.
Khat wanted to move away from her painful past. “Your name? Michael? That is one of the archangels of heaven. Did your parents name you that because they knew you’d be a warrior someday?”
“My father named me after my grandfather. He fought in tribal wars that helped bring the House of Saud to power a long time ago. He was a warrior.” Mike gave her a wry look. “I think my father was hoping I’d become like him. Instead of picking up a scalpel, I picked up the sword.”
“Just as in the Koran, Michael the archangel is the one who battles, protects and defends.”
“I do my share of battling,” Mike agreed. “And I am protective of those I love.” His voice became gritty. “And I’m a sucker for women and children who need protection.”
Her skin riffled with the darkness of his voice. “Don’t look at me. I can protect myself.” Khat would never let on that she’d never felt as safe or shielded as the past two days with Mike’s presence in her life.
“It’s my nature,” he said seriously, seeing the haunted look come to her eyes. Something told him Khat rarely received any protection from anyone. She’d learned a long time ago to take care of herself and never expected help from another quarter. What the hell had happened to her to make her think like that? He shouldn’t feel so damned elated to discover she wasn’t married or wasn’t in a relationship presently.
“Your last name, is spelled T-A-R-I-K?”
Now why would she want to know that? “In the old country it was spelled T-A-R-I-Q, but when my father came to the States, he changed it to make it easier for his patients to pronounce and spell.”
“It’s my understanding the name means one who uses a hammer?” She lifted her chin and stared at him.
“Guilty on all counts,” Mike said, giving her a slow smile. “There’s various meanings to it. One is it means a bright, shining star that leads the way.”
“You are a leader. There is no question.”
“I try to be,” Mike said. “Another, the name of the Morning Star, Venus.”
“I think you’ve taken two of the three definitions to heart,” Khat said lightly.
“What? I’m not a star?” He chuckled. “I did love astronomy when I was a kid. My dad even bought me a small telescope so I could look at the stars.”
“But that lost out to becoming a warrior? Your first name, Michael, combined with your last name pushes you toward being a man of action. Someone who can use the sword.”
“You’re right.” He lost his smile. “If I had one wish before I left you, it is to know your full first name. I know Khat is your nickname.”
Feeling her heart move beneath his humble request, Khat saw the sincerity in his narrowing eyes. “I can’t. I’m sorry. Besides, my name does not have the glory and power that yours does.” She managed a small smile, appreciating him for who he was: a very brave SEAL. The joke was, her Pashtun name, Khatereh, simply meant, “memory.” And so it had been. There were branding memories in her mind about her scarred flesh and fractured soul she could never forget. And she was never the same after her capture. So much for memory.
She rose. “It’s time to go.”
