Читать книгу Navy Seal Rescue - Susan Cliff - Страница 12
ОглавлениеHud 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 resentment 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.
“I bring food,” Ashur said. “You want to eat?”
His stomach growled with interest. “Yes.”
“Do you need a pot?” He mimicked the act of urinating.
“No,” Hud said, putting his feet on the tile floor. They were sore, but they held his weight. “Is there a toilet?”
“Yes,” the boy said. “Come.”
The stitches on his shoulder tugged as he followed the boy through the door. There was a closet-sized space with a squat toilet at the end of the hall. No sink, just a bucket with cold water. He rinsed his hands and let them air dry. He wanted to pour the entire bucket over his head. He’d kill for a hot shower and clean clothes.
When he emerged, Ashur escorted him back to his room and disappeared again. Hud went to the window to look out. The ground was about six feet below. There was a walled courtyard with a simple wooden gate. He could escape easily if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. He was safer here than out there, and he needed to regain his strength. He needed time to think about his next step.
Beyond the gate was a pastoral-type village with rolling green hills. He’d never seen this side of Iraq. It lacked the relentless dust and nothingness of Telskuf. He could feel moisture in the air, not just swirling debris. Mountains rose up in the distance, with jagged edges and snow-capped peaks. In this little valley, it was a pleasant spring day. At higher elevations, the weather would be harsh and unpredictable.
Had she really asked him to take her across the Zagros? Maybe he’d dreamed up the request. Surely he’d exaggerated the beauty of the woman who’d made it, as well. Angels didn’t appear out of nowhere in Iraq. They stayed hidden in voluminous black robes, faces veiled. He must have imagined the heat in her eyes as she studied him, as well.
His shoulders tensed when she entered the room. He knew it was her without looking. He could estimate height, weight and gender from the sound of footsteps. He also just felt her, like a whisper of breath at the nape of his neck.
He turned and saw that she was even prettier than he remembered. Her dark hair was uncovered, gathered in a sleek braid. She wore a long blue tunic and black leggings with Moroccan slippers. Her eyes were deep brown and thickly lashed, with a calm serenity that made him want to inhale her.
She was exquisite, but she wasn’t really his type. He had lowbrow tastes, truth be told. He liked party girls who weren’t afraid to show some skin. This one didn’t even reveal her hair in public. When she crossed her arms over her chest, he got the impression of nice curves hidden beneath layers of fabric.
“You should be resting,” she said.
He sat on the bed dutifully. She took the chair across from him.
“Do you remember our conversation?”
His gaze traveled over her figure. He remembered her bare thighs straddling his waist, and her throaty laugh as he suggested a better position. He liked her bedside manner—a lot. “About the Zagros?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think I can help you?”
“You are a Navy SEAL, and a mountain climber.”
“Who told you that?”
“My sources.”
He didn’t bother to deny it. The tattoo on his chest was a symbol of his military affiliation. The terrorists had known he was a SEAL. They’d enjoyed putting out cigarettes on his trident, searing his flesh with hot embers. He touched the spot absently and felt no remnant of the torture. No permanent scarring. He was lucky they hadn’t used a poker or a cattle brand. The minor burns had healed, the pain fading into a distant memory.
“You are a SEAL, yes? Sea, Air, Land?”
“You need an experienced local,” he said. “I’ve never climbed those mountains. I’ve never even seen a map of the route.”
“There isn’t one.”
“No map?”
“No established route. I have topographic information and satellite imagery, but no climbing details.”
“How do you know it can be done?”
“It has been done before. Just not chronicled.”
“Because it’s not legal.”
“The Kurdish government does not allow travel in this region.”
“I wonder why,” he said drolly.
“They do not wish for tourists to come to harm, or for refugees to get stranded and need assistance.”
“Are we in Kurdistan?”
Her lips pursed at the question. “That depends on who you ask. It is a Yazidi village, protected by Kurdish forces and threatened by the Da’esh.”
He couldn’t keep track of the different ethnic groups and shifting borders in Iraq. The map seemed to change daily, and he’d been out of the loop for months. Da’esh was an Arabic word that meant Islamic Front. He knew that much. “Is Mosul still under attack?”
“It was taken by the Da’esh, along with Telskuf and every other Assyrian town in the Nineveh Province.”
“You’re Assyrian?”
“I am.”
If his memory served, the Assyrians were Christians. Being Muslim in Iraq was no picnic, with the different sects in constant conflict, but other religious groups were even more persecuted. They had fewer numbers and less power. “My condolences.”
“Are you Christian?”
He shrugged. “I was raised that way.”
“Then you will help us.”
“Us?”
“My people.”
He gave her a dubious look. Her idea to cross the Zagros was crazy enough without adding a passel of refugees, like that maniac kid and the hunchbacked old man. The fact that they were Christians didn’t change his mind. He was loyal to his team and his country, period. “You can’t hire a guide who knows the area?”
“I have tried. I paid two Turkish mountaineers in advance.” She let out a huffed breath. “They came during the fall of Mosul and turned back.”
He nodded his understanding. There weren’t a lot of expert climbers in Iraq. It was a leisure sport that required time, travel and excess cash. They were in a war zone where people were struggling to survive.
“I need a man who will not quit.” She placed her hand on his forearm. “I think you are that man.”
Hud arched a brow at her touch. She was a beautiful woman, savvy enough to read the interest in his eyes. She knew he’d been denied every pleasure and comfort during his captivity. Although he liked having his ego stroked, among other things, he couldn’t do anything for her. He was a Navy SEAL, not a mercenary. He didn’t take money from refugees, and he doubted she had any to pay him.
“Why the Zagros?” he asked.
She removed her hand from his arm. “There is no other way. The Da’esh control the roads to the south and west. We cannot travel through Syria. We have to go over the mountains, into Turkey.”
“Turkey is safe?”
“Turkey is the least hostile border country. But they are closed to refugees, so crossing illegally is necessary.”
“What happens if I say no?”
“For your own sake, you must say yes.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It is reality. We are both prisoners here. I need you to get out of the country. You need me for the same reason.”
He made a skeptical sound, even though he believed her. In a remote location, with no communication or support from the US military, striking out on his own would be unwise. He couldn’t afford to get recaptured.
She offered a tight smile, aware of his dilemma.
He smiled back at her, determined to choose his own fate. She wasn’t the most formidable opponent he’d ever faced. Compared to the psychopaths who’d tortured him, she was soft. Soft and lush, with her flawless skin and alluring mouth. If he wasn’t so dirty and disheveled, he might try to seduce her.
“I need clean clothes and a shower.”
She bowed her head. “As you wish.”
He wondered what else he could get from her. She didn’t look desperate, but her actions implied otherwise. She’d blown up the side of a building to rescue him. She’d risked her life for his. She was a daring woman, despite her modest dress and demure attitude. She’d drugged him and transported him against his will. That should have been a turnoff, but it wasn’t. He’d always been drawn to danger.
After she left the room, Ashur came back with a tray of delicious food. It was a feast fit for a king, and Hud ate like a half-starved wolf. He devoured every morsel of kebabs and rice and hummus, his manners gone. He might have growled at one point. There was a green salad with tomatoes, pita bread, and other dishes he couldn’t identify, but shoved into his mouth nonetheless. He ignored the tea in favor of water.
“I have bira, if you like,” Ashur said.
“What’s that?”
“It is beer. We brew. Very good.”
“Beer, in Iraq?”
Ashur sneered at his ignorance. “My people invented beer, American.”
Hud had been under the impression that alcohol was illegal here, or rarely imbibed. “Assyrians invented beer?”
“The ancient ones, in Mesopotamia.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Do you speak Arabic?”
“No.”
“I speak three languages.”
Hud grunted and kept eating. He’d learned a few words of Arabic from one of his teammates, but he didn’t have an ear for it. Too many syllables and inflections. Too many different dialects, with sounds as unique and complex as the mix of cultures in the region. Interpreters were worth their weight in gold here. That was why the IF hunted them down and cut off their tongues.
Hud swallowed the last bite, with some difficulty.
“You wish to shower now?” Ashur said. “Come.”
Ashur led Hud down another hall and through a door that opened to a quiet courtyard. The shower was a rustic hut made of corrugated aluminum. Hud found a bar of soap and a nubby towel on a bench inside. He shut the door and stripped down. His trousers were bloodstained and stiff with dust. He stepped into the stall, cupping one hand over himself protectively. He wasn’t disappointed by the lukewarm trickle that emerged from the pipes. It was clean and it was wet. Any kind of water was a luxury to him. He hadn’t so much as splashed his face in weeks. He tilted his head back, eyes closed in rapture.
God.
His throat tightened with emotion as water flowed over him. During the darkest hours of his captivity, he hadn’t believed he would ever see the light of day again. He thought he’d become a pile of bones in that dusty tomb. Now he was standing in an outdoor shower, his shoulders warmed by the sun.
He bent forward and let the water cascade down his neck, humbled by the experience. He washed his matted hair and battered body, which still felt strong enough to fight. He was alive. He wasn’t sure he deserved to be, after what he’d done. But here he was.
He’d survived, against all odds. He’d endured weeks of near starvation. He’d been tortured and beaten and treated like an animal.
Now he was free, and determined to stay that way.
