Guarding The Soldier's Secret

“Why— How...?” She stopped, knowing it was useless to try to rush him.

“Her mother’s dead.” The statement came in a flat undertone. He tipped his turbaned head toward the child. “And if she stays in this country she might as well be. She needs to get out, and I know you can make that happen.”

Her small gasp of laughter was an automatic and, she knew, futile diversion. “Why would you think—”

He cut her off without raising his voice. “Yankee, I know. Okay? I know what you do, who you work for—besides WNN. I know your organization has the machine in place, the people—and I don’t mean them.” He jerked his head toward the door behind him, indicating the rest of the house and the rooms where the other members of the news crew were quartered. “You have the means to do this. You know how. You’ve done it before.”

Yancy hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. A cloak of calm came around her, and the ground steadied under her feet. She didn’t know how or why Hunt Grainger knew about INCBRO, but the fact that he did wasn’t a complete surprise. Hunt and the others like him seemed to know things no one else did.

“She’s a child bride, then?”

Hunt made a scoffing sound. “If that’s what you call it. They bartered a five-year-old child to a tribal leader, in exchange, I suppose, for a promise of protection.”

“They?” She had squatted down, balanced on one knee, and was gazing again at the child, who still had her face buried in Hunt’s long chapan.

She thought, My God, a bride? She’s so small...

“Her family.” His voice had an edge of steel. “Of course.”

Yancy glanced up at him, but all she could see of his face in the dim light and behind the dark curtain of beard was the glitter of his eyes. So familiar, and yet I’ve never seen him look like this...

Swallowing the knot of rage and sickness that had lodged in her throat, she spoke quietly. “Does she speak any English?”

“A little. Probably understands more than she speaks. When she speaks. Right now she’s not saying much of anything.”

She straightened up, letting out a breath. “Hunt, I don’t know what you know about the organization—INCBRO. We’re more about trying to intercede diplomatically—you know, educate and persuade family members, get them to understand they can do better for their daughters by letting them go to school instead of marrying them off as children. If they don’t have the money to do that, we try to help them. We don’t usually take a child out of the culture and environment they’re accustomed to. We don’t just...pick them up and carry them off—not that we don’t wish we could, sometimes...”

“But you’ve done just that, in certain cases. As a last resort? When the girl’s life was at stake. Haven’t you?”

“Well, I—”

“Her mother’s name was Zahra.”

She heard an edge of flint in his voice—and something else she couldn’t name. It stirred conflicting emotions and swirled them together in her mind like a wicked little dust devil—fear, compassion...a hint of jealousy—making her heart stutter and her breath catch. But for only a moment. The thoughts and emotions settled like leaves when the wind has passed.

“So you knew her?”

“Yes. I knew her.” His hand rested on the child’s turbaned head, so gentle in contrast to the cold rage in his eyes. “I thought I’d found a safe place for them, but they—” He broke off with a meaningful glance at the child and stepped away from her, turning his back to her before he continued speaking to Yancy in a low murmur. “The male members of her family killed her—killed Zahra. How they found them I don’t know. Thank God this one managed to hide. Look, I don’t have time for details. I just know if she stays here they’ll find her again sooner or later. In fact, the longer I stay here the more danger she’s in—and you, too. I know your crew is about to wrap up—pulling out tomorrow, right?”

She nodded and again didn’t bother to ask him how he knew.

“Okay. So take her with you. Get her on that underground railroad you help run. You’re the only one who can get her out of Afghanistan. You can keep her safe.” He pulled in a breath. “If you need money—”

“Not a problem. INCBRO is very well funded,” Yancy said tightly.

He nodded and for a moment seemed to hesitate—that unfamiliar uncertainty again. Then he turned abruptly, went down on one knee and took the child by the shoulders. He spoke quietly to her in Pashto, a language Yancy was still struggling to learn. The little girl made a whimpering sound and reached for him, but he held her firmly away, still talking to her.

Then, in an abrupt change to English, he said slowly and clearly, “Laila, this woman is my friend. I told you about her, remember? She’s going to take good care of you. She’ll keep you safe. Okay?”

Laila kept her head bowed but silently nodded and, after a moment, lifted small clenched fists to scrub tears from her cheeks.

“That’s my girl,” Hunt said in a husky growl. “I’ll come and see you, soon as I can, I promise.” Unexpectedly, he drew the child into his arms and held her close. Yancy’s heart did a slow flip-flop. “But for now, I want you to go with Yancy. Can you do that?”

After a long pause, Laila nodded. Hunt released the child, rose to his feet and turned her toward Yancy. The little girl bravely lifted her eyes.

A smile of reassurance froze on Yancy’s lips. She sucked in an audible breath. Lion’s eyes...golden eyes, tear-glazed but bright as flame...

Her own gaze flew to Hunt, who had paused at the door to look back at her.

“Yes,” he said gently, “she’s mine. Does it matter?”

Yancy shook her head, barely aware she did so.

“Put out the light, will you?”

Numbly, she reached for the lantern. As the room plunged into darkness she felt a chill breeze and knew he was gone.

In the silence that fell then, a small cold hand crept into hers.

Chapter 2

Kabul, Afghanistan

Present day

Yancy tightened her grip on her daughter’s hand as they wove their way together through the sluggish river of shoppers, stepping around parked cars and top-heavy pushcarts and the knots of women who were pausing to examine displays of brightly woven fabrics, piles of fresh-baked bread or bins of cheap plastic trinkets.

“Look, Mom, Mickey Mouse,” Laila said, pointing, and Yancy smiled and squeezed her hand.

“Just like home.”

Her daughter lifted her golden eyes, eyes now sparkling with the smile that was hidden beneath the drape of her scarf. “Well, not exactly.”

Yancy laughed, feeling lighter in heart than she had since she’d made the decision to bring Laila with her on this trip to Afghanistan. She’d have preferred to wait until her adopted daughter was older before taking her to visit the country of her birth, but with the allied troops preparing to pull out for good, she knew there was no way to predict what the future might hold for the war-ravaged country. It might be a case of now or never.

Still, Laila was only eight years old. It had been three years since the traumatic events that had made it necessary to get the child out of Afghanistan for the sake of nothing less than her life.

Yancy hadn’t tried to erase her daughter’s memories of that terrible time—quite the opposite, in fact. Thinking it would be therapeutic for her to talk about it, she’d downloaded YouTube videos, which they’d watched together, Yancy answering Laila’s questions, talking about the ways her life was different now. She’d even probed gently, never sure how much Laila had witnessed or remembered about her mother’s murder. But Laila had never spoken of that day, and whether that was because she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, Yancy had no way of knowing.

Their first day in Kabul, Laila had clung close to Yancy’s side, shrinking closer still at her first glimpse of the mysterious blue burqas that sprinkled the crowds even here in the modern capital city. Last night Yancy had asked her about that, wanting to know why Laila was frightened when they’d already talked about the fact that some women in Afghanistan covered themselves completely when they went out in public.

But Laila had only shrugged and mumbled, “I’m not scared. I just don’t like them. I think they’re...creepy.”

Today, though, she seemed to be enjoying the crowds, the bustle and noise, the tapestry of different costumes: men and boys in everything from jeans, T-shirts and Western-style jackets to the traditional loose white trousers and tunics and long chabas embroidered with intricate patterns; the turbans or flat Afghan hats, or karakul hats like the one the president wore; women and girls in conservative Western-style dresses or flowing robes and draped head scarves, and, of course, the burqas. Every direction they looked was a new feast for the eyes.

A feast for all the senses. Though the sky overhead was the same crisp blue she recalled from previous trips to Afghanistan, here in the bazaar the air was dense with dust and exhaust, the familiar smells of spices and baking bread and overripe fruit and the musky scents of people. The noise of traffic and exotic music and voices raised in chatter or barter or a snatch of song made a tapestry of sound.

I’ve missed this, Yancy thought.

“What are those?” Laila pointed.

“Hmm...looks like dates,” Yancy said.

“Can we get some?”

“You don’t like dates, remember?”

“Yes, but I’ve never tasted these dates.”

“Uh-huh.” Recognizing that her child had been bitten by the shopping bug, Yancy diplomatically steered her to another display, where large flat metal bowls held an array of grains and beans and nuts. “How about we get some of these, instead? You like pistachios, don’t you?”

Laila’s answer was a happy gasp. She tugged at Yancy’s hand like an excited puppy while Yancy bartered with the women hovering over the display. She counted out the money, then gave the drawstring shopping bag they’d brought with them—no paper or plastic here—to Laila to hold while the shopkeeper dumped a scoopful of nuts into it.

Laila said, “Tashakkur!” the way Yancy had taught her, in a strong, clear voice, and the woman beamed her approval and added another handful of nuts to the bag.

They walked on, stopping to examine trinkets, discussing what gifts they should buy for Laila’s school friends back home in Virginia. Yancy fingered beautiful scarves, debating which one to buy for her clotheshorse sister, Miranda.

The sun climbed higher and so did the temperature, and the crowds began to thin. Yancy noticed Laila’s enthusiasm seemed to be waning, as well. Her footsteps lagged as she looked around her, craning her neck, clearly searching for something and disappointed she hadn’t found it.

“Are you getting tired, sweetie?”

“No...” Laila lifted her shoulders in what was half sigh and half shrug. “I was just hoping...”

Yancy’s stomach lurched. Surely, she couldn’t be hoping to see him.

Impossible, anyway. He’s dead. He must be. And how can she even remember?

“I thought there would be animals.”

“Animals?” Yancy said blankly.

Laila was watching the toe of her sandal make designs in the dusty ground. She heaved another heart-tugging sigh. “Yes, like sheep or goats. Or donkeys. I like them. They had them at the market where I used to live.” She lifted her gaze—and her chin—in a way that was almost a challenge. “I know because I remember them.”

Yancy put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and pulled her close in a one-arm hug. “This is Kabul, honey. It’s a very big city—like New York or Los Angeles. Probably there wouldn’t be many sheep or goats or donkeys here in the middle of the city. But I promise we’ll make sure and find some tomorrow when we go out in the country—okay?”

“Okay...” Clearly, her daughter was only somewhat appeased.

Changing the subject, Yancy said, “Hey, are you hungry? I know I am. How about we go back to the hotel and see if they have any ice cream.”

“Pistachio?” Laila’s golden eyes sparkled up at her with that wicked humor that never failed to wrench at Yancy’s heart and bring back memories of a time she hoped someday to forget.

She’s so like him. How am I ever going to be able to forget, with her as my constant reminder?

With one arm resting lightly across Laila’s shoulders, Yancy lifted her head to survey their surroundings, hoping to determine the best and shortest route back to the main street where, presumably, they could flag down a taxi. But she found she couldn’t see much because of the press of people that surrounded them.

Which was odd, because a moment ago she could have sworn there were only a few straggling shoppers here, dawdling about among the stalls. Now she and Laila appeared to be completely walled in by a crowd of people.

No, not a crowd. A group of men. Tall, bearded men, all dressed in traditional Afghan costume.

As the bolt of awareness shot through Yancy’s brain, it triggered a wild montage of the warnings, cautions and instructions she’d heard time and time again when preparing to venture into volatile and unpredictable regions of the world. More than once she’d covered the story when a colleague had been abducted—or worse—and there had even been some close calls that were hers alone, the memories of which were all too vivid. She’d never really been frightened then—at least not that she could remember. But it was different now. Now there was Laila.

She tensed and strengthened her hold on her daughter’s hand, at the same time nervously checking to make certain no stray locks of her own dark red hair had strayed from beneath her scarf. Keeping her eyes averted, she quickened her step.

Without any overtly threatening moves or gestures, the knot of men moved with her, keeping pace.

Yancy’s mind raced, searching for explanations but capable only of shooting off questions. Who are they? Taliban? What’s happening? Why are they doing this? What do they want with me? Are we about to be kidnapped? What have I done?

Or...is it Laila they’re after?

Her heart banged against her ribs. Her scalp sizzled; she could actually feel her hair lift and stir against the silk fabric of her scarf. She could almost hear Hunt’s voice... They’ll find her again, sooner or later...

Oddly, the thought had a calming effect.

Laila? They can’t take her. They will have to kill me first.

She drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. Think. You have one advantage: you’re a woman. They won’t be expecting resistance from a woman. Plus, they won’t want to touch you, a strange female, if they can avoid it. You know the moves—they won’t expect that, either. Strike fast, strike hard, break loose.

Then both of us run like hell.

They’d reached the outskirts of the bazaar. Beyond the human barricade that surrounded her, Yancy could hear cars moving slowly, tires crunching on the hard-baked ground. She could hear laughter, music coming from a car radio, the impatient beep of a horn. She wondered if one of those cars was meant for them. She imagined a sudden shriek of brakes, hard hands shoving her into a waiting vehicle, Laila screaming...

Or, infinitely worse, Laila being wrenched from her grasp. Then the slamming of car doors, a gunned motor and silence.

* * *

Twenty yards or so behind the odd clot of Afghan males in the otherwise free-flowing stream of midday traffic, Hunt Grainger maintained a relaxed and steady pace. Keeping anger in check along with surging adrenaline, he followed the phalanx’s every movement, gauging the situation, biding his time, waiting for the moment.

And still hoping this was going to turn out to be nothing more ominous than a tight-knit group of male shoppers oblivious to the two insignificant females in their path. Still hoping it wouldn’t be necessary to make himself known. He’d intended to do so eventually, of course, but at a time and place of his own choosing.

No, not this way. Not now.

The adrenaline was easier to deal with than the anger. He knew how to bank adrenaline, keep it focused and ready for the job at hand. He’d already assessed the odds of roughly ten to one, which didn’t trouble him particularly—he’d handled worse. Although admittedly not with a woman and child in the immediate proximity of the operation. That might complicate things.

Damn Yancy, anyway!

What was she thinking, bringing the girl back to Afghanistan? Hadn’t he made it clear to her how dangerous it was? If Zahra’s family found out...

That was the troubling thing. They obviously had found out. How? How could they know?

Although, he supposed, if he’d known, it was possible someone else could, as well. A world-famous network war correspondent couldn’t exactly keep a low profile.

The agency he’d hired to keep an eye on the two while he was out of reach had kept him informed of their travel plans, and he’d been watching them almost from the moment they’d arrived in the country. Admittedly that wasn’t so much because he feared for their safety. Not then.

Truth was, he’d simply wanted to see them again. Both of them. Nothing wrong with that, he’d argued with himself as he’d lain wide-awake and sleepless in anticipation of their arrival. Laila was his daughter, after all.

And Yancy... Hell, he wasn’t sure what Yancy was to him. Never had known.

What he did know was, it would be better for everyone if he could have stayed away, let them go on believing he was dead.

He’d told himself he’d look—that was all. Watch them from afar. Then let them go, never knowing.

It’s better that way. For now.

That was the plan. One of them, anyway. Maybe he would have been able to keep to it, maybe not. Now it looked as if he wasn’t going to have the luxury of choice.

His senses snapped to full alert when he noted what appeared to be a disturbance in the tight knot of men surrounding Yancy and Laila. The knot appeared to be unraveling. He quickened his pace, and several things happened in lightning-quick succession: One man seemed to stumble, then fall back against his comrades. This sent several to the ground in a tumble of flowing garments that might have been comical under different circumstances. Then two female figures, woman and child, broke free of the melee. They came straight toward him, running as if from the devil himself.

The woman’s face was a mask of grim determination; the child’s was blank with confusion. Hunt started forward, then halted when he saw the woman’s eyes focus, home in on his face. He saw her eyes go wide, first with fear, then with stunned recognition. He saw her stumble slightly, her body flinch and her face drain of all color.

Unexpected pain sliced through him.

Dammit, Yancy. Not like this—this isn’t the way I’d have chosen to break it to you.

An image came into his mind, one of those lightning flashes that stays on, seared into the memory like a brand.

...I’m strolling the boardwalk on the base with a couple of guys from my team, fresh off a successful mission with some leftover adrenaline to dispose of. Every soldier has his own way of dealing with it—that jacked-up reckless feeling you get sometimes when you’ve done your job and come back in one piece. Everything seems sharp and clear and simple. Life and death. You win or you lose. And that day we won. Life was good.

Times like that, some guys head straight for their laptops for a face-to-face with their families. A few go to the chapel, I guess. Me, I get a yearning for a little piece of home, so I hit the boardwalk and the same fast-food places I used to hang out in when I was a kid, growing up in the Midwest.

So my guys and I are debating the relative merits of subs, pizza and tacos, or whether we should go to Friday’s and have all three. And that’s when I see her. Them, actually—the news crew we’d picked up out of that firefight earlier in the day. They’re gathered around a table drinking something tall and cold, all scrubbed and shiny like they’ve just come from the showers. They still have that dazed look civilians get when they’ve had a closer look than they ever wanted at what war’s really like.

She’s impossible to miss, with that red hair of hers, the wind blowing it around like dark flames. I guess I’m looking at her pretty hard and maybe she feels that, because she looks up just then, straight at me, and I see her eyes go big and wide with that look that says she’s recognized me, too. I feel a kick underneath my ribs, which I chalk up to that leftover adrenaline, and I give her a nod. Maybe I smile at her, too.

I’ve worked my way through about half a foot-long meatball sub, joking with the guys across the table, when I hear, “Hey, soldier.” And here she is, sitting down beside me.

The guys, of course, they give me the eye, elbow each other and get up and move to another table.

She says, “I don’t mean to interrupt...”

I chew and swallow and reach for my napkin, wipe sauce off my face and clear my throat good. My heart’s doing the happy-dance and there’s nothing I can do about that, but I keep my voice polite and nothing more. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

She winces and says, “Ma’am? Really?” and makes a face.

“It’s a term of respect—like sir,” I tell her. Something makes me add, “From where I’m sitting, you definitely do not qualify as sir.”

She laughs, and I feel a sizzling inside my skin, and I know I’m going where I’ve got no business going. I’m feeling hot and hard and I blame that on the adrenaline, too.

“I don’t know if I even said thank you,” she says. “For saving my—all...of our lives.”

She’s looking at me with big brown eyes, and it occurs to me her eyes seem to match her hair, which doesn’t make sense, because her hair is definitely auburn, and her eyes are definitely brown.

“You did,” I say.

She nods. “And you said you were just doing your job.” She’s studying me, and there’s this kind of a frown making lines between her eyebrows, like she can’t figure me out. Then she turns her face away, but I can see it tighten up and change color anyway. “That’s what it was to you, maybe. But to me it was a whole lot more. It was my life, you know?” She swipes her fingers across one cheek, clears her throat and adds, “And I want you to know I’m very grateful.”

I want to touch her, and I pick up my sandwich so I can’t. I take a bite, chew it, nod to the sandwich and say, “Glad I could help.”

I feel her staring at me again. Softly she says, “I wish I understood what makes someone like you tick.” I turn my head to look at her, and for a long time that’s what we do—look at each other. Or maybe it only seems like a long time. Then she sort of smiles and says, “I don’t suppose you’d consider—”

That wakes me up. “Not gonna happen,” I tell her.

Her smile goes a little sideways. “I was going to say, ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider having dinner with me.’”

“No, you weren’t.”

She doesn’t miss a beat, but leans closer and says, “What if I was?”

There’s a long silence while I listen to the voices in my head telling me things I already know, all the reasons I want but can’t have. Then, probably because I’m used to shaking hands with danger, I lean in closer to her and whisper, “It’d still be no.”

She sits back and the contact between us snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight—it stings a little. She tilts her head and asks, “Why?”

I laugh—I mean, she has to ask?

“You’re the media,” I say, “and my job depends on secrecy.”

“I’d never compromise that. You know us media folks always protect our sources.”

I shake my head. “Sorry. Too big a risk.”

“I thought that’s what you do—take risks.”

“Not stupid ones.”

She thinks about that. Then after a moment, she nods, gets up and starts to walk away. While I’m silently cussing—myself, her, maybe fate—she comes back, leans down close to my ear and whispers, “If you change your mind, I’d still like to hear your story. Your terms, your rules. My quarters are in the Quonset next to the media’s. You can find me there.”