Guarding The Soldier's Secret

After she leaves I look at the sub I’m still holding in my hands, and I realize I’ve lost my appetite—for food, anyway. Right then the only thing I’m hungry for is a woman with auburn hair and matching eyes.

His trip down memory lane lasted for the space of the few seconds it took them to get to him. He reached out for Yancy, who staggered and almost fell into his arms, the child sandwiched between the two adults. He caught and steadied her while her eyes searched his face in shocked disbelief. Her mouth opened, but before she could fire off the questions he knew must be piled up inside her, he said in a low, guttural voice, “Go—run. Keep going. Don’t stop for anything.”

He had to hand it to her—no questions, no hesitation. She just nodded and took Laila’s hand in a firm grip.

Hunt shoved the two of them behind him and turned his attention to the would-be abductors, who by this time were sorting themselves out and shouting at each other in fury and outrage. A couple of them seemed to think they might give chase but changed their minds when they saw what was blocking their path. A tall man wearing the elaborately wound turban and embroidered vest of a Pashtun tribal elder would give the average urban Afghan male pause even if he wasn’t portraying an attitude of authority, strength and menace. Hunt excelled at all three. In a matter of moments the men had dispersed and vanished into the crowds, both pedestrian and vehicular.

Hunt waited until he was certain the threat had passed, then turned to follow the woman and child, who had already vanished from sight. He walked rapidly but didn’t run. He knew he’d find them again.

* * *

“Mommy? Who was that man? Who were those other men? Why were they following us? What did they want? Why did we run away?”

Yancy could only shake her head as she leaned against a mud-brick wall and fought to catch her breath. As she waited for her pounding heart to calm itself, her numbed brain struggled to absorb the reality that once again the assumption of Hunt Grainger’s demise had been premature.

She tried to figure out how that made her feel.

I don’t know how I feel!

There isn’t time to feel. Not now. I have to get Laila to safety. Someplace safe...

Dear God, where? I don’t even know where we are.

Laila was having no trouble finding breath for her usual stream of questions. Questions Yancy couldn’t answer, not then. How would she answer...ever?

Mommy, who was that man?

He’s your father, sweetie. The father that dropped you in my lap and disappeared from both our lives.

Who were those other men? What did they want?

I think they wanted to take you away from me...maybe kill me in order to do it.

Why?

Why? That’s a good question. How do I answer that? How do I make you understand ignorance and evil?

Yancy held up a hand to stem the flow of words, then reached out to pull her daughter close to her side while she cast intent looks in every direction. She could see no sign of pursuit or anyone that looked threatening, but the fear lingered. She could feel Laila’s body quivering as the child clutched her tightly and pressed her face against her side. She could feel her moist heat, smell terror and sweat, and for a moment rage clouded her vision.

Then, once again, she commanded herself to think.

I have to get us back to the hotel. She’ll be safe there.

Thank goodness she still had her purse, the strap looped snugly across her chest from one shoulder to the opposite hip. She dug in it frantically, located her cell phone and turned it on. While she waited for it to locate a signal, she looked around, hoping to find a street sign or, failing that, some sort of landmark that might help a taxi find their location.

“Look, Mom—donkey,” Laila said in a faint but hopeful voice.

Yancy watched the small dusty animal toiling up the rocky, rutted street—just a path, really—with a load of water jugs balanced on his scrawny back. A boy no more than eleven or twelve years old, dressed in baggy trousers and a T-shirt several sizes too big for him, trudged along beside the donkey and switched idly at its rump with a small stick. Several yards beyond the pair, a man plodded steadily uphill bearing a pole across his shoulders, a plastic water container suspended from each end. Several children ran by, their bare feet seemingly impervious to the rocky ground as they leaped nimbly across the ditch that ran down the middle of the street carrying sludge and raw sewage. And she realized she did know where they were, at least generally.

This was the old slummy part of Kabul, where mud-brick houses clung to the side of the mountain practically one on top of the other, most without electricity or running water. Where people lived in appalling poverty, and all the water needed for cooking and bathing had to be carried up from the community wells down below. Several years ago Yancy had done a feature on the conditions here. It was disheartening to see that nothing much had changed.

With unsteady fingers poised to punch in the number for her network’s Kabul bureau, she hesitated. Of course, they’d send someone to pick them up if she asked, even though she was on leave, not assignment, and hadn’t told anyone at the network of her travel plans. But if possible, she wanted to continue to fly under the radar, for so many reasons. This was a personal pilgrimage, for her and for Laila. Or it had been, until...

Until we were almost abducted in the middle of a Kabul bazaar, for who-knows-what reason.

Until a man I thought was dead stepped in to help us escape.

Or did I only imagine that part? Could he possibly be real?

But Laila had seen him, too.

“Mommy, I’m thirsty.” Laila was tugging at her skirt.

“I know, baby. I’m thirsty, too.” Shading her eyes with her free hand, she surveyed the jumble of houses and winding dirt paths through which they’d just come. Water would only be found at the bottom of the hill, as would paved streets and access to taxis. They couldn’t stay where they were, obviously, but what if their would-be abductors were down there, as well, looking for them?

Inspiration struck as she remembered the shopping bag with the things they’d bought at the bazaar, including the scarves she’d picked up as gifts for Miranda.

Jamming her cell phone back into her purse, she opened the bag and pulled out the two most brightly colored and beautifully patterned scarves, one in rose and gold, the other in blue and green. She pulled off the much more sedate and modest gray one she was wearing and draped the rose-and-gold one over her head and shoulders, arranging it so it covered her hair and half of her face. Ignoring the glances of passersby, she exchanged Laila’s white scarf for the prettier blue-and-green one, while Laila gazed at her with solemn eyes and said not a word, not even to ask a question.

Yancy straightened and took Laila’s hand, shifted her purse onto her hip and said, “Okay, sweetie, let’s go find some water, shall we?”

She wanted more than water. She wanted a huge glass of wine. Or maybe a slug of whiskey. She wanted to sink down with her back against the mud-brick wall and fall completely to pieces.

Not now. Not until Laila’s safe. I have to get her to safety. Somehow.

She started down the dusty street, holding her head high and putting as much confidence in her step as she could summon while her heart pounded and cold sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. They’d gone no more than twenty yards or so before a tall, imposing figure stepped out of a narrow, branching alleyway to block their path.

Chapter 3

“This way—I’ve got a car.” His voice low and terse. “They’re probably still looking for you.”

Yancy stood rock-still, conscious only of her burning eyes, pounding heart and the small moist hand in hers. She whispered, “Hunt?”

Deadpan, he said, “Yeah, Yankee, no ghost. It’s really me. Come on—hurry up.” He waited for them to slip past him into the narrow passageway, then followed, urging them to go faster, fast enough that Laila, with her shorter legs, had to trot to keep up.

Yancy’s Irish temper sparked to life and built to a slow simmer. Not the best timing for it, she realized, but it did help burn off the fog of shock. Before her anger could reach full boil, she halted, so abruptly Hunt had to sidestep nimbly to keep from bumping into her. She heard him swearing under his breath.

“What are you stopping for? Move, move.”

Yancy tightened her grip on her purse strap. “That’s not going to happen. Not another step. Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

From the shadows between his turban and beard, his eyes seemed to glow like those of a wild animal. “Can’t you just trust me?” She stared at him without answering. He hissed out a breath. “Dammit, Yancy, this isn’t the time. I’ll answer your questions when I’ve got you to safety.”

“Okay, sure, that’s fine.” Holding herself straight and firm, tall as she was, she still had to look up to meet his eyes. “Darn right you will. But there’s someone else here I’m sure has questions. Maybe they can’t wait. Did you even think about her? Did you stop to think you might be scaring her?”

She saw him hesitate, saw his gaze flick to Laila and something she couldn’t identify flash across his eyes, though his features remained impassive. He dropped to one knee, took Laila by the arms and turned her to face him in a way she’d seen him do once before.

In a gentle voice she’d also heard him use once before, he said, “Hey, do you remember me?” Laila stared stoically back at him, rigid as a post. “Do you know who I am?”

Moments passed, filled with heartbeats and silence. Yancy held her breath until it hardened in her chest. Then Laila whispered a single word, in Pashto. “Akaa...”

There was a soft hiss of breath. He threw an unreadable glance at Yancy before turning his attention back to Laila. “That’s right. Akaa Hunt, remember? I need you to come with me now—will you do that?”

He reached for her hand, but she shrank back against Yancy, shaking her head, whimpering, “No...no...”

Hunt drew back and draped the rejected hand across a drawn-up knee. His voice was, if possible, even more gentle. “No? Why not?”

Yancy put her hand on Laila’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She nearly choked on the words. “It’s okay, baby. He’s...our friend.”

Laila turned swimming golden eyes toward Yancy and asked in a small voice, “Is he going to take me away, Mommy?” A tear made its way slowly down her cheek. “I don’t want to leave you. Please don’t make me go.”

Again, pain sliced through Hunt’s chest. He had to look away and his hand clenched into a fist while Yancy gathered his daughter close and murmured reassurances.

My daughter.

But I deserved that, I suppose.

Not that knowing it lessened the weight in the pit of his stomach to any noticeable degree.

He stood up and briefly laid his hand on Laila’s scarf-draped head. “I’m not taking you away from your mom. You’re both coming with me. Right...Mom?” He braced himself and met Yancy’s eyes, prepared for the blazing anger he saw there, knowing he deserved that, too.

No apologies, Yankee. I did what was necessary. Couldn’t be helped.

Laila looked to Yancy for confirmation, back at Hunt with her chin at a particular tilt, one he remembered well. “Okay, I’ll go,” she announced. “But I’m very tired of walking. My feet are tired. And I’m thirsty.”

“No problem,” Hunt said with a shrug. “I can carry you.”

She bristled, as he’d known she would, and her chin rose up another notch. “Don’t be silly. I’m way too big to carry. I’m eight years old. I’m not a baby.”

Yancy automatically murmured, “Laila...”

Hunt spoke over her. “You’re right—you’re not. So, we’d better get a move on, okay? It’s not much farther. Sooner we get going, the sooner we’ll be there.”

“My mom said we were going to have ice cream. Do you have ice cream?”

He glanced at Yancy, who shrugged and looked away, hiding her expression behind a swath of scarf. He gave the kid—his kid—a sideways look. “I imagine that could be arranged.”

“Pistachio?”

Pistachio? He and Yancy exchanged another look. His said, What the hell?

Hers, along with another shrug, said, Don’t look at me. She’s got your DNA.

He snorted and gave Laila his best glare. “How ’bout we save the negotiations for later? Right now, we’re gonna play Follow The Leader, and I’m the leader—you got that?”

After a moment, she nodded, though he could tell from the gleam in her eyes she wasn’t all that impressed with his claim to authority. Growling under his breath, he turned and led the way down the curving alley, trusting Yancy to bring the girl and keep up with him.

Mommy. My mom said...

It played over and over in his head. He was having trouble wrapping his head around that. Not the fact of it—he’d known about the adoption, of course. Maybe hearing her say the words... No—it was the way he felt when he heard her say the words. That was what he couldn’t reconcile himself with.

Hunt Grainger—the Hunt Grainger he’d made himself into—couldn’t afford the luxury of feeling. For so many years—he’d lost track of how many—he’d put away any feelings that threatened to get in his way, put them in a safe he’d long since lost the combination to. He’d had a job to do, a job with lives at stake. Sometimes more than just lives. Sometimes the future of nations depended on his staying focused, going into impossible situations and getting the job done. Not only would feelings get in the way of him getting the job done, but they could be downright dangerous.

* * *

“No apologies. I do what I have to do.”

I remember saying those words the night I finally went to her Quonset.

To tell you the truth, I don’t know what drove me to knock on her door. It was a couple of weeks after my team pulled hers out of a firefight, the day she’d invited me to drop by and tell my story. Like the last time, we’d come in off a mission, only this one hadn’t gone the way we’d planned. We hadn’t lost anyone on the team, but there’d been civilian casualties. Children. Women. I had no intention of telling anybody about any of that, but I was carrying pictures in my head that weren’t going to be erased by a sub sandwich, even if it was accompanied by a cold beer. Or several. Maybe I thought the company of a beautiful redheaded woman would do something to make me forget the image of a little girl clinging to her dead mother and crying, “Ammi, Ammi...” over and over.

But that wasn’t the first time I’d had to deal with such things, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. So maybe what I was really looking for was an excuse to do what I’d been wanting to do all along.

* * *

Watching Hunt Grainger face off with his own daughter did a lot to restore Yancy’s spirits. Oh, she was still half in shock, still angry, for so many reasons, and she still had more questions than she could put in coherent form, even though asking questions was how she made her living. But he was right—those were for another time. At the moment she was finding a certain measure of satisfaction in the look of utter helplessness she’d seen on Hunt’s face when he was haggling with Laila. Who would have guessed the man she still thought of as more superhero than man, more machine than human, could be brought to earth by an eight-year-old girl?

But she’d seen that look of utter bewilderment on his face before. Only once. And it was probably what had made her sleep with him. At least the first time...

* * *

It’s still sharp and clear in my memory, even after so long. I’m in my quarters, working on the copy for next day’s report. I’ve always written my own. It’s one of my trademarks as a correspondent. I don’t know if he knocked; if he did I was deep into the work and didn’t hear it. Then he is simply there, standing inside the door, standing straight and tall, almost at attention.

“Well, hello, soldier,” I say as I hit Save on my laptop and close it.

He says, “My name’s Hunt.” My heart begins to beat faster, and I fight to maintain my poise.

“Does this mean you’ve decided to talk to me?” I ask with professional calm, holding on to a smile as he saunters toward me. He frowns and shakes his head. “Then why,” I say, “are you here?”

“Damned if I know,” he replies, and the look on his face makes me catch my breath. For the first and the only time, I see pain there, and sadness, and confusion. I don’t know what to make of it.

Later I thought I’d mistaken the look completely; it seemed so out of character for him and never came again.

“Can...I help you?” I ask him, my smile faltering as he comes closer...so close. Though I’m not afraid, and I don’t know why.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe.”

He touches me then, one hand on the side of my face...my neck. His eyes are like fire. I feel them burning me as he lowers his face closer to mine, and I hold my breath but don’t move away.

Closer...closer, his mouth comes to mine, almost but not quite touching, hovering there, giving me time to stop what’s coming. My held breath fills my chest and throat, almost choking me. My heartbeat rocks me. His breath on my lips is like a powerful drug, clouding my brain. I put my hand up to his where it lies against my cheek, but not to pull it away.

When his lips touch mine at last, it’s as if a torch has been laid to dry tinder. There is no stopping it. And no going back.

* * *

The alley they were following opened onto a wider dirt street, this one crowded and noisy with pedestrians, mostly men, some pushing handcarts or leading donkeys. There were bicycles maneuvering through the crowd, and several cars were parked alongside the street, huddling as close as they could to the mud-brick buildings.

Hunt motioned for Yancy and Laila to stay back while he stepped into the street. Yancy watched as he surveyed it for several minutes in both directions, eyes touching on every pedestrian, every vehicle, every detail with the intensity of a trained sniper. Apparently satisfied nothing there represented any immediate danger to them, he gestured for Yancy and Laila to join him.

As she followed Hunt through the throngs of people, Yancy kept her head bowed, clutched her scarf beneath her chin and held tightly to her daughter’s hand. She couldn’t help but think how they must appear: Afghan man with his wife and child meekly following behind. The thought made her vaguely queasy.

They hadn’t gone far—Laila hadn’t begun complaining again about her tired feet—when Hunt paused beside a dusty Mercedes of indeterminate color and vintage. He produced a set of keys from the folds of his tunic, unlocked the car and opened the back door.

“Get in and keep down,” he said tersely. “Don’t get up until I tell you.”

Yancy had never been good at taking orders, but because she was mindful of Laila’s own contrary nature, and in the interests of leading by example, she chose to do as Hunt told her. She stayed down, hunched over Laila to keep her from popping up to look, as well, while he got in the front, started the motor and inched the car into the flow of traffic. But as soon as the smoothness of the road and the change of traffic noise from pedestrian to vehicular told her they were on a busy city street, she sat up and looked around. After a moment, she said, “Where are we going?”

Hunt snorted. His eagle’s glare met hers in the rearview mirror. “Thought I told you to stay down.”

“This isn’t the way to our hotel,” Yancy pointed out, ignoring that. “Where are you taking us?”

Lashes shuttered his gaze as he shifted it back to the street ahead. “To my place.”

Yancy considered that for a moment, while her heartbeat ticked a notch faster. She glanced at Laila, who had apparently tuned them out and was peering through the window with avid interest. She hitched herself forward and leaned her arms on the back of the front seat. “Is this a rescue,” she inquired in a low voice, but with a light, almost musical tone, “or another abduction?”

Although her view of the side of his face was mostly beard, she noted the subtle change in its shape and caught the flash of teeth as he smiled. His eyes clashed briefly with hers in the mirror. “I’m taking you someplace I know she’ll be safe.”

Safe.

Laila knew she wasn’t supposed to be listening, but she heard that word and knew they were talking about her, about wanting her to be safe, which was really funny because she didn’t feel safe at all right now. She felt jumbled and mixed up and kind of scared, maybe a little bit happy—the part about Akaa Hunt being here—but mostly she wanted to close her eyes and ears and make the dreams go away.

At least, she’d always thought they were dreams.

I used to have them a lot, when I was little and first came to live with my new mom. I dreamed about being in a cave in the dark with a big dog who kept me warm and safe from the demons who screamed and wailed outside, and then Akaa Hunt was there, reaching for me, and I thought at first he was a demon, too, but then he wrapped me in his coat and held me close to him, and I felt safe again, with him.

But then Akaa Hunt told me in a hard voice that Ammi—my first mother—was gone and he was taking me to someone who would keep me safe, and we traveled through the dark and the cold, and somewhere along the journey Akaa Hunt left me and went away.

She used to cry after she dreamed those dreams, when she was little.

Then Yancy became her new mom, and she felt happy and safe and didn’t have the dreams anymore.

Now, seeing Akaa Hunt again, she remembered the dreams and they seemed much more real than before. But she wasn’t little now. She was eight years old and she was too old to cry. Crying was for babies.

Laila pressed her lips together and clutched the car windowsill as she stared blindly through the glass and tried not to listen as Mom and Akaa Hunt went on talking.

“Wouldn’t we be safer at the hotel?”

Hunt’s eyebrows lifted into the shadow of his turban. “Think so? How did they know where to find you?” He paused. “Who knew you were going to the bazaar today? Who did you tell?”

“Nobody,” she stated with certainty, then felt herself go cold. With growing realization she added in a whisper, “The hotel concierge. The doorman...the cabdriver...”

Hunt was nodding. “I know, because I heard you. So could anybody else who might have been in the immediate vicinity.”

“You...were there? But how did you—”

Once again his beard telegraphed his smile, and his eyes denied it. “Let’s just say I have an interest in your comings and goings.” His voice hardened and so did his eyes. “Evidently, so does someone else.”

Yancy sat in stony silence while her heart raced and her mind whirled. She was both furious and frightened, so full of questions she felt she might explode, but acutely aware of all the reasons she couldn’t ask them. Not yet.

There was Laila, of course, whose hearing was keen and her mind busy even when she appeared to have her attention focused elsewhere.

But also, there was Hunt, who never answered questions. She thought of all the times...all the questions he’d never let her ask...

“Where have you—” I would always begin.

And his mouth would come down on mine, hard and hungry, his beard stubble rough on my face and his skin smelling of gunpowder, smoke and dust, shutting off the rest.

And I would close my eyes and my mind, letting it be enough that it was to me he came to forget, that it was my clean, female body he turned to, to erase the horrors he’d seen. The ugly things he’d done.

She eased slowly back in her seat, shaken by the sure and certain knowledge that this time was going to be different. It had to be. Too much had changed. This time she was going to ask the questions, and this time she would not be denied the answers.

She stared through the dusty windows, and as her emotions settled and her gaze focused, once again she realized she knew approximately where they were. This was another part of Old Town Kabul, only a few kilometers but worlds apart from both the poor section they’d just left and the bustling and modern downtown.