Navy Seal Rescue

“I am someone who belongs here.”

“What?”

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

“How old is he?”

“Eleven,” she lied. He was thirteen.

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

She bowed her head. “Please forgive me.”

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

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

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

“Someone who belongs here?” she repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Water,” he snarled.

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

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

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

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

He grunted, but didn’t move.

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

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

“Chai.”

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

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

“Who are you?”

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

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

“What is your name, sir?”

“Hud.”

“Hud?”

“Hudson. William.”

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

“Why did you rescue me?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

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

“Please. Finish your tea.”

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

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Better. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You look familiar.”

“We haven’t met.”

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

“Yes.”

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

“In a safe place.”

“In Iraq?”

“Telskuf.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want a gun.”

“What?”

“I can’t stand guard without a gun.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Be calm,” she said. “It is Layah.”

He stared at her blearily. “Layah?”

“I’m taking care of you.”

“I should bathe, before we...”

“Hush.”

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

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

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

He groaned in protest.

“You are strong. Stay still.”

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

“Yes.”

“Why are you here?”

“In Iraq? I was born here.”

“In Telskuf.”

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

“Why?”

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

“I’m not a pilot.”

“We go on foot.”

“That’s...impossible.”

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

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

So she wasn’t giving him a choice.

Chapter 3

Hud woke with a mild headache and a queasy stomach.

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

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

Shut up or we die.

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

“Layah,” he said. He remembered her.

“She is not here.”

“Who are you?”

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

“I am Ashur,” the boy said.

“I’m Petty Officer William Hudson.”

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

Hud studied the blade warily. He didn’t know who these people were or what they intended to do with him. They could be allies. They could be opportunists. Ashur reeked of antagonism, but that didn’t mean anything. Some Iraqis hated Americans as much as they hated the terrorist invaders. There was a lot of 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.