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Navy Seal Rescue
Susan Cliff
Bound by more than desire…Sexy SEAL William Hudson will accept any help escaping enemy captivity…even if that comes from a beautiful Dr. Layah Anwar, who's willing to do anything to get her family to safety. Though neither Layah nor Hud trust easily, they must join forces on a harrowing journey across the mountains. Their survival is threatened by the brutal elements, enemy snipers…and the devastating desire they can’t deny.


Bound by more than desire...
A gripping Team Twelve romantic thriller
Sexy SEAL William Hudson will accept any help escaping enemy captivity...even if that comes from beautiful Dr. Layah Anwar, who’s willing to do anything to get her family to safety. Though neither Layah nor Hud trust easily, they must join forces on a harrowing journey across the mountains. Their survival is threatened by the brutal elements, enemy snipers...and the devastating desire they can’t deny.
SUSAN CLIFF is the pen name of a longtime romance reader and professional writer from Southern California. She loves survival stories and sexy romance, so she decided to write both! Her Team Twelve series features men to die for—hot navy SEALs who live on the edge and fall hard for their heroines. Visit her at susancliff.com (http://www.susancliff.com).
Also By Susan Cliff (#ue6233316-4ff8-5fc2-ae34-b69dd76aedad)
Team Twelve
Stranded with the Navy SEAL
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Navy SEAL Rescue
Susan Cliff


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07882-5
NAVY SEAL RESCUE
© 2018 Susan Cliff
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
“Why did he want us to get married?” Hud asked.
“Yelda told him we were sleeping together,” Layah said.
“Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know. She thinks we are destined to marry.”
His eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“I did not encourage her,” she said, placing a palm on her chest.
“Right. You’d never force anyone to do anything against their will.”
“I have no interest—”
“No interest? Really?”
“Not in marriage.”
“You don’t strike me as the casual-affair type.”
She lifted her chin. “I feel desire, like any woman. I remember the pleasures of the bedroom. That does not mean I wish for a reluctant husband.”
He didn’t argue, so she continued walking. They seemed to have reached an understanding. She didn’t want to say too much.
Admitting her desire for him wasn’t a problem; he already knew.
Dear Reader, (#ue6233316-4ff8-5fc2-ae34-b69dd76aedad)
While I was writing Stranded with the Navy SEAL, the first in the Team Twelve series, I became interested in a side character. The hero’s friend and comrade, William Hudson, seemed like a perfect candidate for a thrilling romance. The only problem? He was dead.
Believed dead. He’d entered a building that exploded. No remains were recovered.
In Navy SEAL Rescue, Hud has survived the blast, against all odds, and been captured by the enemy. He’s the first navy SEAL captive in the history of the organization, because SEALs never surrender. I learned that on Wikipedia. In addition to being a captive, and an elite soldier, Hud is an expert mountain climber. The heroine, Dr. Layah Anwar, desperately needs someone with his skill set. She helps him escape and their adventure begins.
Both Hud and Layah are resilient people who’ve endured personal hardships. He’s divorced. She’s a widow. Neither character wants to risk their heart again, especially when their lives are at stake. So of course they fall in love.
I hope you enjoy their story.
Susan Cliff
Contents
Cover (#u11c72557-9df3-5f06-8e6e-623383152f4b)
Back Cover Text (#u5a57f8b6-8812-50a0-9006-80d722b1d5ac)
About the Author (#u2554da75-cf2c-5579-984c-55d0f91b059d)
Booklist (#ua5f4fb81-1262-5681-964d-380bc658278c)
Title Page (#u971b96e4-311e-5c40-b02b-f92a8d33d0f8)
Copyright (#u0163c6a4-b505-542b-8dc0-8aa48df72db3)
Introduction (#u5599c148-0aba-53e2-9e23-904aa054884b)
Dear Reader (#u4eab5bac-5b20-575e-91fd-eecfdc0575b8)
Chapter 1 (#ud372b964-385a-5d33-9603-8c0c4a50f645)
Chapter 2 (#u7ac7b5f4-ae0e-5e70-81a9-582c79c42153)
Chapter 3 (#u5d47a0d5-f737-57a0-adcf-b32abeb4adda)
Chapter 4 (#uc71af210-c7bd-59f5-9254-25949b7b8e50)
Chapter 5 (#u69f44e6a-1059-5192-b27e-2aba497e8d40)
Chapter 6 (#u4965a356-3964-5eb2-9430-90580ed8652e)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ue6233316-4ff8-5fc2-ae34-b69dd76aedad)
Telskuf, Iraq
Hud was in hell.
He’d woken up here two months ago, buck naked and half-dead, caked in a mixture of blood and dust.
This particular corner of hell was an underground spider-hole with four walls, a solid dirt floor and no light. The only exit was an impenetrable metal door. It had a slot wide enough to push a tray through. He ate whatever they served with his bare hands. On good days, the gruel had bits of meat and gristle. On bad days, he went hungry.
Each week he was given a gallon of drinking water and an empty bucket. He’d learned to ration his water or suffer the consequences. He hadn’t bathed since his arrival, unless he counted that extended waterboarding session with his new terrorist friends. One afternoon of this method had almost broken him, despite his extensive Navy SEAL training, but they hadn’t continued. They must have decided it was a waste of water. Either that or they thought he’d die before he coughed up any useful information.
In addition to waterboarding, he’d been treated to periods of sleep deprivation, electroshock therapy and regular beatings.
He almost missed the beatings; they’d made him feel alive. He craved human contact, even in the form of fists. He preferred blood to dust. Blood was pain, hot and bright. Dust was oblivion. It was the dark nothingness that smothered him. It rained down on his head from the cracked ceiling like a slow burial.
Sometimes he closed his eyes and pretended he was back in Iowa, in the storm cellar on his grandparents’ farm. He hadn’t wanted to be cooped up underground, protected from the elements. He’d never been afraid of thunder and lightning. He’d wanted to chase tornadoes and climb mountains and touch the sky.
There weren’t any mountains in his hometown, so he’d climbed every tree. He’d climbed the water tower and the soybean mill and the bridge across the river. He’d broken both arms one summer. His mother had been at her wit’s end. She’d told him he was just like his father, a volatile race car driver with a taste for hard alcohol and low-class women.
Hud hadn’t minded the comparison back then. He’d wanted to be fast and tough. Low-class women sounded pretty fun, too.
Until he met Michelle.
Thinking about her was a different kind of torture, twisting his gut into knots. She’d been a tempest, with her stormy moods and wild ways. Now she was another man’s problem. Hud didn’t envy the son of a bitch. He didn’t envy the happy-family photos on Facebook, or the fact that Michelle looked better than ever.
Nope. Not at all.
What was there to envy? He was in a dusty tomb in Iraq, waiting to die, while those two cuddled up in a cozy apartment with the baby he’d thought was his. They were probably ordering takeout right now, and watching movies in bed.
Bo-ring.
He was so over her.
He was over this rat-hole bunker, too. The accommodations here left a lot to be desired. There was a gallon of water in one corner, a piss bucket in another. He had no blanket or sleeping mat. No clothes, other than a ragged pair of pants. No companions.
The isolation and monotony was a torture in itself.
It was the only torture, lately. He hadn’t been dragged out of his cell in weeks. The first month they’d been more attentive. They’d kept him awake with loud voices and blaring alarms. They’d tried to wear him down with frequent beatings and hours of interrogations. He’d responded with the same rote answers, so they’d strapped him to a chair and started the electroshocks. That phase had been unpleasant, but it also rendered him unconscious, which wasn’t the best way to make him talk.
He knew what would happen if he talked. He was a Navy SEAL from Team Twelve. His men were infamous for taking out enemy leaders in the dead of night. They’d killed three of the Islamic Front’s top leaders in recent raids. Public beheading, after being dragged naked behind a vehicle, was how this story ended.
It might end that way even if he didn’t talk, but he tried to stay positive. He had to wait for an opportunity to escape. He wouldn’t give up. SEALs didn’t quit.
They also didn’t get captured—because they never surrendered. Hud was the first team member to be taken alive in the history of the elite military organization, and he wasn’t proud of that distinction. He’d ruined a perfect record. Although he’d been unconscious when he’d fallen into enemy hands, it was still his fault. He’d been too eager to reach the target. His comm wasn’t working, and his teammates had been delayed. He’d moved in anyway, assuming they were seconds behind him. They weren’t.
Inside the compound was enough ordnance to blow up the entire block, and a fleeing terrorist with a remote trigger. Hud had chased the man into an escape tunnel. There was a huge explosion, and everything went black.
If any other SEAL had entered the building, they were dead now, and he was responsible.
The possibility haunted him. He’d started to torture himself with dark thoughts. He had too many deaths on his hands. Too much time spent in Iraq. Too much blood spilled into dust. The solitude was driving him crazy. He’d worn a path in his cell from pacing. He practiced martial arts for hours, which calmed his mind and boosted his morale. He did constant reps of low-impact strength exercises. He couldn’t afford to sweat out his electrolytes with cardio, but he was still in good shape. He was lean and hard and ready to fight.
He just needed an opportunity.
Unfortunately, he had very little contact with the men outside. They came for him with Kalashnikovs and alert eyes. There was always an armed guard, even when they delivered water. He’d played sick once, lying facedown in the dirt for several meal cycles. No one bothered to check on him. It had been so long since his last interrogation, he suspected the terrorists had left him here to rot.
He had to get out now, before he was executed or became too weak to run. Because escaping this cell was just the first challenge. He also had to reach a base or safe zone. His team had been air-dropped into this place, a small town north of Mosul. It was a contested area between Iraqi Kurdistan and IF strongholds. The Islamic Front, known as “Da’esh” by the locals, was an extremist group that had been rapidly gaining territory. US forces had been working with local allies to push back against them, with mixed results. It was what the brass called a “liquid situation.” Grunts like him called it something less polite.
Today was water day—he hoped. When the guards opened the door with a fresh gallon, he was going to fake a seizure and create some chaos. He believed in making his own opportunities.
He crouched in the shadows, conserving his energy. No one came with a gallon of water. He was about to give up and go to sleep when an explosion tore through the space above him. The impact knocked him off his feet. Dust rained down in a choking cloud and the ground shook beneath him.
Hud brushed off the dirt and scrambled upright, his pulse racing. Had his team arrived to rescue him? He waited for all hell to break loose, but it didn’t. There was no gunfire, no secondary artillery. He didn’t hear any voices.
He rushed to the door, which was still intact, and banged on the iron surface with his fist. “Hey! Down here!”
No one answered, but he kept shouting until someone arrived. Hud couldn’t see who it was because the slot was closed. The only sound was the clink of metal as a couple different keys were tried. An ally would have announced his presence, so this wasn’t a good sign. Hud swallowed hard, uncertain if the man on the other side was a friend or foe. After a tense moment, the door opened.
Hud gaped at his liberator in surprise. It wasn’t a man at all. It was a boy. An Iraqi boy like any other, dressed in dusty Western clothes.
He stared back at Hud with a defiant expression. There was nothing friendly about him. He was about twelve, and brimming with antagonism. Maybe he’d come to loot the building, or to spill more blood in the name of jihad. Hud had seen younger boys with suicide bombs, so he couldn’t dismiss this one as a threat.
He hardened his heart and braced himself for violence. He didn’t want to hurt a kid, but he would. He’d do anything to get out of here alive. He’d worry about the emotional toll when this ordeal was over.
The boy narrowed his eyes at Hud’s fighting stance. Then he said something in Arabic and motioned for Hud to come with him. After a short hesitation, Hud went. Why not? He’d have gone through the door with the devil at this point.
They crept up a narrow stairwell before entering the main floor. Hud’s eyes were sensitive to light, so the dusty haze almost blinded him. It was a mess of broken tiles and bricks, but most of the damage was limited to one wall. The explosive device appeared to have been deployed to gain entry, not to cause widespread destruction. There was a man in the corner that Hud recognized as a guard. He was dead or unconscious.
Hud squinted at the mayhem, eyes burning. The boy strode through the rubble with a reckless swagger. In the next instant, a second guard burst into the room holding a rifle. He took aim at the kid, who wasn’t even armed. Hud didn’t hesitate. He dived toward the guard and tackled him around the waist. Bullets peppered the ceiling as they rolled across the ground together. Plaster rained down on them and sharp bits of tile sliced into Hud’s back. He ignored the pain, trying to gain control of the weapon. The guard didn’t relent, so Hud climbed on top of him and held the rifle across his throat. He applied brutal pressure until the man’s grip loosened. Then he yanked the weapon away and shoved the muzzle under his chin. He squeezed the trigger. The result wasn’t pretty.
Hud leaped to his feet, brushing off shards of broken tile and bits of gore. He’d seen worse. The boy didn’t seem fazed, either. He nodded his approval. Then he gestured toward the hole in the wall.
Hud followed him into the harsh sunlight. Two armed men came out of the shadows. They started arguing with the boy in a language Hud couldn’t identify. They might have been Kurds. Or Turks. There were a lot of different ethnic groups in the area. It didn’t matter to Hud. Whoever they were, he was going with them.
He stumbled forward on unsteady legs. He had cuts on his feet and blood dripping down his back. He was weak with hunger, shaking from dehydration. Maybe it was the stress of the situation, or the lack of proper nutrition, but he felt dizzy. When he careened sideways, the other men supported him. They dragged him across a cobblestone street and into a quiet alleyway, where a woman was waiting with a donkey cart.
She scolded the boy the same way the men did, adding a hard tug on his ear. The boy scowled and pulled away from her. Then she turned her attention to Hud, and a strange sensation hit him. It was like a red alert, or a premonition. This woman was important. She was central. He zeroed in on her as if they were the last two people on earth.
She was stunning, with intense dark eyes in an oval-shaped face. Her hair was covered with a simple blue hijab, her body draped in a shapeless robe. She had an elegant nose and finely arched brows. She looked like a desert princess in peasant garb.
Maybe any attractive female would have dazzled him into a stupor, after what he’d been through. This one was top-class, even swathed in fabric from head to toe. One glance at her brought him to his knees. She was that beautiful.
“This is him?” she said in accented English. She didn’t sound impressed.
His vision went dark at the edges. He swayed forward, tumbling into oblivion.
Chapter 2 (#ue6233316-4ff8-5fc2-ae34-b69dd76aedad)
The locals must have exaggerated.
Layah Anwar had heard stories about Navy SEALs. Wild tales about death and daring. SEALs were the Da’esh’s worst nightmare. They were mythical beasts that descended in the dark of night. They struck by sea, air or land, with an arsenal of weapons. They were rumored to have freakish strength. She’d pictured a genetic mutant in heavy chains. A thick-necked brute, hulking and indestructible.
This man wasn’t indestructible. He was unconscious.
To be fair, he’d been held captive for months. He’d been tortured and beaten and deprived of basic necessities. He was covered in dust and blood. He appeared adequately muscled. But he was just a man, like any other. She’d seen larger specimens among her own people.
“Are you sure this is him?” she asked Ashur again.
“It’s him. He has the tattoo.” Ashur pointed. There was a geometric shape of a mountain on the inside of the man’s forearm.
Layah helped her cousins lift the man off the ground. He was heavier than he looked. Even Ashur had to grab an arm. She’d made a place for him on the cart between straw bales. He groaned as his back hit the wooden platform. Beneath the dirt, his face was pale.
She hoped he wouldn’t die before she got any use out of him. She’d paid a high price for the explosives. They’d been planning this breakout for weeks.
“Go,” she said to her cousins. They raced into a nearby building to hide. She covered the man with a length of burlap and Ashur rearranged the straw bales to disguise his presence. Then she leaped into the driver’s seat and took the reins. Ashur climbed in beside her. Her hands shook as she urged the donkey forward.
The streets were empty—for now. Telskuf had been evacuated months ago, before the town had fallen. The only residents who’d stayed had done so at great risk, for Da’esh militants patrolled the roads with automatic rifles. Although the Iraqi Army had attempted to regain control, they’d abandoned the effort after a few days. There were other, more important cities to protect. More important people. The Assyrian community wasn’t a top priority in Iraq, or anywhere else.
Layah set aside her bitterness and focused on their escape. They had to reach the farm on the outskirts of town, where she could give the man medical attention. If he didn’t recover from his injuries, she’d have to find another guide.
She glanced at Ashur, who sat like a stone beside her. She couldn’t believe he’d defied her by rushing into the building. “You were supposed to stand watch.”
“Yusef was afraid to go in.”
“So he sent you?”
Ashur didn’t answer. She knew he hadn’t waited for permission. He’d just acted in his usual fashion, with recklessness and impatience.
“I heard gunfire.”
“The American shot a guard in the head.”
Layah’s chest tightened with unease. Ashur had seen too much violence in his short life. He was becoming inured to it. Or worse, infatuated. He had a glint in his eye that suggested he’d enjoyed the excitement.
She wished she could shield her nephew from the most devastating effects of war. Instead, she’d recruited him as a spy. She hadn’t expected any bloodshed on this mission, but the possibility always loomed. Maybe the narcotics they’d given the guards hadn’t worked. Ashur had delivered the spiked tea this morning, after the usual errand boy had been delayed by her cousins.
“Did he recognize you?” she asked.
“I don’t think so.”
Ashur had met several Navy SEALs in Syria two years ago. His father, Layah’s brother, had worked for them as an interpreter. Ashur remembered a SEAL with a tattoo on his forearm, blue and green lines in a distinctive mountain shape. Last month, Layah had learned that the Da’esh’s new captive bore this tattoo.
He was exactly what she needed for the journey north. As long as he lived.
She led the donkey down cobblestone alleyways and dusty side streets. When the cart went over a bump, their passenger groaned in protest.
“Water,” he said in a hoarse voice.
She was glad he was awake, but she couldn’t give him water. “Tell him to be quiet.”
Ashur leaned toward the injured man. “No water for you,” he said in stilted English. “Now shut up or we die.”
Layah frowned at his harsh words. “Speak with care, nephew. We need his help.”
Ashur shrugged, unconcerned. He’d gotten his point across. The man fell silent. Perhaps he’d passed out again.
She focused on the road, holding the reins in a sweaty grip. It was a pleasant spring day, sunny and cool. No storm clouds loomed on the horizon. They were almost out of danger. She set her sights on the archway at the south end of town.
“Halt!” a voice shouted in Arabic.
The native language of Telskuf was Assyrian, so she knew the speaker wasn’t local. He was a Da’esh invader.
Layah pulled up on the reins and reached underneath the wooden seat for the tar she’d hidden there. She stuck it over her front teeth. Then she grabbed a pair of dusty spectacles from her pocket. The thick lenses distorted her vision. When the Da’esh militants reached her, they found a homely creature.
“What are you doing?” one of the men demanded.
“Delivering a load of straw,” she said. “My husband is too ill to accompany me, and my brother just died from the same sickness—” She broke off, hacking until she wheezed. “I hope it’s not contagious.”
The man retreated a step, his lip curled. “Who are you?” he barked at Ashur.
“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 (#ue6233316-4ff8-5fc2-ae34-b69dd76aedad)
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.
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.
Chapter 4 (#ue6233316-4ff8-5fc2-ae34-b69dd76aedad)
Layah drummed her fingertips against her forearms as she waited for Hudson to return from his shower.
Her captive continued to surprise her. She’d expected more resistance. Navy SEALs were elite soldiers, but they were still soldiers. They followed orders from the higher ranks. She’d been prepared for him to cite United Nations regulations and demand transport to a US air base. Hudson hadn’t done any of those things. He hadn’t even turned her down.
She didn’t trust him to cooperate, no matter what he said. He might be waiting for his wounds to heal before he attempted an escape. But if he left, he wouldn’t get far. This village was sparsely populated, and the Yazidi guarded their land with rifles. They were more likely to shoot him than help him flee.
Hudson seemed to be playing along with her for now. Maybe he wanted money in exchange for his services. Maybe he wanted something else. He looked at her with desire in his eyes, the way men often did.
His interest wasn’t unusual, but her reaction to it was. Her pulse raced in his presence. She felt nervous and short of breath, like a schoolgirl with a crush. She wasn’t sure how to catalog her response. She hadn’t been drawn to a man since Khalil. Her physical needs had been buried with her husband, along with her broken heart.
Layah didn’t believe Hudson had resurrected her feminine longing. She was excited by the situation, not his searing gaze and hard-muscled body. He’d killed a guard yesterday. She’d rescued him from certain death. She wanted him to like her, and she had to keep him close. It was only natural to feel nervous around him. She’d been numb for so long that she’d mistaken an adrenaline rush for attraction.
Yes. That was it. Adrenaline.
She had to stay focused on her plan. Hudson was a means to an end, nothing more. She couldn’t afford to get distracted.
He emerged from the outdoor shower in the clothes Ashur had given him. The items were borrowed from one of her male cousins, and they fit well enough. Hudson was tall and broad-shouldered, rangy like Khalil had been. About the same age. Her husband would have turned thirty this year, had he lived. Her chest tightened at the thought.
There was a large open sink next to the shower hut for washing hands, dishes and everything else. Ashur provided Hudson with a new toothbrush, still in the wrapper. Toiletries were prized items in this remote area, but she’d splurged on a few luxuries for her captive. He’d been beaten and tortured by the Da’esh. Under her care, he’d be treated well.
When he was finished, Ashur escorted him back to his room. She gathered her maps and notebook, along with her medical bag, before venturing that direction. Ashur was carrying an empty tray down the hall.
“He eats like a pig,” Ashur said in Assyrian. “It will cost a fortune just to feed him.”
“He’s worth it.”
“That’s what you said about those thieving Turks.”
She shooed him away in annoyance. Ashur thought he knew everything, and was quite happy to argue with her about any choice she made. From the start he’d insisted that they didn’t need a guide, especially a foreigner.
She paused in the doorway. Hudson sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap. His trousers molded to his long legs and the polo shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. She found no fault with his appearance. He looked good. His hair was a honey-brown shade, like his eyes, and his skin had the same warm tone.
He was handsome. Striking, even.
She entered the room and placed her things on the table. “How do you feel?” she asked, aiming for a polite, professional tone.
“Almost human.”
“Any pain from your suture site?”
“Not really.”
“Can I take a look?”
He twisted at the waist to give her access. She sat down beside him and lifted the hem of his shirt halfway up his back. The bandage was still clean and intact, so she left it alone. The bruises on his side had darkened to an angry purple in some places. When she touched him there, he sucked in a ragged breath.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
She palpated his ribs gently. “Were you kicked?”
His expression was flat. “I can’t remember.”
She didn’t believe him. Perhaps he’d learned to give no information, even when pushed to the limit. She was barely pressing him. She didn’t feel any broken ribs, just warm flesh over hard muscles. She tugged his shirt down, trying not to imagine the horrors he’d endured. “I have painkillers.”
“I don’t need them.”
Her gaze rose to his. He’d shifted toward her when she finished her exam. Now they were side by side, and too close for comfort. She could smell the soap he’d used, which conjured an erotic image of water flowing down his naked body.
She suppressed the urge to inhale deeper. “Do you need...anything else?”
His eyes darkened at the question, dropping to her lips. It wasn’t difficult to guess what he was thinking. She’d been a wife for long enough to know what men liked. What they craved, what comforted them.
“I wouldn’t mind a haircut,” he said.
“What?”
He let out a choked laugh and lifted a hand to his head. He made scissors with his fingers. “A haircut, you know. Snip snip?”
“Oh. Yes. I will get Ashur.”
“No, not him.”
“No?”
“I don’t want him near me with sharp objects.”
Her stomach fluttered with unease. “What has he done?”
“Nothing much. He’s okay. I just prefer you.”
“I apologize for Ashur. He is a difficult boy.”
“Is he your son?”
She rose to her feet abruptly. Anguish speared through her. “He is my brother’s son.”
Hudson gave her an assessing look, but didn’t ask more questions.
She busied herself by searching through her medical bag for a pair of utility scissors. “I will cut your hair.” She gestured to the only chair in the room, a simple wooden stool by the table. “Come sit.”
He sat down and stared out the window. A villager was leading his herd down the rocky hillside in the distance. She liked the deserts and the valleys of her homeland, but there was something tranquil about this mountain backdrop. She turned her attention to Hudson’s hair. “How short?”
“I don’t care.”
She did her best to cut sparingly, in even amounts. There were matted tangles and singed ends, as if he’d been burned. She tried to remove the damage without leaving any bald spots. When she was finished, she set aside the scissors and touched his newly shorn head. His hair looked choppy, but felt nice. She murmured in approval, running her fingers through it.
He made a grunting sound of pleasure.
She glanced down and realized he was staring at her breasts, which were about an inch from his face. She’d been so intent on her task that she’d forgotten to keep a polite distance. She hadn’t meant for this mundane act to become so intimate. The air between them turned electric, charged with sexual energy. He was leaning into her hands, like a cat that wanted more petting. She froze, her fingers still threaded in his hair.
He glanced up at her, his jaw tense.
“Sorry,” she said, releasing him. Before she could step back, he slipped his arm around her waist.
“Are you?”
She was startled by his sudden movement. His expression revealed hunger, not anger, but she had to be careful with him. His injuries hadn’t made him weak or slow. If he wanted to overpower her, he could.
“Are you sorry for touching me? For getting too close? Or for holding me against my will?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “I’m not.”
He arched a brow at this claim. When she tried to twist away, he pulled her closer. She braced her palms on his biceps, her pulse racing. Maybe he could sense her excitement, as well as her deception. Because she liked his arm around her, strong and immobile. She liked his taut face and hard body. She could lie to him, but she couldn’t lie to herself.
He lifted one hand to her face. “Let’s make a deal.”
Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird in her chest. He didn’t want to help her. He wanted to regain control of the situation by any means necessary. Although she might enjoy his methods, she couldn’t let him manipulate her.
“I take you across the mountains, and you take me however I like.”
“I rescued you,” she choked. “You owe me.”
“This isn’t a rescue. It’s forced labor.”
“We help each other. It is fair.”
“No. If you want my services, you have to buy them.”
“I can’t pay you.”
He brushed his thumb over her trembling lips. “Sure you can.”
Arousal coursed through her, unabated. Her body didn’t care about his motives. It longed for a respite from grief and pain. One sensual interlude, to make her forget her troubles.
“You’re not free until I am,” he said in a low voice. “You can walk away from my deal as soon as I can walk away from yours.”
She couldn’t acquiesce to his demands, no matter how tempted she was. She couldn’t allow him to gain the upper hand. He seemed excited about turning the tables on her and giving her orders. A flash of intuition told her he wanted freedom, not sex.
“Fine,” she said, feigning defeat. “Take me.”
His gaze darkened. “What?”
“Do your worst.”
“My worst is the best you’ve ever had, guaranteed.”
A thrill shivered down her spine at his boast, but she summoned a bored look. “Go ahead, if you must.”
He stood abruptly, lifting her off her feet. In the next instant, she was on the bed, flat on her back underneath him. He pushed her arms over her head and pinned them against the mattress. She didn’t protest. He stared at her for a long moment, breathing heavily. She stared back at him, calling his bluff. He wasn’t the dumb brute she’d expected. He had brains, as well as brawn. He thought he could pressure her into releasing him. What he didn’t realize was that they were both prisoners here. The only way out was over those mountains, together.
His grip on her wrists loosened. He collapsed, burying his face in her neck.
She experienced a strange mix of emotions. Sorrow, relief, guilt, sympathy...disappointment. And kinship, maybe. He didn’t want to help her, but they were connected. They shared a common enemy. They’d both suffered the traumas of war, even though he’d done so by choice, not because of a direct threat to his home and family.
She raised a hand to his hair, tentative. It still felt nice. So did his body, for that matter. The heavy weight of him reminded her of past pleasures, long forgotten. She stroked the nape of his neck lightly.
He lifted his head, his expression incredulous. She knew she was playing with fire, and she didn’t care. She raked her nails through his hair, encouraging him. She thought he might shove her away in anger, but he didn’t. His half-lidded gaze lowered to her lips.
Then his mouth descended.
The first contact was electric. She parted her lips under his, breathless. She’d wanted this from the first moment she set eyes on him. He was battered and bruised. He’d been in a dark place. So had she. Maybe that was what drew her to him. He needed comfort, and she ached to give it. He was her captive, her patient, her only hope.
His kiss wasn’t gentle. He plundered her mouth with his tongue, taking what he wanted. He tasted like mint and soap and male heat, a tantalizing mixture. She clutched his hair and moaned. He feasted on her mouth the same way he devoured plates of food, without finesse. She reveled in the possession.
Had it been this way with Khalil? This urgent?
She couldn’t remember, but it didn’t matter. Hudson kissed away those thoughts and inserted himself back into them. His tongue delved deeper and his body pressed harder. She could feel the exciting length of his erection. Desire pulsed between her legs. She shifted her hips against him.
He groaned against her mouth, his big hand squeezing her waist. It roved to her hip and back up again, covering her breast. This simple pleasure seemed to undo him. He broke the kiss and fumbled for a way underneath her clothes.
She might have let him continue, but the sound of approaching footsteps snapped her to her senses.
Ashur.
He was coming down the hall.
Hudson heard it, too. He turned his head toward the open doorway, his hands still. They were about to get caught.
She pushed at his shoulders and he shifted to one side, allowing her enough space to move. She scrambled off the bed in a panic. He sat forward and folded his arms over his lap while she straightened her tunic. When Ashur appeared in the doorway, she made a face like a scolding auntie.
“Where have you been? I need a broom to sweep up this hair.”
Ashur muttered something about cleaning up after swine and went to do her bidding. It was his typical attitude, so she didn’t think he’d noticed her dishabille. She leaned against the chair, weak-kneed. When she glanced at Hudson again, his eyes were sharp.
“Are you married?” he asked in a hard voice.
“No.”
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, as if the question had left a bad taste in it.
“I’m a widow,” she said. “A recent widow, still in mourning.”
His expression didn’t change. “How recent?”
“Two years.”
“Two years is a long time.”
“In my culture, some widows stay in seclusion for the rest of their lives. Most do not remarry or keep company with men.”
“Is that your plan? Never remarry?”
It wasn’t what Khalil would have wanted, but she hadn’t imagined moving on. She also hadn’t imagined kidnapping an American and allowing him to take liberties. She didn’t recognize the woman she’d become.
Ashur returned with the broom, saving her from responding. He swept up the clumps of hair, his eyes downcast. She wondered what he’d done to make Hudson wary. Ashur was so full of grief and fury. He blamed all Americans for destabilizing the country. He blamed Hudson, in particular, for his father’s death. She couldn’t afford to get caught kissing the man. It might send Ashur over the edge.
“Do you require anything else, Queen Aunt?” Ashur asked.
She gestured for him to go. He did an exaggerated bow and left the room. She didn’t think it was funny, but Hudson’s lips quirked with amusement. She crossed her arms over her chest, studying him. “Are you married?”
“I’m divorced,” he said. “It’s what we do in my culture.”
“It is not uncommon here, either.”
“Really?”
She nodded and turned her attention to the map on the table. She was curious about his past, but she needed to focus on the journey ahead. “I can pay you after we reach our destination.”
“I don’t want your money.”
She didn’t ask what he wanted. She already knew. “Please, look at the map. Crossing the Zagros is not as dangerous as attempting to travel within Iraq.”
“Why can’t you stay here, in this village?”
“The Yazidi have offered a temporary meeting place, not a permanent refuge.”
He stood and joined her at the table, his brow furrowed.
She pointed to a tiny dot on the map. “We are here.” She traced the edge of the mountain range with her fingertip, until she reached the outskirts of Turkey. It wasn’t her final stop, but he didn’t need to know that. “I want to go there.”
“What about the Kurds?”
“What about them?”
“They won’t help you?”
“Kurdistan is not stable, due to border conflicts with Turkey and Iran. They have also taken Assyrian lands in the guise of protecting us. They are your allies, not ours.”
“This country,” he muttered.
“What about it?”
“It’s a goddamned mess, that’s what.”
“Yes, it is. We live in rubble left by the US intervention.”
He made a sound of skepticism. “Your wars go back centuries, before the US was even founded.”
“Before your ancestors stole land from the natives, you mean?”
He tapped the surface of the map. “There’s snow and ice on those mountains. We need special gear for that.”
“I have gear.”
“Do you have crampons for everyone?”
“Yes. Come see.”
She escorted him to another room. She had tents, canvas packs, climbing rope, crampons for icy terrain, and a pile of boots in the corner. He picked up a boot, arching a brow. They were desert-style castoffs from a US military base. Or perhaps stolen. She’d bought the gear in bulk and not asked questions.
“These aren’t for snow.”
“They are all we have.”
He pulled out one of the tents and studied it. “What about sleeping bags? We’ll freeze to death at night.”
“We will use wool and sheepskin, like the nomads.” She showed him her stack of sheepskins. There were two rectangular pieces for each hiker. One covered the front of the torso and one covered the back. There were ties at the shoulders and on the sides. “This can be worn and used as a sleeping mat.”
“How?”
She laid the two panels flat on the ground. The sheepskin offered warmth and padding. “The wool cloaks are versatile also. They become blankets.”
“What if they get wet?”
“I have ponchos.” She found the plastic hooded ponchos. “See?”
He rifled through one of the packs, studying the gear. It was a mix of modern, traditional and low-budget items, all painstakingly collected. She had stainless steel water containers that could be used for cooking. Food rations in sealed tins. He tossed out whatever he deemed unnecessary. When he was finished, he lifted the pack with one hand to test its weight. His bulging biceps mesmerized her.
He dropped the pack with a thunk.
“Is it too heavy?” she asked.
“How do you expect that old man to strap on a fifty-pound pack without falling and breaking a hip?”
“Ibrahim is not coming. He returned to his home in Telskuf.”
“No old people? No kids?”
“Only Ashur. He will have a lighter pack.”
Hud grunted in response, his gaze moving down her body. “You don’t know what you’re in for. Grueling fourteen-hour hikes. No rest stops. Elevation sickness. Dangerous terrain. Bad weather.”
“I walked across the Syrian Desert for sixteen days. I think I know.”
“This won’t be like that.”
“It is a journey my people have taken before.”
“Yeah, who?”
“My mother and father. They guided Assyrian refugees from other countries into Iraq when they were young.”
He cursed under his breath at this revelation.
“We will make it. I am confident.”
“Do you have guns?”
“Of course.” Those were easy to get here, unlike climbing gear. “As many Kalashnikovs as you like.”
“Great,” he muttered. “When do we go?”
“As soon as the others arrive. Four or five days.”
“I can’t wait.”
She followed him back to his room, feeling giddy. His sarcasm didn’t bother her. It meant he was going to cooperate. She was eager to discuss the itinerary, but he stopped at the threshold, barring her entry.
“Unless you want to finish what we started, get away from me.”
She flushed with embarrassment. “Good night, then.”
He slammed the door in her face.
Chapter 5 (#ue6233316-4ff8-5fc2-ae34-b69dd76aedad)
Hud spent the next three days recuperating.
Recuperating, seething in silence and fantasizing about Layah.
He couldn’t believe she’d played him like that. He’d intended to play her, not the other way around. He thought he could convince her to abandon her half-cocked plan by demanding sex, but she hadn’t blinked an eye at his crude proposition. She wasn’t afraid of him, and she wasn’t innocent. She was a young widow, ripe for pleasure. She’d stroked his hair and rubbed her generous breasts against him.
Damn it.
All he’d gotten for his efforts was an erection that wouldn’t quit. He kept reevaluating the kiss they’d shared, searching for signs of deception. She couldn’t fake chemistry. They had that in spades. The feel of her hands in his hair had turned him into mush. When their mouths met, it was like fireworks.
She’d wanted him, in that moment. They’d been on the same page, hungry for each other. He hadn’t imagined her heated response.
Then they’d almost been caught by Ashur, and she’d jumped up from the bed in a panic, as if she might get stoned in a public square for kissing him. A cold weight had settled in his stomach at the sight, and a little voice in his head whispered: She’s married. She looks guilty because she’s married.
She’d said she was a widow, and that made sense, but he didn’t trust her to tell the truth. She was holding him hostage. She’d kidnapped him and drugged him. Lying was a minor offense compared to her other infractions. Intuition told him she was hiding something, and he’d been burned by beautiful women before.
His cheating ex, for example.
He’d searched Layah’s room at the first opportunity. He hadn’t found a cell phone or any useful items among her personal effects, which he’d inspected thoroughly. The damp lingerie in her washroom had smelled like jasmine water, clean and intoxicating. It wasn’t his finest moment of reconnaissance, but no regrets.
This morning, he’d woken up antsy. He’d paced the room, considering his options. He didn’t want to cross the Zagros with a bunch of refugees, but he didn’t want to stay in this village. It was an insecure location, nestled against the mountains. He had no local contacts. The closest military base was hundreds of miles away.
After breakfast, he tested his stitches by doing a basic captivity workout. Fifty push-ups, two hundred curl-ups, five minutes of cardio. Halfway through, he heard a knock at the door. He paused, wiping the sweat from his face.
Ashur looked in on him. “Are you sick, American?”
“No, I’m training.”
“Kill-training?”
Hud smiled at the boy’s hopeful expression. He’d given Ashur a basic self-defense lesson yesterday. The boy was an apt pupil, eager to learn more close-quarters combat techniques. “What do you want?”
Ashur entered the room and dropped a pair of boots on the floor at Hud’s feet. “Layah says we go today.”
“Go where?”
“On our journey.”
His gut clenched with unease. He hadn’t expected to leave so soon. “Have the others arrived?”
“The others?”
“The other people in our party.”
“They came weeks ago.”
Hud dragged a hand down his face. She’d lied to him. The other refugees had been here all along, waiting for him.
“You are strong,” Ashur said. “The weather is good. We must go now.”
He tried on the boots. They were the right size, and almost new. Layah had waterproofed every pair with beeswax and oil, on his orders. He could argue that he was still too weak to climb, or simply refuse to leave, but neither option appealed to him. He didn’t feel secure here. His best option was to travel with Layah. He’d act as her guide, for now. He’d do whatever she wanted. A part of him was excited by the prospect.
A very stupid part of him that sometimes made his brain shut off.
He knew he shouldn’t touch her again. He was a Navy SEAL, and she was a refugee. He might be able to get away with seducing her as an escape strategy. Doing it for his own pleasure was a clear violation. It was unprofessional, unethical and unwise. Not to mention dangerous. He couldn’t afford to let down his guard with this woman. Bedding her would be hot, but he had to stay cool and keep his distance.
She’d been giving him a wide berth, so it shouldn’t be difficult. They’d hardly spoken since the kiss. She never came into his room. Maybe she didn’t trust herself to be alone with him. He smiled at the thought.
At some point, he’d get a chance to sneak off on his own. He’d have the advantage in the higher elevations. He didn’t know where they were, exactly, but they had to be close to Iraqi Kurdistan. The Kurds were reliable US allies, with an army of well-trained soldiers. They would take him to an air base.
He stood, rolling his shoulders in anticipation. His injury wasn’t bothering him. He’d done little but sleep and eat for two days straight. He could feel his body recharging, gaining back the weight he’d lost. A glance in the mirror in Layah’s washroom had revealed a stranger with sharp cheekbones and a delineated rib cage, but plenty of lean muscle. He touched his flat stomach, which was still full from breakfast.
“Hungry again?” Ashur asked as they left the room.
“I don’t think you’ve fattened me up enough,” Hud said.
Ashur made a snorting sound. “You eat more than ten men, American. You will be fat as a qurād soon.”
“What is that? A king?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Yes, a king. Do you wish to learn Arabic? I teach you.”
Hud didn’t plan on being in the country long enough to bother. “You can be my interpreter.”
Ashur flinched at this suggestion, his smile fading. Hud was reminded of his last interpreter, who’d died a grisly death. Ashur couldn’t know that, but he seemed offended. “I will never work for you,” the boy said.
“I work for you, is that it?”
“Yes. That is it.”
Hud stared back at him in silence. Ashur had a quick temper and a chip on his shoulder the size of Iraq. Hud recognized a bit of himself in the boy. He’d been angry at the world as a kid, unable to control his emotions. Climbing had been his only outlet until he’d joined the military, where he’d learned to channel his aggressions.
Now Hud was adept at staying calm and focused, after years of practice. He’d worked hard to master his mind and body. The strategies he used to maintain equilibrium had kept him sane in captivity. It was ironic, he supposed. His mother had worried constantly about his combative nature, and his affinity for danger. She’d thought climbing would be his downfall. Instead it was his salvation. His troubled adolescence had been a training ground, honing him into an elite solider who could withstand extreme duress.
Hud moved around the boy and continued outside. Ashur wasn’t a serious threat, and he wasn’t responsible for Hud’s predicament. Layah was. She stood by the gate with three backpacks at her feet. Bulky layers of clothing disguised her figure and a pale brown hijab covered her hair. She might look unremarkable from behind. Straight on, her beautiful face shone like the desert sun.
He felt a stirring of desire and resented it.
“Good morning,” she said.
He nodded curtly. They were getting a late start, by his standards. Most climbing expeditions began before dawn. He picked up his pack, which was loaded with ropes and equipment. He’d examined every item yesterday. The sutures on his shoulder tugged as he balanced the weight.
“How are you feeling?”
“Do you care?”
She lifted her own pack with a frown. “I wish I could give you more time to rest, but it is important to begin our journey now, before the Da’esh come, or the ground thaws and the terrain becomes unstable.”
He glanced at the white-capped peaks in the distance. It was the middle of spring, so he understood her urgency. Snowmelt turned the ground into slippery slush and caused rock slides. They needed the weather to stay cool and clear, but there were no guarantees. At the summit, the temperature could dip to below freezing, with swirling snowstorms and zero visibility. “Where are the others?”
“We will meet them on the mountain.”
Ashur opened the gate for them. Two men stood outside, guarding the exit with Kalashnikovs. Hud recognized them as the men who’d carried him away from the rubble of the torture cell.
“This is Yusef and Aram,” she said.
“My executioners?”
“My cousins,” she corrected. “They will not harm you.”
Hud gave both men a quick examination. Layah’s cousins appeared comfortable with their weapons, but they were no match for him physically. He could disarm one and kill the other in the blink of an eye.
“You must stay with us,” she said, as if she could read his mind. “The Yazidi have taken a great risk by giving us refuge. They know you were a Da’esh prisoner, and they will not allow you to endanger them by getting recaptured.”
“So your men won’t shoot me, but the Yazidi will?”
“If you leave our group, yes. They will shoot you to protect their families.”
He adjusted the straps on his pack. She’d chosen to begin their journey at midmorning for a reason. She wanted him to be seen by the villagers, who would help her keep him in line. “How convenient.”
“You fault me for warning you?”
“No. I fault you for threatening me with violence while pretending you’re above it.”
Her cheeks flushed a dusky rose. “I pretend nothing.”
He studied her face, remembering her heated response to their bedroom tussle. She might not be a faker, but she wasn’t honest, either. And his body didn’t seem to care. If anything, his anger and resentment had stoked his desire. He felt outmaneuvered by her, and the caveman in him wanted to flip things around. He wanted to get back on top and pin her underneath him.
But that wasn’t going to happen, so he dropped the subject and started walking. Challenging her wouldn’t improve his situation. It would only make him want to crush his mouth over hers in retaliation. He told himself it was a normal reaction. Any man who’d been taken prisoner by a beautiful woman would think about doing her, and she’d encouraged him to kiss her. She’d given him signals. Of course he was going to fantasize about getting even. Or at least, getting off.
Layah trailed behind him, followed by Ashur and the two cousins. Hud continued down the dirt road, which couldn’t have been more than a mile long. He could see a well-worn path from the village into the mountains, used by goats and sheepherders. It would take a day or more to hike beyond the grazing hills.
After a few minutes, his muscles warmed up and his tension eased. It felt good to be outdoors again. It felt good to be alive. The air was cool and the land was green. He loved climbing. He’d rather die on the side of a mountain than in a dusty tomb. Forced labor wasn’t so bad, and the scenery was excellent.
He could almost hear his comrades’ mocking voices in his head: You’re mad about getting rescued and bossed around by a sexy woman? Dude, what is wrong with you? Did you lose your balls in that explosion?
Thinking about his team members gave Hud pause. Some of them might have died in that explosion—because of him. Because of his choices, his mistakes. He’d been so intent on catching the terrorist who’d killed their interpreter that he’d risked his own life, and the lives of his best friends. That didn’t sit well with him. He needed to stop lusting after Layah and concentrate on his main objective. He could still ditch her in the mountains. He felt strong, like he could hike forever.
As they started up the goat path, Layah fell into step beside him. “You are unhappy about our partnership.”
He arched a brow. “This isn’t a partnership.”
“I would like it to be.”
“I think what you’d like is for me to follow your orders with a smile.”
She gestured toward the summit. “Up there, you will be giving the orders.”
He glanced that direction, trying not to feel excited by the prospect. The lure of a dangerous challenge beckoned.
“The journey will be difficult, but it is the best way. Soon we will all be smiling in celebration of our success.” Her lips formed a tentative curve that was half peace offering, half propaganda.
“You don’t have to sell it to me, Doc. The threat of being shot by Yazidis already did the trick.”
“I wish for harmony between us, not strife.”
He squinted at her wording. “Did you learn English from a brochure?”
“No. I learned it in Baghdad.”
“Why do you cover your hair?”
She blinked in surprise. “What?”
“You aren’t Muslim.”
“Many non-Muslim women wear a hijab.”
“Out of fear?”
“There are other reasons. Assyrian women have been wearing them since Biblical times. I do it to be respectful, to keep the dust out of my hair and so I can travel without attracting attention.”
He doubted she could travel anywhere unnoticed, with that face. He wanted to ask more questions, to interrogate her about every detail of her life. Instead he pulled ahead, ending the conversation. She was a fascinating woman, but he couldn’t afford to get sucked in.
The steady climb kept him busy for the next few hours. He set a punishing pace to see if they could match it. They couldn’t, but there were no complaints. No one requested a break. Soon he was sweating, his leg muscles burning.
He spotted a plateau where they could rest. A glance over his shoulder revealed Layah in front of the others, flushed with exertion and struggling to catch up with him. He accelerated, leaving them behind.
When he reached the plateau, he found a motley group of refugees awaiting him. Two sturdy-looking, dark-haired men stood in front of a half-dozen women. Packs were scattered around in a circle. The men looked wary, uncertain if he was friend or foe. They hadn’t expected him to arrive alone.
Hud said hello in Arabic, which was about the extent of his vocabulary. Then he took off his pack and sat down to drink water. He was light-headed from the last push. All the refugees approached to introduce themselves, saying names he couldn’t make sense of. It was an incomprehensible mix of sounds.
“Hudson,” he said, touching his chest.
“American,” someone said. “American, yes?”
He gulped more water. “American. Yes. Hoorah.”
There were several cheers, as if he was here to save them. A weight settled into the pit of his stomach, making him queasy. He shouldn’t have pulled ahead of the others. Taking a deep breath, he did a quick head count. There were two extra bodies here.
An old woman and a girl.
Goddamn it.
Layah appeared with Ashur and her two goons. They were sweaty and winded, like Hud, but they’d done well. Better than the current party would do. He gave Layah a dark look, because she’d promised him a team of healthy adults. They were going to have a very unharmonious discussion about this as soon as she caught her breath.
The extra woman was pushing sixty, with a sturdy shape and a careworn face. The girl was Ashur’s age or younger. She was too big to carry, too small to carry her own weight.
The grandma brought him a flatbread sandwich loaded with meat and goat cheese. It was delicious. He devoured every bite. Then he stood and gestured for Layah to come with him. They walked about ten yards away for a private chat. He didn’t think anyone else spoke English, but he wasn’t sure. Ashur accompanied them, eating his sandwich. Layah’s cousins watched from a distance, their rifles close at hand.
“I can explain,” Layah said.
Hud crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for it.
“The girl and her grandmother asked to join our party.”
“So you just said yes?”
“They are Yazidi. I could not refuse.”
He understood her dilemma. The Yazidi had sheltered Layah and her people. She owed them a favor. “I can’t guide a team of children and old people.”
“We have no choice. We cannot send them back.”
“Why not?”
“I gave my word.”
“You gave me your word,” he said in a low voice.
Ashur stepped in front of Layah protectively. “She does not answer to you, American.”
Layah nudged Ashur aside. “The girls in the village are being taken as brides by the Da’esh.”
Hud was no stranger to the horrors of war, but this news shocked him. “That young?”
“As young as thirteen. She is twelve.”
Hud swore under his breath. He’d heard about IF militants targeting women and girls. The highest-ranking members collected as many wives as they wanted, and murdered any male relatives who protested.
“One of their leaders has already claimed her,” Layah added. “He said he would come back for her in the spring.”
Ashur studied the girl as he finished his sandwich. “She is pretty, for a Yazidi.”
“I can’t carry her,” Hud said.
“You won’t have to,” Layah replied. “She is strong enough to make the journey.”
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, uneasy. Layah had no idea how many things could go wrong on a climbing expedition. This entire country was a jinx, as far as he was concerned. His last mission had been a disaster. He’d left two good men behind. He’d let down his team by getting captured.
He wasn’t ready to play the hero again, physically or mentally. Four days ago he’d been struggling to survive in an underground dungeon. Now he was carrying a heavy load of equipment and a staggering amount of responsibility. Innocent lives were at stake. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard.
“Is your shoulder sore?” she asked.
“It’s fine.”
“Any dizziness?”
He shook his head and moved past her. If he pushed them hard, someone might get injured or quit before they reached the point of no return. He could push Ashur off the side of a cliff while he was at it. “Let’s go.”
She agreed with an easy nod. “I would like to reach the edge of the snow by nightfall. How does that sound?”
He squinted into the distance. “Optimistic.”
They set out again five minutes later. Hud led the pack, followed by Ashur and Layah. Everyone else marched behind them in a neat row, with the armed guards at the rear. Hud didn’t expect any gun battles out here in the middle of nowhere, but it was possible. If they did get shot at, he planned to grab a Kalashnikov and return fire. The rocky terrain offered very little cover. The best defense was excellent marksmanship.
As they reached higher elevations, the conditions worsened. Loose pebbles shifted beneath his feet and he struggled to catch his breath in the thin air. Tomorrow they would add snow to the mix. Then ice. At some point, he’d need to use his climbing gear on the rock face. Without his technical skills, they wouldn’t make it.
Hud might have enjoyed tackling this mountain range with Team Twelve. SEALs were all experienced climbers and expert outdoorsmen. He could lead his team across the Zagros with confidence. Refugees and children were another story. He kept glancing over his shoulder, expecting injuries.
They settled into a steady rhythm. He pushed as hard as he dared, and they pushed themselves harder. No one fell down the hill or collapsed in exhaustion. Layah, in particular, impressed him with her stamina. She had a body like a centerfold, not an athlete, so he hadn’t expected her to keep up.
About an hour before sunset, he spotted a possible campsite. It was a little early, and they hadn’t yet reached the edge of the snowcap, but they were close. He knew they were tired, because he was tired. The excited chatter he’d heard all afternoon had died down.
He paused on a flat stretch of land and studied the area. There was a trickle of water running down the side of the cliff nearby. It was a good place to stay, sheltered from the wind on three sides.
“We can stop here for the night,” he said to Layah.
She smiled her relief. “Bless you.”
He took off his pack and sat with his back against the rock, muscles aching. He was beat. She pressed a handful of dates into his palm. Although he was ravenous, he chewed slowly, savoring each bite. The others rested with them, drinking and eating their own snacks. The setting sun glowed on the horizon.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Layah murmured.
Before today, he’d have said Iraq was the ugliest place on earth. But this stretch of land was a rich tapestry of colors, dancing with light. He turned his gaze to her face and found more beauty there. “We have to set up the tents.”
“My cousins will do it.” She gave the order with a wave of her hand.
Aram and Yusef fumbled with three tents, two medium-sized and one small. They were clearly out of their element, but Hud left them to it. Layah had a tiny stove to boil water for a meal of dried meat and couscous. It was a time-consuming process. They ate in batches, refilling their water bottles from the stream. When they were finished, it was almost dark, and the temperature had dropped considerably.
Hud knew at a glance that there wasn’t enough space for everyone. There was a tent for women and a tent for men, both full. Hud, Ashur and Layah were left with the smaller tent. “This was supposed to be for the Turks,” Layah said.
“I’ll take it,” Hud said.
“You can’t. The women’s tent has no space because of Hanna and Yelda. Ashur and I have nowhere else to sleep.”
“Ashur can sleep with your cousins.”
“The men are taking turns keeping watch.”
“So? He can take a turn.”
Ashur was pleased with this arrangement, which gave him man status and access to the Kalashnikovs.
“I don’t want him handling weapons,” Layah said.
“I’ll give him a safety lesson tomorrow,” Hud said. He didn’t trust Ashur not to shoot him accidentally. Or even on purpose.
“Very well,” she said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Good night.”
Ashur joined the other men in the tent while Yusef came outside for first watch. He narrowed his eyes at Hud in warning, but said nothing.
“My cousins don’t approve of us sleeping together,” Layah said.
“Your cousins aren’t in charge.”
She didn’t disagree. Hud suspected she had her own reasons for agreeing to share his space. Maybe she wanted to keep tabs on him.
Hud crawled into the two-man tent after Layah. He didn’t care about her overprotective family members or her martyred-widow reputation. He just wanted peace and quiet. She settled in next to him, stiff as a board.
Two minutes later, he was asleep.
Chapter 6 (#ue6233316-4ff8-5fc2-ae34-b69dd76aedad)
Layah dreamed of Khalil.
They’d met in Damascus, at the university where she attended medical school. He was studying law. She used to sit and read beneath an olive tree near her favorite café. She’d noticed him watching her one day, and she liked what she saw, so she’d left her book behind. He’d picked it up and followed her.
That was before he joined the Free Syrian Army. Before everything fell apart.
In her dream, she was following him. He was weaving through the crowded market, staying one step ahead of her. He skirted around traffic and ducked into an alleyway. He was tall and broad-shouldered, easy to spot but hard to catch. She ran after him and found a dark-haired stranger in his place.
She fell to her knees and wept.
Then his strong arms wrapped around her and she was safe again. She hugged him closer, clinging to his lean form. She pressed her lips to his warm neck. He inhaled a sharp breath.
She woke with a start, her limbs tangled with his. Her mouth on his skin. Only it wasn’t Khalil. It was Hudson. The two men were about the same size, with rangy builds, but they didn’t feel the same. Hudson’s body hummed with energy, as if he had a live wire inside him. A spark of passion, ready to ignite.
They didn’t smell the same, either. She didn’t remember what Khalil smelled like, but this wasn’t it. This was a heady combination of rough wool and male heat and earthy minerals. She moistened her lips, tasting salt. His grip tightened on her upper arms. A vein pulsed at the base of his throat, where her mouth had touched.
Sleeping with Hudson was a bad idea, but it wouldn’t ruin her reputation. Her marriage to Khalil had already done that.
She eased away from him, moving as far as she could in the cramped quarters of the tent. Although she’d attempted to keep as much distance between them as possible, they’d drifted together in the night.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was dreaming.”
“About your husband?”
“Yes.”
He scrubbed a hand down his face. It was chilly inside the tent, especially now that they’d separated. “How did he die?”
“He was shot on the outskirts of Palmyra with a group of opposition fighters.”
“He was in the rebel army?”
She nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “He left the university to join them a few months before graduation. I begged him not to go. I said he would get shot the first week.” She sat forward and reached for her boots. “He lived more than a year.”
Hudson braced his weight on his elbows, watching as she tied her laces. She couldn’t meet his eyes. Her emotions were on edge, she was sore from the hike and she hadn’t slept well on the hard ground. He seemed impervious to discomfort, but he’d been trained for extremes. She couldn’t imagine the conditions he’d endured in the torture cell.
He didn’t ask any more questions. She unzipped the front flap and looked out. Aram was awake, keeping watch as dawn broke over the horizon. She could see her breath in the cold air. Before she left the tent, she grabbed her wool poncho.
It was still difficult to speak of Khalil, to dream of him and remember him. She’d loved him so much. After his death, she’d buried herself in work at the hospital in Damascus. They’d needed all the help they could get. The day of the air strikes, she’d stayed on duty for forty-eight hours. She’d seen things she could not bear. And, like many medical professionals before her, she’d fled the carnage and never returned.
She’d walked to Jordan. She’d worked in a tea house to pay for room and board. The weeks had passed in a blur of nothingness. Then she’d received the devastating news about her brother and his wife. She’d picked up the broken pieces of herself and returned to Syria, for Ashur’s sake. She’d planned to bring him back to Jordan, but the roads had become impassible. They could travel only one direction, toward their ravaged homeland.
She pushed aside the memories and collected water for breakfast. Hudson thought the refugees were ill-equipped for this journey, and they were. But they wouldn’t give up. Everyone here had a story of hardship and loss. A lifetime of diaspora. They were all seasoned warriors, the same as him.

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