Chapter 2
James Hyatt
The Hindu Kush. Long time no see, old friend.
“HQ requesting status update, Operator. Over.”
“This is two-zero-four-five-two-one,” I replied. “Do you have your panties in a bunch over there?”
Quinlan’s chuckle came through. “Maybe I’m worried about my friend. You know I hate it when you guys fly blind.”
I wasn’t flying blind. I just wasn’t on the radar. On the off chance someone was picking up our signal, no location would be divulged.
“Approaching safehouse destination in approximately seven minutes,” I confirmed. “Go back to your desk job, buddy. All is well in our old stomping grounds.”
“Roger that. Enjoy your week off the grid. Out.”
He made it sound like I was going on vacation. It was a week of waiting in the mountains before I could pick up three operators in Jalalabad. These days, we couldn’t take a step here without having to wait for the dust to settle before we considered a second move.
A few minutes later, I started my descent.
There was a ridge about half a klick above the lowest point, where my safehouse waited for me.
Pure luxury. A single-room stone cabin with a woodstove and a bucket.
Two years ago, before an assignment in the middle of winter, we’d been smart enough to add insulation.
The finest clay one could find in the area.
I checked the panels as I got closer to the ground. Nine degrees on the nose, landing gear down, a quick prayer for the helipad’s condition, check, check…
I touched down smoothly and reported to HQ that I had landed, and I initiated my safehouse protocol. One check-in daily at noon.
Ten years ago, roughing it like this had made me miss the Air Force.
Sue us, we were comfortable. But now…? Hell, I was pushing fifty, and I just wanted to be left alone.
A week out here in these stunning mountains…
Maybe Quinlan was right. It would be a bit of a vacation.
I’d sure packed to be entertained. Two puzzles, a few books, and my camera.
Once I’d performed final checks, everything was off, and silence blanketed the ridge, I grabbed my backpack and climbed out.
Fuck me. Spring arrived late at this altitude. It was gonna be nippy at night.
My eyes needed a couple minutes to adjust to the utter darkness. In the meantime, I measured each step off the helipad and—
What the fuck was that sound?
I dropped my backpack and spun around as fight mode kicked in, and I had my sidearm lifted and aimed before I even registered it.
“Is someone there?” a female voice croaked. In English.
“Step away from the helicopter,” I commanded. I quickly got out my flashlight, having hoped to avoid using it, and I switched it on. “Show yourself.”
“Please don’t shoot!” She appeared in the light and squinted, and she raised her hands. “I’m an American. Please don’t shoot me.”
I wasn’t gonna fucking shoot her. But who the hell was she, and had she been hiding here or in the helicopter?
I flooded her with light, taking in her dirty appearance. She was dressed like a man, but she was holding a burqa in her grasp. Disguises? If she traveled by night on her own, the male clothes made sense. Which—no. She couldn’t have been here in the mountains.
“Don’t move,” I ordered. I closed the distance between us, threw the burqa on the ground, and began patting her down.
“I’m n-not armed,” she stammered.
Arms, waist, hips, up and down her legs, her back, and the insides of her thighs, which made her freeze up.
Sorry, cupcake, wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable, but you fucking started it with your presence.
Once I was convinced she wasn’t carrying anything, I holstered my gun and walked past her and peered inside the cabin.
She’d come out from here. The door was open. That was what I’d heard.
“Tell me your name and why the fuck you’re in Afghanistan,” I said.
“M-my name is Kiera Lane. I’m an aid worker. My convoy was overrun almost six months ago, and I’ve been in hiding since then.”
I circled back to her front and narrowed my eyes. “What organization?”
“The Lunch Box—it’s a CLC Global branch,” she replied.
I’d heard of it. They worked to deliver food and education, especially for underage girls in regions like this one.
I aimed the flashlight at her face. “Define overrun.”
She swallowed nervously, and she looked like the definition of a deer getting caught in the headlights. Big, brown doe eyes, fear written all over. Her dark hair was up for now, but it was coming loose.
“We were coming through a mountain pass, backroads only, when we heard gunfire,” she said.
Her gaze flickered, and I fixed my stare to catch every single reaction.
“Before I knew it, they were everywhere. Some on foot, some on motorcycles, and some on horses. They—” She choked up a little.
“I think they killed them all. I-I managed to run away.”
“How many of you were there?” I pressed.
“Six,” she said, sniffling. “Do you want their names? Most of them were from Belgium, me and one more from the US—”
“I’ll want all those details tomorrow when I verify your story,” I replied. “What makes you think they’re dead?”
A shaky breath left her, and it misted in the air. “They were still missing three months ago,” she revealed. “I hid in the mountains for hours, and then I went back, and I-I…” This time, she couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down. “There was so much blood.”
Yeah, they were probably dead. But it must’ve made the news back home. Sometimes, I avoided the news at all costs because the world was fucking depressing, but I should’ve heard… Regardless, I was 100% certain I would’ve heard about this if anybody had demanded a ransom.
“Follow me.” I lowered my flashlight and went over to pick up my backpack. “It’s safer to talk inside.”
She must’ve made contact with someone at home if she knew her coworkers were missing.
“You have a house here?”
A house was a stretch.
I didn’t respond.
Fucking hell. Now what? I wasn’t breaking protocol for her; I had a job to do. But it went without saying that I was bringing her home eventually, so I didn’t see any choice other than letting her stay.
“Are we in Pakistan?” she asked next.
“No.”
“Uz… Um.” She was doing the math, wasn’t she? We hadn’t been in the air long enough to make it to Uzbekistan. “We’re still in Afghanistan.”
“You’re sharp.” I shone the light on the trail down the ridge until we arrived at the tiny dwelling.
The inside was roughly ten-by-ten feet, and I could only hope the last operator who’d been here had left the place the way he’d found it. As in, always with a few hours’ worth of firewood and a closed chimney.
“How old are you?” I asked, yanking the door open. Sand fine as dust was kicked up in the beam of light, and I ducked my head to enter.
Sweet luxury, the last operator had left two foldable lawn chairs against the wall too.
“Thirty-two,” she answered.
So she was one step above from still being a damn baby.
Maybe it was because of how I’d lived my life, and all the suffering I’d seen, that I felt ancient these days.
Anyone under thirty-five was a kid in my eyes, so don’t get me started on the twentysomething-year-old recruits at work.
It was the one downside of the private military agency I’d dedicated much of my life to.
They brought in a dozen or so former service members every year. I’d once been one of them.
“And you’re from North Carolina,” I stated. Thank fuck, we had firewood.
“Um, Georgia, but I went to school in North Carolina. Now I live in Annapolis.”
Close enough.
“How did you know? I don’t have an accent.”
I glanced back at her. “All right. I figured it out by the accent you don’t have.” Then I aimed the flashlight at the makeshift bed. It was elevated and put together with rocks. “You sleep there. I sleep on the ground.”
She eyed the bed and pursed her lips. They were…on the pouty side. “Okay.”
Attagirl. Don’t fucking complain.
If anyone should complain, it was me. Because I had to give her my fucking mattress.
In my seasoned years, I had succumbed to the engineering brilliance of a self-inflating air mattress. People with bad backs and shrapnel in their hip understood me.
First things first. I hung my flashlight on the hook on the door, opened the chimney, then started a fire in the woodstove, leaving the smaller hatch open to spread warmth and light.
In the meantime, I asked Kiera how she knew her coworkers were still missing, to which she admitted to having reached out to her dad three months ago.
He had apparently told her that the news had, in fact, reached the US.
After that, the girl went on a tangent. She rambled, a little emotional, about how worried her dad had been—and still was.
I remained in my position, squatting in front of the stove, gaze glued to the rising flames within the oven, and wondered how many of these tales I’d heard over the years. I’d witnessed plenty of reunions too. They kind of made my work worth it.
If nothing else, the happy endings at least prevented me from jumping off a cliff.
“I’m sorry,” she said tearfully. “I totally went off on you. This is the first time I have the heart to hope.”
I got it.
“It’s fine.” I rose to my feet again and opened my backpack. “Next question. How the hell have you stayed hidden in this country for six months?” I hauled out my mattress, then my sleeping bag, followed by a couple protein bars and my canteen.
Keira released a breath. “That’s a longer story. Are you ready?”
I quirked a brow at her.
“That was my attempt to lighten the tension,” she told me.
Get on with it.
I suppressed a sigh and handed her the mattress. Goodbye, flexibility. I was gonna wake up stiff as a board tomorrow.