Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
“K eep your eyes down,” Brick commanded. She stayed close to his side as they walked through the streets of Kabul.
She wanted to point out that she couldn’t scan the crowd for Zain’s face if her damn gaze was on her feet. Every inch of her face was concealed behind a niqab, and the cloak of material made her feel invisible. Less vulnerable. Still, keeping her eyes in check was hard. She wanted to look for Zain.
They’d rested at a hotel in Peshawar, and then Brick’s friend Ali arranged for his men to drive them into Kabul, Afghanistan, where a protest was about to take place. Flying into the neighboring country and then driving across the border made things a little less dangerous, especially for Dana. Now they were in the thick of an angsty crowd, though.
Definitely not an ideal situation. But through recent footage she’d found online, she’d discovered that Zain—or his doppelg?nger—had captured prisoners at previous protests and riots.
If they had any shot of finding Zain, this was it.
Men shouted in Pashto or Persian, she couldn’t be sure which language. Women circulated, too, all dressed similarly to Dana. They held signs with messages written in Arabic. No one met her eye. But dread crawled up her spine.
Every fiber in her being screamed they were in danger. Not only were they clustered among the group egging on the Taliban, but from what she’d gathered, they were pissing off Jaysh too. Brick had explained that the men and women of Kabul were fed up with the lack of safety—enough to risk their lives in hopes of change.
The rattling of engines stirred the air. The screaming crowd got louder. Brick’s hand wrapped around her wrist and protectively tugged her to his side. She stayed close, letting his six-foot-something frame swallow her up.
A fleet of pickup trucks rounded the street corner, dust billowing in their wake. Black flags danced high as the wind whipped them proudly, and the white symbols coupled with the assault rifles in the men’s hands were as threatening as a swastika.
“Oh god,” Dana mumbled.
Regret wasn’t something that struck her often. But right now, it was fermenting deep in her gut. She tried to tug her wrist from Brick’s hold, the movement involuntary and desperate. “We need to go,” she hissed over the din.
His jaw hardened beneath his unkempt beard. “It’s too late.”
He was right. The vehicles had boxed in the crowd. Tears stung her eyes as she watched men leap from the back of the pickups waving their guns angrily. Dust particles swarmed like angry bees. Dana’s burka protected her skin from the sting, but not her lungs.
Fear anchored her feet to the spot. She couldn’t run. Couldn’t hide. Couldn’t take back the decision they’d made.
There was no other way to find him. It wasn’t as if terrorist groups had goddamn employee directories. Dana pictured the last image she’d seen of Zain. The photo depicted a similar situation, though it had been taken months prior. Jaysh had come to break up a protest and silence people with fear. Someone’s cell phone camera had caught Zain’s profile as he’d pointed his gun at the innocent crowd.
With his description fresh in her mind, she rapidly scanned the dozens of men shouting threats at the civilians. Zain was six foot four—not a small guy—and of Lebanese descent. His dark hair and olive skin would blend in here, but hopefully his size would make him easy to spot.
The people yelled back, and one Jaysh leader standing on the back of a truck aimed his gun at the sky and fired bullets in rapid succession.
Dana clapped her free hand over one of her ears. Each blast increased her heart rate.
Brick’s hold bit into her wrist. He bent his face close to her ear. “I don’t see him!” he shouted.
She couldn’t respond. He’d have a hard time hearing her through her burka and over the rioting. The gunshots hadn’t calmed the crowd. They’d only angered them more.
The leader who’d fired the weapon glowered at the people. Rage contorted his face. Menace shimmered in his dark eyes. He leapt off the back of the vehicle and advanced on one of the loud men in the clusters of people in front of them.
He snagged him by the cloak at his throat and hauled him to the front of the crowd. The man’s face turned pale as the terrorist leader shouted ferociously. Spit flew from his lips. The protestors’ hollers of defiance became cries of indignation. A woman pleaded for the man’s life.
Dana curled her free hand around Brick’s forearm. They could shoot everyone in the crowd just for disobedience. Tears stung her eyes, and her breath wheezed in and out of her lungs. The man’s desperate gaze searched the men and women calling for his release.
The leader shoved the man to his knees, brought the gun to the back of his head, and fired.
Chaos erupted. People rushed up from the back of the crowd, throwing Dana against Brick’s side. His hold on her tightened, but they both got carried forward. Dana let go of Brick’s forearm so she could brace herself against the person in front of her.
Weight slammed against her back, and she stumbled to the ground. Dana cried out as her knees connected with the dirt. Pain shot down her shins.
Angry feet and legs bumped and kicked against her as the riot intensified. Dust clouded around her as she tried to get her feet under her before she got trampled. Brick caught her firmly under the arms and hauled her against him. He shoved people away, his brown eyes wide with uncertainty.
Another wave of people made Brick stumble. Dana was forced to move with the crowd or get trampled. Bodies crushed her on all sides. Panic shot through her. A scream caught in her throat. If she didn’t find a way out of the mob, she’d be killed.
Using all her strength to push against the backs of the people in front of her, she craned her neck in search of Brick.
Jaysh members screamed and yielded weapons. The leader once again grabbed an innocent man. This time, the crowd settled. Some of the pressure on Dana’s back eased, and she pushed her way through the group. Scanning each bobbing head, she looked for Brick. If she could just—
Her gaze landed on a hulking man. One of the terrorists. His wide shoulders and muscular frame stood out. A gasp hit the back of her throat.
A pakol hat covered his dark hair, and his thick and full beard almost hid the chiseled line of his jaw, but the bone structure was recognizable. Her insides stirred with wonder. The cries of the people fell away from her ears. No sound penetrated Dana’s brain.
Could it be him?
Before she could get a good look at his eyes, he swiveled to face one of the Jaysh leaders. She needed to get closer.
Elbowing her way forward, she reached the front row. Blood sprayed the barren ground, and a woman knelt next to the dead man’s body. Dana shuddered. She’d come this far. All she had to do was confirm it was him. Then find a way to talk to him. And, of course, get him away from his... captors?
She didn’t want to think about the brainwashing Jaysh could have done on Rami’s brother. Didn’t want to acknowledge that the Green Beret soldier could very well be deeply entrenched in a terrorist group and have no desire to leave.
The man she suspected was Zain waved off the leader he’d spoken to and turned to face the crowd again. She stood within arm’s reach. Close enough that she could spot the lines of ink jutting out from his collar. She couldn’t be sure they were Zain’s tattoos, but they were in the right location .
She needed to see his eyes. She’d studied his golden irises for months. All she needed was one good look to be sure...
Come on, dude. Look at me.
The leader shouted something, and the note of finality in his voice struck fresh fear into her. Were they leaving? Rounding up everyone to shoot them?
She might not get another chance. If she was wrong, she could be staring down the end of this man’s rifle.
She reached forward and caught his wrist. He jerked his face toward her, and his warm skin stayed in her grasp as he stared down at her. His mouth went slack with shock. He blinked, revealing the most gorgeous golden eyes.
“Hey.” She spoke loudly, terrified her voice might not carry through the cloth covering her lips.
His yellow eyes widened. “Who—”
Crack , crack , crack!
Dana dropped his hand and covered her head. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and she sank to the ground. Everyone in the crowd dropped to their knees as someone from the back fired at the terrorists. The leader’s face filled with fury and more gunshots broke out.
Brick!
Dana stayed low. If she stood, she’d probably get shot just for being an easy target, but where had he gone? Was he injured ?
Please, God. Let him be okay.
She turned her attention back to where Zain had stood moments before, but he was gone. Desperation clawed at her. No. She couldn’t have lost him. She’d just found him, for god’s sake.
Moisture splattered her face, soaking through her burka. She lifted her hand and wiped at the damp material. Crimson coated her shaking fingers. Her chest squeezed her lungs until no air could enter. She had to get up. Had to run. Find Brick. But she couldn’t move.
Stark horror froze her in place.
Her brain flickered with the need for oxygen. Pressing her knuckles into the pebbly earth, she sent a prayer skyward and dragged a breath through her nose.
Booted feet came into her vision, and a brutal hold seized her elbow, pulling her to her feet. Dana let out a strangled cry as she stared at the leader who’d shot the man moments before.
Terror stopped her heart.
***
Dread clung to Zain’s skin like burs. Five protestors had already been shot. When one of the members zeroed in on a kid, Zain nearly lost it.
But that woman . . .
Christ, who was she? Where was she?
He’d gotten Rakesh to leave the boy alone, but now Zain couldn’t find the woman who’d grabbed his arm. Her electric-blue eyes had held his with a firmness and a confidence that were unusual for a woman in Afghanistan. Not to mention her earnest hold on his wrist.
If she’d done that to any other Jaysh member, she’d have been shot in the face. But she’d grabbed him. Spoken English. A language and greeting from his past. Words he’d almost forgotten.
Whoever the hell she was, he had to find her before she became the next victim. And he needed to get Isaad to pull the troops out. They’d come here to scare off truth-speakers, to rule with their iron fist. He’d figured there’d be bloodshed. There always was.
But hearing her voice... it’d done something to him. Pulled him back to a time when he wasn’t okay with this level of brutality.
Zain ignored the cries of the people on the ground by their loved ones. If he had the patience, he’d tell them they shouldn’t have come. Shouldn’t have angered Jaysh. He didn’t dare utter the words because he’d be next. Not for one second did he believe they wouldn’t kill him without a second thought. He’d played their game this long. Learned to adapt by shutting off his emotions.
His gaze landed on Isaad, the group leader, who sneered down at a woman cloaked in a black burka. His grip on her slight arm was ruthless. Even though she was covered from head to foot and he couldn’t see her eyes from here, he knew it was her. Maybe it was the way her head tipped up to stare at Isaad with insolence, maybe it was the balled, defiant fist at her side, but goddammit it was her—and by the look on Isaad’s face, he was ready to put a bullet between her eyes just for existing.
Zain stalked across the dirt road, protectiveness washing over him. He had to stomp it out. Couldn’t show Isaad he gave a damn about civilians.
“Isaad,” Zain hollered.
The man turned his face toward Zain. If he’d heard the growl in Zain’s voice, he didn’t react. Zain spoke quickly in Pashto, telling Isaad he’d overheard someone say the authorities were on their way.
Since they’d brought only a small fleet of men to disperse the protest, Jaysh wouldn’t want to fight law enforcement. Isaad’s face tightened, but he didn’t let go of the woman. Rakesh approached and Isaad repeated what Zain had said about the authorities.
“Farid,” Isaad said, addressing Zain using the false name he’d been living under. “Make sure everyone loads up.”
Isaad turned to Rakesh. “Take her as prisoner.” He shoved the woman at Rakesh. “She’s disobedient.” He gestured to the crowd with two fingers. “And grab two more. Let’s go.”
Rakesh called orders and towed the woman toward the waiting vehicles. She dug her feet in the ground, fighting. Warning bells went off in Zain’s head, and he mentally pleaded with the woman to keep calm. Acting out wouldn’t end well for her.
“No! Let her go!” A man broke through the crowd, blood dripping from his lip. He spoke in Pashto, but an American accent clung to his voice.
What the hell were these two doing in the middle of an Afghan protest?
Zain advanced on the man and held out his palm. Several of the troops had already jumped in their vehicles, but a few loomed uttering threats to warn the crowd against future revolt. “Hey.” Zain spoke in Pashto even though he’d bet his right arm the guy spoke English.
The guy’s eyes locked on Zain’s and something flickered in them—recognition? No, it couldn’t be. He’d never seen this man in his life. Of that he was almost certain.
Unease made Zain want to back away. To steer clear of whatever this man had brought to his door. Because he couldn’t take the fucking risk. Still, curiosity buzzed his cells.
The man took a step forward, his brown eyes flickering with fear as he swept his gaze to the woman being loaded in the truck. “You can’t take her,” he cried. “She’s—”
Smack!
The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious. One of the guards had slammed the butt of his gun into the back of his head. The guard sneered at the fallen guy and mumbled something.
Indecision made Zain hesitate. But he couldn’t interfere. Turning, he made his way to the vehicles and hopped in the back of a truck—the vehicle directly behind the one holding the female prisoner.