Saving Noor (Blue Ridge Protectors #3)

Prologue

Sammy lay in his bed, the calm hush of his room at Mountain View Farms a stark contrast to the frantic hum of the mission unfolding in his mind. He closed his eyes, but the images didn’t dim. The grainy satellite footage of the compound blurred into the dust of a market he knew too well.

He fell into the dream with a sickening jolt.

The market smelled of roasting lamb, diesel fumes, and terror. To anyone else, it was just another Tuesday, a chaotic symphony of shouting vendors and honking motorbikes. But to Samir, every sound was a gunshot, every shadow a cage.

He gripped Ummi’s hand so tight his knuckles turned white. He was small for seven, a scrap of a boy with eyes too big for his face and a heart that beat like a trapped bird against her side.

“Keep your head down,” she whispered, the words scraping her dry throat. “Do not look at them.”

He knew who “them” was. Faisal’s men. Always Faisal’s men.

“There!” A voice cut through the din, sharp and guttural.

Ummi froze. She pulled him behind a stall hung with thick, dusty carpets. The heavy wool muffled the sounds, creating a tiny, suffocating world of red and gold.

“Ummi?” His voice was a tremble, a tiny vibration.

She dropped to her knees, grabbing his shoulders, her gaze burning into his. “Listen to me, habibi. Listen.”

“They are coming,” he whimpered, his eyes darting to the sliver of light between the carpets.

“I know.” She forced a calm she didn’t feel. She pulled a small, crumpled wad of dinars from her dress and pressed it into his palm, closing his fingers over it one by one. “You are going to play the game now. The hiding game. Just like we practiced.”

“No,” he pleaded, tears pooling in his lashes. “Not without you.”

“Samir!” Her voice was a hiss, fierce and desperate. “You must. You are small. You are fast. You will go under the tables. You will be a mouse. You will not stop until you see the water. Do you understand?”

Heavy boots slammed against the pavement nearby. A vendor shouted in protest, but was silenced by the sickening sound of a blow.

They were seconds away.

Ummi kissed his forehead, hard and desperate, breathing in the scent of him: sweat and soap and baby dust—one last time. “I love you. Now go.”

She shoved him toward the gap beneath the tables.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his face a mask of terror, before he dropped to his belly. He scrambled into the darkness beneath a display of copper pots, his small body vanishing into the gloom.

Noor waited one heartbeat. Two.

Then she burst from behind the carpets, not toward the river, but back into the heart of the market.

“I am here!” she screamed, her voice tearing through the humid air. “I am here!”

She ran.

Under the tables, the world was a forest of legs and shoes.

Samir pressed his cheek against the cool, dirt-packed ground. Above him, the copper pots clanged and chimed as his mother knocked into the stall. He heard her scream, a sound that made his stomach twist into a hard knot.

“Run,” she had said. “Be a mouse.”

He squeezed his eyes shut as heavy boots thundered past his hiding spot, chasing the sound of her voice. They didn’t see him. They only saw the woman running in the open.

He opened his eyes and crawled.

Dust coated his tongue. The air smelled of old onions and unwashed feet. He slithered past a pair of worn sandals, then a woman’s long black abaya. He moved to the next stall, where crates of chickens loomed high. The birds clucked nervously, feathers drifting down like dirty snow.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

He could hear shouting in the distance. His mother’s voice was farther away now, drawing the wolves away from him.

He reached a gap between two stalls—a sliver of sunlight that promised the alleyway. He paused, his heart hammering against his ribs like a fist. A guard stood just ten feet away, his back turned, a rifle slung over his shoulder.

Samir held his breath. He waited for a donkey cart to rattle past, the noise masking his movement.

Now.

He scrambled across the open patch of dirt and dove behind a stack of wooden pallets. He was small. He was fast. He was a ghost.

From his new hiding spot, he looked back. Far down the main thoroughfare, the crowd had parted. He saw a flash of blue—his mother’s dress.

She had stopped running.

Two men had her by the arms. She wasn’t fighting anymore. She looked back, scanning the shadows of the market, her face pale and stricken.

For a second, across the distance and the dust, he thought she saw him. He thought her shoulders sagged in relief.

Then a black SUV screeched to a halt beside her. The back door opened, swallowing her whole.

Samir pressed his hand over his mouth to stifle a sob. The wad of money in his other hand was warm and damp with sweat.

He turned away from the car, away from the mother who had just sold her life for his, and faced the alleyway that led to the river.

He ran.

Sammy bolted upright in bed, gasping, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.

The silence of the room was deafening after the market’s roar.

His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

His hand flew to his chest, then down to his side, as if still searching for the comforting warmth of his mother’s hand, or the wad of dinars she’d pressed into his palm.

He was awake. He was safe. He was not seven years old, crawling through the dust of Basra.

But the phantom scent of lamb and diesel fumes still clung to him. The image of the black SUV, swallowing his mother whole, was burned behind his eyelids.

He swung his legs out of bed, running a hand through his damp hair. His eyes fell on the tactical pack slumped against the wall, ready for tomorrow’s departure.

This time, he vowed, the memory fueling a cold, hard resolve, this time I’m not running away. I’m coming back for you, Ummi.