Lindsay McKenna – Taking Fire (страница 14)

Her cover was solid because her father had been born in the village of Dur Babba, and she was his daughter, part of the Shinwari Tribe.

The days of being held, questioned and tortured by Sangar Khogani, chief of the Hill tribe, had changed her life forever. And if not for the village women who risked their own lives to save hers, she wouldn’t be here today. The week they’d hid her in a nearby cave, her back a mass of bloody strips of flesh, had passed in a semiconscious, feverish daze.

It was weeks later, septic and near death, that one woman villager had walked ten miles into an American forward operating base, asking for help, that Khat was rescued. And it was when she was hospitalized at Bagram, that the terror of nearly dying, the flay that had stripped her flesh from her body, had welled up through her. Khat understood her soul was fractured by the capture and subsequent torture interrogation. She had shut down her violent emotions, stuffed them into a deep, dark hole within herself. As she lay in the hospital recuperating, she became emotionally numb to everything. A robot of sorts, her Afghan blood thirsting for revenge against the Hill tribe for what they did to her and her people.

The past four years, Khat had left a trail of blood, and she never blinked when killing a Hill tribesman. They’d murdered so many of her people over the years. They had raped Shinwari women, girls and boys. They murdered their husbands, sons and brothers. She stood between her tribe and Sangar Khogani’s Hill tribe.

It hurt to feel those violent emotions once again, reliving them all, and Khat hated it. Mike’s kiss, his care, ripped the lid off that dark, wounded place within her. She understood he didn’t know what he’d done to her. His intent had been pure and unselfish because she could still feel his strong mouth curved against her own, giving to her, not taking anything away from her.

Rubbing her cheek, the tears continuing to flow, Khat couldn’t stop them. Mike had unknowingly released all the demons from her past, but he’d also released her as a woman from a dormant state, too.

Wiping her cheeks dry as she rode, the horse moving silently down the narrow, rock-strewn goat path, the mountain’s giant shadow covering them from the thin moonlight, Khat didn’t want to remember that time. Mike’s kiss had been completely unexpected. He’d blindsided her and yet, she felt no anger over what he’d done. After all, she’d been a willing participant. She could have said no. She could have stepped away. But she didn’t. Why? Why?

The goat path curved. In another mile, she would be home to her pool cave. Her mind was spewing out memories of her torture at the hands of the Taliban.

The Marine Corps had sent her home to recover. Her parents had been horrified over the extent of her wounds; her back and shoulders flayed by a whip, the metal tips tearing up her tender flesh, forever marking her.

Her father, Jaleel Shinwari, was a civil engineer who had moved from Dur Babba precisely because the village was closest to the violent, aggressive Hill tribe. He had moved to San Diego, California. There, her mother, Glenna, met and married him. Khat was the result of that union, half Afghan, half American.

It was hard enough to deal with the torture for Khat, but her father nearly went insane because of what had happened to her. He was Afghan and believed in an eye for an eye. He wanted revenge, but was helpless to make it happen, so his anger had turned toward her.

Recovering at the San Diego Naval Hospital, Khat had enough to deal with. He’d gotten into an argument with her mother at her bedside one day, saying that her life was ruined, that no man would ever look at her again. Jaleel wanted her to marry, to give him grandchildren, carry on their proud Afghan lineage to the next generation. His words were just as deeply scarring and life changing to Khat as being whipped by the Taliban.

She was damaged goods, he’d cried, pacing the room, filled with anger and helplessness. No man would want her once he saw her scarred body. She was ugly. Her mother had heatedly argued otherwise, but on that day, something fragile and beautiful to her as a woman had died.

Now, by the time she arrived back at the cave, Khat felt shattered inwardly once more. Only in a very different way. She’d gone through the motions of caring for her horses, watering and feeding them. It was nearly 0200 in the morning. Her hands trembled as she made herself some tea. Just the custom of making it calmed her somewhat.

Only this time, Mike wasn’t here with her.

Drawing in a ragged breath, Khat closed her eyes, waiting for the water to boil. He was larger than life. He was a man. And somehow, he’d slipped into her closed heart. Khat didn’t know how it had happened or why. But it had. The cave seemed sterile without his presence.

As she sat on the sleeping bag, her back against the cave wall, mug in her hand, Khat swallowed hard. Tears were just at the periphery of her eyes, her heart and mind in utter turmoil. Nothing could change. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to change the trajectory of her life because of his one kiss. But Mike’s guttural challenge to her, that he’d find her, that he wouldn’t allow her to walk away as he had this time, scared Khat. And it called to her, a whisper in the halls of her shattered heart.

His kiss had awakened her from a deep sleep of ignoring herself as a woman with a rich palette of emotions, of normal human needs and desires. His mouth had been like a key opening up the treasured awareness of her own body, igniting it into bright, burning life once more. He’d uncaged her yearnings she’d had before this had happened. Before that, she’d always known that someday, she’d meet a man who would hold her heart gently between his hands, respect her, love her. Khat had dreams and hopes. And yes, she’d wanted children by this man and to live happily ever after.

Mouth twisting, Khat stared into the gloom of the other cave in front of where she sat. She had been so young and naive, in her early twenties, so filled with idealistic dreams, hopes and desires. And it had all come to a crashing, violent end when she was twenty-four.

Lifting her gaze to the ceiling, hot tears stung her eyes. Khat was helpless to stop them this time. She’d stopped crying the day her torture began. Tonight, after Mike’s kiss, she cried long and hard. When she doused the light of the lantern, Khat lay on the sleeping bag Mike had used. It gave her comfort, and she could still smell his masculine scent in the fabric. It was as if he were still here.

Closing her eyes, feeling sleep pulling at her, Khat realized that she wanted to see Mike again, too. His kiss had made her aware of just how lonely she really was. The cave was now a symbol of a different sort for her. Before, it had been safety, hiding from her pain. It served as a buffer, an isolation, so that she didn’t have to live again, only exist.

Tears slipped from her eyes, warm and trailing down her face. To acknowledge all of this was too much for Khat to accept. Five years had hardened her resolve; her focus was on her people, not herself. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make. Sometimes, Khat understood, her personal needs, whatever they were, were quietly tucked away for the good of others. And it had to remain that way.

* * *

“SO, WHO THE HELL is she, Mac?” Mike asked Chief John McCutcheon.

He sat in the office with the man who held the daily reins of Delta Platoon. Mike had awakened early the morning after arriving at Camp Bravo, sat with Mac, as they all called him, and told him the entire story.

The chief was forty, had been a SEAL since he was eighteen, was married and had two grown sons. His wife, Pamela, was a schoolteacher in San Diego.

Mac rubbed his black scruffy beard and scowled. He sat with all the notes that Tarik had written down. “Black ops, for sure.” He pulled his laptop over and entered a password to get into the top secret network of SEALs and other agencies, like the CIA, Army Delta operators, Army Special Forces and Marine Force Recons utilized. Pulling up a map of their area, thirty miles between Bravo and the Pakistan border, he clicked on Marine Force Recons. It would show where teams or single operators, who were snipers, were presently located.

For safety reasons, all assets out in the Hindu Kush, no matter what black ops group it was, were updated out of Bagram four times a day. When identified as a friendly, it meant air assets or other black ops groups in the same area would not shoot each other by mistake, thinking they were the enemy. Mac stared at the map, zeroing in on where Tarik had been picked up.

“Come over here,” he said, gesturing for him to pull up a chair and sit next to him. “Look at the area where your team was.” He pointed to the enlarged map.

Mike came over, turned the chair around, sat down, his arms across the top of it. The doctor had put an old-fashioned plaster cast on his lower left arm. It was a nuisance. Looking at where Mac placed his finger, he scowled. “That’s the area,” he muttered. He saw no red dot that indicated a friendly operator in the area. “Why the hell wouldn’t she be marked as a friendly?”