“You stopped yourself.”
“What if next time, I can’t? You asked me to make sure Mateenlived. The only way I can do that is if I stay awake.”
I lay my fingers over his hand—the onenotholding a weapon—and squeeze gently. “Come lie down. Give me the gun. I can stay up. If I hear or see anything, I will wake you.”
Nomar checks his watch, and from the way he sighs and the set of his shoulders, I think I have convinced him.
But when he tries to get to his feet, he groans and his back hits the wall of the mosque.
“Merde. Let me help you.”
His one-armed embrace is born of necessity, not desire, but it makes me feel more alive than I have in a decade. He does not hide his pain, or how difficult each step is, but we make it back inside and I lower him down to the floor.
“Dizzy,” he whispers. “Need to leave…at sunrise.” His fingers find mine, and he holds on tight. “Can’t be…late or…they’ll leave…without us.”
“I will wake you.” For a moment, he stares at me so desperately, the world stops, and it is just the two of us on this dirty floor. Until he shudders and his grip goes slack. “Please, hold on for me,” I murmur. Leaning closer, I press my lips to the back of his hand. His skin is clammy and his breathing shallow. “Mateen needs you. And so do I.”
CHAPTER THREE
Nomar
“You are too sick to drive,”Lisette says after settling a barely conscious Mateen in the back seat.
She’s right, but we’re heading into a Taliban hotbed. If anyone sees a woman behind the wheel, we’re fucked. “It’s two hours. I’ll make it.”
Her green eyes narrow.“Merde.Why will you not let me help you? I know the risks, Nomar. I can cover my hair. Do you have a hat? Or I can tear material from my abaya.”
“No.” Pointing to the back seat, I grit my teeth as a spasm of pure agony racks my torso. “Mateen needs you. If he throws up again…”
The poor kid vomited only minutes after trying a bite of one of my protein bars, and there’s a sickly sweet scent oozing from his pores. I don’t know what’s wrong, but it’s serious.
“And you could pass out and crash the car.”
“I won’t. I know my limits, Lisette. Get in.” Every minute we spend arguing is one I might not have before my body gives up completely. We have to drive through half of Mazar-i-Sharif to reach the safe house or I might have let her take the wheel.
The engine protests as I turn the key. This old compact is a piece of shit, but it had almost a full tank of gas when I boosted it yesterday afternoon.
“Keep it together,” I whisper, patting the dashboard. I don’t know if I’m talking to the car or to myself—or both.
* * *
Cities are universal.Crime. Poverty. Drugs. Then rich, opulent areas with luxury cars, gleaming storefronts, and the ability to disappear. For a price.
Every kilometer ratchets up the tension in the car. Lisette holds Mateen close, rocking him gently and singing to him—Au Clair de la Lune, I think. I only catch a few words here and there over the sound of the engine.
I meet her gaze in the rearview mirror. Fuck. She’s terrified. “We’re almost there. Mateen’s going to be okay.” I don’t think she believes me.
Less than five minutes later, I pull the car into an alley.
Trev’s boss hooked us up with this safe house. A two-bedroom apartment with a private garage and only one other tenant in the building. If I were alone, I’d waltz right up to the front door. But with Lisette and the kid…that’s a bad fucking idea. Even in this neighborhood.
There’s no one around so early in the morning, but the smells of cooking waft through the air as I brace my body against the trunk and reach for my duffel bag. The damn thing feels like it weighs two hundred pounds, and I almost drop it twice before I sling it over my shoulder.
Lisette tries to pull Mateen from the back seat, but the little boy whines in protest. “Mon bébé, I need you to help me now. Please. We are going to see Dr. Joey.”
“Nuh-huh,” he says loudly. Lisette begs him again, but he’s not having any of it.
“I’ll take him.” I wrap my fingers around her upper arm, and she flinches.
