CHAPTERONE
Kandahar Province, Afghanistan
Most infuriating wasthe breed of animal whose fierce self-preservation instincts aroused very mercurial behaviors when said instincts were poked. Men. Nothing they did surprised her. They were predictable, pathetic, and predatory.
Not that she was bitter. Simply … well informed.
Since men could not control themselves, she was outfitted in a hijab and abaya in the unrelenting heat—not as bad as summer months—but still smothering. Regardless, she would not be diverted from her purpose or the hope tingling in her veins. Not today. If she was careful enough, she could send a message at the café to one whose name never crossed her tongue. It had been her last chance.
Kasra surveyed the paltry offerings of her favorite produce vendor and sighed at the limited selection. Drought and fighting had threatened crops over the last few years, then add to that the unpredictable border closures into Pakistan restricting fruit exports, and it left little and even less variety. Then again, she should only take what would not spoil quickly. That alone limited her choices.
And somehow reminded her of an encounter some weeks back.
A man approached the stand, his gaze skimming over hers. She need not look to see it happen; she felt it. Always had. It prickled the hairs on the back of her neck. He picked up a pomegranate, popped it in the air, and caught it. Grinning at her—something that somehow threw light into the prettiest of blue eyes she had seen in ages. “Khayista.” After a wink to her and tossing an afghani to the vendor, the man moved on.
Beautiful, he had whispered.
Ignoring his open innuendo, Kasra cursed herself for slipping away without her bodyguard. Too many men flirted, especially Americans like him. It was as if she had a sign over her head declaring her profession. Like bees to honey.
So why was she still wondering if he’d meant her or the pomegranate?
Were Americans so bold when they were intheircountry? She had yet to meet a man—of any nationality—whose eyes did not narrow in thought when he learned her … profession. The one she had not chosen.
Time is short, Kasra. She must keep the timeline or eighteen months of planning and preparing would be destroyed.
She rubbed her neck and handed twenty afghanis to the vendor with a nod. “Manana.” At another shop, she picked up another disposable phone. Plucking more afghanis from her purse, she made her way to the vendor to pay.
A small purple and yellow stuffed bear lured Kasra from her mission. Throat constricting, she touched the bear. Traced its large black nose.
Would she like this one? Does she even like purple?Her birthday was soon. Perhaps—
A vise clamped her wrist. “Ma aladhi tafealuh huna?” a man growled lowly, yanking her around, outrage radiating off him.
Taken by surprise, she stumbled, his grip shaking the phone and money from her hand. That cold, iron rod slid into her spine as she met the pocked face.
A frequent visitor to the compound.
“Release me,” she hissed at him in their native Pashto. “Or all who are even now staring will knowyourbusiness, Halim Alikhel. What would your wife say? Your children?” Rising into the confidence she had been forced to adopt after years of dealing with hypocritical men, she pressed into his personal space. “What will the mosque say? The other imams, when they find out that one of their own—”
His hand flew hard and fast across her face.
But this, too, she was used to. This, too, she had learned how to handle. When he went to strike her again, she flicked her hand up. Used a slice-hand to nail his wrist, which she then grabbed, bending the thumb back toward it with her other hand.
When he cried out, she stilled. Shoved him back several steps.
“Khuda hafez.”
Rage twisted his face into a knot. “You will regret this.”
“No, it is you who will regret this if Taweel learns what you have done here.”
At this Alikhel paled.
Though Kasra hated invoking the name of the man who controlled her and the compound, she took great pleasure in the way this fool scampered away.
Delivered of the insipid man, she slowed her breathing. So much for a respite. She retrieved the phone, money, and paid for them—minus the colorful bear. She could not do much forher, except spare her the disgrace of being associated with the notorious Madam of Kandahar.
Ache raw, she headed to her car and set the items on the passenger seat. She made her way around to the driver’s side when something cracked against her temple.
