“Out on another op,” he said.
“Does it seem strange to you that the Madam of Kandahar, responsible for trafficking dozens, if not hundreds, across the province, doesn’t speak English?”
“Yep.” Pike was unfazed. “There’s a local one we’ve used a few times at the base. She’s here—rounded up with the others.”
“Wait—she’s a—one ofhers?” Range stabbed a finger at the glass. “And you trust her to talk to the madam?”
“We’ve used Malala before.”
Range straightened, scowling. “Do what? How could you trust her? Why would y—” The explanation formed before him.
Pike grinned. “See? There’s that reason I wanted you with Omen.”
Again eying the woman, he considered the chief’s play. “You really think she’ll tell the interpreter something?”
“Counting on it.”
“And you know Pashto, too.”
“Pretty boy, and smarts?” Pike clicked his tongue. “Definitely Omen material.”
Range studied the woman who still seemed shorter than he remembered. Then again, they hadn’t been standing side by side. She’d been a flurry of strikes and kicks that had kept him on his toes—and on his butt a couple of times.
Scratching his jaw, Pike eyed her. “Gotta admit, she’s impressive. I mean, look at her—pretty face, got those ninja skills she used on you”—he made a few corny knife-hand strikes?—“and she runs that whole compound. Incredible, all things considered.”
“All things considered, she’s the spawn of Satan.” Fed up with people only seeing her beauty, Range glanced out the door. “How’s Brick doing with Osuli?”
“Nothing.”
“Hey, Boss,” Luther said, guiding a woman into the room. “Terp’s here.”
Pike nodded, his expression suddenly different. “As-Salaam alaikum, Malala.”
Range shifted around, stunned at the women before him. Something about her ricocheted through his mind.It’s her!
Thick, dark hair framed an olive face with full pink lips and?—browneyes. She had brown eyes. But Jazani had hazel eyes?—like the woman in the room. The likeness between the two was crazy.
“Wa-alaikum salaam.” Malala smiled. Cheeks pinked, she inclined her head. “With so perfect a greeting, I wonder why you would seek my help.”
“No hijab,” Range noted.
Her brown eyes hit his. “Since the American military has left, the Taliban has risen back to power and now insist I must cover myself because Muslim men cannot control themselves.” She seemed amused as she met his gaze. “Must I wear one here, too?”
Luther barked a laugh and slapped Range’s chest. “Ouch, Pretty Boy.”
“What happened to your cheek?” Range wondered if she’d gotten that sparring like Jazani.
“Sometimes,” Malala said quietly, “what we are made to do in Roud comes with … abuse.”
Landry gave him a disgusted look for asking the question.
“Malala,” Pike said as he motioned her out of the room. “You know her, yes?”
The woman glanced at the interview room. “Of course. She is Madam.”
Pike shared a glance with Range, then refocused on the terp. “We need help translating, and you’ve done that before. Can we trust you to translate for us?” He inclined his head. “Would it be too difficult, considering her position?”
“No … I would be glad to help. What she has done …” She hunched her shoulders.
