His mere presence jammed her heart against her chest. She recognized him and when the man first brought her to Fatina, was certain he had recognized her as well. He had stared hard into her eyes—but thankfully the contacts had worked. While he may not remember her, she recalled too well fighting this man with the fierce anger and beautiful eyes when he had taken Aqbari. Where was the traitor now?
As he walked her down a long alley toward the building where she and the others were being kept in a large, well-guarded warehouse, he kept his arms at his side. Hand always near that thigh-holstered pistol.
She doubted she could reach it if needed.
“What do you think?” His voice had a nice sound to it, but then, even knives had a pretty song when sharpened.
Thankfully, Fatina had been well-trained as a decoy and would hold the line as long as possible. Kasra had tried to let her friend know it was okay to give them some information, and had done so in a manner that seemed to draw no attention. Yet, Fatina remained quiet. “She will not say much.”
He did not respond, though she could tell he was thinking deeply.
Long had she prided herself on being able to read people, and this man had skills that could dismantle everything she had worked for, her entire plan to free the girls. Already he had interrupted it, and she despised him for it. Every second in this place made it more likely that Taweel would learn they had been taken by the Americans. He would come, and she would be murdered. Because of this man.
“You’re angry.”
Startled that he so accurately read her, she looked up—straight into those blue eyes. Her nerves rattled and caused her breath to struggle up her throat. She focused on the gate to the walled-in area where she and the others were allowed to get fresh air and the children to play, shaded beneath a large canopy that likely prohibited satellites from seeing into the yard. As for his statement, it would be better, easier, to own the feeling than keep track of another lie.
“I am,” she finally conceded. She slowed and glanced back in the direction they’d come, searching for some plausible justification to give him.
He reached out and caught her arm, directing her back toward the enclosure, perhaps mistaking her intent as one to return to the other building, or worse, to flee.
Kasra would use his concerns. “She … she sits there in silence as if she has all the time in the world, yet”—she slid her gaze to those beyond the iron gate that barred the others from leaving and her from entering—“if they learn we are here, the punishment …”
Allah, have mercy on us!
“Won’t be pretty.”
She sniffed and shook her head. How much should she betray? “This life … our lives,” she corrected, “is not pretty. Not one that any of us chose.”
“Can’t fathom your own people abusing you so horribly.”
“Can you not?” she challenged, knowing this was not a problem isolated to one people, but to the entirety of the human race. “Roud was not frequented by only Afghans …”
Something dark slid through his gaze. “Americans went to Roud.”
The way he said that somehow embarrassed her.
“Despicable.”
Did he mean her, or the men …?
With a terse expression, he nodded, understanding parked on his furrowed brow. “I have a feeling not much gets past you.”
He had no idea.
“Since you live there, surely you’ve seen the boss come and go ... I mean, clearly you know Americans are coming, so you see a lot. And you’re smart.”
Flattery. Designed to ply words from one he deemed innocent. It should not surprise that he would work her for information as well. “I see much.”
Head tilted to the side, he paused in their trek. “Can you give us a name?” He indicated back to the other building where Fatina was held in isolation. “Help us put her and her boss away. For good. Shut down Roud.”
Only a fool would believe that could happen. If not Roud here in Kandahar Province, then Roud elsewhere. Taweel would simply relocate and the girls would still be forced to give their bodies to men. That had been why she worked for a year to put together an escape that should have worked.Wouldhave worked. Had it not been for this man.
Anger sprouted through her chest. And she wondered why—it was an ineffective emotion. Only served to muddle the mind.
“Fatina,” he said, inching nearer and lower his gaze to hers, “use that anger and turn it against these people who have so horribly abused you. Help us help you.”
Smooth, masterful words. “It is dangerous …” Hope. This conversation. The Americans. “If we are returned …”
