It was toomuch like Dani. Way too much.
Palming the counter as his stir-fry reheated in the microwave, Range plowed through the last few encounters with Malala. There was a whole lot of rotten happening here. So many things that didn’t connect, so many indicators that said this was a major snafu. Lies buried among lies. And the way she reacted to the captain …
“It is not only Afghans who … come to Roud.”
Was it possible? Had the captain frequented the Roud brothel? Americans stationed here were supposed to make things better, not worse. Fists balled, Range wanted to hang the guy out to dry. Or just hang him. Quicker.
What was he even doing here? Leadership and troops had drawn down more than a year ago. He shouldn’t even be in-country.
“You trying to burn the place down?”
“What?” he groused, looking over his shoulder to the door.
Landry stood there, frowning. Jutted his jaw. “Dude, it’s smoking.”
Range straightened, only then noticing the smoke streaming from the back of the microwave. With a curse, he hit the door button. Smoke and acrid fumes billowed out. He yanked out the now-blackened stir-fry and dropped it in the trash with a huff.
“What’s eating your gray matter?”
Range grabbed a bottled water. “Nothing. Just need a face for a punching bag.”
“Sorry, not volunteering.”
Jaw clenched, he decided to hit the gym again. He shoved past Landry, who caught his shoulder. “Not now.”
“Sometimes it helps to talk it out.”
Range stalked a few more steps, then hesitated. Glanced back. “Before the draw-down, you ever hear of brass hitting Roud … after hours?”
Luther considered him. Shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know many whodidn’tvisit one brothel or another.”
Dade Tycho showed up. “What’re we talking about?”
“You ever visit one?” Landry asked.
“Look,” Tycho said, already sounding defensive, “I might’ve hired a prostitute on a night or two when I was having a hard time being away from my family—and by family, I mean Mom, Dad, sisters, brothers, cousins. But those girls—it’s different, right? It’s their work. How they earn money.”
“Is it?” Range challenged. “Did you see where the money went after you gave it to them?”
“Besides in her bra strap?”
“I really need to deliver you of some teeth,” Landry said.
“No,” Tycho huffed. “I didn’t. But—c’mon. You can’t tell me it’s the same as locking them up and forcing them into sex. You know?”
“Consent draws the line,” Range said, feeling the steeled edge of his voice against his throat. “If there’s a pimp, they’re being controlled. Forced to perform. And no matter what label you use to justify it, you’re as bad as the johns and that madam.”
He stalked away before he did something he regretted. Needed to talk to Pike, all the missing dots blurring the big picture here. As he hoofed it up the stairs to the Command center, laughter trickled from somewhere. When he reached the main level, he noticed the window was cracked a bit. He peered out and found a perfect view overlooking the yard. From the roof to the fifteen-foot concrete wall that enclosed the space, a canvas tarp hung at a steep slope, protecting the area from the sun. It’d become the garden, though only defiant weeds shoved up through the rocks and hardpacked earth, but the tables and chairs somehow invited people to linger. Nothing fancy.
There, huddled to the side, directly below the camera again, were Malala and the madam’s bodyguard, Razam. The woman talking with him was not the same one who had shrank and cowered from the captain. She was possessed once more of confidence and strength. And … authority.
Interesting. Why would she be in authority over the bodyguard?
Raised voices came from the Command center—including Pike’s. Range strode into the room. “Hey, Chief. I—”
“Not now, Pretty Boy.”
Range started, not only at the snapped words from Pike, but that the three men from earlier, including the captain, stood with their arms folded and whatever message they’d delivered thickened the tension in the air.
