“What was that you said about stealing?” he challenged.
“Borrowing.”
“You intend to return it?”
“When you retrieve your weapons.” She nodded. “For you,” she said, setting items on the ground.
“What—”
“A kurta and turban. The Taliban insist on a strict dress code, and it will hide your blond hair better than a baseball hat, which makes you look very American and very military.”
Right once again. Which was starting to tick him off. Wished he could think of something smart-alec to say. Instead, he finished burying the ruck, spread some scrub over it, then turned.
Jazani was there, hands muddied. She reached toward him.
“Hey! What—”
“You are too … Women will notice.” She smoothed mud into his stubble. Then dusted it off. “And when the women notice, the men will notice.”
“And what happens when they see a beautiful woman walking with a dirty, muddied man?”
“Who says they will even notice the dirtied, muddied man at that point?”
He frowned.
“It was a joke, Rage. I will be in a burqa. Nobody will see anything.”
Man, he should correct his name, but giving her his real one… seemed a betrayal. A giving-in.
“There.” Her hands rested on his shoulders as she considered him, and forced him to look into those green-brown eyes with gold flecks.
She was beautiful. No denying it. He’d noticed that when she was Malala. Had been intrigued by the interpreter who seemed to communicate so much to the fake Kasra and, now that he considered that time, marveled that she’d made no obvious misstep.
Her expression seemed to soften beneath his assessment. Hesitation perched on her small nose. “I think that …”
He stepped from her touch and nodded in the direction of the city. “Let’s get this done.”
Relief washed through her features with a near smile. “Their shop is not far.”
Ten minutes later, she had threaded her way into the burqa and negotiated the streets like the professional she was. Which should bother him, but he just wanted to get out of the open before they were recognized. They climbed stairs and made their way down a hall.
When the door opened, Kasra inclined her head. “Gabina—”
“Ah!” A thin, short woman pulled the madam into a hug. A stream of Pashto flew between the two in a merry greeting.
He slid into the flat behind them and checked the hall once more, then locked the door. Did a quick scan of the living space?—one large room with two doors splitting off. Bathroom and a bedroom, he guessed. Two children playing on a thick rug with cushions.
Hands behind his back, ready to snatch the Sig Sauger holstered there, Range stood by the door. Had a good line of sight on the street via open windows and could hear voices floating up through the wood floors from the shop below.
“Gabina,” Kasra said, pausing with her friend and indicating to him, “this is … Rage.”
He stiffened at the misnomer, but let it go. Nodded at the woman. Better nobody knew his real name anyway.
The friend gave him a hesitant smile, her probing gaze taking him in. Finally, she focused on her friend. “How are you here? What of …?”
“Roud.” The madam gave a sharp nod. “We”—she eyed him, obviously debating how much to say about his role in ruining her chance to flee—“escaped.”
Gabina gasped, hand going to her mouth. “How did you do this? Withhishelp?” Then she caught her friend’s hand and held it close. “It is dangerous, Kasra. You know what will happen—”
