“We will not stay long. But I beg for help. We need … supplies to get away before it is too late. Only a few things, really. Necessities, and I could think of no one I trusted more than you. Can you—”
“Of course!” Gabina’s eyes brightened. “Anything. You know this. Come, come.” She started for the back room.
The two acted more like friends going on a vacation together than a madam and a friend packing supplies for an escape from the city. The Pashto was too hot and fast to track fully. Range moved around the two-room flat and shouldered up against the shutters to the balcony window. Scanned the street, while listening to the women.
“He is handsome,” Gabina whispered in Pashto. “Are you escaping with him? Is that what—”
“No!” Kasra hissed. “Never. I … I paid him to help me. They are already looking for me. One plan was ruined.”
Too much info. Dial it back, Jazani.He slid a glower toward her and found her gaze waiting.
Something quieter whispered between them, and he got the distinct impression she was trying to hide her words from him. Gaze sharp, he sent as much warning as he could not to compromise them.
She met and held his gaze.
But what he saw there was not flirtation or even anger. It was something that went hand-in-hand with that other feeling—fear—he’d seen before: sadness.
Was she planning to double-cross him?
Shadows shifted on the street below.
Range snapped his gaze to the road, palming his Sig. Lifting it from the holster as two shapes bled from the shadows. Strode into the shop below. Two more behind. “Company,” he hissed, hurrying to her even as voices echoed in the stairwell. “Move. Now!” Weapon out, he angled toward the door, reaching to swing her behind him.
“Please, no—it is Coman.” Gabina rushed to the door, one hand on the knob, a palm aimed at Range. Eyes pleading. “My husband.”
Kasra was in front of him, her eyes wide and outraged. “Put it away.”
“Not happening.”
She leaned in. “This is my friend’s home. With children. Put. It. Away.”
“So, children’s innocence matters to you now?”
The door opened, ushering in a man. A broad smile split his dark beard as he greeted his wife, but vanished when he lit on Range and the gun he had been too slow in returning to its holster. “What—”
“Sh–sh.” Catching her husband’s shoulder, Gabina shut the door. “Peace, please. He helped Kasra.”
“By holding us hostage?” the man balked, clearly affronted.
Range held the man’s gaze, unrepentant. “No hostages,” he said in Pashto. “Just readiness. You came home rather fast in the middle of the day.”
Displeasure apparent, Coman cleared his throat as he narrowed dark eyes on Range. “Word came to me that strangers had entered our home. Now what am I to wonder when I find an unknown man in my home witha gun?”
“Please.” Kasra went to the man. “I know this is terrible, and I will leave if you insist. I came for help. Your help, Coman.”
Coman frowned, heard one of the kids laugh. “Children. In the bedroom. Now.”
With pouts but no complaints, the two shuffled into the other room.
Gabina closed the door and turned back to them. The man swallowed, and there was a stiff, silent conversation happening between the two. “What kind of help?”
“Supplies,” Kasra said. “Food, clothes. A car would be good.”
“What is this, Kasra?” Coman demanded in Pashto. “Word is all over the city about the compound—there was a raid. That Americans”—the man’s eyes stabbed Range—“took all the girls.”
“They did not”—she flinched—“take them all. I …” She touched her forehead. “It is a long story to tell with you so angry.”
“It’s a longer story than we have time for,” Range put in, his Pashto not perfect but pretty close.
