His eyebrows lifted. “Seriously?” And he smiled.
The first she had seen since they’d left the safehouse and it warmed her heart. A lot more than it should. “It is probably cold. And squished.” She held it out so he could take some.
“Doesn’t change how it tastes.” He plucked a deep-fried chickpea ball from the box and popped it into his mouth.
“I am not responsible for its … after-effects,” she teased, pulling water from her bag and setting it in the cupholder.
He said nothing, and she accepted the ensuing silence. At least he wasn’t yelling at her. She ate and tried to put aside the intense experience, thinking he’d abandoned her. It should not affect her after all these years …
There were more important matters. Should she push into this silence? She must. Knowledge was power. “Am I allowed to know where we are going?”
He pointed through the windshield. “South.”
Of course he would not tell her. Just because he smiled at her and ate the falafel, did not mean he—
“There’s an airstrip we’ll hit by nightfall,” came his gruff addendum. “Foamy Zebra was a code for this location.”
She laughed. “I had wondered …” Her gaze hit his, and she felt something twist in her stomach. “Thank you.”
Arm on the ledge of the driver’s side door window, he kept his gaze on the road now. “And I don’t know anything about the others. Intel has been brief.”
A thought—a fear—stole into her mood. “Then how do you know it can be trusted? That we are not going all this way for nothing?”
“Because I know the man who supplied it.”
She understood that. Settling, her nerves no longer vibrating, she retrieved a mango, which made her mouth water. Only … she had no knife. No way to cut or peel it. With a huff, she sagged. Bent back to the bag to—
A tap on her arm drew her gaze to the side.
Rage held out a knife to her, flipped it, hilt-side extended. “And I trust you’ll clean it after you’re done and not drive it into my heart.”
“You have one?”
Irritation tightened the smooth planes of his face. “Many would say I don’t.”
She had witnessed his compassion and concern. “Then they are fools. I have seen your kindness.”
“I think you said ‘cruelty’ wrong.”
It made her sad that he thought of himself like that. “I have known enough cruelty to recognize its many forms, and you, Rage, do not have it.”
Giving her the side-eye, he reflected that sadness. “I’m sorry you know it so well.”
“See?” Kasra gave a half smile. “Kindness.”
“That’s not kindness. That’s”—he negotiated around a lumbering truck—“acknowledgement.”
“But many would not even acknowledge it.” She cut the mango, pulling her dirty hijab to catch the juice. “There are times even I do not want to acknowledge it … Wish I could wake up as if it were all a terrible dream …” Why was she babbling on?
Silence chased them once more into the lengthening day. As night fell, Rage turned onto a two-lane road that was not as busy or as well-paved. She did thank Allah for the more comfortable car—not just for the better-cushioned seats, but for the way it handled the rough roads.
After a couple of hours on the pot-hole laden road, he slowed and stopped at another station for gas and to use the amenities. She had expected, since he filled up the tank, that they would be driving for many more hours, but twenty minutes later, he banked onto what seemed a foot path and killed the lights.
He stopped and unbuckled, pulling out his weapon and checking it.
Kasra tensed, suddenly alert. “What’s wrong?”
“Stay.” He moved to the back of the vehicle, soon came the sound of breaking glass, and he returned, tucking a dagger into a sheath at his waist band. They were lumbering again, guided only by moonlight.
