And stopped short. “What the …?” He sheathed the dagger. It was like something out of a James Bond movie—almost. Not quite as sophisticated, but he half expected Q to come out and start explaining how things worked.
Zaki held his hands toward the space the size of a small warehouse. “Supplies.”
“No kidding.” Racks of handguns, rifles, and knives lined the wall. Phones hung in plastic packaging that was likely more tamperproof than a vault. Backpacks and crates littered the floor with supplies that … shouldn’t be here.
“What exactly do you do for the Ministry of Health?” Range moved to the wall where an M4 peered down at him. “This is American—military grade.” He eyed the guy, not appreciating the likelihood of how he’d come into possession of all this. “How d’you end up with this?”
Zaki nodded around. “The same I did with the others. They were either left or … borrowed. And there are certain soldiers who, in exchange for information, look the other way when weapons go missing.”
“You’re spying on your own people?” Range balked, half tempted to turn the weapon on the guy.
“Not me.” He shook a finger as if that was beneath him. “But I do not feel it safe for certain people to possess weapons such as these.”
“But it’s safe with you,” Range said, the sarcasm dripping from his words.
“As you see. All safe.”
“Your collection has grown.” Kasra’s soft voice reached through the room and tried to lure him to look at her.
“How did you get in?” Zaki balked. “It was secured.”
“You still use my birthday for the code.” Kasra laughed.
Not in the mood for flirting, Range glanced around and spotted a tactical pack. He grabbed it and stuffed in some flares and flashbangs. From the wall, he took the Glock and M4, hating the way his ears tracked her movement as she came near.
Kasra joined him at the workbench where he picked up seven 30-round mags for the M4. She retrieved a knife and drew off the sheath.
He eyed the blade. The way she handled it. Knew she had the skills to put it to good use.
She shifted around him and lifted a black ruck from a corner.
“Pack light,” he gruffed, crouching and scanning the lower shelf. “We have to walk with whatever we bring.” He spotted a compass and night-vision goggles. Rolled up a couple of shirts. Socks. MREs, though it was probably a kindness if he ate dirt instead.
An hour later, they were back in their rooms. Range dumped his ruck and the new ruck out on the floor and knelt—using kneepads he’d taken from Zaki’s Weapons SuperMart—and started organizing.
“You are avoiding me.”
“Not avoiding,” he lied. “Prepping to leave.” He rolled the shirts, pants, and socks. Set them aside. Things went silent and he wondered if she’d left. But then she set the first-aid kit near the clothes in his periphery. “You should pack.”
“I will never pack the way you do. How do you make it all so small and … tight?”
He kept working because she wasn’t looking for answers. This was small talk, and he didn’t do small talk.
“You know—”
Range pushed to his haunches and straightened. Moved past her.
But she caught his arm.
Anticipating another sparring session, he jerked free. Winced in pain as he lifted his hands. Tried to level as much warning into his expression as he could. “No more.”
“So that’s it?” Her words were strangely thick. “You decide I’m a problem and throw ice between us?”
“Not what I said.” That wasn’t what he’d said. But he didn’t trust himself to talk. Or even to be here right now. “I have to find Zaki.” He stepped into the hall.
“He went into town.”
Range stopped.
