Susan Cliff - Navy Seal Rescue

She bowed her head. “Please forgive me.”

He pardoned the trespass with a flick of his hand. She continued toward the archway, her heart pounding. Although the majority of townspeople had fled during the first strike, some residents had stayed. The sick, the stubborn, the desperate. They hid in their homes and prayed for the occupation to end.

Layah took off the glasses and put them in her pocket. Her eyes hurt from squinting through the dusty lenses, and her throat ached from fake coughing. A glance over her shoulder revealed an empty road. No one was following them.

When they arrived at the abandoned farmhouse, Ibrahim opened the wooden gate and closed it behind them. Then he returned to his post, leaning heavily on his cane. She maneuvered the cart under the shaded awning on the terrace and turned to Ashur.

“Someone who belongs here?” she repeated.

“We are the native people of this land. Not them.”

“You think pointing that out will make any difference?”

“You think making yourself ugly will stop them from raping you?”

She removed the tar from her teeth, rattled by the question. He knew more than a boy his age should. He was angry and difficult and he broke her heart daily.

“You’ll never be too ugly for them. Goats aren’t too ugly for them.”

Laughter bubbled from her throat, despite the tension. Goat-fornicator was a common insult in their language. Ashur shouldn’t repeat the crude talk of adults, but she didn’t have the energy to scold him all the time. She was overwhelmed with other responsibilities. Her people were prisoners and outcasts in their own country. “If you worry about those men hurting me, you should not bait them.”

“I will kill them,” he asserted, thumping a fist against his chest.

She hoped he wouldn’t get the chance. As the oldest male in her immediate family, he’d taken on the role of her protector. Which was ironic, because she was his legal guardian until she found a more suitable arrangement.

Their conversation was interrupted by the American, who shoved aside two bales of straw with a furious heave. His eyes were red-rimmed, his nostrils flared. He appeared larger and more dangerous up close, without her cousins holding him. She was pleased, and a little scared. Neither Ashur nor Ibrahim was capable of defending her against this man, who looked ready to tear her apart. He was bloody and disheveled, with a tangled beard that couldn’t disguise his strong features.

“Water,” he snarled.

“Bring it,” she said to Ashur, afraid to break eye contact with the man.

Ashur filled a tin cup from the nearby barrel. The American drank in huge gulps, rivulets streaming down his dusty throat. Then he leaned against the straw bales, eyes closed. His face was pained, his breaths ragged.

Layah didn’t think he felt well enough to attack her. He wouldn’t try to run with bloody wounds on his feet. The gate was locked. He had nowhere to go. She motioned for Ashur to fetch the tray she’d prepared earlier. Ibrahim kept one eye on her and one eye on the road, squinting in disapproval. He didn’t trust Americans. Neither did Layah, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

She unharnessed the donkey and pushed the remaining bales off the cart to make room. Then she climbed onto the platform and sat down. “Your wounds need to be cleaned.”

He grunted, but didn’t move.

Ashur returned with shawarma and the special tea. After delivering the tray, he led the donkey away to graze. Taking care of the American was Layah’s job. She needed him to make a swift recovery.

He took an experimental sip from the teacup. “What is this?”

“Chai.”

Nodding, he moved on to the shawarma. His appetite was promising. He ate in ravenous bites, barely chewing. She thought he might choke on the meat, but he didn’t. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. He had another tattoo on his upper chest. It was a military symbol, a flying eagle with a trident and an anchor. She wasn’t a fan of Western body art, but she recognized the quality in the work. She also saw beauty in the canvas. His hard-muscled torso was undeniably attractive.

Her gaze rose to his face and connected with his. Heat suffused her cheeks as she realized he’d caught her admiring his bare chest. She was no longer accustomed to being alone with strange men, or men in any state of undress.

“Who are you?”

“I am Layah Anwar Al-Farah,” she said, bowing her head.

“Layah,” he repeated. His voice was husky, with a pleasant rumble. She got the impression that he liked the way she looked, which was good. She wanted him to like her. She could use it to her advantage.

“What is your name, sir?”

“Hud.”

“Hud?”

“Hudson. William.”

“Hudson,” she said, which felt more familiar on her tongue than Hud. She had trouble with monosyllables in English. They sounded bitten-off and incomplete.

“Why did you rescue me?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

His eyes darkened with interest. “What’s that?”

“Please. Finish your tea.”

He emptied the cup, eager to hear more. She wondered if he thought she’d rescued him to warm her bed. She found the idea amusing, considering his condition. He was unwashed, dehydrated, malnourished and wounded. And yet, still appealing.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Better. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You look familiar.”

“We haven’t met.”

“I know. I’d remember. But there’s something about your face...” He touched his own cheek with his knuckles, contemplative. Then he frowned into his empty teacup. “This is drugged.”

“Yes.”

He glanced around, as if searching for an exit. They were inside a small compound, surrounded by concrete walls. “Where are we?”

“In a safe place.”

“In Iraq?”

“Telskuf.”

He set the cup aside. “I have to make a phone call.”

“You can’t. The Da’esh cut all the phone lines and tore down the cell towers.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed. He seemed agitated, but unfocused. She’d given him a hefty dose of narcotic. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to lie down and let me take care of you.”

He blinked drowsily, studying her face. She patted the wool blanket she’d placed in the middle of the platform. He stretched out on his stomach with a wince. She waited a few moments, until his shoulders relaxed and his breathing deepened. She studied his sleep-softened features. His eyelashes were dusty, his forehead creased. The blood on his back had dried into a sticky red-black paste. He had a scar on his elbow from an old surgery. Faded bruises spanned his rib cage from his lean waist to the underside of his right arm. He’d been kicked by his captors. She felt the strange urge to soothe him, stroke his hair.

“What are you doing?” Ashur said, startling her.

She gave him a chiding look. “You should be at your post.”

“I want a gun.”

“What?”

“I can’t stand guard without a gun.”

She pointed at the far wall. “Go keep watch.”

He went with a scowl, kicking a rock across the courtyard. Sometimes she didn’t know what to do with him. She’d inherited a teenager who seemed hell-bent on destruction, and destruction was everywhere they went.

She gathered her medical supplies to tend to the American’s wounds. First, she washed his feet, which were covered with shallow cuts. He stirred as she flushed out the debris, trying to push her hands away.

“I don’t work for the government, you bastards.”

She blinked at his harsh tone. He seemed to think he was still a prisoner, being tortured by the Da’esh.