Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 39250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 196(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 196(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
“Is someone there?” a female voice croaked. In English.
“Step away from the helicopter,” I commanded. I quickly got out my flashlight, having hoped to avoid using it, and I switched it on. “Show yourself.”
“Please don’t shoot!” She appeared in the light and squinted, and she raised her hands. “I’m an American—I-I have my passport. Please don’t shoot me.”
I wasn’t gonna fucking shoot her. But who the hell was she, and had she been hiding here or in the helicopter?
I flooded her with light, taking in her dirty appearance. She was dressed like a man, but she was holding a burqa in her grasp. Disguises? If she traveled by night on her own, the male clothes made sense. Which—no. She couldn’t have been here in the mountains.
“Don’t move,” I ordered. I closed the distance between us, threw the burqa on the ground, and began patting her down.
“I’m n-not armed,” she stammered.
Arms, waist, hips… What was that—a soap bar? Some gum too. Up and down her legs, her back, and the insides of her thighs, which made her freeze up. Sorry, cupcake, wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable, but you fucking started it with your presence. There. I located her passport taped to the inside of her leg. Once I was convinced she wasn’t carrying a weapon, I holstered my gun and walked past her and peered inside the cabin. She’d come out from here. The door was open. That was what I’d heard.
“Give me the passport and tell me why the fuck you’re in Afghanistan,” I said.
She scrambled to do as told. “I’m an aid worker. My convoy was overrun almost six months ago, and I’ve been in hiding since then.”
I heard the ripping sound as she tore the passport from her skin, and she handed it to me.
I circled back to her front and opened the passport. “What organization?”
Kiera Talon Lane.
Interesting middle name.
“The Lunch Box—it’s a CLC Global branch,” she replied.
I’d heard of it. They worked to deliver food and education, especially for underage girls in regions like this one.
I aimed the flashlight at her face. “Define overrun.”
She swallowed nervously, and she looked like the definition of a deer getting caught in the headlights. Big, brown doe eyes, fear written all over. Her dark hair was up for now, but it was coming loose.
“We were coming through a mountain pass, backroads only, when we heard gunfire,” she said. Her gaze flickered, and I fixed my stare to catch every single reaction. “Before I knew it, they were everywhere. Some on foot, some on motorcycles, and some on horses. They—” She choked up a little. “I think they killed them all. I-I managed to run away.”
“How many of you were there?” I pressed.
“Six,” she said, sniffling. “Do you want their names? Most of them were from Belgium, me and one more from the US—”
“I’ll want all those details tomorrow when I verify your story,” I replied. “What makes you think they’re dead?”
A shaky breath left her, and it misted in the air. “They were still missing three months ago,” she revealed. “I hid in the mountains for hours, and then I went back, and I-I…” This time, she couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down. “There was so much blood.”
Yeah, they were probably dead. But it must’ve made the news back home. Sometimes, I avoided the news at all costs because the world was fucking depressing, but I should’ve heard… Regardless, I was 100% certain I would’ve heard about this if anybody had demanded a ransom. Ransom was like a trigger word that echoed through private agencies.
“Follow me.” I lowered my flashlight and went over to pick up my backpack. “It’s safer to talk inside.” I wanted to inspect her passport more too.
She must’ve made contact with someone at home if she knew her coworkers were missing.
“You have a house here?”
A house was a stretch.
I didn’t respond.
Fucking hell. Now what? I wasn’t breaking protocol for her; I had a job to do. But it went without saying that I was bringing her home eventually, so I didn’t see any choice other than letting her stay.
“Are we in Pakistan?” she asked next.
“No.”
“Uz… Um.” She was doing the math, wasn’t she? We hadn’t been in the air long enough to make it to Uzbekistan. “We’re still in Afghanistan.”
“You’re sharp.” I shone the light on the trail down the ridge until we arrived at the tiny dwelling.
The inside was roughly ten-by-ten feet, and I could only hope the last operator who’d been here had left the place the way he’d found it. As in, always with a few hours’ worth of firewood and a closed chimney.
“How old are you?” I asked, yanking the door open. Sand fine as dust was kicked up in the beam of light, and I ducked my head to enter.