LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      “I already told you. I’m an independent contractor.”

      She applied some healing ointment and wrapped his feet in strips of muslin. As long as he didn’t get an infection, the cuts would heal quickly. His back was a different story. He had a deep laceration that needed sutures. She knelt beside him and cleaned the area as best she could. The work was painful enough to make him lift his head.

      “Be calm,” she said. “It is Layah.”

      He stared at her blearily. “Layah?”

      “I’m taking care of you.”

      “I should bathe, before we...”

      “Hush.”

      She didn’t have any local anesthetic, so she applied a numbing agent. Then she hiked her skirt up to her knees and straddled his waist, because she didn’t trust him not to jerk away from her when she sank the needle in. The contact felt unbearably intimate. It reminded her of stolen nights with Khalil.

      “This would be more fun if I rolled over.”

      She let out a breathy laugh, resting her hand on his back. She was surprised he had the energy for sexual suggestions. “I have to stitch your wound.”

      He groaned in protest.

      “You are strong. Stay still.”

      His shoulder twitched as the needle penetrated his skin. “Are you a doctor?”

      “Yes.”

      “Why are you here?”

      “In Iraq? I was born here.”

      “In Telskuf.”

      She closed the cut with neat sutures. “I came for you.”

      “Why?”

      “I want you to take me across the Zagros Mountains.”

      “I’m not a pilot.”

      “We

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