Navy Seal Rescue. Susan Cliff

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      “No.”

      He rubbed a hand over his mouth, as if the question had left a bad taste in it.

      “I’m a widow,” she said. “A recent widow, still in mourning.”

      His expression didn’t change. “How recent?”

      “Two years.”

      “Two years is a long time.”

      “In my culture, some widows stay in seclusion for the rest of their lives. Most do not remarry or keep company with men.”

      “Is that your plan? Never remarry?”

      It wasn’t what Khalil would have wanted, but she hadn’t imagined moving on. She also hadn’t imagined kidnapping an American and allowing him to take liberties. She didn’t recognize the woman she’d become.

      Ashur returned with the broom, saving her from responding. He swept up the clumps of hair, his eyes downcast. She wondered what he’d done to make Hudson wary. Ashur was so full of grief and fury. He blamed all Americans for destabilizing the country. He blamed Hudson, in particular, for his father’s death. She couldn’t afford to get caught kissing the man. It might send Ashur over the edge.

      “Do you require anything else, Queen Aunt?” Ashur asked.

      She gestured for him to go. He did an exaggerated bow and left the room. She didn’t think it was funny, but Hudson’s lips quirked with amusement. She crossed her arms over her chest, studying him. “Are you married?”

      “I’m divorced,” he said. “It’s what we do in my culture.”

      “It is not uncommon here, either.”

      “Really?”

      She nodded and turned her attention to the map on the table. She was curious about his past, but she needed to focus on the journey ahead. “I can pay you after we reach our destination.”

      “I don’t want your money.”

      She didn’t ask what he wanted. She already knew. “Please, look at the map. Crossing the Zagros is not as dangerous as attempting to travel within Iraq.”

      “Why can’t you stay here, in this village?”

      “The Yazidi have offered a temporary meeting place, not a permanent refuge.”

      He stood and joined her at the table, his brow furrowed.

      She pointed to a tiny dot on the map. “We are here.” She traced the edge of the mountain range with her fingertip, until she reached the outskirts of Turkey. It wasn’t her final stop, but he didn’t need to know that. “I want to go there.”

      “What about the Kurds?”

      “What about them?”

      “They won’t help you?”

      “Kurdistan is not stable, due to border conflicts with Turkey and Iran. They have also taken Assyrian lands in the guise of protecting us. They are your allies, not ours.”

      “This country,” he muttered.

      “What about it?”

      “It’s a goddamned mess, that’s what.”

      “Yes, it is. We live in rubble left by the US intervention.”

      He made a sound of skepticism. “Your wars go back centuries, before the US was even founded.”

      “Before your ancestors stole land from the natives, you mean?”

      He tapped the surface of the map. “There’s snow and ice on those mountains. We need special gear for that.”

      “I have gear.”

      “Do you have crampons for everyone?”

      “Yes. Come see.”

      She escorted him to another room. She had tents, canvas packs, climbing rope, crampons for icy terrain, and a pile of boots in the corner. He picked up a boot, arching a brow. They were desert-style castoffs from a US military base. Or perhaps stolen. She’d bought the gear in bulk and not asked questions.

      “These aren’t for snow.”

      “They are all we have.”

      He pulled out one of the tents and studied it. “What about sleeping bags? We’ll freeze to death at night.”

      “We will use wool and sheepskin, like the nomads.” She showed him her stack of sheepskins. There were two rectangular pieces for each hiker. One covered the front of the torso and one covered the back. There were ties at the shoulders and on the sides. “This can be worn and used as a sleeping mat.”

      “How?”

      She laid the two panels flat on the ground. The sheepskin offered warmth and padding. “The wool cloaks are versatile also. They become blankets.”

      “What if they get wet?”

      “I have ponchos.” She found the plastic hooded ponchos. “See?”

      He rifled through one of the packs, studying the gear. It was a mix of modern, traditional and low-budget items, all painstakingly collected. She had stainless steel water containers that could be used for cooking. Food rations in sealed tins. He tossed out whatever he deemed unnecessary. When he was finished, he lifted the pack with one hand to test its weight. His bulging biceps mesmerized her.

      He dropped the pack with a thunk.

      “Is it too heavy?” she asked.

      “How do you expect that old man to strap on a fifty-pound pack without falling and breaking a hip?”

      “Ibrahim is not coming. He returned to his home in Telskuf.”

      “No old people? No kids?”

      “Only Ashur. He will have a lighter pack.”

      Hud grunted in response, his gaze moving down her body. “You don’t know what you’re in for. Grueling fourteen-hour hikes. No rest stops. Elevation sickness. Dangerous terrain. Bad weather.”

      “I walked across the Syrian Desert for sixteen days. I think I know.”

      “This won’t be like that.”

      “It is a journey my people have taken before.”

      “Yeah, who?”

      “My mother and father. They guided Assyrian refugees from other countries into Iraq when they were young.”

      He cursed under his breath at this revelation.

      “We will make it. I am confident.”

      “Do СКАЧАТЬ