In Love and War (16 page)

Something in Ali’s expression disturbed him, but Ali repeated the question.

After she smiled gently, he explained. “She has no intention of leaving her home. It’s all she knows, all she has. She expects to die here, and she isn’t sorry about that.” Ali reached out to hold her hand.

Dylan objected. “But your family is already relocating. Wouldn’t it be best to go with them? This is just a building.”

Ali went on, while his grandmother’s smile of acceptance never wavered. “She bore all of her children here. My grandfather brought her here after they were married. They made a home. She wants to be buried where he is. If she leaves, that will be unlikely. She also refuses to leave because she has a family legacy in her care. She keeps it safe until it can go to my father, then to me and my children.”

Dylan wasn’t following something, so Jim spoke up.
“The shelves. I’ll explain later.”

Ali translated
Jim’s comment to his grandmother, and she nodded at him. “We must pass on more than blood to the future.”

Jim nodded, apparently understanding perfectly.

Dylan was sorry to hear of her decision, but it was hers to make.

The old woman was obviously tired now, and they’d spent more time than was probably wise in their home, so Ali concluded the interview.

Dylan shut off his recorder. “Please tell her, thank you. Please thank them all. We appreciate their hospitality.”

Ali did so, and then everyone stood. Dylan tucked his things back into his bag and humbly nodded to each lady in turn.

Looking at the visitors, Ali said, “I’ll take you back to the Hamra Hotel now. That will be safest.”

“Thank you
.” Dylan slung his pack over his shoulder.

The aunt who
’d led them inside silently gestured them out the back again. Dylan and Jim took off, moving stealthily along the house. They stopped at the corner of the building and scanned the area before darting out of cover to dive into the backseat once more. Jim crawled in first and turned to face the middle. He drew the dark blanket over them both as Dylan quietly pulled the door closed.

Jim tapped him and whispered,
“Ali’s aunt showed me a ton of books hidden behind a false wall. It was pretty narrow, but you wouldn’t have believed it. I saw Arabic, English, French—titles covering a wide range of topics. Obviously, it’s too dangerous to display them openly, and there’s no way they can move them. It must have taken the old man a lifetime to build his library. I want to ask Ali about all this. That’s the legacy the old lady is protecting for her family.”

“We’ll see what blanks he can fill in for us later. I’d love to talk with his grandmother again. My mind is already racing with thoughts I didn’t get a chance to raise today. I’d like to come back tomorrow
, if he can arrange it.”

They overheard
Ali say his goodbyes then leave through the front door. To any casual observer, his actions would seem perfectly natural. Gravel crunched under his shoes as he walked to the car. A second later, he slid into his seat and turned the key. The car moved off down the road.

They were only
a few houses away when a small bomb detonated beneath the driver’s seat. The impact blew the glass out of the windows and filled the interior with a metallic mist of blood.

The two passengers in the back were knocked out, their heads colliding in the concussion of the
blast.

Chapter 15

T
he angle of the sun had changed so it no longer beat directly on the still blanket in the backseat of the damaged car. Dylan jerked back to consciousness at the sharp sting of a bullet punching into his left thigh. His hand flew to his leg and he swallowed a groan when he found the fresh entry wound. Warm blood spread outward from the point of entry and soaked his pants. The salty sweat on his skin mixed with the fresh blood and burned the ragged edges of the wound. Investigating further, he discovered there was no exit wound. He hadn’t taken a direct hit. Still, it wasn’t exactly a comforting thought. The next bullet could just as easily take off the back of his head.

How long had he been out?
The heat was suffocating. He wished he could move out from under the blanket, but giving himself away was suicide. Every inch of his body was drenched in sweat, the thirst it left behind almost unbearable. Even worse, the smell inside the car was getting to him, making his stomach churn. It was an alarming combination of odors he had no wish to identify. Vomiting would only make things worse, especially his throbbing headache.

There was a ringing in his ears, while everything else seemed
muffled and yet, somehow, it didn’t stop him from hearing the bullets pierce the shell of the car and embed themselves in the interior.

“Jim. Jim, are you all right? I’ve been hit,” Dylan whispered. There was no reply.

Too afraid to lift the blanket for light, he touched Jim’s cheek. His skin was cool, but Dylan found a weak pulse at his neck. His relief was heady, but their predicament couldn’t be worse. How the hell were they going to get out of here?

Dylan shifted a little in order to check on Jim’s condition. He ran his hand over him, searching for wounds. Everything seemed fine until he followed down Jim's left leg and his hand dropped off into space. Where the hell was the rest of it? Dylan choked back a gasp. Never had he been so reluctant to do anything in his life, and yet he knew he didn’t have a choice. He had to confirm what he thought he’d felt, or rather
hadn’t
felt. He took a steadying breath and ran his hand over the leg again. This time his fingers curled when the limb came to an end. He felt jagged bone and shredded muscle and tissue. Everything was wet and sticky. He fought down nausea as his hand came away coated with blood.

“Jesus, Ji
m, be glad you’re unconscious.”

Dylan rubbed his face with his clean hand, trying desperately to tamp down his rising panic. He needed to act fast, or Jim was dead. He didn’t even want to imagine Ali’s condition.

Anger and desperation seemed to close in on him as he carefully worked a shirt out of his bag and began the painstaking job of tearing it into strips without making any outwardly noticeable movements. It infuriated him to be forced to move so slow, or risk becoming an obvious target. He needed to stop the blood at both the stump and the groin or he was going to lose his friend.

Dylan packed the open wound with
his clean underwear then tied it off as tightly as he could. Their confinement was working against him, impeding his movements, but he worked steadily on. When his knuckles grazed across a thick, sticky puddle of blood on the floor, it opened a whole new worry. Jim might have lost too much blood already. He needed a hospital—
now
.

Reaching
carefully around Jim’s upper thigh, Dylan apologized under his breath for cinching the tourniquet at the groin as tight as he did. Finally done, he leaned down and kissed the back of Jim’s sweaty, clammy head.

“I hope I was in time, buddy,” he whispered. “Hang in there.”

Now he needed to deal with his own wound.

Making as little movement and noise as possible, he carefully rooted in his bag until he found a clean cotton sock.
His body jerked instinctively when another bullet tore into the headrest above him. Dylan folded the sock into thirds. He brought it to his waistband, but couldn’t work it down his pants without opening his fly. Expelling a shaky breath, he flicked open the button and drew down the zipper, taking the sock on a long uncomfortable journey down his sweaty, bleeding leg to the wound. He placed it carefully over the area and pressed his leg against the backseat, using it to hold the sock in place while he pulled his hand free and zipped back up. Dylan carefully shifted onto his hip, his left thigh in the air, and applied pressure.

Now he could really feel the burn of salt working against him in the wound. It didn't help that he
’d clapped a dirty sock over the top of it. Just sliding the sock down his leg had compromised whatever cleanliness it had at the start. Under the circumstances, there wasn't much he could do about it. He tied what was left of his stripped out shirt around his thigh to hold it in place.

If he could feel fortunate about anything, and that would be a very loose interpretation of luck, it was that his eardrums hadn’t burst when the bomb
went off. Another bullet rocketed through the shattered driver’s-side window and Dylan suddenly pictured the gas tank exploding. He hoped it wouldn’t ignite right next to him. Then a more comforting thought followed. He realized shooting the tank was the last thing the sniper would want to do. Siphoning was a popular practice when essentials were scarce and expensive.

As more bullets peppered the car, he tried to sink deeper into the depression in the floor. Why were they shooting? Why didn’t the bastards just rush the car and take any survivors out? Then a horrible thought struck him.

There had to be a good reason the sniper was keeping a safe distance back when no one was returning fire. Was he sitting on a minefield? Was there another bomb that hadn’t gone off yet? Regardless, the continual gunfire was meant to guarantee no one survived this single, unremarkable episode on the streets of Baghdad, where violent acts were commonplace. The killers wanted to be thorough. Dylan dropped his head onto his bag and waited for death.

*
**

When she couldn
’t sleep, Ariela curled up in Dylan’s favorite chair, wearing his big, soft shirt, with his scrapbook of articles open on her lap. She adjusted the lamp, angling it where she wanted it, then looked around. She had to chuckle. The guy didn’t have much to be proud of in the furniture department, but he’d definitely made the right move when he bought this amazingly comfortable recliner.

Looking through his work brought Ariela closer to the man. It was
easy to appreciate his obvious external attributes, like his luscious body, those intense eyes, even his playfulness. But in reading what he wrote, she gained more insight into
who
he was. He opened himself up on a level she’d never experienced with anyone else—not even Jean. God, she missed him.

He
was a talented writer, clear and competent, but that wasn’t all Ariela learned. Dylan was decent to the core, concerned, and outraged by hypocrisy. He was fearless when he took on issues, but even more so when going after people deemed too big to topple. He truly was a champion for those without voices and access. And she’d only been kidding when she’d called him her champion while hanging halfway out of the ambulance, strapped to a gurney. Who knew she’d actually nailed his character right then?

With every article, Ariela realized she’d just scratched the surface of his passion and intensity outside the bedroom—and the shower. Mmm, she liked
his wild, almost feral side when he let it off the leash.

Oh, this wasn’t good. She was getting aroused by his articles?

Well, not exactly, it just brought him to mind, everything about him. She wanted to see Dylan parading around the house again, shirtless, shoeless, tousled and sexy, and wearing those soft, faded jeans that hugged him so right. She wanted to pick his brain some more over another meal, laugh and taunt him while they played games. She wanted to walk the neighborhoods again while holding Dylan’s hand, confiding things she’d never dreamed of telling Jean.

She knew she was safe
, in every sense of the word, when she opened herself up to him. He’d protect her—body, soul, and heart. But she was selfish. All the qualities she admired most, Dylan's nobility, compassion, and strong sense of justice were the exact ones she feared would get him killed. He was heroic for pursuing truth, even when it wasn’t always welcome. He made people aware of what was happening around the world, without turning the focus on himself. How could a man be so driven, yet so modest? He wanted the pieces he wrote to get attention. He wanted the respect of his peers. But he didn't want fame. He seemed perfectly content with his salary, so it wasn’t about money either. If he splurged on himself at all, it was to keep up with the technology that made his job easier, better, faster. She’d never known anyone like him. He was unique. No wonder she’d fallen in love with him.

When he came home, she
’d tell him she trusted him and would support him in every way she could from now on, personally and professionally. She didn't want to be an obstacle in his career, his life. She just wanted to be the best part of it. She’d be his high spot to counter all the lows that came naturally for a man in his profession. She hoped. She wanted to be that person for him.

Ariela looked over at Dylan’s other adoring fan. Her eyes turned misty and she smiled at the
golden retriever snoring on the sofa. Even Dylan’s stupid mutt was growing on her—irrefutable proof she was in love.

Without warning, h
er body suddenly jerked and she was hit by a sharp and unnerving sensation. Looking up with wide eyes, she had no idea why her hand rode down her leg and squeezed. Max lifted his head and looked at her, roused by her gasp of alarm.

“I’m okay,” she assured him.

It was a lie. Ariela’s heart was racing, her body tense with fear, the dramatic shift completely at odds with her tranquil mood a moment ago. She couldn’t explain it, but it terrified her.

**
*

An ominous noise in the dark woke Dylan from a shallow slee
p. Before he could focus on it, he was hit by a smell, unpleasantly reminiscent of food-encrusted dishes left in a sink too long. It filled the car, blending with the metallic overtones of blood. Whatever was left of Ali, added to the thick puddle under Jim, had begun to rot fast in the heat.

Struggling to control his gag reflex was only half the battle because now
he realized what was so wrong, what was different. There was an eerie lack of gunfire. The change had been remarkable enough to wake him. Miserable and resigned to his fate earlier, he’d dozed off to the staccato sound of gunshots, a perverse variation of white noise, in the background.

Accepting the inevitability of his death had been easier somehow when he’d expected to be struck by another random bullet or two. At least it would have been impersonal
. But now, tensing for who knows what, he wasn’t ready to tolerate a very personal slaughter. He wondered how to handle the distinct possibility he was about to be dragged out by his painfully cramped legs and forced to his knees, with his hands clasped on top of his head.

Yeah, right—like that was going to keep it attached to his shoulders
!

He reached over and touched Jim’s cheek. It was cold, unreal, no longer living tissue. Still,
just to be sure, Dylan searched for a pulse—nothing. As much as it broke his heart, he’d expected it. Not that it made accepting his friend’s death any easier. His throat constricted with the pain. At least Jim never regained consciousness. He hadn’t suffered.

Dylan put his forehead against the back of Jim’s head and came to a decision. If he was captured, he was going to do his damnedest to inflict a little pain in return. If he was going down, he wasn’t going down alone. He was fucked anyway. Why not fight it out?

Soft footfalls sounded outside the car. He froze, straining to hear everything. It took all the self-control he possessed not to scream when the door pressing against his feet suddenly opened. Now he was stuck. How had they known he was here? Had he moved and given himself away? What did they want? Were these just looters, or those bastard pricks who’d shot him and killed Jim and Ali? Should he kick out and hope like hell he snapped this guy’s neck before he was executed by the guy’s friends?

“Shh.”

A woman
? No. Yes. It
was
a woman and she was cautioning him to keep quiet. It could only be one of Ali’s aunts.

Dylan tugged the blanket from his face and peered
over his shoulder into the dark, trying to see her behind the black veil. She climbed around him, onto the backseat, and reached for Jim.

“No,” Dylan whispered, s
topping her hand.

She drew back as if burned
. Then, collecting herself, she stretched out to look into the front seat. She let out a muted sob and dropped back, her body shaking violently. He could hear her deep, deliberate breaths as she fought through her anguish. In no time, her trembling subsided and something about her posture reassured him. She crawled backward off the seat and out of the car, waving for him to follow. He didn’t understand the whispered words, but he certainly understood the need to move quickly and quietly.

Before climbing out, Dylan reached into Jim’s back pocket and took his wallet. He slipped it into his own then eased out backward, pulling his and Jim’s bags with him.