Chapter 24

Beneath a dull streetlamp that lit only a small section of the dirt road through Zaatari, Sandesh cleaned up the bloody strips of cloth from the planks of the truck. He tossed them into the refuse container outside Salma’s headquarters.

Salma’s grandson had taken the rescued women to the new, larger facility they’d finished setting up yesterday. Originally used for aid workers, it had easily morphed to fit the refugees. They’d deal with the medical and psychosocial needs tomorrow.

Reaching for the bag of weapons, he hesitated, flexed his hands. He didn’t need them. With a purposeful mental shove, he walked back into the tent.

A dull light hung down from the wooden support rafter over a small gurney. Basic medical tools sat on a steel table. The tent resembled a clinic. Salma used it to give medical assistance to the women and girls. He avoided looking at the small, blue corpse atop the metal cart. A boy.

The Yazidi woman had been taken to the French hospital. Soon, an official would arrive to take the corpse.

He picked up a jug of water, poured some into the basin on a cart in the corner, and washed his hands. Blood didn’t usually bother him, but the brutality of the birth and the loss of the woman’s son had lodged like disease in the creases of his knuckles, the tension of his fisted hands.

Salma’s skills as a doctor had saved the woman, but only because she’d been pregnant. The baby had taken the brunt of the gunshot.

Damn. Everything in him wanted to protect the softness he’d seen in that bleeding, terrified teenaged girl. But that wasn’t his job. He was here to aid those who were injured, not to bring injury to others.

“You have dealt with conflict for so long, Sandesh,” Salma said, “that you can’t even find peace within your own mind.”

Her brown eyes glistened with knowing intelligence. She was right. He nodded. “I almost told you to take the truck and leave me to fight.”

Her eyebrows rose. “That would’ve been a problem, as I don’t drive.”

He laughed, but somehow that made him feel better. He wiped his hands on a towel and placed it beside the basin. “How do you do it, Salma? Work here, witness what happens, knowing you can only save the moment for someone, leaving them alive in a violent and unfair world to save all the succeeding moments for themselves?”

“What would I do differently? I heal. That is my mission. And when given the chance, I speak of healing, speak of their pain, and open others to the possibility of soothing the ache that too much anger and too many ideas of God’s justice has done to our delicate minds.”

Delicate minds? That seemed an oversimplification. Or was it? Was it as simple as not allowing certain beliefs to take root, make patterns in the brain that caused kneejerk reactions?

Salma’s clever eyes seemed to reevaluate him as she cleaned up the area around the gurney. “Why start this venture if you aren’t willing to risk yourself?”

Risk? Did she think he regretted helping those women? “I’m not sure I understand.”

“You have to risk your, uh, perhaps in English ego fits best?”

“Fits best for what?” God, the whole room smelled of blood.

“You are trying to change the way you see yourself. And tonight, you came face-to-face with that reinvention. Stay. Fight. Or pick the other path, the one that helps without violence. You chose a different path. You needn’t beat yourself up for that. This time, it was the right choice.”

A swish of the tent flap and Sandesh turned toward the opening. A pregnant woman in niqab and black abaya, holding her side, staggered into the emergency tent.

A young girl, her daughter perhaps, supported her. The girl looked at him with eyes much too old for a child and whispered, “Help.”

He rushed to the woman, caught her just as she fell. He lifted her easily and carried her to the gurney. Salma moved quickly to the woman’s side. “Are you in labor?”

Standing by the gurney, the girl took charge. “She’s hurt. Her side. She speaks English.”

The woman proved this by speaking English. “We’re being followed. Please hide the girl. Amal.”

Sandesh knew that voice. Justice?

Salma reacted with a speed that indicated she’d been here before. She directed the girl to hide in a steel cabinet. Amal, who couldn’t even have been a teenager yet, darted into the cabinet and shut the door with a metal clang.

“Justice?” It was her. Justice, but with eyes like honey. Contacts? What the hell? Justice had been injured. Justice had a daughter. No. That was panic speaking. “What’s happening?”

“I think I’m being followed. Sort of. I don’t understand. They were here when we got here.”

What the hell was she talking about? Sandesh tied down the dog of war that wanted to break whoever had injured Justice. He needed to stay calm. Why would someone be following a PR hack? “Who?”

The tent flap was tossed open. Two armed men entered. They began yelling, asking who the woman on the table was.

Sandesh slipped toward the first man, preparing to disarm him so he could take down the second.

From her place at the bedside, Salma waved her bloodied hands at the men. “Get out. Can’t you see that she has lost her baby?”

The men hesitated. The stillborn baby lay lifeless and purple-blue inside the metal pan.

Sandesh took her lead. “Outside, outside.” He waved with his hands. “She has lost much blood and might die.”

On the table, Justice began to moan. The confused men turned on their heels and left.

Sandesh waited five seconds before he glanced outside. He saw the men move away, take out a cell. They’d be back.

Salma had already pulled up Justice’s abaya and located the wound. She patted Justice on the hand. “There is a piece of metal in your flesh. Not deep.”

“Not a bullet?”

Salma’s eyebrows rose. “A bullet? No. I am going to pull out the metal. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Quickly. Please.”

He returned to the bedside. “Salma, what do you need?”

Salma looked up at him. “The men,” she said. “How long?”

“Not long.”

She nodded. They both understood the risk. Soon this tent would be filled with anger and accusations. Their choice was to turn Justice over to those men and keep the charity clear of the violence. Or save her.

“Quickly.” Salma began to tear at the dress.

Justice put her hand on top of Salma’s. “I need this dress.”

Justice tugged the abaya up with one hand. Sandesh came over and helped, exposing delicate pale skin, black lace lingerie saturated with blood, and a deep gash, an inch wide, below her hip.

A slice of metal filled the wound. What the hell? And Justice had a gun? She hid it under the sleeve of her abaya while her other hand clenched the scaffolding of the bed.

Salma wiped the blood from the wound. Justice flinched. Salma had snatched up a pair of forceps. She bent close to Justice. “A tiger stalking, no sound, brave one.”

Justice nodded. Digging into the skin, Salma plucked at the edge of the shrapnel, once, twice. Her face locked in concentration, Justice seemed to put herself somewhere else, like someone accustomed to dealing with pain.

The only sound from her was slow, deep breathing. Sandesh cursed to himself. What the fuck was going on? Could she be some type of operative? Salma dug in again, grasped it, twisted, then pulled it out.

Justice let out a sharp breath. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Is it over?”

“You need stitches.”

He handed Salma the alcohol, and she cleaned the wound. With steady, learned fingers, Salma sewed quick stitches.

Justice inhaled and slowly exhaled. Again and again. She did not cry out.

This was not a public relations specialist.

Outside, Sandesh could hear voices. One of the men talked on the phone.

Justice sat up. He put a hand on her shoulder and steadied her. She winced.

“Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. She didn’t meet his eyes. “No. Don’t worry about me. Take care of Amal.”

Salma bent under the counter and spoke with Amal. She began directing all of them in Arabic. “I will hide the girl with a family I know here. Take her.” She motioned toward Justice, who had her legs under her a lot more than she should have. What kind of training had this woman been through?

“No.” Justice supported her own weight. “I’ve risked you enough. I can get out from here. But take care of Amal. She has a family she wishes to return to. I can arrange—”

Salma waved away the words. “I will arrange it. This is what I do. But you cannot go alone.”

“Sure she can,” Sandesh said, his anger building. He’d been a total idiot. “This is no woman accidentally hurt. She is an operative. Her backup is probably on its way. I’ll help you deal with the men she’s brought here.”

He shouldered Justice toward the back of the tent and steadied her. She looked haunted and vulnerable, and he wanted nothing more than to hoist her up and carry her to the nearest safe place.

No. He’d been enough of a sucker.

She wasn’t what she appeared. She wasn’t helpless. And she wasn’t a PR specialist.

He leaned into her. “I’m going to find out who you’re working for, and I’m going to have your ass.”

She smiled then, wicked and full. “Flirting at a time like this, Ranger?”

She winked, ducked under the tent side, and walked confidently into the night.