Chapter 2

Dust and debris from the explosion laced the hot, oppressive Syrian air and clung to Sandesh almost as thickly as the village mud to his combat boots.

His eyes watered. His ears rang from the blast of the barrel bomb, but he held steady—or at least held his arms steady to protect the child. It didn’t help. She let out small, injured sounds as more of her skin sloughed off against his Special Forces uniform.

The barrel bomb had been filled with chemicals and had inflicted burns reminiscent of napalm. Her once-healthy skin was red and raw.

One of his Rangers pointed his rifle toward the sky. “Heads up, Sandman.”

Sandesh raised eyes toward the muffled—to his ears anyway—whir of an approaching Black Hawk. His foot caught in a muddy depression. His knee buckled.

The child in his arms cried out, her eyes springing open. He whispered soothing words. Hopeless. The small, delicate body stiffened. Her head tipped back.

His heart tightened in his chest, a fist of hard anger. The Syrian government had attacked its own citizens, injuring bodies, hoping to also injure minds. It would probably work. Violence usually did.

It was only a coincidence—at least he hoped it was—that he and his Rangers had been in the area. They weren’t technically supposed to be here. Their mission was outside of Syria, supporting the Free Syrian Army with training and weapons. But someone higher up had wanted a better take on Assad’s chemical profile, so they’d come into the country.

Guess they’d found out.

Behind him he could smell the chemical fire, even with the water someone had turned on to douse the victims. His stomach lurched. At least nineteen girls had been injured. Some shuffled forward like the walking dead, skin and clothes in tatters.

The helo landed. He got up carefully, but the child trembled. Fuck mission parameters. They needed to do something.

The girl in his arms stirred. “Please, Poppa.” She knew English? “Don’t be angry.”

He looked into her face, expecting to see confusion and delirium. Her dark eyes stared directly at him, into him. Her raw hand rose to his chest, touched his heart. “There is more.”

An awed gasp whooshed from her mouth. Her hand dropped. She stilled.

Sandesh had seen people die, seen how the body suddenly looked less real, less full. But this was different. It was as if he could feel the soul sink from the body, feel the tendrils of spirit wrap around his heart and whisper, “Poppa. Don’t be angry. There is more.”

Sandesh woke up sweating and hacking. He grabbed blindly for the lifeline. The phone that had woken him. He clicked Accept and brought the cell to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Sandesh Julian Ross, head of the IPT?”

“That’s me.” This guy sounded like he’d had too much tequila last night. And every night of his life. What time was it? He checked the clock on his nightstand. Five a.m.? “Who’s calling?”

“My name is Leland Day. I work for Parish Industries, specifically Mukta Parish. We’ve been told your charity, the IPT, works along the Jordan–Syrian border.”

Sandesh blinked the sleep and fog from his eyes and mind. “No. I mean… Sort of.” He’d given the speech so often to media and at luncheons the words came by rote. “The International Peace Team aligns with organizations around the world. But yes, we’ve aligned with Salma’s Gems in the Middle East.”

“Yes. I read about you online. HuffPost called you a complex combination of righteous anger, surfer-boy looks, and gritty naïveté.”

Sandesh cringed. That didn’t sound anywhere near a compliment. And sure wouldn’t help him secure the funding he so desperately needed.

He sat up, flicked on the light in his bedroom. The essentials only—bed, nightstand, and lamp—snapped into focus. “Why are you calling?” To harass me about my pretty-boy media image?

“I’m calling to set up an appointment between you and Mukta Parish. She’s starting an initiative to expand global philanthropy. You’ve no doubt heard of Parish Industries and the Mantua Academy for Girls?”

Of course he had. Mukta Parish, hell the entire Parish clan was mega-wealth. A global powerhouse, they also ran an exclusive boarding school for wealthy families. The elite campus was home to Mukta Parish’s It’s a Small World clan. She’d adopted girls from all over the world. “This isn’t camp. We’re run and staffed by former soldiers for a reason.”

Leland cleared his throat. “I understand. But we’d mostly be a financial support system. Completely at your disposal.”

Sandesh swung his legs out of bed. Guy had just offered him exactly what the IPT wanted, needed: funding, a tie to a big name, and complete autonomy. It sounded too good to be true. “What exactly would I have to do to warrant this kind of support?”

“We’d like to discuss that. Are you available to come to our Center City office?”

“Sure. When?”

“Is this morning at seven doable?”

Sandesh was already up and moving toward his shower. “Make it eight.”