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“No.” The word came on an exhalation, long and deep.
“Hang on, buddy, I can be there—” Urgency was plain in Hadi’s voice.
“Save yourself . . . the trouble. I’m gut shot.”
The world went gray around her. Niema fought back the shock, fought back the sensation of her entire body falling apart as the bottom dropped out of her stomach and her lungs seized, unable to pump. Gut shot. Even if he had been in the States, with a trauma unit nearby, the injury was critical. Here in these cold, isolated mountains, with safety and cutting-edge medical help days away, it was a death sentence. She knew this; her mind knew it. But she rejected it anyway, recoiling from the knowledge.
There were more shots, very close. Dallas was still shooting, still holding them off.
“Boss. . .” The whisper floated around the hut.
“I’m here.” Tucker was still facing Niema, his gaze locked on her.
“Is. . . Can Niema hear?”
Dallas had to be going into shock, or he would never have asked, would have realized she could hear everything. She had wired the switch open.
Tucker’s gaze never wavered from her. “No,” he said.
More shots. The sound of Dallas’s breathing, shallow and quick. “Good. I . . . I’ve still got the detonator. Can’t let them leave with . . . that shit.”
“No,” Tucker said again. “You can’t.” His voice was almost gentle.
“Take . . . take care
of her.”
Tucker’s face was a mask, his gaze locked on her face. “I will.” He paused, and said, “Do it.”
The explosion shook the hut, sending dirt cascading down from the cracks in the ceiling, rattling the door on its frame. The blast wave hadn’t passed before Tucker was moving, ripping the headset from his ears and tossing it down. He picked up a hammer and began methodically destroying the radio; even though it was old and obsolete, it was functional, and their plan was to leave nothing that could be used. Reducing the radio to rubble took half a minute.
That done, he pulled Niema away from the packs of provisions and swiftly began repacking them, redistributing what they would carry. She stood numbly in the middle of the hut, unable to move, her brain frozen with shock. She was aware of pain; there was a great, clawing pain in her chest, as if her heart were exploding, and even that was somehow felt as if from a distance.
Tucker thrust a heavy coat at her. Niema stared at it, unable to comprehend what he wanted her to do with it. Silently he bundled her into it, putting her arms into the sleeves as if she were a toddler, zipping it up, tucking her hair under the collar as an extra buffer for her neck. He tugged gloves on her hands, and put a warm fur hat on her head.
He pulled a heavy sweater on over his head, then shrugged into his own coat. As he was pulling on his gloves, a low whistle sounded outside the hut, and he extinguished the light. Hadi slid in the door, and Tucker turned the light on again.
Even in the weakness of the single light, Hadi’s face was drawn and white. He looked immediately at Niema. “God—” he began, only to be silenced by a quick motion from Tucker.
“Not now. We have to move.” He shoved one of the consolidated packs into Hadi’s arms, and slung the other two onto his own shoulders. He picked up a rifle, took Niema’s arm, and led her into the night.
Their transportation, an old Renault, had died on them the first night, and all of Tucker’s mechanical expertise could not repair a broken axle. Hadi glanced worriedly at Niema. She hadn’t faltered during the two days they had been moving; she was like a robot, keeping pace with them no matter how hard Tucker pushed them. She spoke when they asked her a direct question; she ate when Tucker gave her food, drank when he gave her water. What she hadn’t done was sleep. She would lie down when he told her to, but she hadn’t slept, and her eyes were swollen with fatigue. Both men knew she couldn’t go on much longer.
“What are you going to do?” Hadi asked Tucker, keeping his voice low. “Do we split up as originally planned, or stay together? You may need help getting her out.”
“We split up,” Tucker said. “It’s safer that way. A woman traveling with two men would attract more attention than a man and his wife.”
They were traveling northwest, through Iran’s most populated area, but that was the only way to get to Turkey, and safety. Iraq was due west, Afghanistan and Pakistan were to the east, the splinter nations left by the breakup of the Soviet Union to the northeast, the Caspian Sea to the north and the Persian Gulf to the south, through very inhospitable desert. Turkey was their only feasible destination. From here on out, Niema would have to wear the traditional Muslim chador.
They had traveled at night at first, the better to avoid detection if there was any pursuit, though it was possible Sayyed and Dallas were thought to be the only saboteurs. It was even possible, Tucker thought, that no word of intruders had gotten out. The facility had been remote, with only one phone line going in. Dallas could well have pushed the button before anyone got to the phone, assuming any of the workers thought to make a call anyway.
The building was charred rubble. Tucker himself had reconnoitered, leaving Niema under Hadi’s worried and watchful eye. As always, Dallas had been thorough; what the plastique hadn’t destroyed, the fire had.
That was the one time Niema had spoken without first being asked something. When Tucker returned she stared at him, her dark eyes fathomless, haunted, somehow hopeful. “Did you find him?” she asked.
Startled, keeping it hidden, he said, “No.”
“But—his body . . .”
