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The moment our lips connects there’s an instant and overwhelming zing of electricity. Mindless of where we are, I taste her, tickle and tease her mouth open. Her wet response, the moan against my lips as her tongue plays back, erupts fire and longing down my body.
Dubdubdub,dubdubdubpulsates through me. Hard to tell what throbs faster—my cock or my heart. Instinctively needing to get closer, I deepen the kiss.
She opens wider, accelerates the roll of her hips.
Yeah. Time to go. Time to get her off the dance floor and into my bed. Or her bed. Which room is closer?
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I jump. As close as she is, Justice definitely felt that buzz.
She stiffens in my arms and pulls her sweet mouth away. “Answer it.”
I tighten my grip on her, run my nose along her cheek, inhale her lavender-warmed-by-the-sun scent. “Ignore it.” Please. God. Ignore it.
“Your mission.” Justice shakes her head. “I can’t do that.”
The dead-serious look in her eyes jolts me back to awareness. I instantly feel like an asshole. This is not me. I know my responsibilities.
Heat searing my face, I step back and answer. “Hello.”
“Sandesh, please, I need your help. Can you come to Za’atari?” The tremor in Salma’s voice douses the fire in my body. A tsunami would’ve had less impact.
“I’m on my way.”
15
SANDESH
The crumbling walls of partially destroyed buildings and large piles of debris block out the desert landscape surrounding the abandoned Syrian village where Salma and I are parked.
We’ve been here since dawn broke. Now, as Salma sleeps, the pink glow of sunlight fades to the blue-black edges of night. The truck is getting chilly.
I’ve spent most of today mapping every inch of this place and developing an exit strategy. Even though the Free Syrian Army is known to me—when the war first started it had been made up of moderate rebels trying to overthrow the brutal dictator Bashar al-Assad—I’m still nervous about this mission. How is Salma sleeping? She has nerves of steel.
Coming into a war zone to facilitate the transfer of Syrian and Yazidi women freed by the FSA is a huge risk. But one I’m willing to take if it means helping these women. I have no idea what my backers at Parish Industries would think about me diverting their donations to take part in a rescue operation, but I can’t start second-guessing my decisions now.
The distant rumble of an engine alerts me to what might be trouble—or could by the FSA finally showing up. I reach to tap Salma, but she’s already up and turning toward the approaching truck.
“It’s them,” she says, moving to open her door. “Speak Arabic. The women will be scared and in need of reassurance.”
I reach across to stop her. “Please let me check them out first.”
She accepts with an annoyed, “If you must.”
I keep my gun down as I get out. Men hang off the slatted sides of the truck that quickly pulls to a stop. The driver jumps out. Every hair on my neck stands on end, but I relax when I see the veiled women huddled inside. It’s like Salma said; these are the good guys.
Back when the war had first started and the resistance had been made up of moderate rebels, my team and I had trained men like these.
So much has happened since then, but, in many ways, nothing has changed. There’s still war, still uncertainty, and still a brutal dictator willing to kill his own people to remain in power.
The driver, a man in his twenties with hard eyes and a scar above his beard, quickly approaches me. His fellow freedom fighters keep their rifles at the ready, a fact that should bring me relief but doesn’t. The skin on my back itches. Something’s wrong here.
Despite her agreement to let me talk to them, Salma gets out of the truck. Guess she’s nervous after all.
Since my Arabic is passing, I wait for her to come over.
She warmly greets the driver, who seems to be the leader. Her warmth quickly turns to alarm.
I lose most of what’s said in rapid Arabic but get the important parts. They’re being chased, and we need to take the women before their pursuers catch up.
