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Small rocks tumble down from the window as he lifts himself onto the balls of his feet. Rifle across his lap, he reaches down and brushes stones from under his fine ass. He nods toward me. “I just thought of something. You should take that off.”
My eyes go wide. He grins, but I don’t have the heart to flirt. I hate the waiting, the waiting and not knowing is the worst. I tug at my abaya. “I don’t have anything else to wear.”
“Check my weapons bag. I took it the other night when I went with Salma to Syria. It’s in the back of the truck cab. There’re extra clothes and a bulletproof vest.”
The clothes will be too big, but I honestly don’t care. “You wear the vest.”
“No, you’ll be the one out in the open. Put it on.”
I don’t bother to argue. His tone tells me it’d be useless. I hate that tone.
Wobbling back across the rocks and demolished concrete, ankles barking in these rubber-soled shoes, I open the door. The light stays out because we’d disabled it.
I pull out the bag, find the clothes, then lift off the abaya. My side yelps in protest and I suck in a breath.
Sandesh’s head whips toward me.
“I’m fine,” I toss back, happy—for some insane reason—that I stand here half naked.
He clears his throat, shifts, and I look up to see him turning away. Such a gentleman.
Shame. I put on the bulletproof vest—it chafes around my shoulders. Over that, I add the too-big shirt, rolling up the sleeves as tight as fists. The pants I roll to the ankles, folding them twice at the waist. Not good enough.
Having seen it a moment earlier, I take out the KA-BAR combat knife and use it to cut a series of holes in the rolled-up waist. Luckily, I don’t stab myself by moonlight.
I complete my ensemble by tearing my head scarf into strips and threading it through the holes in my pants, tightening so they don’t fall off while running. I then make sure my beggars-can’t-be-choosers Glock 20—hello, future carpal tunnel—has a full clip.
It does.
I hear the movement on the road a split-second before Sandesh’s warning.
“They’re coming.”
A sharp slice of pain pierces my heart. My throat tightens. I’d expected it. Ofcourse,I’d expected it, so why does it hurt so badly? Why does it feel like one of my siblings just stabbed me in the back?
Lights from the approaching vehicle bounce between the gaps of stone. I duck down and move around the truck.
Sandesh slides from the window and holds up two fingers.
Two cars? Shit. Not good.
Heart in my throat, I creep forward and crouch beside him. Balanced on a pile of debris, we watch the scene through broken gaps in the wall.
The cars slide to a stop, one behind the other. The first blocks the second from our sight line. That makes things difficult.
The four men in the first car exit and go toward the decoy building. The men in the second—impossible to tell how many—stay put. Cautious fuckers. And smart.
I inch toward Sandesh. He smells like action, as if his pheromones coat the air in an excited combination of sweat and intent.
I flick my head to the side.
He nods.
Game on.
Taking a breath, I slip away, out a side door, then around the building. Outside, I crouch-run, keeping to the path we’d cleared earlier. When I stop by the mountain of debris that’s dammed the whole street, my focus is tight and my breath controlled. This barricade, erected at some point in this country’s sad history, plays a huge part in our plans.
I give Walid’s men plenty of time to get deep into the building. Hands as steady as steel, I take out Sandesh’s cell. We’ve rigged my burner phone to the explosives we found. The good thing about being in a war zone: abandoned ordinance.
