Her eyes were always the first thing she looked into. It gave her a measure of reassurance to know she was looking into her own eyes. Living eyes. It reminded her that she was a survivor.
She touched up places that likely didn’t need it, but she did so to give herself the illusion that she was making herself safer from detection. Then she turned her attention to her hair. Her greatest liability.
Her eyes were brown and while she was usually fairer skinned, her time here had burnished her skin, making it a darker brown, though she was still noticeably lighter than the native women. But her hair was blond. A dead giveaway. In her time of panic as she realized the problem of her hair when she’d been hastily collecting supplies from the relief center, she’d considered simply shaving it all off. But a bald woman would get every bit as much notice as a blond one, perhaps even more.
Thankfully, her brain kicked in and kicked her in the ass and then took over, shoving panic and all the chaotic emotions out so that her only focus was on her escape.
Once she was far enough away from the attack site to feel that she could stop and take the necessary time to complete her disguise, she vigorously rubbed henna into any skin that could be potentially exposed, even with the mountain of material covering her body. She paid special attention to her hands, ensuring that they appeared worn. She’d smeared dirt and even made small scratches and cuts to her fingers and knuckles, praying the antibiotics would ward off infection, in an effort to make them look like those of the older woman she pretended to be. She’d torn off the remaining fingernails. Most of them had been ripped to the quick when she’d dug herself free of the rubble. The bruises and damage she’d sustained during her digging aided her because with the swelling and abrasions, her hands appeared gnarled and misshapen.
Once she was satisfied that she’d done as good a job as she could disguising her flesh, she turned her focus to her biggest danger. Her hair.
She’d meticulously coated every strand of her hair in the dark dye and then carefully applied the color to her eyebrows. And when she was finished, she waited precious minutes she couldn’t afford for it to set in and then she repeated the process. And then a third time. It wasn’t the best job, nor was it that convincing, but she was banking on the fact that no one would see her without her hair covered, and all but her eyes was hidden by the headdress. If a stray strand somehow blew free, it would appear dark, and for the few seconds it took for her to conceal it once more, someone wouldn’t have time to truly study the color or judge its authenticity.
It was hard to see well with the tiny light source she used, and she didn’t bother to even use the penlight. It was too risky. Instead she reapplied the dye to her hair, being as thorough as she had been the first time and ensuring that not a single strand was missed.
Finally finished with the repairs to her protection, she tiredly reached into the bag to pull out a protein bar, the bottle containing the last ounces of her water and the antibiotics and painkillers.
She drank first, sucking greedily at the liquid but tempering the urge to drink it down to nothing. Then she quickly ate the protein bar and chased it down with a small sip. She’d learned the hard way not to take the antibiotic or the pain reliever on an empty stomach. The first day had been hell with an upset stomach, her knee throbbing and her having to stop to dry-heave more times than she could count.
After downing both medicines, she reached for the binding around her knee, the last task before she could close her eyes for a short time. She’d taken special care to wrap it tightly before she fled from the clinic and to use some of the precious room in her pack for an extra Ace bandage and antibiotic cream to use along with the oral antibiotics she was taking.
The swelling had lessened some and the vivid black bruise had turned to a ghastly-looking mixture of green and yellow, which relieved her. It didn’t appear to be anything serious like a fracture or dislocation. It was painful, definitely, but the tight wrap had enabled her to have mobility, something that wouldn’t have been possible for a prolonged period of time if it were broken or dislocated. Not to mention she would have been screaming in pain and unable to continue after that first arduous day when she hadn’t stopped for twenty-four hours.
She doctored the cuts, pressed around the kneecap to test for the degree of swelling and then deftly rebound it after using some of the sunburn aid, which contained the numbing agent lidocaine.
Although she needed her hands to appear beaten and weathered to keep up her appearance, she still applied topical antibiotic cream to the deepest lacerations because she couldn’t afford for them to become so infected that she became ill and was unable to keep traveling. Knowing she would—hopefully—replenish her waning water supply in the morning, she used almost all of the remaining liquid to cleanse the dirt and pieces of debris still embedded in the skin. She hadn’t dared pay attention to them, and until now, she’d been able to block out the discomfort of the embedded shards.
Now when she carefully pulled them free and poured the last of the antiseptic she carried with her over the wounds, she let out a hiss of pain and held her breath, simply breathing through it and compartmentalizing it just as she had everything else. After patting the areas clean, she rubbed the antibiotic ointment on each of the cuts and then wrapped them in gauze. Just for this little time of rest. Before she went into the village in the early morning, she would unwrap them and pack dirt over the wounds again, and she’d keep her fingers curled so her hands weren’t readily visible by anyone. They spent much of the time beneath the enveloping folds of her garment, but when replenishing her supplies, she would need her hands and they would be exposed for a short time.
Up close, it would be more obvious that her hands were injured and not those of an older woman. But at a distance, with the rest of her costume giving the assumption of what she claimed to be, no one would look too hard at her hands. No one overly scrutinized any women here. It was forbidden. And while the Western culture ingrained in her chafed at the idea that women were commanded to only appear in public completely concealed, all but their eyes, and in some regions not even their eyes could be visible, she was grateful for the extreme laws women lived under at the moment because were it not for those laws, she would have never gotten as far as she’d come.
And since younger women weren’t allowed outside their home without the escort of a male family member or an older woman, like a mother-in-law, posing as someone younger would also gain her unwanted notice. She didn’t pat herself on the back for coming up with such a good disguise in the few minutes after she’d escaped the wreckage trapping her in the relief center. She’d been operating on raw instinct. Survival instinct. And she’d gathered every bit of her extensive knowledge of the languages and customs of the regions she worked in to help her not only escape her immediate prison but stay hidden in plain sight and pray that she was able to make it to a place beyond the seemingly all-encompassing reach of the militant group that terrorized such a widespread area.
After carefully replacing all items into her sack and ensuring that there would be no sign of her left behind, she once more leaned against the rough support the rock offered and closed her eyes, trying to push back the paralyzing fear of having to go into the village and show herself, even though only her eyes would be visible.
But eyes were the window to the soul, or so the saying went. Would her terror be there for the world to see? Would the villagers know of her pain, sorrow and abject fear just by looking into her eyes? Would she have the look of someone who was being hunted, who’d been handed a death sentence? For a second time? She’d been condemned to die in the attack, but somehow she survived. Could she survive being sentenced to death again?
It’s a game, Honor. One you’re winning. You can’t let yourself think anything else.
Honor swallowed and slipped further toward the veil of sleep. She could pretend all she wanted. She could wear the armor of denial forever. But neither changed the fact that this was no game. Thi
s was a fight and nothing less. The most important fight of her life. For her life.
There was no room for second place. Second place got her unimaginable pain and degradation and eventually death. Her only choice was to fight as she’d never fought before.
And win.
CHAPTER 5
HONOR awoke with the first rays of sun that crept over the horizon, bathing the area in its pale light. She emitted a mental groan because all she wanted to do was sleep. For days. Even as uncomfortable as she was among the rock formations and the sand biting into her skin.
The wind had kicked up, showing promise of being as forceful as the night before when she’d fought to control the swirling hem of her robe.
She could have sneaked into the village in the dark of night and gone to the small river that was the life’s blood of this village. It was where the people bathed, did their washing, got their drinking water and did any number of other daily chores. She could have washed her wounds and replenished her water supply, but she needed a small clay or metal pot—even a tin cup—to boil the water in now that she had run through the untainted water she’d gotten from the clinic.
But she wasn’t fool enough to think she wouldn’t have been discovered. Though the village was quiet and peaceful, not one that had yet been overtaken by outsiders, and they hadn’t had to defend themselves from an outside attack, she knew they would have been trained, their men, young and old; even the boys and some of the women as well would have prepared themselves for the eventuality of occupation. And they no doubt had nightly watch patrols, just to ensure that they weren’t victim to a surprise attack in the dead of night.
There wasn’t a village that took for granted that they were impervious to the plights of so many others. And as more refugees from other decimated villages fled to villages just like this, the danger to communities rose. Terrorist cells and fanatics saw them as easy targets and as nothing more than the expansion of their empire. They didn’t see humans, good and decent people who hurt no one, who went about their daily life only wanting to be left in peace. People like those who’d struck at the relief center with such savagery had no humanity whatsoever. They saw themselves as superior to these simpletons, useless as anything but farmers and traders. Their women created beautiful accessories, clothing, decorative beading and fancier headdresses and long flowing gowns. People traveled far on their trade days to buy from the villagers. It was just another way they supported themselves and were able to sustain a livelihood.
As Honor slowly began moving, testing the limits and constraints of her body, pain shuddered through her, but she grimaced and continued on as if she hadn’t felt the protests of a hundred muscles.
She focused mostly on her knee, as it was her most serious injury. She still wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong with it, but the fact that she could walk on it without collapsing told her that it was bearable, and it would keep her moving toward her objective. She just had to move around and loosen up her muscles.
If only she’d been able to find other medications housed in the medical area of the relief center. Muscle relaxers would be a miracle. But all she had was antibiotics and what were considered over-the-counter pain relievers in the United States—ibuprofen and acetaminophen. Even if she’d been able to uncover the stronger narcotic pain relievers, she would have left them because she couldn’t afford to take anything that would impair her. She had to be sharp and on her toes at all times, and the pain, as unwelcome as it was, certainly kept that edge for her. She couldn’t relax when every movement hurt, and it reminded her to keep in character at all times, as if she were an actor in a movie—but this was no movie. This was the role of her life.
She slowly swallowed the last sips of water, licking her parched, cracked lips to alleviate the dryness, and allowed the soothing cool to trickle down her throat. She had no desire to eat again, and she had only a few MREs and one protein bar left. While she could replenish water in the village, she wasn’t so sure about food. She had no money to buy it and only one possible item she could barter with. But she could go far longer without food than water, so water was her primary focus. And if she could find things she could fashion into bandages and possible clothing, then she could switch out the only garment she wore. It was dangerous to appear in the same manner of dress every day, especially in a different location every day. Eventually someone would notice. People would talk. The maniacs pursuing her would put two and two together and they’d know they were close to capturing her. Worse, they’d know exactly what she looked like and would identify her on sight.
Her fingers closed around the handle of the sharp dagger concealed in the folds of her clothing and secured to the tie around her waist keeping the material in check. She’d brought it primarily as a means of protection, but the true reason crept into her mind more and more on a daily basis.
In the aftermath of the attack and with her panic at epic levels, after she’d seen what those monsters had done to her friends and knowing that what they’d do to her would be ten times worse and in no way merciful, she’d taken the knife because she’d promised herself that while she would not go down without a fight and that she would fight to live—to survive—at all costs, if there came a time when she knew all was lost and capture was inevitable . . . She closed her eyes, shutting it out. Or trying to. But it was there. The promise she’d rashly made that horrible day. She’d kill herself before allowing them to overtake her and take her prisoner.
It went against every grain. This wasn’t who she was. It never had been. Only in a weak moment of panic had she lamented the fact that she hadn’t died with the others, and it shamed her even now. She was a fighter. She was strong. Taking her own life seemed the ultimate act of cowardice. And yet she wasn’t an idiot. She knew she’d die anyway but only after days, possibly weeks of endless pain, degradation and torture. And she never wanted to get to a point where she begged someone else to kill her. Her pride was too great. She refused to give them that satisfaction. If it came to that, she’d do the deed herself and deprive them of their hollow victory.
Knowing she was wasting time and, if she was honest, spending way too much time avoiding the inevitable pausing to bolster her flagging courage, she pushed herself slowly and painfully to her feet and wrapped the ends of the sack carrying her now-meager supplies, tucking it within the folds of her garment. She secured it to her waist with the tie circling her midsection, leaving her hands free to defend herself if necessary.
She’d rigged the tie so that one firm yank would immediately loosen the robe so that it was easily pulled free of her body and she could better flee. But with the pillows still secured to parts of her body with miles of tape, being free of the robe wouldn’t give her that much more speed.
But the dagger would come in handy. If she could get enough of a start, she could slash at the tape as she ran, eventually freeing herself of all encumbrances, and be able to pick up speed. She just had to pray that her knee held out.
When she peered around the tallest and widest rock she’d sought refuge behind, she was surprised to see that the road leading to the village was quite busy for this early in the morning. There were people walking in groups. Some alone. Some pulling small wooden wagons by hand, others urging a mule forward as the animal pulled a cart behind it.
She swept a glance over the village below and saw various booths set up, people already putting their wares on display and readying themselves for customers. It was obviously a market day in the village, one that drew many from outlying areas.
Allowing a small exhale of relief, she looked for an opportunity to slip from behind her secluded shelter and fall in to the mix of people making their way to the village below. Hiding in plain sight. Her pursuers wouldn’t expect her to openly mingle with others in broad daylight. Not when she’d only traveled by night thus far and had hidden during the day to rest. Or so she told herself. If she dwelled on any other possibility, she’d stay in her current position, too afraid to move, and
she’d lose her only opportunity to replenish her supplies before she once more took flight and forged ahead in her quest for freedom.
When there was a break in the parade of people, she hurriedly strode toward the road, taking her place like she was just one of the others on their way to market, but she was careful to assume the stooped-over shuffle of a much older woman. Her hand automatically went to her veil to ensure that it covered all but her eyes, and she kept them downcast so she chanced looking no one directly in the eye.
Then she glanced down at her hands before burying them in the layers of material flowing from her waist. There was still swelling, and dirt covered the cuts and lacerations, only giving the impression of a woman who’d worked a lifetime with her hands. She’d been careful to wash away any dried, crusted blood; her fingernails were broken to the quick and dirt covered them, embedded around the cuticles, coating the area where they’d been ripped away from her skin.
She was near the outskirts of the village and she could hear sounds bursting from the small populace. There was even music in the distance. Already haggling had begun and the booths were alive with people seeking to barter for items or buy them.
“Good day to you, sister.”
Honor stiffened but forced herself not to overreact to the man who’d slipped up beside her undetected. She’d been too focused on the goings-on in the village and hadn’t paid her fellow travelers the attention she should have. The man had spoken in one of the less common dialects. Had it been a test?
Before she could summon a response, he continued in a low voice, as if not wanting to be overheard by anyone. “There are outcasts here. They look for something. The villagers are wary. They surround the village and are searching the village thoroughly. A woman alone cannot be too careful. If you wish, you may travel with me. It would be an honor to aid an elder of our people.”
Did he know who she was? How could he? Had she not been as careful as she’d thought? Was he warning her because he knew she was the one whom the militant faction searched for? And was he merely offering her reassurance that he wouldn’t betray her by playing along with her disguise and calling her an elder of their people? Or was there something more sinister at play? Was he one of the very men she had to evade at all costs?
There was little she could do. If she suddenly fled, she’d certainly draw attention to herself. And again, she doubted the assholes hunting her thought she would have the balls to go into that village with them there, so close she could smell them. And if she traveled with this man who looked to be older, it would only add credibility to her disguise.
He was younger than she pretended to be, but he was not a young man and likely had a wife or wives and children. Perhaps in his forties, but it was hard to tell because hard work aged the people here far before their time.
“I thank you, my brother, and good day to you as well.” Then injecting a note of fear in her voice, as would be expected, she turned but was careful not to meet his eyes, and she kept her head bowed in a gesture of subservience. “Why are they here? Is this not a peaceful village? What is it that they seek this day? And are we safe?”
She’d thought through every single word and purposely made her voice sound as aged as she appeared. She wanted no hint of an accent and she was very good at the languages of the Middle East, even the obscure ones that verged on extinction. She breathed a sigh of relief when she could detect no error in her effort. She only hoped a native hadn’t picked up on something she herself couldn’t hear in her voice.
“There is talk that the group that calls themselves A New Era seek an American woman who escaped a relief center bombing while all other workers perished. They won’t stop until they capture her, so they are spreading themselves far and wide and splitting up so they can cover more ground. The villagers are uneasy. They fear this abomination will destroy the village and expand the area they have absolute control of. If this woman is found, she would be given up in hopes that the fanatics would spare them in exchange.”
Honor was more sure than ever that this man knew she was the woman being hunted. Why he had offered to help her, she didn’t know. But then perhaps he only wanted to lure her in, give her a false sense of security so he could be the one to hand her over to A New Era and reap the reward.
She didn’t have time to ponder the choice or mull it over in her mind. It would be a dead giveaway, and no elderly woman would turn down the protection of another when apprised of the situation, so she did the only thing she could do. The only option available to her.
“I am grateful for your protection and gladly accept. I have need of only a few things. I have no desire to be caught in the slaughter of innocent lives.”
“May Allah be with us both, my sister,” he said formally. “Come, walk with me and we will acquire the things you need so you can be on your way. And may Allah walk with you wherever you go.”
He knew. He had to know. And yet he acted as though he wanted to help her. She was both relieved and grateful but also terrified all at the same time. She hated feeling so exposed. She hated someone knowing that she was the one the intruders were here for. Guilt swamped her. She didn’t want to be responsible for the deaths of innocent people. She didn’t want to be responsible for an entire village being decimated. And she didn’t want to cause the death of a man who knew who she was and was helping her regardless.
She fell into step beside him and he slowed his pace to match hers so he didn’t leave her behind.
“Are you injured?”
He asked in a mild, concerned voice that put Honor on edge even more. She couldn’t afford to trust anyone. What if he was leading her directly to the men hunting her?
She emitted a soft laugh, roughening her voice to sound hardened by work and age. “When you get to be my age, your bones hurt and you don’t move as quickly as you did in your youth. But I am well. I still manage to get around just fine.”
He nodded, seeming to accept her explanation. They continued on in silence until they reached the small dwellings of the village. From underneath lowered lashes, she surveyed the area with a keen eye. At the river, her prime objective, several women were doing their morning laundry. The mood seemed light, but perhaps they didn’t know of the danger that had infiltrated their village.
She would make her way to the river first because it would give her an opportunity to view the booths and see if any had items she needed. She would be okay for food for a few more days, but it only seemed logical to restock if possible because she had no way of knowing when she’d get another opportunity.
The only thing she had of value that wouldn’t draw immediate suspicion was an intricate, decorative bracelet that had been a gift from a grateful family whose son she’d tended to, and she had been warm and reassuring when the child was scared. She knew it was of value and that it was something the family couldn’t afford to simply give away, but it would have been an insult to refuse the offering, and now she was glad she hadn’t. It should be enough to buy food and another garment so she could change her appearance and alternate her manner of dress.
“Where do you seek to go, sister?” the man asked.
“The river,” she said simply. “I have need of washing and to get enough water to travel back from where I came.”
He studied her a brief moment, clearly weighing the truth of her words.
“I’ll go retrieve the water for you. I have containers I can offer.” He said so as if he knew that her containers were not those used here, that they were plastic bottles that looked decidedly out of place. “You go find what it is you seek in the village and I will return to you when I’ve gotten the water.”
She nodded and inclined her head in a gesture of respect and of gratitude. Then she turned and shuffled slowly down the street lined with booths and all manner of things for sale. She needed to find someone who offered not only preserved food but also clothing or at least material she could fashion into a garment as she’d done with the large bolt of material s
he’d uncovered in the relief center, because she had only one thing to use as payment, which meant if she couldn’t find a vendor who offered both, she would have to make a choice.
She stopped at several, pretending interest and even exchanging pleasantries in their language fluently, always mindful not to allow the natural youthfulness of her voice to slip in and to maintain the cracked, rough voice of a much older woman.
All the while she scanned the area, meticulously studying the crowd for anyone who looked out of place. The residents of the village didn’t seem uneasy, which told Honor that her pursuers were being very discreet, just waiting for their prey to be seen.
Finally she found a vendor that offered not only a variety of flavorful, preserved food that would last her many weeks if she consumed only what was