don’t want to do anything that will arouse suspicion.”
Honor put it into high gear and within minutes she was dressed appropriately, the strap of her bag secured cross body and a new hijab and robe folded carefully over her arm. She walked briskly to the door, testing the strength of her knee now that she was to walk normally. It protested the quicker movements and more weight being borne on the leg, but it was much more bearable than before, probably due to the woman’s doctoring. But most importantly, she could maintain a normal pace without giving away her injury. It pained her, yes. But it had subsided to a dull ache and sheer determination would make it impossible for her to falter. At the door, she paused and turned back, needing to at least try to put into words her overwhelming gratitude.
“Thank you,” she said. “You risked much for a stranger. I’ll never be able to repay my debt to you.”
“May Allah be with you on your journey,” the husband said in a solemn voice. “We will pray daily for you.”
“And I you,” Honor vowed in return. “Allah be with your family always. I will never forget you. You will forever remain in my prayers.”
“Good journey,” the woman said as Honor opened the door and stepped into the sunlight.
The woman had directed her to which group to blend in with and she walked toward them, carrying her market purchases, but before she reached them, her way was suddenly blocked by a large, looming man. Her pulse leapt and her fight-or-flight reflexes screamed at her to be set free. It took every ounce of discipline she possessed to lower her head in subservience and murmur an apology in the local dialect.
“Very impressive, Honor. Doing the unexpected. Now Iunderstand why you’ve been able to evade capture for so long. And your accent is flawless. I wonder. How many of the languages in this region do you speak?”
The American accent, a hint of the south, a drawl so subtle it nearly wasn’t audible. But she had an affinity for languages and accents, and her ears were sensitive to subtle nuances others would likely be unaware of. But he too obviously had a talent for languages or at least the one she’d spoken to him since he’d been aware that he could detect no accent, and he’d been looking for one.
Her pulse leapt again, this time thundering like a tornado through her veins but for a different reason altogether. He was American. He knew her name. Was he here to rescue her? Had news of her survival and of the militant group turning the earth over in search of her reached the public? Had he been sent to extract her? And if so, why hadn’t he simply identified himself and stated his objective? Had he been concerned that her relief would give them away? That she’d become a hysterical, shrill twit and attract the focus of everyone in the entire village? Something about this—him—just didn’t feel right.
Trust no one.
The woman’s words filtered through her mind, dimming her excitement, and she forced herself to act indifferent, puzzled even, as though she didn’t understand the language he spoke. Daringly, she turned her head up, meeting his gaze, forcing hers into one of confusion.
She cocked her head and shook it slightly, frowning even as she said in the local dialect, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I don’t speak your language.”
A glint of amusement briefly flickered in his eyes before his gaze hardened and his expression became equally hard—and gravely serious.
He wore the clothing of a native and yet there was no attempt on his part to hide what he was. Caucasian. Perhaps the reason he didn’t show fear was that he was protected by his membership in a terrorist organization.
“I don’t have time to play games. You don’t have the time to waste. You were probably told that the men hunting youare waiting until dark, when you are normally on the move and that they will be looking for an older woman with a slow, shuffling gait and
Honor put it into high gear and within minutes she was dressed appropriately, the strap of her bag secured cross body and a new hijab and robe folded carefully over her arm. She walked briskly to the door, testing the strength of her knee now that she was to walk normally. It protested the quicker movements and more weight being borne on the leg, but it was much more bearable than before, probably due to the woman’s doctoring. But most importantly, she could maintain a normal pace without giving away her injury. It pained her, yes. But it had subsided to a dull ache and sheer determination would make it impossible for her to falter. At the door, she paused and turned back, needing to at least try to put into words her overwhelming gratitude.
“Thank you,” she said. “You risked much for a stranger. I’ll never be able to repay my debt to you.”
“May Allah be with you on your journey,” the husband said in a solemn voice. “We will pray daily for you.”
“And I you,” Honor vowed in return. “Allah be with your family always. I will never forget you. You will forever remain in my prayers.”
“Good journey,” the woman said as Honor opened the door and stepped into the sunlight.
The woman had directed her to which group to blend in with and she walked toward them, carrying her market purchases, but before she reached them, her way was suddenly blocked by a large, looming man. Her pulse leapt and her fight-or-flight reflexes screamed at her to be set free. It took every ounce of discipline she possessed to lower her head in subservience and murmur an apology in the local dialect.
“Very impressive, Honor. Doing the unexpected. Now Iunderstand why you’ve been able to evade capture for so long. And your accent is flawless. I wonder. How many of the languages in this region do you speak?”
The American accent, a hint of the south, a drawl so subtle it nearly wasn’t audible. But she had an affinity for languages and accents, and her ears were sensitive to subtle nuances others would likely be unaware of. But he too obviously had a talent for languages or at least the one she’d spoken to him since he’d been aware that he could detect no accent, and he’d been looking for one.
Her pulse leapt again, this time thundering like a tornado through her veins but for a different reason altogether. He was American. He knew her name. Was he here to rescue her? Had news of her survival and of the militant group turning the earth over in search of her reached the public? Had he been sent to extract her? And if so, why hadn’t he simply identified himself and stated his objective? Had he been concerned that her relief would give them away? That she’d become a hysterical, shrill twit and attract the focus of everyone in the entire village? Something about this—him—just didn’t feel right.
Trust no one.
The woman’s words filtered through her mind, dimming her excitement, and she forced herself to act indifferent, puzzled even, as though she didn’t understand the language he spoke. Daringly, she turned her head up, meeting his gaze, forcing hers into one of confusion.
She cocked her head and shook it slightly, frowning even as she said in the local dialect, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I don’t speak your language.”
A glint of amusement briefly flickered in his eyes before his gaze hardened and his expression became equally hard—and gravely serious.
He wore the clothing of a native and yet there was no attempt on his part to hide what he was. Caucasian. Perhaps the reason he didn’t show fear was that he was protected by his membership in a terrorist organization.
“I don’t have time to play games. You don’t have the time to waste. You were probably told that the men hunting youare waiting until dark, when you are normally on the move and that they will be looking for an older woman with a slow, shuffling gait and
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