Hide and Seek by Jeff Struecker Page A

we might have found something more useful. The large pharmacies in the United States carry a little bit of everything. I’ve seen cameras and pocketknives. I’m more interested in the latter, but no such luck here. So . . .” She held up a ten-centimeter-long metal case. It was narrow and took only a moment for Jildiz to recognize it.
    “A box cutter.”
    “I’d prefer to leave with a 9mm Glock handgun, but the place seems to be fresh out.”
    The tool had a silver metal slide. Amelia thumbed it up, extending a long, silver-gray blade.
    “I couldn’t.”
    “First, yes you could—can—and let’s pray you don’t have to, but if you do, I want you prepared.”
    “Amelia—” Jildiz looked away. A moment later she felt a soft but strong hand cup her chin and lift.
    “Look at me, Jildiz. You’ve seen riots in your country before. You’re an educated woman who follows world events. I know you saw the riots in Greece in 2011, and in Egypt, and a dozen other countries. You know how violent things can get. Normally smart people go stupid quick and do things they never dreamed they would. It happens over and over again all around the world. You have to be prepared to defend yourself.”
    “I hate violence.”
    “I’m not crazy about it either, but I know there are people who want to hurt others. It seems they’re roving the streets now. Add to that the fact someone tried to kidnap you. Well, we have to assume they’re searching for you right now. When I come back, I don’t want to find you missing or dead. Clear?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Nope. No buts. You listen and you take to heart what I say. I don’t have time to repeat all of this. Okay?”
    Jildiz nodded. In the darkening shop, she ran the scenarios Amelia gave her through her head.

    AMELIA REMINDED HERSELF FOR the twentieth time that what she was doing was crazy, bizarre, against common sense. Had she just herself to protect, she would have done things differently, but Jildiz was blood kin to the president of the country. When I get out of this, I’m going to resign my commission, move to Hawaii, and paint seashells for tourists. “Or something,” she whispered.
    The night seemed warmer than it should. Kyrgyzstan was a mountainous country with more than its fair share of snow in the winter. There should still be a cool breeze rolling off the peaks. Perhaps she felt warm from exertion. Or maybe it was the blanket of smoke overhead. Or maybe it was her imagination. It didn’t matter. What did matter was retracing her steps back to the car and avoiding human contact while she did.
    Part of her wanted to seek help from others, but she didn’t know who to trust. Besides, the sane people left the area for safer digs. That left only the insane, the furious, and mixed in with them, an unknown number of bad guys.
    Without Jildiz, Amelia made good time. She reached the restaurant faster than she thought possible. The place was closed and locked up. In a just world, she would believe that machine gun man had been arrested. Maybe he had, but she saw him shouting into a radio. Other goons had to be around.
    She came to the back of the eatery and paused, looking and listening for sounds of danger. Not hearing any, she moved casually to the street, like a lost tourist. Her car, lifeless as a brick, was still in the street. Several of the buildings on the street had fresh graffiti in various colors. Some called for the overthrow of the government, a few demanded Uzbeks leave the country, and she saw several stylized A ’s in a circle—the universal symbol of the anarchist movement. The street was littered with garbage. A breeze shoved bits of paper down the asphalt lane. “Lovely.”
    She pulled a marker from her coat pocket, something she snagged from the stationery aisle of the pharmacy. After checking the street again to make certain she was alone, Amelia moved to the car. The bullet holes made it look like the carcass of some large animal shot by hunters.