“What about the Kurds?”
“What about them?”
“They won’t help you?”
“Kurdistan is not stable, due to border conflicts with Turkey and Iran. They have also taken Assyrian lands in the guise of protecting us. They are your allies, not ours.”
“This country,” he muttered.
“What about it?”
“It’s a goddamned mess, that’s what.”
“Yes, it is. We live in rubble left by the US intervention.”
He made a sound of skepticism. “Your wars go back centuries, before the US was even founded.”
“Before your ancestors stole land from the natives, you mean?”
He tapped the surface of the map. “There’s snow and ice on those mountains. We need special gear for that.”
“I have gear.”
“Do you have crampons for everyone?”
“Yes. Come see.”
She escorted him to another room. She had tents, canvas packs, climbing rope, crampons for icy terrain, and a pile of boots in the corner. He picked up a boot, arching a brow. They were desert-style castoffs from a US military base. Or perhaps stolen. She’d bought the gear in bulk and not asked questions.
“These aren’t for snow.”
“They are all we have.”
He pulled out one of the tents and studied it. “What about sleeping bags? We’ll freeze to death at night.”
“We will use wool and sheepskin, like the nomads.” She showed him her stack of sheepskins. There were two rectangular pieces for each hiker. One covered the front of the torso and one covered the back. There were ties at the shoulders and on the sides. “This can be worn and used as a sleeping mat.”
“How?”
She laid the two panels flat on the ground. The sheepskin offered warmth and padding. “The wool cloaks are versatile also. They become blankets.”
“What if they get wet?”
“I have ponchos.” She found the plastic hooded ponchos. “See?”
He rifled through one of the packs, studying the gear. It was a mix of modern, traditional and low-budget items, all painstakingly collected. She had stainless steel water containers that could be used for cooking. Food rations in sealed tins. He tossed out whatever he deemed unnecessary. When he was finished, he lifted the pack with one hand to test its weight. His bulging biceps mesmerized her.
He dropped the pack with a thunk.
“Is it too heavy?” she asked.
“How do you expect that old man to strap on a fifty-pound pack without falling and breaking a hip?”
“Ibrahim is not coming. He returned to his home in Telskuf.”
“No old people? No kids?”
“Only Ashur. He will have a lighter pack.”
Hud grunted in response, his gaze moving down her body. “You don’t know what you’re in for. Grueling fourteen-hour hikes. No rest stops. Elevation sickness. Dangerous terrain. Bad weather.”
“I walked across the Syrian Desert for sixteen days. I think I know.”
“This won’t be like that.”
“It is a journey my people have taken before.”
“Yeah, who?”
“My mother and father. They guided Assyrian refugees from other countries into Iraq when they were young.”
He cursed under his breath at this revelation.
“We will make it. I am confident.”
“Do you have guns?”
“Of course.” Those were easy to get here, unlike climbing gear. “As many Kalashnikovs as you like.”
“Great,” he muttered. “When do we go?”
“As soon as the others arrive. Four or five days.”
“I can’t wait.”
She followed him back to his room, feeling giddy. His sarcasm didn’t bother her. It meant he was going to cooperate. She was eager to discuss the itinerary, but he stopped at the threshold, barring her entry.
“Unless you want to finish what we started, get away from me.”
She flushed with embarrassment. “Good night, then.”
He slammed the door in her face.
Chapter 5
Hud spent the next three days recuperating.
Recuperating, seething in silence and fantasizing about Layah.
He couldn’t believe she’d played him like that. He’d intended to play her, not the other way around. He thought he could convince her to abandon her half-cocked plan by demanding sex, but she hadn’t blinked an eye at his crude proposition. She wasn’t afraid of him, and she wasn’t innocent. She was a young widow, ripe for pleasure. She’d stroked his hair and rubbed her generous breasts against him.
Damn it.
All he’d gotten for his efforts was an erection that wouldn’t quit. He kept reevaluating the kiss they’d shared, searching for signs of deception. She couldn’t fake chemistry. They had that in spades. The feel of her hands in his hair had turned him into mush. When their mouths met, it was like fireworks.
She’d wanted him, in that moment. They’d been on the same page, hungry for each other. He hadn’t imagined her heated response.
Then they’d almost been caught by Ashur, and she’d jumped up from the bed in a panic, as if she might get stoned in a public square for kissing him. A cold weight had settled in his stomach at the sight, and a little voice in his head whispered: She’s married. She looks guilty because she’s married.
She’d said she was a widow, and that made sense, but he didn’t trust her to tell the truth. She was holding him hostage. She’d kidnapped him and drugged him. Lying was a minor offense compared to her other infractions. Intuition told him she was hiding something, and he’d been burned by beautiful women before.
His cheating ex, for example.
He’d searched Layah’s room at the first opportunity. He hadn’t found a cell phone or any useful items among her personal effects, which he’d inspected thoroughly. The damp lingerie in her washroom had smelled like jasmine water, clean and intoxicating. It wasn’t his finest moment of reconnaissance, but no regrets.
This morning, he’d woken up antsy. He’d paced the room, considering his options. He didn’t want to cross the Zagros with a bunch of refugees, but he didn’t want to stay in this village. It was an insecure location, nestled against the mountains. He had no local contacts. The closest military base was hundreds of miles away.
After breakfast, he tested his stitches by doing a basic captivity workout. Fifty push-ups, two hundred curl-ups, five minutes of cardio. Halfway through, he heard a knock
