“We will develop a plan together. We will make certain it is safe.” She touched a hand to his arm. “You will go home soon.”

He searched her eyes for an eternity, then drew her tightly against him. “If I could stay, I would. I would stay with you.”

She buried her face in his chest and pinched her eyes against the threat of tears. “I know this. I know this very well.”

Just as she knew this was the beginning of good-bye.

THE NEXT MORNING, his chest tightly knotted, he watched Rabia drive away from the cave where she had first hidden him. They had agreed that he couldn't stay in the house alone. There would be too much opportunity for a chance encounter with one of the villagers—or a return visit from the Taliban.

So here he was, where it all began, hiding in a cave like a coward. An even bigger coward for sending her to save him.

He had bedding, food, and water enough to last him several days.

Several days alone.

The panic knotted in his chest shamed him. Rabia had been his lifeline. There was not a day in his memory that she had not been in his life.

Now she was in danger because of him.

He ducked into the cave, olfactory memories of the month he’d spent here calling forward reminders of pain and opiate hazes and the shackle around his leg. Of Rabia coming to him every day.

Now she was gone.

If all went well, she would soon be back, and he would be gone from here.

The thought of leaving her drilled a hole in his heart.

And he was left feeling more alone than he’d thought humanly possible.

“WHAT IS YOUR business on this road?”

Rabia had expected the Taliban patrol to stop them. For that reason, she was covered in her burqa. Four fighters manned the checkpoint. Two approached the car.

Her father rolled down the rear window of her older-model Toyota and addressed them. “I am Wakdar Kahn Kakar, malik of the village of Salawat. I am traveling to Emarat to consult with the malik there.”

“Why does this woman drive?”

“This woman is my daughter. I am an old man. I have no sons. I am in need of her to drive me where I wish to go.”

The fighter walked around to the driver’s side. Rabia had hidden her hands in her lap to avoid breaking Taliban law. She kept her head down.

“Show your hands,” the fighter ordered.

She waited for her father’s consent. “Show your hands, daughter, so that they will know you are not a man in hiding.”

She did as she was told, apparently to their satisfaction, then quickly covered her hands again.

“Give me the keys.”

She did as he said, then waited while the guard opened the trunk and checked their luggage.

Finally, he returned the keys and motioned her to drive forward.

Grateful for once for the confining burqa that concealed how nervous she was, she started the car and drove on.

They encountered many more checkpoints on the three-hour trip, each one as nerve-wracking as the other, before finally reaching Emarat right before the noontime meal.

While they were not expected, they were welcomed with great generosity, as was the Pashtun custom.

Because her father was eager for the American askar to leave, he had consented to participate in the plan she and Jeffery had carefully worked out. Once inside the Emarat malik’s house, they would dine and socialize with the family, who would be eager to share news of the region. As soon as Rabia found out when the American patrol was due back through, she would attempt to make contact.

She didn’t have to wait long. The patrol was due the next day.

DRESSED AS A boy, her hair pulled up on top of her head and tucked under a cap, Rabia sneaked out of the house, careful not to wake the other women sleeping in the room with her. Heart pounding, she double-checked her pocket for the letter Jeffery had written and the blood and hair samples he had insisted she take.

“Since I can’t go myself,” he had said, handing her a knife, “they will need physical evidence as proof that I’m alive. The letter won’t be enough.”

The village was small, no more than three thousand people. It did not take her long to reach the outskirts of town, where the Americans were said to be camping. The land was flat here. Tonight a thick layer of clouds covered a sky that was usually lit with stars. She was glad for the absence of light, which made it easier for her to slip through the village undetected.

For long moments, she stood at the town’s edge and searched the terrain beyond. It took only moments for her eyes to acclimate and spot the shadows of several tents about a quarter of a mile away.

On a deep breath, she stepped out of the concealment of a row of dwellings and started walking through the dark toward the encampment. With each step, she prayed that there would not be Taliban fighters hiding in the dark. And as she grew closer and could make out the silhouette of an American soldier carrying a rifle, she prayed to Allah that he would not shoot her before she had an opportunity to tell them about Jeffery.

Chapter 21

PRIVATE FIRST CLASS DANNY GLEASON hated freaking night watch. Fact was, he hated everything about everything that had to do with the U.S. freaking Army. He was nineteen years old. He’d joined up because it was either that or get sent to juvie for a little run-in with the Georgia State Police. Hell, he’d just been having some fun. He hadn’t known that asshole Dale Feckers was going to boost some beer from an all-night liquor store on the other side of the state line and expect him to be his wheel man.

Some friend he’d been. And now, because of Feckers, Danny was in Af-freakin’-ghanistan, eating sand and watching his back for fear some Tali-freakin’-ban jihadists decided they wanted to kill themselves an American infidel.