Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Izzy strapped herself in with surprising efficiency and took out her overear headphones from a shoulder bag that looked like it cost more than I made in a month, looking at them with dismay.
Yeah, those weren’t going to work with her helmet, and putting her through a flight without music was . . . unfathomable to me, a torture I wasn’t willing to impose on her.
She dropped the headphones into her bag and stared out the window like nothing was wrong, but her back was ramrod straight, her lips pressed between her teeth, and she white-knuckled the seat as we launched.
Her gaze met mine as we left the ground, and just like that, we weren’t in the Blackhawk. We were staring into each other’s eyes, our hands clinging as flight 826 plummeted into the Missouri.
She slammed her eyes shut, and I unhooked my belt, adjusted my rifle, and pulled my AirPods out of a cargo pocket on my Kevlar. Then I moved, kneeling in front of her.
A touch of her knee had her eyes flying open and locking with mine. My chest tightened at the fear in those brown depths. She blinked quickly, trying to mask it, but she’d never been able to hide anything from me.
Reaching up, I slipped my AirPods into her ears, then sat back in my seat, aware of her gaze tracking my every move as she adjusted the fit.
The aircraft was nearly full, and yet it might as well have been only the two of us as I pulled out my phone—disconnected from service, but not the music I kept downloaded—and scrolled through my library.
I tapped on “Northern Downpour,” and our eyes locked as the helicopter rose above Kabul, heading toward JBAD.
Her lips parted, and the way she looked at me . . . shit, it may as well have been 2011, or 2014, or any of the other years fate had thrown us together. It was one of her favorite songs, which was one of the only things we had in common. The shaky breath she drew, her chest stuttering, nearly unraveled me.
To sit here, to see her and not touch her, not demand to know whose ring was on her finger, was a hell I wasn’t sure I could live through, and yet, I’d endure it without faltering if it meant I’d get to see her one last time.
After all, she was . . . Isabeau.
She mouthed along with the lyrics, then ripped her gaze away, staring at her knees.
I leaned forward and handed her my phone so she could pick whatever she wanted to listen to, then sat back and pulled out the paperback of The Color Purple I’d kept in the cargo pocket of my pants for the last few weeks and began to read.
The embassy was bustling with tension and a touch of chaos when we returned later that evening.
Izzy’s meeting with leadership in Jalalabad had been only an hour, maybe less, but what she’d heard hadn’t eased her tension or mine. There was an atmosphere of desperation, yet resolve, and I hoped the latter won out against the former.
The news we’d received once we’d gotten back to the bird a few hours ago had only confirmed what everyone knew—the country was destabilizing. Zaranj, in the southern Nimruz Province, had fallen to the Taliban today.
Expected, yet . . . disappointing.
“And these are the last articles from American journalists in country,” Kacey said after filling Izzy in on the day, shoving a manila folder at her as we trudged up the stairs to her room.
“Perfect. Thank you. I’m going to shower off the dust, and then I’ll be down for dinner,” Izzy said, leaving Kacey at her bedroom door before shutting it.
I nodded at Kacey and then turned my back on Izzy’s door like I was standing guard.
After thirty seconds, I tried the handle, and it opened. “Damn it, Izzy, can’t you lock it?” I snapped, shutting it behind me and throwing the dead bolt.
“I knew you’d follow me in,” she said from her bedroom, kicking off her shoes in the doorway. “Folder is on the table.”
I picked it up and thumbed through the latest articles. “They shouldn’t even be here,” I muttered, checking the bylines for Serena’s name. “Americans have been warned to get the hell out for months.”
“You know Serena,” Izzy said, shrugging off her blazer and then throwing it onto her bed. Couldn’t blame her for wanting it off. It had been hot as hell out there. She walked over in just her dress pants and lace-trimmed camisole.
Nope, not looking at the way her breasts rose against the fabric.
That way lay madness.
“I do know Serena.” I shook my head when I reached the last of the articles. “She didn’t file today, or yesterday, and last week’s didn’t give a precise location. We’ll have to check every day until we see her name.”