CHAPTER
TWO

The MRAP shuddered from the blast wave of the second explosion. “Back up! Back it up!”

Asher grabbed his rifle while Owens slammed on the brakes and reversed the big machine. Asher looked out the window, his field of vision consisting of one big wall of dust.

“That came from The Bistro,” Owens said.

Dobbs wore his medic bag over his body armor. The gas mask was strapped to his thigh. Asher pushed the door open and climbed out, his weapon held ready, mask over his face. Dobbs was right behind him, followed by Owens and Sampson.

People and smoke streamed from the restaurant. Dobbs stopped long enough to pull on his mask before he headed into the smoking, burning building. Sirens in the distance signaled emergency crews would be here soon. Even in Afghanistan, they responded pretty fast. Asher barked orders while he grabbed another extinguisher.

Following the path Dobbs had blazed, Asher continued shooting the flames with the extinguisher, looking for any victims—and his target. While all he heard was the roar of the blaze farther in, the rest of his squad would be bringing up the rear. He stopped to help an elderly man stand. “That way!” Asher said the words in Dari and again in Pashto. The man held a hand to his bleeding head and Asher wished he could help him further, but once the man was out on the street, help would be steps away. Flames spurted from the back of the restaurant, but while the smoke was thick, he could still see. That wouldn’t last long. “Talk to me, Dobbs! Where is he? Where’s Michaels?”

“Straight back from the front door and to the left! I think I see him. I’m trying to get to him. He’s on the floor.” Dobbs’s voice came through the radio and Asher hurried to follow the directions, but he was stumbling blind—and praying another explosion wasn’t just waiting to happen.

Brooke coughed, gagged. Pain sizzled across her shoulders and back. Smoke and fire billowed through the restaurant.

Flames leapt from her sleeve.

Panic flaring, she scrambled out from under the heavy weight of the body that had slammed into her and threw herself backward. She rolled, beating her body and arms against the tiled floor.

Screams from wounded patrons and workers registered. She wanted to add her own to the chaos, but she needed to breathe. Only all the oxygen had been sucked from the area.

Brooke wrapped the edge of the hijab around her mouth and nose, ignoring the razor-sharp pain racing through her arms, her back, her shoulders.

A hard hand clasped hers. She looked down and gasped. Specialist Isaiah Michaels lay next to her, and with a sob, she realized he’d been the one to throw himself over her, covering her, protecting her. “Hold on, Michaels, hold on.”

A good portion of the left side of his face was gone, from the cheek to his hairline. Her stomach lurched, but he was trying to tell her something. She scuttled closer, clutching his trembling fingers. “Shh . . . don’t try to talk,” she croaked. “I’ll get you some help. I’m so sorry. So sorry.” It was her fault he was here. Guilt hammered her.

His hand squeezed hers and she realized he wanted her even closer. And he was trying to get her to take something. She squinted. A bracelet? Automatically, she wrapped her fingers around it. “Keep . . . it . . . safe . . . ,” he rasped.

“Who does it belong to? Who do you want me to give it to?”

“Miranda . . . tell Miranda . . . love her . . . didn’t know.”

He wasn’t making any sense. “You want me to give the bracelet to Miranda?”

“Brooke! Brooke! Where are you?”

Kat? “Back here!” A coughing spasm seized her and stars danced in front of her vision.

And still the man wouldn’t loosen his grip. “I didn’t know . . . I didn’t know what they were doing . . . Tell her I didn’t know.”

He had to be delirious with pain—or in such shock he wasn’t feeling it. The fact that he was even conscious was nothing short of miraculous. “Know what? What didn’t you know, Michaels?” Miranda, his wife. He’d mentioned her once during their final session, saying how he had to talk to her, mumbling about needing her forgiveness and saying he didn’t know.

Now he whispered something else. She leaned farther in, trying to ignore the pain, smoke, and blackness fighting to claim her consciousness. A small pocket of air allowed her to pull in a breath before the smoke rolled back over her.

Still holding his hand and the bracelet, she put her ear to his lips.

“. . . traitor,” he whispered. “Tell . . . Miranda . . .”

“What?”

“Not. A. Traitor,” he wheezed. “Don’t . . . let them . . . say . . . I am.” He went still, his eyes fixed on a spot behind her left shoulder.

“No,” she cried, coughed, gagged, refusing to let him go. “No, don’t you die on me! Not you too! I’m sorry!” She shoved the bracelet into her pocket, then wrapped her arms around his shoulders and buried her face in his chest.

Then hands were pulling her away. She fought to bring him with her, but the blackness pressed in. She turned to see storm-cloud gray eyes behind a mask.

“Save him. Please save him,” she whispered with no hope of the man hearing her as the flames crept closer.

This time she couldn’t fight the blackness that stole her vision and then her breath.