Navy Seal Rescue. Susan Cliff

mountain climber.”

      “Who told you that?”

      “My sources.”

      He didn’t bother to deny it. The tattoo on his chest was a symbol of his military affiliation. The terrorists had known he was a SEAL. They’d enjoyed putting out cigarettes on his trident, searing his flesh with hot embers. He touched the spot absently and felt no remnant of the torture. No permanent scarring. He was lucky they hadn’t used a poker or a cattle brand. The minor burns had healed, the pain fading into a distant memory.

      “You are a SEAL, yes? Sea, Air, Land?”

      “You need an experienced local,” he said. “I’ve never climbed those mountains. I’ve never even seen a map of the route.”

      “There isn’t one.”

      “No map?”

      “No established route. I have topographic information and satellite imagery, but no climbing details.”

      “How do you know it can be done?”

      “It has been done before. Just not chronicled.”

      “Because it’s not legal.”

      “The Kurdish government does not allow travel in this region.”

      “I wonder why,” he said drolly.

      “They do not wish for tourists to come to harm, or for refugees to get stranded and need assistance.”

      “Are we in Kurdistan?”

      Her lips pursed at the question. “That depends on who you ask. It is a Yazidi village, protected by Kurdish forces and threatened by the Da’esh.”

      He couldn’t keep track of the different ethnic groups and shifting borders in Iraq. The map seemed to change daily, and he’d been out of the loop for months. Da’esh was an Arabic word that meant Islamic Front. He knew that much. “Is Mosul still under attack?”

      “It was taken by the Da’esh, along with Telskuf and every other Assyrian town in the Nineveh Province.”

      “You’re Assyrian?”

      “I am.”

      If his memory served, the Assyrians were Christians. Being Muslim in Iraq was no picnic, with the different sects in constant conflict, but other religious groups were even more persecuted. They had fewer numbers and less power. “My condolences.”

      “Are you Christian?”

      He shrugged. “I was raised that way.”

      “Then you will help us.”

      “Us?”

      “My people.”

      He gave her a dubious look. Her idea to cross the Zagros was crazy enough without adding a passel of refugees, like that maniac kid and the hunchbacked old man. The fact that they were Christians didn’t change his mind. He was loyal to his team and his country, period. “You can’t hire a guide who knows the area?”

      “I have tried. I paid two Turkish mountaineers in advance.” She let out a huffed breath. “They came during the fall of Mosul and turned back.”

      He nodded his understanding. There weren’t a lot of expert climbers in Iraq. It was a leisure sport that required time, travel and excess cash. They were in a war zone where people were struggling to survive.

      “I need a man who will not quit.” She placed her hand on his forearm. “I think you are that man.”

      Hud arched a brow at her touch. She was a beautiful woman, savvy enough to read the interest in his eyes. She knew he’d been denied every pleasure and comfort during his captivity. Although he liked having his ego stroked, among other things, he couldn’t do anything for her. He was a Navy SEAL, not a mercenary. He didn’t take money from refugees, and he doubted she had any to pay him.

      “Why the Zagros?” he asked.

      She removed her hand from his arm. “There is no other way. The Da’esh control the roads to the south and west. We cannot travel through Syria. We have to go over the mountains, into Turkey.”

      “Turkey is safe?”

      “Turkey is the least hostile border country. But they are closed to refugees, so crossing illegally is necessary.”

      “What happens if I say no?”

      “For your own sake, you must say yes.”

      “Is that a threat?”

      “It is reality. We are both prisoners here. I need you to get out of the country. You need me for the same reason.”

      He made a skeptical sound, even though he believed her. In a remote location, with no communication or support from the US military, striking out on his own would be unwise. He couldn’t afford to get recaptured.

      She offered a tight smile, aware of his dilemma.

      He smiled back at her, determined to choose his own fate. She wasn’t the most formidable opponent he’d ever faced. Compared to the psychopaths who’d tortured him, she was soft. Soft and lush, with her flawless skin and alluring mouth. If he wasn’t so dirty and disheveled, he might try to seduce her.

      “I need clean clothes and a shower.”

      She bowed her head. “As you wish.”

      He wondered what else he could get from her. She didn’t look desperate, but her actions implied otherwise. She’d blown up the side of a building to rescue him. She’d risked her life for his. She was a daring woman, despite her modest dress and demure attitude. She’d drugged him and transported him against his will. That should have been a turnoff, but it wasn’t. He’d always been drawn to danger.

      After she left the room, Ashur came back with a tray of delicious food. It was a feast fit for a king, and Hud ate like a half-starved wolf. He devoured every morsel of kebabs and rice and hummus, his manners gone. He might have growled at one point. There was a green salad with tomatoes, pita bread, and other dishes he couldn’t identify, but shoved into his mouth nonetheless. He ignored the tea in favor of water.

      “I have bira, if you like,” Ashur said.

      “What’s that?”

      “It is beer. We brew. Very good.”

      “Beer, in Iraq?”

      Ashur sneered at his ignorance. “My people invented beer, American.”

      Hud had been under the impression that alcohol was illegal here, or rarely imbibed. “Assyrians invented beer?”

      “The ancient ones, in Mesopotamia.”

      “I didn’t know that.”

      “Do you speak Arabic?”

      “No.”

      “I speak three languages.”

      Hud grunted and kept eating. He’d learned a few words of Arabic from one of his teammates, but he didn’t have an ear for it. Too many syllables and inflections. Too many different dialects, with sounds as unique and complex as the mix of cultures in the region. Interpreters were worth their weight in gold here. That was why the IF hunted them down and cut off their tongues.

      Hud swallowed the last bite, with some difficulty.

      “You wish to shower now?” Ashur said. “Come.”

      Ashur led Hud down another hall and through a door that opened to a quiet courtyard. The shower was a rustic hut made of corrugated aluminum. Hud found a bar of soap and a nubby towel on a bench inside. He shut the door and stripped down. His trousers were bloodstained and stiff with dust. He stepped into the stall, cupping one hand over himself protectively. He wasn’t disappointed by the lukewarm trickle that emerged from the pipes. It was clean and it was wet. Any kind of water was a luxury to him.