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Operation: Forbidden
Lindsay McKenna


Operation:
Forbidden
Lindsay McKenna




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents
Cover (#u32a730a4-bbc9-583d-a715-a5767b49a253)
Title Page (#u92e9c300-5f31-56e2-8ea4-c04daa0c7aa3)
About the Author (#ue2de90d7-f2ed-58a8-82bc-9ab79a1ee89b)
Chapter One (#ube85f577-e96c-5a12-bbad-d9143946244d)
Chapter Two (#u11ed0c77-ca5b-572e-bfb9-847fe06e6612)
Chapter Three (#u50209309-002c-57f1-997d-5d6fc6b6810f)
Chapter Four (#u024c3ff5-e116-503d-a1db-707f2844b9f7)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader,
The creation and idea for this story comes from my dear friend, Marchiene Reinstra, an Interfaith Minister. Although born in India to Dutch missionary parents, Marchiene lived the first eight years of her life in Pakistan on the Afghanistan border. She has fond memories of that country and its people. It was from her experience and memories about the Afghan people that I developed my hero.
I love Marchiene’s perspective on the world. As an Interfaith Minister, she is steeped in many different world religions, including the Muslim faith. Her contention is that all the great religions, while having their fanatics, also have a core group who truly practice what they believe. Marchiene knows quite a bit about the Sufi branch of the Muslim faith. They are the mystics of their faith. She said that the Sufis work from their heart. Everything they do is in praise of God.
My prayers are that one day, all peoples of the world can live in harmony, peace and respect with one another. And with that in mind, please enjoy Operation: Forbidden. Let me hear from you at www.lindsaymckenna.com.
Warmly,
Lindsay McKenna

About the Author
As a writer, LINDSAY MCKENNA feels that telling a story is a way to share how she sees the world. Love is the greatest healer of all, and the books she creates are parables that underline this belief. Working with flower essences, another gentle healer, she devotes part of her life to the world of nature to help ease people’s suffering. She knows that the right words can heal and that creation of a story can be catalytic to a person’s life. And in some way she hopes that her books may educate and lift the reader in a positive manner. She can be reached at www.lindsaymckenna.com or www.medicinegarden.com.

Chapter 1
Emma was in deep trouble. She’d just signed up for a second tour at Camp Bravo on the front lines of the Afghanistan war. And now this. Her commanding officer, Major Dallas Klein, had just requested her presence. Right now. That couldn’t be good. She swallowed hard, and her heart began a slow pound of dread.
“Go on in, Captain Cantrell,” the assistant said, gesturing to the C.O.’s office.
Emma nodded, took a deep breath and opened the door. She stepped inside and quietly closed it behind her. “Reporting as ordered, ma’am,” Emma said, coming to attention.
Dallas Klein looked up from behind her desk.
“At ease. Have a seat, Captain,” Dallas said, pointing to the chair near her desk.
“Yes, ma’am,” Emma murmured. Sitting at attention, she clasped her hands and waited. Her boss frowned as she lifted about ten files and put them into her lap. The woman sifted through them, and Emma instinctively knew they had something to do with her. She almost blurted out, What kind of trouble am I in now? but didn’t. Compressing her lips, Emma held on to her last shred of patience.
“Here it is,” Dallas said, opening one file and pushing the others aside. “Captain, you’re the only woman in our squadron that speaks Pashto. You took a one-year saturation course before you came over here. Correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Emma nodded.
“Good. And you continue to use the language?”
“Of course. I get a lot of practice with the Afghans who are allowed to work here on our base.”
Dipping her head, Dallas looked down at the thick sheaves of paper in the file. “Very well, Captain. I’ve just had a highly unusual request dropped on me. And ordinarily, I would tell high command to go stuff it, but this time, I couldn’t.” Dallas scowled over at Emma. “You really gave your career a black eye last August by rescuing that Special Forces sergeant off a hill under attack. I know Nike Alexander had the idea, but you were the XO at the time, and you implemented her request.”
Emma wanted to roll her eyes. God, didn’t Klein forget anything? She remained silent; the major wanted her to respond, but what could she say? Yes, she’d screwed up, but she’d also saved a life. Emma knew when to keep her mouth shut, and she held the major’s flat stare. Emma had never confessed to what the major just said. If she had, she would probably have been court-martialed. The better choice was to remain alert but mute.
“Well,” Dallas growled, jerking open another paper from the file, “I have a way for you to save your career, Captain Cantrell.”
Brows raised, Emma was interested. “Oh?”
“Actually,” Dallas said, “the Pentagon chose you because you speak Pashto, the common language here in Afghanistan. And frankly, I’d like to see you distinguish yourself in some way so you can eventually go up for major and make the promotion.” Dallas thumped the file with her index fingers. “I believe this is a very good way for you to salvage your army career, Captain Cantrell. I hope you think so, too.”
Perking up, Emma leaned forward. “I’m interested.”
“I thought you might be.” Dallas opened up the file to another section. “This is a very special mission. What I don’t like is that you’ll be out of my squadron for six months. You’ll be part of a team working on a unique Afghan project known as Operation Book Worm.”
Emma almost laughed and struggled to keep a straight face. “Operation Book Worm? Ma’am?” Dallas appeared completely serious, not a hint of a smile or joking demeanor. And God knew, members of the Black Jaguar Squadron played tricks on each other all the time. Black humor was alive and well in this combat squadron. It kept them all sane. Laughter instead of tears.
“This is not a joke, Captain Cantrell, so wipe that smirk off your face.”
“Yes, ma’am.” What the hell was Operation Book Worm?
“Okay, here’s the guts of the mission. You’re being assigned to Captain Khalid Shaheen. He’s the only Afghan currently allowed to fly the Apache combat helicopter. He’s been flying with another Apache squadron in the Helmand province of southern Afghanistan until this operation went active.”
Emma’s brow bunched. “An Afghan flying one of our Apaches?” She’d never heard of such a thing. And she was being assigned to this dude?
Dallas held up her hand. “Just sit and listen. I don’t want you interrupting me, Captain.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Captain Shaheen is a thirty-year-old Afghan. He’s responsible for creating Operation Book Worm.”
Emma nodded and said nothing. How was this mission going to help her career?
“Captain Shaheen comes from one of the richest families in Afghanistan. He is a Princeton graduate and has a master’s degree in electrical engineering. He graduated with honors. The army persuaded him to spend six years with them and he proved ideal flying Apache helicopters. The Pentagon is relying on Captain Shaheen to persuade other Afghan military men to come to the United States to be trained at Fort Rucker, Alabama. Once they’ve earned their wings in Apaches, they will come back to Afghanistan to start fighting and defending their own country.”
“Afghanistan does not have an air force.”
“No, but Shaheen is the bedrock for starting one.”
Emma considered the pilot with new respect. “That’s a tall order.”
“New ideas start with one person,” Dallas said.
“And what is my activity with him?”
“There’s more. His sister, Kinah Shaheen, was also educated at Princeton. She’s twenty-eight years old and holds a Ph.D. in education. She has made it her mission in this country to provide education to young girls. As you know, under Taliban rule, girls weren’t allowed any type of education. Kinah is armed not only with a hell of an education, but her family’s money and a fierce determination to get girls back into school.”
“Wow,” Emma said, “that’s an even taller order. I’ve been here long enough to see how women are suppressed when it comes to education. In the past, the Taliban killed teachers and tribal elders or chieftains of villages who allowed girls to be schooled.”
“I know,” Dallas said, grimness in her tone. “Kinah and her brother, Khalid, came up with the idea for Operation Book Worm. Khalid is considered a used-car salesman of sorts.” She grinned a little.
“You’ve met him?” Emma was now completely taken by the Afghan brother and sister and their plans.
“Once,” Dallas said dryly. “And I can see why Khalid has been able to talk corporations in the United States into donating millions of dollars for this idea. Kinah is no small-time operator, either. Their father is a Persian rug salesman, so talking people out of money is in their DNA.”
“But their idea sounds more than saleable,” Emma said, excited.
“It has been.” Dallas leaned back in her chair. “Between them, they’ve got ten million dollars to throw at this operation.”
“Wow …”
“Yeah, double wow,” Dallas agreed. “You’ll come into this by virtue of the fact that Khalid is going to use, with the U.S. Army’s permission, a CH-47 transport from Camp Bravo. He’s qualified in four types of helicopters, by the way. And that’s no small feat, either.”
Eyes widening, Emma considered that skill. “He must be …”
“He’s a genius,” Dallas said. “Brilliant, mad and passionate, not to mention a damned fine combat helicopter pilot.”
Emma took a deep breath. “He sounds like a Renaissance man. Many skills and talents.”
“Oh, Khalid is all of that,” Dallas said.
“Why does he need me?”
“He wants to land in each targeted village not only to deliver books, supplies and food, but to show you as an example of what a woman can do. Khalid wants the girls of the village to see a woman who flies that helicopter. He feels that show-and-tell is a quick way to get the girls to dream big and often.”
“That’s a great strategy,” Emma said, understanding the Afghan’s brilliant concept. “So, I’m his copilot?”
“You’re both aircraft commanders—ACs. You’re the same rank. You have three years less time in the Apache than he does, but he wants you in the driver’s seat off and on.”
“In other words, he has a live-and-let-live policy about swapping out AC status?”
“Yep. You’ll find Khalid one of the most fascinating men you’ve ever met. He’ll keep you on your toes. He wanted a woman Apache pilot who spoke Pashto because he wants that woman to be able to speak to the little girls. He wants you to become a saleswoman to encourage their education. And don’t be surprised if he has you do impromptu speeches on why little girls should want an education. Khalid wants to fire their imaginations. He wants to shock them from the realm of dreams to that of possibilities.”
“I’ll be happy to take on this mission, ma’am,” Emma said.
“For the next six months, from spring through fall, you’ll work with him. He plans on having fifty schools set up along the border villages by the time snow flies.”
“But,” Emma said, holding up her hand, “haven’t you left out one thing? You know all the border villages are wide open to attack from the Taliban? Those villagers live in fear of them. And how does Khalid protect all these villages? Once the Taliban hears of schools for girls, you know they’ll attack and kill the teachers.”
Dallas nodded grimly. “He’s very well aware of the situation, and the U.S. Army is coordinating with him to protect these villages. They’ll be moving more Special Forces A-teams into the villages. And air force drones will be utilized as flyovers on a nightly basis by our CIA guys stationed here when the Taliban is active. This could be a queen-maker for you, Captain Cantrell.”
Emma considered the assignment carefully. If she could successfully work with Captain Shaheen and his sister, her personnel jacket would contain glowing commendations from them. Enough to bury the censure over her decision last year. And then her family, who had a nearly unbroken ribbon of service to America, would no longer have this blight on its reputation. As she sat there contemplating all of this, Emma then wondered: could she get along with this Afghan? He was filthy rich. Princeton-educated. Would he look down on her? Not appreciate what she brought to the table with her own intelligence and creativity? Suddenly, Emma felt unsure.
Dallas signed the orders and handed them across the desk to her. “Here you go, Captain Cantrell. Do us proud.” She hesitated for a moment and added, “Be warned: He’s a marked man. The Taliban has a huge reward out for his death. This is going to be no picnic for you. Captain Shaheen is landing in—” and she looked at her watch “—fifteen minutes. Be on the tarmac to meet him. Dismissed.”
The sun was bright and Emma put on her dark aviator glasses. The breeze was inconstant across the concrete revetment area. The odor of flight fuel was strong. She watched as several ordinance teams drove out in specialized trucks, pulling their loads of weaponry on trailers. An excitement hummed through the area. Emma inhaled it and absorbed the vibrating tension. She loved that feeling, which was probably why she was an Apache combat helicopter pilot.
Some anxiety lingered about the new assignment. If Shaheen was a marked man, on the enemy’s top-ten-wanted list, it was more than likely the Taliban would make good on their threat to murder him.
Then there was her own distrust of rich men who thought they could act reprehensibly without recourse. Like Brody Parker. Brody had been a rich American in Lima, Peru, and she’d met him when flying in for the original Black Jaguar Squadron. A year after falling helplessly in love with him, Emma found out he was married, with children. Stung to her soul by the lies that men could tell, she’d made a point of avoiding the opposite sex since coming to Camp Bravo. It was a clean start. She didn’t need another rich, lying bastard to deal with.
Shaheen landed the Apache on a three-point landing about a hundred feet away from where Emma stood. It was a perfect landing—gentle and not bouncy. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the ground crewman place the ladder against the bird and climb up after the rotors stopped turning. He hefted the canopy upward on the front cockpit after it was unlocked by the pilot. Emma was confused; she saw no pilot in the back seat. No one flew the Apache with just one pilot unless it was an emergency.
When Khalid Shaheen climbed out of the cockpit, he handed the crewman his helmet, and Emma smiled to herself. As the Afghan emerged, she was taken by his lean, taut form. He had to be six feet tall, which was about the top height for an Apache pilot. Most were between five foot seven inches and five foot ten inches tall. The cockpit was cramped, and anyone over six feet couldn’t comfortably get into it. She tried to ignore his animallike grace as he climbed out of the cockpit and stood on the dark green and tan metal skirt. The crewman stepped off the ladder and waited nearby.
Emma took in Shaheen’s olive skin, military-short black hair and straight, dark brows above narrowed blue eyes. When he smiled and joked with the crewman on the tarmac, her heart suddenly thumped hard in her chest. Shaheen was eye candy, no doubt. And dangerous … His face was narrow, his nose aquiline, cheekbones high and he had a strong chin. When he smiled at a crewman’s joke, his teeth were white and even. Emma felt herself melting inwardly. Of all the reactions to have! Shaheen was like a fierce lion moving with a feral grace that took her breath away. There were no lions in Afghanistan, Emma reminded herself.
And yet, she couldn’t take her gaze off the charismatic officer. He removed his Kevlar vest and placed it on the skirt of the Apache. There was a .45 pistol strapped to his waist. Emma decided that if she didn’t know he was Afghan, she would never have guessed it. From this distance, he looked like a typical U.S. Army combat pilot.
The crewmen and Khalid joked back and forth, and the three of them stood laughing. Warmth pooled in her chest and Emma unconsciously touched her jacket where her heart lay. There was such gracefulness to this tall, lanky warrior. Emma suddenly felt as if she were standing on quicksand. Her reaction wasn’t logical. The pilot walking languidly, like a lordly lion toward her, was married. He had to be. He had to have a wife and children. Afghans married very early. So why was she feeling shaky and unsure of herself? Emma had never had such a powerful emotional reaction to a man. Not ever, and it scared her.
As Emma stepped forward, her mouth went dry. She forced herself to walk confidently out on the revetment and meet the foreign pilot. And when his gaze locked onto hers, she groaned. Shaheen drew closer, and Emma could appreciate the curious color of his eyes. They reminded her of the greenish-blue depths of the ocean around a Caribbean island. Not only that, his eyes were large, well-spaced, with thick lashes that enhanced the black pupils. She felt as if she could lose herself within them. Emma jerked her gaze away. What was going on? Her heart pounded as though she was on an adrenaline rush. But she wasn’t in danger. No, this was excitement at some unconscious level within her that she had never experienced. And that made Emma wary.
Shaheen unzipped his olive-green flight suit as he approached. Black hairs peeked out from beneath his dark-green T-shirt. He reached inside his flight suit.
And what he drew out made Emma’s jaw drop. Shaheen slowed and stopped about three feet in front of her. In his hand was a huge red rose, its petals flattened from being crushed inside his flight suit, but a rose, nevertheless.
Pressing his hand against his heart, Shaheen bowed slightly and murmured the ancient greeting that all people in the Muslim world shared. “As-salaam alaikum.” Peace to you from my heart to your heart. “Captain Emma Cantrell?” he asked, smiling as he lifted his head.
Paralyzed, Emma stared up at him. Shaheen held the drooping rose toward her. He’d obviously picked it just before the flight and carried it inside his suit to her. Emma could smell the spicy fragrance of the bedraggled flower. “I—yes,” she managed in a croak. Without thinking, she took his gift and responded, “As-salaam alaikum.” She clutched the rose in her right hand, noting that the thorns had been cut off so it would not prick her fingers.
Scrambling inwardly, Emma tried not to be impressed by this thoughtfulness. When she raised her head, she noticed Khalid’s masculine smile and twinkling eyes. “I’m Captain Emma Cantrell,” she said in a crisp tone. “Welcome to Camp Bravo.” God, she sounded like a teenager on her first date, her voice high and squeaky. Worse, he had the same kind of swaggering, super confidence that Brody had had. They could be twins. Her heart sank. Not this again.
“Thank you, Emma. Please,” he murmured in a low, husky tone, “call me Khalid once we get out of the military environment.”
She stood looking helplessly at the rose in her hand. “Why … I never expected this, Captain Shaheen.”
Officers simply didn’t give other officers flowers. Clearly, he was flirting with her.
Khalid’s hands relaxed on his hips, a typical aviator stance. “I went out to my rose garden this morning. I live in Kabul. It is the first rose of the season. I took my knife and cut it off knowing that I wanted you to have something beautiful from me to you.”
Emma swallowed hard. Aviators never wore jewelry of any kind. Not even a wedding ring. But this guy had to be married. He was just too charming. The confusion must have shown on her face.
“Rumi, the great Sufi mystic poet, said much about the beauty of a rose.” He then quoted her a passage that he’d memorized.
Emma was sure now he was flirting with her. Completely stunned by Khalid’s warmth, his utter masculinity and those gleaming blue eyes, Emma choked. “But … you’re married!” Well, that wasn’t exactly polite, was it? No, but the words flew out of her mouth. Emma took a step away from him. Khalid’s face was overcome with surprise, his straight, black brows rising. And then he laughed. His laughter was hearty, unfettered and rolled out of his powerful chest.
“I’m afraid I’m not married,” Khalid said and he held up his hands, smiling over her mistake.
Emma didn’t know what to do. She knew how she felt toward him—as if he were a conquering Afghan warlord who had just swept her off her feet, stolen her young, innocent heart and claimed her. His smile was so engaging her heart appreciated it by beating erratically. Brody Parker had wooed and wowed her the same way. Oh, God, it was the same situation all over again!
Emma gripped the red rose until her fingers hurt. Should she give it back to him? Throw it away? This wasn’t military protocol between two officers. Emma furtively looked around her. Who had seen him do this? Had they seen her accept the gift? Things like this just weren’t done in the U.S. Army. Could she be more distressed?
“I can’t take this, Captain Shaheen.” She handed him the rose.
Holding up his hands, Khalid said, “Forgive me, Captain Cantrell. My father is Sufi and I was raised with Rumi. I see all of my life through this thirteenth-century poet and mystic’s eyes. I am forever quoting him, for Rumi guides my heart and my life. I hope you do not take offense to my gift. Among the Sufis we believe that love is the only vehicle to touch the face of God and become one with the source. My gift to you was merely an acknowledgment, heart-to-heart, that we are connected. And it is a gift that honors you as a person, to show that you are sacred to me and all of life. Please, do not be pained by the gift.”
Stubbornly, Emma gave him a long, steady stare. “It’s not acceptable military behavior, Captain. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
Khalid winced. He pressed his hand to his heart and held her gaze. “I will maintain correct military protocol with you, Captain. Please accept my deepest apology. I am honored that you have agreed to work with me.” He tucked the rose back into his flight suit.
Emma wasn’t sure about this terribly handsome Afghan standing in front of her, speaking with such candor. Her heart melted over the warmth dancing in the depths of his aquamarine eyes. Given the sincerity in his voice and face, she wondered obliquely if she’d read his intentions wrongly.
“Then we’re in agreement,” she said in a clipped tone.
“I volunteered for this mission to help the Afghan girls get an education.” Emma tried to convince herself that he was Brody Parker all over again, only even more charming and smooth than her lover in Peru had been. Emma wasn’t falling for it again. Her heart couldn’t take the hurt twice. Dallas’s words haunted her: This could be a queen-maker for your career. And more than anything, Emma wanted to get good remarks from Shaheen after she finished the six-month mission. Now, she felt as though she was literally walking the edge of sword that could cut her both ways. What had she just stepped into?

Chapter 2
Emma tensed. A range of emotions passed across Khalid’s rugged face. “Look,” she murmured, “I know that in different cultures, mistakes can be made.”
“No, no,” Khalid said, trying to muster a smile, but failing. “You need to understand the heart of our mission. By knowing what the foundation is, you can appreciate our fierce passion for our people.” He held her forest-green gaze. The noise on the tarmac surrounded them. He gestured for Emma to follow him into the Ops building where there would be a room where they could talk.
Emma followed Shaheen. More and more, this felt like doom to her. She was falling fast and she needed to focus on her work. Inside Ops, the captain found an empty room. They went in and closed the door. There was a rectangular table, reports scattered across it along with pens. Emma took a seat and he sat down opposite her after pouring them some coffee.
Taking the lead, Emma folded her hands and met his stare. “My CO told me you were a marked man. I want to know what that means since I’m putting my butt on the line here.”
“I have an ancient enemy,” Khalid began, “his name is Asad Malik. He was born in Pakistan, along the border in the state of Waziristan. Malik was very poor, and with the Taliban, who make a permanent home in that border state, he found his calling. My father’s family are Sufis. They know that education is the door to all fulfillment of a person’s dreams and goals. My father has considerable wealth, and he poured it into the border villages of our country a long time ago because the so-called central government of Afghanistan ignored them.”
Brows drawing downward, Khalid said, “Malik rose to become a very powerful Taliban leader. He is heartless and ruthless. He began attacking villages to which my father was trying to bring schools and education. There were many pitched battles over the years, and Malik swore to kill every member of my family.”
Emma gasped. Although she knew revenge ran deep, the admittance was still shocking. “What?”
Shrugging, Khalid said, “Malik is not a Sufi. He is a terrorist at the other end of the Muslim religion. Our beliefs swing from an eye-for-an-eye attitude to one of spiritual connection with Allah.” He pressed his hand to his heart. “I am Sufi. Malik is stuck in a state of twisted hatred and revenge. It would not matter what religion he embraced, he would practice what he is, despite it. He has perverted the Koran for his own goals.”
Emma nodded. “Yes, every religion has its fanatics. In my year here in Afghanistan, I’ve lived among the Muslims and I find them incredibly generous and caring.
They aren’t the terrorists that the world thinks. They believe in peace.”
“Yes, we are peaceful,” Khalid agreed. “It will only be through our daily life that we show the Muslim religion is not one of terrorism.”
“It’s a PR game,” Emma said. “And I agree with you, people are educated one person at a time. Religion doesn’t kill. It’s the individuals within any religion who choose to interpret it according to their own darkness and wounds.”
He gave her an intense look. “I have truly made the right decision in asking you to be a part of our mission. I like your free-thinking policy.”
Emma tried not to be swayed by his compliment and felt heat enter her cheeks. “I try never to judge a person. I let their actions speak louder than their words.” The intensity of his gaze made Emma feel as if she were unraveling as a woman—not as an officer—to this lion of a man. She mentally corrected herself once again: there were no lions in Afghanistan. Instead, Emma regarded him as the rare and elusive snow leopard that lived in the rugged mountains of this country.
“My death dance with Malik,” Khalid continued, “took on new dimensions two years ago. Malik stalks the border like the wolf that he is. He continually attacks and kills the villagers who try to better their lives in any way. It is how he stops my father’s generosity to lift the poor up and help them succeed. Malik does not care about such things.” Taking a deep breath, Khalid continued, his voice strained. “I fell in love with a beautiful teacher. Her name was Najela. I courted her for two years and I asked her to become my wife.”
Emma heard Khalid’s voice quaver and noticed how he fought unknown emotions, his hands opening and closing around the heavy ceramic mug in front of him. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to soothe away the grief she saw clearly etched in his face. But Emma said nothing. She allowed Khalid to get hold of himself so that he could continue his story.
“Najela and my sister Kinah were the best of friends. And why wouldn’t they be? They were both American-educated and trained in education. Najela graduated from Harvard and my sister from Princeton. They were working with my father to help set up village schools for boys and girls. I was away working for the U.S. Army and they were frequently up in this area while I flew Apaches in the southern region of my country.”
Emma steeled herself. She leaped ahead and figured out that Najela was dead. At Malik’s hands? She hoped not. Her heart cringed inside her chest. “Go on,” she urged him, her voice tense.
Nodding, Khalid swallowed hard, took a drink of his coffee, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then took a deep breath and released it. “I was on a mission with the U.S. Marines in the south when I got word that Malik had captured Najela in one of the villages.” His voice became low and strained. “By the time I was given orders to fly north to the village, Malik had repeatedly raped her and then he … slit her throat. I found her in a mud house that had been abandoned by the family who lived there. All I found … was her …” And he closed his eyes for a moment, reliving that nightmare afternoon.
“I—I’m so sorry,” Emma whispered, caught up in his anguish. Without thinking, she reached across the table and touched his hand. And when she realized what she’d done, Emma quickly pulled her hand back. No officer should be seen initiating such an intimate action with another officer. Turning her focus back to Khalid, she thought she saw tears in his blue eyes for just a second. And then, they were gone. Had she imagined them? Emma chastised herself for losing her standards.
“Malik hates anyone and anything who tries to improve upon the villagers’ lives,” Khalid continued, his voice rough. “As I said, he’s sworn vengeance against my family because of my father’s generosity to the villagers.”
Emma considered his heavily spoken words. “And is Malik out there right now? Will he be our enemy as you and Kinah set up this mission for those same villagers?” A cold chill worked its way up her spine as she saw his expression still and become unreadable.
“Yes, he is our nemesis. You need to know that this mission is dangerous so that you remain on guard. Your CO was correct in telling you I am a marked man. You will be marked too, Captain.”
Eyes rounding, Emma sat up. “Aren’t you afraid, Captain Shaheen? He’s already killed one person you loved. You could be next.” Suddenly, Emma wanted nothing to harm this man who had a vision for the girls of his country. She could see his sincerity and the heart that he wore openly on his sleeve. Khalid was priceless in her world because few men could be so in touch with their emotions and share them as he just had with her. Brody had never opened up like this. Not ever. And it threw Emma.
Khalid said, “Rumi would say a real Sufi laughs at death. A Sufi is like an oyster—what strikes it does not harm the pearl within.”
Considering the saying from the thirteenth century, Emma grimaced. “Sorry, but I’m not in agreement with Rumi. I don’t feel I could be at peace if someone raped and then murdered my fiancée.”
“I understand,” Khalid said. “You have lived in our country where the threat to your life exists every day.” He opened his hand and gestured around the room. “Afghans have been at war with the Russians. Now, we have the Taliban. Do we want to live this way? No. Do we dream of a peaceful life? Yes. I don’t expect you, Captain Cantrell, to believe as we do. Najela was Sufi. I know in my heart of hearts that throughout her terrible last hours she felt compassion for Malik. He’s a man so filled with hatred and vengeance that I’m sure that her compassion only made him want to harm her even more.”
Shaking her head, Emma muttered, “Well, I sure wouldn’t be thinking peaceful and loving thoughts if that dude was doing that to me. I’d be looking for any way to protect myself and kill the bastard.”
Giving her a slight smile, Khalid nodded. “Sufis are misunderstood even by our other Muslim brethren. In fact, those who choose jihad and become terrorists hate us as much as they do the so-called infidels.”
“Which is why Malik hates you?” Emma wondered.
“He hates my family for many reasons and has sworn vengeance against each of us. In part, because we are Sufis and believe in tolerance and generosity toward others. The fact my father is worth billions of dollars makes Malik hate us because he was raised in poverty. He didn’t own a pair of shoes until he was eleven years old when the Taliban leader recruited him.”
Suddenly, there was a deafening explosion outside. The sound and reverberation slammed into the room. Instantly, they both dove for the deck, hands over their heads. Emma hissed a curse. Tiles from the ceiling fell around them as a second explosion shook Ops.
“It’s the Taliban,” she growled, getting to her feet. Automatically, she pulled the .45 pistol from her belt and ran to the door. Swinging it open, Ops looked like a beehive that had been overturned.
Shaheen was at her side, looking down at her. Emma’s face was set and her gaze aimed at the windows outside. He saw one of the helicopters burning, the black smoke roiling and bubbling skyward. “Do you get attacks often?”
Grimly, Emma moved toward the center of Ops. Pilots and crews were hurrying out the doors, armed and ready to fight. She knew from being here over a year that such attacks were sporadic. “No,” she snapped, moving with everyone else toward the doors. “Come on, we need to help the fire crews.”
Khalid didn’t know Camp Bravo as she did. He trotted across Ops and found himself outside with her. Emma’s eyes were searching the end of the runway and she pointed in that direction. “That’s one of the places they hit us. They sit in the brush beyond the runway and lob RPGs, rocket propelled grenades, this way.”
Khalid noted a squad of Special Forces speeding away in a Humvee, armed and ready for battle. He wanted to protect Emma. It was his natural reaction. Telling himself she was a warrior like him, he kept his thoughts and his hands to himself. She was all business now. Another crew rolled up in a fire engine and began spewing foam over the burning CH-47 transport helicopter, already a total loss.
Emma turned. She was glad she had her Kevlar jacket on because gunshots were suddenly being traded at the end of the runway. “Come on, this is under control.
No sense standing out here like targets.” She gestured toward Ops again.
Shaheen wasn’t so sure, for a minute longer, he watched the Special Forces from the Humvee spraying the bushes where the Taliban had been hiding. “Do they get inside the camp?” he asked as he followed her into Ops.
“Not so far, but we’re always watching.” Settling the .45 back into the holster on her waist, she added, “We’re never safe here. Let’s get back to discussing the mission, shall we?” Emma stopped and poured herself another cup of black coffee from the urn at the side of the Ops desk. Khalid did the same and they returned to the meeting room.
There were several enlisted men in there. They’d already picked up the ceiling tiles that had dropped from the explosion, so Emma thanked them and, once more, she and Khalid were alone. They pulled their chairs to the table and sat down. Her heart pounded and she felt tense and on guard. As she sipped the coffee, she hoped it would soothe her jangled nerves.
“Will they attack more than once in a day?” Khalid wondered. He found himself drowning in her dark, forest-green eyes, fraught with care and concern. If he read her correctly, it was concern for his welfare. That touched and warmed his wounded heart. There was something ethereal about Emma. Was it how her mussed red hair curled slightly at her temples? Was it her huge green eyes fraught with compassion? Or those lips that reminded Khalid of a rose in full bloom? His inspiration to cut the first red rose of the year from his family’s garden hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. “Well, let me lay out some information to you on Operation Book Worm,” he said, returning to business.
Asad Malik crept away from the end of the runway with his men. Bullets were singing around them, but he knew from long experience that the Special Forces couldn’t see them and they were firing blindly into the thick brush. One day, when there was time, such brush would be cleaned away. He had ten men with him. They continued to work their way through the heavy brush, their AK-47s and grenade launchers in hand. Smiling to himself, he congratulated them in a whisper on destroying one of the helicopters. It was a good day!
Dressed in baggy brown trousers, a crisscross of wide leather straps containing bullets across his chest, Malik did not think this attack was done. No. He would wait, skulk through the brush with his men and wait on the other side. Malik knew this forward base was vital to the war effort by the infidel Americans. Until lately, he’d not had enough money to buy more grenades and bullets. Now, he had a new donor from Saudi Arabia who had given him millions to support the Taliban effort.
Grunting and breathing hard, Malik knelt, hidden. He waited for his ragtag group of nine other men to catch up with him. Most were barefoot, their clothes thin and threadbare. They were all skinny, their cheeks sunken, for coming here had been hard on them. Malik usually worked other areas, but this base was crucial to the American mission and he’d wanted to strike the head of the snake finally.
“Everyone all right?” he demanded roughly as they sat in a semicircle around him. “No wounds?”
“None, my lord,” one of the bearded men spoke up.
Malik grinned. “Good. Now, let’s sneak around the other side of the runway. Knowing the infidels, they’ll think this attack is over.”
There were soft, knowing chuckles from the men, all of whom nodded their accord to follow their charismatic and brave leader.
“Come!” Malik whispered harshly, lifting his hand and moving forward. “I want another helicopter,” he snickered.
Emma could see the burning intensity in Khalid’s blue eyes as they narrowed speculatively upon her. They’d just finished off their coffees and got down to the business at hand. She felt giddy and thrilled with his interest in her. Sure, he respected her as a professional, but she sensed something deeper. Sternly, she chided herself for thinking he was drawn to her.
And then her heart contracted. Was Khalid interested in her or was she imagining things? That couldn’t be. Khalid was the head of the mission and held power over her. His comments would eventually go into her career jacket. Maybe he was this charming with everyone. She couldn’t allow herself to get involved with this intriguing, romantic Afghan warrior. But why did he have to be so damn good-looking? She vowed to savor this rugged male pilot secretly; he’d never know it. She could hide her feelings. For now.
Khalid pulled out a map from one long pocket on his flight suit leg and spread it out before them. He stood up and, using a pen, said, “This is the route we’re going to follow. We’ll move from one village to another.” His index finger was on the map, tracing the small villages along the border with Pakistan. It bothered him that he was drawn to Emma, despite her military demeanor. Khalid refused to put another woman in the gunsights of Asad Malik. It would be too easy to become personal with red-haired, brazen Emma Cantrell.
“For the next six months,” he said, straightening and moving his shoulders as if to shrug off the tension gathered in them, “you will be with me and Kinah, and you will surely be well-educated into our Sufi world. We believe that all religions have a good message for the spirit. My father, who was born in Kabul, comes from a long line of Sufis. My mother, who is a medical doctor from Ireland, continues to this day to be a Presbyterian missionary. She came to this country after she finished her residency in Dublin, Ireland. Her father is an elder in their tradition. And her entire family has been missionaries here in Afghanistan for nearly a hundred years.”
Surprised, Emma’s brows rose with that information. “Then … you’re half-Afghan and half-Irish?” Maybe that accounted for those dancing blue eyes that always had a bit of devilry lurking in their depths.
“I am,” he said with pride. “I am a good example that east meeting west can actually get along.”
“Your religions are so different.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Khalid said, turning the map over. “The Sufis have no quarrel with any other religion in this world. We accept people as they are and respect their beliefs.”
“Too bad that all religions can’t hold the same ideas,” Emma said. She was thinking of the evil Asad Malik.
“That’s why,” Khalid explained, “the jihadists who are twisted and out of touch with true Muslim traditions, hate Sufis and will kill them on sight. The terrorists among those who profess to be Muslim are threatened by the enlightened ways of the Sufi people.”
Emma sat back. “And so you have no trouble being half-Christian and half-Muslim?”
Chuckling, Khalid shook his head. He spread a second map on to the table. It showed close-ups of some of the more major villages along the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. “Absolutely none. Sufis honor and respect every religious tradition on the face of our Earth. We believe all paths lead through the heart to the Creator, no matter what name you call him or her.”
Emma watched as he traced a red line around certain areas. “What are those?” she demanded.
“This is Malik’s territory, where he and the Taliban are constantly attacking the villagers.”
Emma got up and leaned over, their heads inches apart as she studied the map. “This guy is big. I know I’ve heard his name.”
“Yes, he’s north of your base camp.”
Emma straightened. “Like you said, we’ll be alert.”
“Agreed,” Khalid said. He picked up the papers, neatly folded them once more and tucked them away in the leg of his flight suit. “So, Captain Cantrell, are you ready to fly back to Bagram Air Force Base with me? We have much to do and there’s so much to show you about our mission.”
Surprised, Emma watched as Khalid stood, lean, strong, his broad shoulders thrown back with unconscious pride. “Bagram? I thought we’d be working here, out of Camp Bravo?”
“Oh, we will,” Khalid assured her. “I’m inviting you to have dinner with me tonight at my family’s villa in Kabul. You may stay overnight. As you know, there are male and female sections to each home. I have had our housekeeper prepare you a room in the women’s part of the house. After we have a wonderful dinner, I will take you to my office and show you Operation Book Worm. I think you will appreciate what I’ll show you. Then, you can grasp even more of the mission and its priorities.”
Shocked by the offer, Emma sat staring up at him. “But …”
“This is a work invitation, Captain Cantrell. I’m an excellent host. It’s easier for me to show you what we will be doing at our villa where it is all stored, than to try and lug it piecemeal back and forth to this camp.”
Emma considered the unexpected invitation and her vivid imagination took off. What would it be like to be with this Afghan warrior? And truly, that’s what Khalid was. She knew he professed compassion and love for others, but her body was not reacting to him in that way. No, she felt a hunger and drive to know Khalid on a much more personal level. How was she going to keep this fact a secret? Looking deeply into his eyes, Emma realized that this wasn’t at all personal to Khalid; it was merely a formality to offer her dinner. After all, Emma knew from experience that all Afghans, rich or poor, would automatically invite her to their home for dinner. It was a custom and way of life in Afghanistan.
“Of course I’ll go with you, Captain Shaheen. I look forward to it.”
Khalid brightened. “Excellent. If there is anything you need to pack in your flight bag before we take off, why not go get it now. I’ll meet you back at Ops.”
Good, he was remaining all business. As she walked with Khalid out of Ops and into the warming sunlight over the camp, Emma couldn’t explain the happiness threading through her. Khalid bowed slightly where the path forked and led to Ops. The fire had been put out on the destroyed helicopter and there was still a lot of activity on the tarmac.
“I’ll see you soon, Captain?”
“Yes,” Emma said, “this won’t take long.” Khalid was all business. All military. That warm smile, those inquiring blue eyes of his were veiled.
“Good, I’ll meet you at our Apache.” He strode confidently back into Ops to file their flight plan.
Shaking her head, Emma trotted down another dirt avenue between the desert-tan-and-green tents. Khalid and Brody had a lot in common, but she’d never spent too much time with a man who had one foot in the east and one foot in the west. The breeze ruffled her red hair as she continued to jog down the dirt path. Making a left, she found her tent and unzipped it. Worry hovered over her. Above all, she had to keep her silly heart out of this. It was bad enough that Khalid was in the active gun sights of Asad Malik, but the Taliban leader would target her, too. In a heartbeat.
As Emma packed essentials into her canvas flight bag, she couldn’t stop thinking about Khalid. He’d loved and lost his bride. That explained why he was still single at thirty, unheard of for a Muslim man. She replayed the grief that was raw and alive in his eyes as he’d shared the tragedy of Najela’s death at Malik’s hands.
After grabbing her toothbrush, toothpaste, comb and brush, Emma quickly finished her packing. She zipped up her flight bag and took her helmet bag off the makeshift chest of drawers. As she headed outside, she felt the sunlight warming up the coolish temperature. She turned on the heel of her flight boot and walked quickly down between the rows of tents. Despite the unexpected Taliban attack an hour earlier, the air was alive with the puncturing sounds of helicopters landing and taking off once more. The smell of jet fuel was always around. Metallic, oily smoke still hung above the camp from the destroyed chopper. The growl of huge military trucks belching blue smoke, their coughs and grinding of gears, filled the air, too. As she jogged across the camp to the control-tower area, Emma’s heart took off.
Why did she feel giddy? Like a school girl who had a crush on the all-star football quarterback? Would she be able to tread on the edge of the sword with Khalid? Separate out her womanly need to know more about him on a personal level from the professional one? Emma wasn’t sure. She slowed to a walk and pulled open the door to Ops. As she moved through the busy building and out the other door to the tarmac, Emma sensed her life was about to change. Forever.

Chapter 3
Emma was surprised that Khalid insisted she be the AC—air commander, on the Apache that was to be flown to Bagram. She stowed her bag in a side slot of the combat helicopter. Mounting the helo, Emma was strapped into the back cockpit in no time. She tried to ignore Khalid’s charisma as he climbed into the cockpit in front of her. The sergeant helped her and then tended to Khalid’s needs. A sudden shiver of warning went up her spine. The whole base was on high alert because of the attack.
Looking around, lips compressed, Emma saw the remains of charred, still-smoking helicopter that the Taliban had destroyed with a grenade launcher. To her left, several Humvees contained Special Forces who were still looking for the terrorists who committed the offense. Something was wrong… .
Malik lay on his belly, the binoculars to his eyes. He studied the Apache combat helicopter, more interested than usual in the pilots. Actually, one pilot. A snarl issued softly from between his full, thick lips. Allah had blessed him! There was his sworn enemy, Khalid Shaheen, in the front seat of the Apache. Mind spinning, Malik watched intently.
So, Shaheen was back in the northern provinces? Malik had his spies and they kept him somewhat updated on his enemy’s whereabouts. The last Malik had been told, Khalid was in Helmand Province flying Apaches against his brothers in the Taliban. Malik knew where Shaheen lived in Kabul. He and his upstart, rebellious sister, Kinah, could be found at their family home from time to time. Was that where he was going? A hundred questions ranged through Malik’s traplike mind.
“My lord,” Ameen whispered near his ear, “it’s time to move away. Troops are coming.”
Malik growled a response; he didn’t want to leave, but he knew he must. Those ground troops would have dogs with them and dogs would find them. Tucking his binoculars away, he got to his feet.
“Where to, my lord?” Ameen asked.
“A change of plans,” he told the teenage soldier. “We’re going to Kabul… .”
Thirty minutes after completing the flight check list, Emma had taken the Apache off the tarmac. The shaking and shuddering was familiar and soothing to her. She’d felt the Taliban nearby. She’d not seen them, but she instinctively knew they were close. Emma wondered if Khalid was testing her flight skills. After all, he’d been in Apaches for four years and she had only one year of combat beneath her belt.
At eight thousand feet under a sunny April-afternoon sky, Emma relaxed to a degree. Still, she was tense about going to Shaheen’s home. This was out of normal military protocol. She had no experience with Afghans except in the villages, and Shaheen was much more powerful than those people who survived in the wild mountains along the border.
“Do you like dogs?” Khalid asked through the intercom.
Emma scowled. Now, what was this all about? Shaheen had the ability to rock her world. “Dogs?” What did dogs have to do with them? It was the last conversation she would think of having with this pilot. If nothing else, Khalid was turning out to be one surprise after another.
“Yes, dogs.”
“Why are we talking about them?” Emma demanded, automatically looking around outside the cockpit.
“So you will be well-prepared when I open the door to my family’s villa. My father raises some of the finest salukis in the world. Two years ago, he gifted me with Ayesha, a female with a black coat, white chest and cinnamon-colored legs and underbelly. My father gave her to me shortly after Najela was murdered. The dog helped me in ways I can’t explain. She gave me back my life and brought me through the darkest tunnel with her love and devotion.”
Not wanting to be swayed by his words, Emma swung her gaze across the instrument panel out of ingrained habit. The chances of attack were minimal, but she never completely let down her guard. “I’m sure I can handle your dog,” she said, laughing. “Hey, it’s kinda nice to have a dog around. We have a few base mongrels that we feed, but they’re wild and you can’t pet them. I’m always leaving scraps outside my tent for a black dog that comes by every night looking for something to eat. If I try to walk toward him, he takes off at a run and disappears. I’ve learned to put the food in a pie tin, close up my tent and not try to befriend him.”
“Ah, you are a true lover of animals, too. That speaks highly of your heart, Captain Cantrell.” Khalid’s job in the front seat was to keep watch on the two video screens in front of him. There wasn’t much chance of attack at this altitude, but you could never quite relax on the job. He was intensely curious about Emma, but hesitant. She was a by-the-book military officer. Giving her a rose had been a misstep. Khalid had hoped it would open a door to signify a good, working relationship, but Emma had taken it all wrong.
Worriedly, Khalid realized he’d set them on an awkward course with one another. And he desperately needed a woman pilot who could fulfill his vision to inspire the little Afghan girls. How to fix what had already gone wrong? She didn’t sound very interested in his dog story, either.
Brows dipping, Khalid asked himself why he was so interested in Emma. She was a tough military combat pilot. Her record showed her abilities and fine skills. He got the feeling she really didn’t like him at all and was just tolerating the situation. Maybe it was the attack this morning that had set her off. He shrugged his shoulders to ease them of tension. He simply didn’t know how to deal with Captain Cantrell. Most people melted beneath his charm and sincere smile. But all it did to her was make her retreat, becoming stony and unreadable. As his U.S. military pilot friends would say, he’d blown it.
How to repair things between them? He’d spent years in the States being educated. He knew Americans. Khalid sighed. Emma made him feel like a joyous young man. That wouldn’t work here. Khalid turned his attention to the screens and did an automatic scan, looking for possible SAM missiles. Taking a deep breath, he hoped what he was about to say wouldn’t turn her away from him.
“I did a little research on you, Captain. Your family has a history of service,” Khalid said.
Something had told her that as easy-going as Khalid appeared, he was a man who researched the details of any situation.
“Yes, the Trayherns have given military service to their country since they arrived here two hundred years earlier. My mother, Alyssa, was a Trayhern before she married Clay Cantrell, my father. It’s a tradition for the Trayhern children, if they want, to go into the military of their choice and serve at least four to six years, depending upon whether they are officers or enlisted. We’re very proud of our family’s service and sacrifice,” Emma said tensely.
“You should be. I’m very impressed, Captain. That’s very Sufi-like, to serve others. My Irish mother would say it is what you owe to life. That we all owe others. We can’t live life alone or separate ourselves from the poor and suffering.”
Emma moved uncomfortably around in her seat. Talking to Khalid was like a minefield. She didn’t really want to know anything about him. All she wanted was to do a good job on this mission and then get back to base camp, her military record clean once more. Clearing her throat, she said, “She sounds like a wonderful, giving person much like my mother, Alyssa.”
“My mother has red hair and brown eyes,” Khalid informed her. “She’s an obstetrician and she has set up clinics throughout Afghanistan with the help of her church’s ongoing donations. She has spent from age twenty-eight to the present here in Afghanistan. The good she has done is tremendous. I think you must know many Afghan women die during childbirth. Most women have an average of seven children. And one out of eight women dies in childbirth. Very few villages have health care available to them.”
“That’s so sad,” Emma said as she banked the Apache to start a descent into Bagram. They had left the mountains, and now the dry, yellow plains where Bagram air base sat spread out before them. “I can’t believe how many women lose their lives. It’s horrific. I heard from Major Klein, my C.O., that there are Sufi medical doctors who have devoted their lives to the villages along the border.”
“Ah yes,” Khalid said, brightening, “Doctors Reza and Sahar Khan. I’ve met them a number of times. My mother works with them through her mission. They are truly brave. Because they are Sufi and giving service and trying to help the border villages from the farthest south to the farthest north of our country, the Taliban constantly tries to kill them. The only way the Taliban keeps hold over our people is through fear, retaliation and murder.” His voice deepened. “Reza and Sahar have a strong calling. As Sufis they render aid and help wherever they can. Reza is a doctor of internal medicine and surgery. His sister, Sahar, is an obstetrician. I cannot tell you how many women’s lives she has saved. They drive a Land Rover that is beaten up and very old. I have offered to buy them a new one, but they said no.”
“Why?”
“Because it would stand out like a sore thumb and the Taliban could find them more easily. In January of each year they start in the south of Afghanistan and then they drive along the border from village to village offering their medical services for free. By the time June comes, they have reached the northernmost part of our country, and they turn around and drive back down through the same villages. Each village gets visits twice a year, except of course, the most northern one, but they stay two weeks there to ensure everyone in that village is properly cared for.”
“Who funds them?”
“I do,” Khalid said. “I also coordinate with several American charities who give them medical supplies. Money’s only importance is how it is spent to help others.”
Emma said nothing, easing the Apache down to three thousand feet. “That’s gutsy, and talk about sacrifice, those two doctors should get medals of valor.” Obviously, this officer was generous with his money. Brody’s bragging came to mind. Was Khalid bragging to impress her? Something told her he was, and she became even more wary.
Snorting, Khalid said, “The central government refuses to acknowledge their sacrifice to our people. They aren’t very happy about Sufis, either. They barely tolerate them.”
“Why are Sufis so targeted?” Emma asked. She saw Bagram air base coming up. It was huge and lay on the flat, dirt plain with Kabul about ten miles away. The city glittered in the sunlight. Kabul wasn’t that safe, either. The Taliban had infiltrated the city and it was dangerous for any American, military or civilian, to be there without an armed escort.
“What mystic group hasn’t been a target?” he asked rhetorically. “Ah, Bagram is below us. We’ll be on the ground in a few minutes.”
She heard veiled excitement in his voice. Emma paid attention to the air controller giving her landing instructions. Tension accumulated in her shoulders. She really didn’t want to go to Shaheen’s home. It felt like a trap to her, but Khalid was her boss. If he wrote her up for a glowing commendation after this six-month gig, she’d have a revived military career in front of her. And Emma wanted nothing more than to expunge that black eye she’d given to the Trayhern family, once and for all.
“Come,” Khalid said, gesturing toward a large parking lot inside Bagram air base. “My car is over there.”
The roar of jets taking off shook the air until it vibrated around them. As Emma walked at Khalid’s side, her bag in her left hand, dark aviator glasses in place, she felt nervous. At the Ops desk where they’d filled out the required landing flight forms, everyone seemed to know him. He had joked and laughed with many of the enlisted personnel behind the desk. His sincerity and concern for each of them was obvious. Emma saw how every man and woman glowed beneath his charisma. Brody Parker had done that, too. It seemed people who weren’t as rich as he was were always enamored with him. Emma had realized later it had been because they knew he was rich.
As she walked down the line of cars, Emma reminded herself that Khalid was dangerous to her heart. He was far too likable a person. Frowning, she saw him take keys from his pocket and click them toward a Land Rover. The vehicle was a dark-green one that had plenty of dents and scrapes all over its body. In fact, there was a lot of dirt and mud on it, too.
“Hop in,” Khalid invited, opening the rear so they could throw all their flight gear into the back.
Emma slid into the passenger side and put on the seat belt. The dashboard was dusty. She wondered if Khalid’s home looked like his car.
Tension thrummed through Khalid as he drove through the security gates of Bagram after showing his identity card. “Have you been in the city of Kabul before?”
Emma watched him drive with care. “Yes, I have, but only with an Afghan escort on a day trip. When I fly in here, I remain on base for safety reasons.” He looked around constantly. In fact, they both had their side arms on the seat between them. She knew attacks were frequent in Kabul. The road leading up to the base was asphalted, but soon they were on another highway with plenty of potholes to dodge. Heavy traffic came and went from the busy main air base that served the country.
“Not many Americans wander off Bagram,” Khalid murmured, nodding. “And with good reason. They are targets. One day I hope that our country will be free of the Taliban and you can see the beauty of it.”
Emma was as alert as he was, keeping a hand on her .45 pistol. Too many cars were attacked by the Taliban. That Khalid was a marked man only increased the chances that they could be attacked.
Khalid motioned with his long hand toward the city. “My parents’ villa is on the outskirts, upon a small hill ringed with thick, almost impenetrable brush. I also employ guards at the base of the hill.” He grimaced. “Unfortunately, anyone who is rich is an automatic target. But you will be safe at our compound. Ten-foot-high stucco walls completely surround our home. It’s all one story so that it is hidden behind the walls. There is a metal gate at the entrance and a guard is always on duty. Each window has an ornamental grate across it to prevent break-ins. The front door is wrought iron, too.”
“I don’t know how anyone could live this way,” Emma muttered. She saw Khalid give his characteristic shrug.
“We have generations of Afghans with PTSD, post traumatic stress disorder. We all have it,” he said, glancing at Emma. “It’s just a question of how bad it is and how much of your life it stains.”
Shaking her head, she said, “I’ve always valued being born in the U.S., but after being over here and seeing the poverty, the murders and constant threats that your people live under, I feel very, very fortunate in comparison.”
“Yes, I was grateful for my years I spent in your country,” Khalid said. He swung off on a dirt road that led up to a small knoll in the distance. The road was rough and rutted because of the spring rains. “The seven years I spent there Americanized me a great deal.” He flashed her a sudden grin. “I really miss American French fries.”
For a moment, Emma’s heart melted. His smile was dazzling and she felt the full effects of it. “You seem very Americanized. Your English is flawless and you use our slang, Captain Shaheen.”
Khalid drove around some potholes, the ruts deep, dry and hard. The Land Rover crept forward. “I love America. I love what she stands for. I want my people to have a democracy just like yours. While I studied at Princeton, I truly understood what democracy was for the first time. I brought my passion back here and Kinah and I have worked ever since to bring our country closer to that vision we hold in our hearts.”
“It’s a vision worth holding,” Emma agreed, hearing the fierce, underlying emotion in Khalid’s voice. There was no question he loved this desert country. Emma studied the rounded hill coming up. The shrubs were thick and dark green from the base up to the top of greenish-brown stucco walls. The color of the walls blended into the earthen landscape. If she hadn’t been looking for the walls, she probably would have missed them. She wondered what it was like for Khalid and his sister to grow up here under such constant threats. Her admiration for him grew.
The bearded guard at the front entrance opened the gate and saluted Khalid. The sentry stepped aside as Khalid returned the salute and drove the Land Rover into the three-car garage. The automatic door started downward as he eased out of the vehicle.
Emma followed suit. They gathered their gear and he took her to a side door.
“Prepare yourself,” he said, a glimmer in his eyes as he opened the door.
Emma didn’t have time. The dog, a saluki, Ayesha, rushed out the door, barking joyously around them, her thick, long tail wagging with happiness. It was impossible for Emma to remain stiff and stoic. Khalid had been right: Ayesha would lick her fingers off her hand if allowed to do so.
Wiping her wet fingers on the side of her flight suit, Emma and Ayesha bounded over the white-tiled hall with its cool, pale-green walls. Khalid’s laughter and playfulness around the saluki automatically made Emma’s heart pound a little harder. Truly, Ayesha was a faithful companion to the Apache pilot who petted her fondly as she danced and pranced at his side.
The hall flowed in three different directions. Khalid pointed to the left. “Your suite is the second door on the left. My dear housekeeper, Rasa, has promised you will be comfortable while you visit us. If there’s anything you need, just press the buzzer on the inside of the door, and she will come to assist you.”
“And you, Captain?” Emma asked.
“I’m going to my suite, get out of my uniform, grab a shower and I’ll meet you in our courtyard in an hour. There’s much to show you before we have dinner at 8:00 p.m. tonight.”
Dinner. Her spirit sank. Emma didn’t want to spend too much time with this pilot. He was too mesmerizing. Ayesha bounced around Khalid, her tongue lolling out of her long muzzle, her dark-brown eyes alight with worship for her master. “I’ll see you later,” she said, more tersely than she meant it to be. Emma wished mightily for a bathtub, but they weren’t to be found anywhere. At base camp, there were only showers. Her flight boots thunked with a slight echo down the highly polished white-, brown- and orange-tiled hall.
The door to her suite was ajar. Emma pushed it open and walked in. What she saw made her gasp with delight. The suite looked like a five-star hotel room! Across the king-sized bed was a gorgeous lavender-and-white star quilt. And on the wall above it hung an art fabric collage of a Rocky Mountain meadow filled with colorful wildflowers. Setting her bags on the bed, Emma looked around, dazed by the quality of the furniture, the decorations and the sense of peace that filled the room.
Her mahogany dresser was an antique. She ran her hand across the polished surface and figured it had to be from either North America or perhaps Europe. As Emma opened one of the drawers, she noticed the dovetailing on each side, another sign of quality craftsmanship. She tucked away her few clothes, keeping out her silky pink pajamas and her own washcloth. Emma had learned a long time ago to carry one with her since many countries didn’t provide them.
The pale-lavender walls matched the beautiful quilt on her bed. Fresh flowers in a brass vase adorned the mahogany coffee table that stood between a small purple sofa and a wing chair. Soft music played from a radio. Doilies and a long embroidered runner lay across the top of the dresser. The furnishings gave the room a 1930s flavor. She felt as if she’d walked back in time to an era when everything was made by hand. Even the rugs on either side of the bed seemed to have been handmade from scraps of cloth that had been wound into ropes and then anchored together.
Walking through another open door, Emma sighed. With a Jacuzzi bathtub, the bathroom was as large as her bedroom! She gazed at it longingly. Mentally, she blessed Khalid’s westernized parents for their thoughtfulness toward their visitors. There was also a large glass-and-tile shower. The blue tiles on the walls were hand-painted with colorful wildflowers. Emma recognized some of them, others she did not. She walked closer to study them. Some were from the U.S., for sure. Others were jungle flowers and orchids.
A washcloth and a bright-yellow fuzzy towel had been folded on a nearby table. Lavender-colored soap sat in a white ceramic dish. She picked up a bar and inhaled the fragrance. It was jasmine, one of her favorite scents. Did Khalid know that? How could he? Emma replaced the soap and turned, suddenly feeling horribly trapped by the assignment. First things first. Emma noticed a range of hair products near the white porcelain sink. She would draw a luxurious bath, soak and then wash her hair in the shower. Still in mild shock over the plush suite, she once again reminded herself that Khalid was a man full of surprises.
What next? Emma wasn’t sure. She quickly shed her boots and uniform and turned on the faucet to fill the Jacuzzi tub. As she sat on the edge of the tub and swirled her fingers through the warm water, she felt her heart shrink with fear and dread. What if Khalid made a move on her? Emma could swear he liked her, but so far, he hadn’t done anything off limits. The rose told her he was flirting. Did he see her as nothing more than a woman to chase and try to catch in the next six months? Brody had done something similar; he’d chased her for four months before she’d agreed to a date.
Careful. You can’t get involved with him. You have your family to think of first. You have to redeem the Trayhern’s good name. Never mind Khalid is warm, personable, humorous and kind. Or rich. Groaning, Emma closed her eyes for a moment. This mission was much worse than she’d ever realized.

Chapter 4
“Come,” Khalid invited Emma as she walked into the spacious kitchen, “let’s go to the garage. I have my storehouse in there.” He tried to ignore the fact that she was now in civilian clothes, her red hair still damp from the shower and falling like fiery lava around her proud shoulders. Instead of a baggy olive-green flight suit, Emma now wore a tangerine-colored T-shirt with dark-brown trousers. On her, they looked good. Too good.
“I’ll follow,” Emma said firmly, gesturing for him to take the lead. Emma could smell the wonderful odor of lamb cooking with spices in the oven. With how Khalid’s light-blue polo shirt showed the breadth of his chest, Emma kept distance between them. He was just too much of a temptation.
Khalid opened the door to the storehouse and stepped aside to allow Emma to enter. He turned on the lights. Emma halted and stared around the cavernous three-car garage that held only the Land Rover right now. Along the walls in neat rows were thousands of books and boxes of educational items such as crayons, pencils, pens and notebooks.
“This is our vision,” Khalid said, closing the door and walking into the room. “Kinah and I bought state-of-the-art printing machines. We gathered a group of Afghan widows and trained them to print out the books for the children.” He went to one aisle, pulled out a book and opened it. “We’ve not only employed six women who had no way to earn any money. Now they are our printers and publisher. The books are written by the best authorities in education, according to Kinah. She worked a year to produce Pashto-written texts and pictures from grades one through twelve. It was a momentous challenge.”
Emma nodded but remained distant. She made sure there was plenty of space between them. She heard the pride in Khalid’s voice for his innovating and hardworking sister. “This is a major undertaking.”
Khalid nodded and slid the book back onto the shelf. “Yes, it is.” He gazed down at Emma and had a maddening urge to tangle his fingers in her damp red hair, which curled softly around her face. Did she know how fetching she looked with that coverlet of copper freckles across her nose and cheeks? Emma wore no make up, but didn’t need any. She was beautiful just as she was, Khalid’s heart whispered to him. But since he was marked for death, there was no way to fall in love with any woman, not even someone as tempting as Emma Cantrell. He focused on showing Emma the large room of supplies. “Once we begin Operation Book Worm, all the supplies will come from this location.
They will be marked, packed by another group of widows and then sent by truck to Bagram for us. From there, we put them aboard our CH-47 and fly them out to the villages.”
“And your sister Kinah?” Emma asked. “Where is she in all of this?”
“Right now my sister is working with leaders of the first ten villages along the border where we will set up the schools. She’s taking a roster of each child, his or her age, and how many children will be in each school.” Khalid said fondly, “My sister is a tempest. She never sits still. Kinah’s a fierce warrior for peace and the education of our people. She’s a fighter who has vision, strength, intelligence and courage.”
“She’d have to have all those things to do what she’s doing,” Emma agreed grimly, looking around in awe at the room. “Her life is always on the line out there. I’m sure you know that.”
Darkness came to Khalid’s normally sparkling blue eyes.
“Too aware. I have hired two of the best security guards I can find, but I still worry about her. She refuses to wear a flak jacket, which concerns me. We have ancient enemies out there.” His voice lowered. “I know Malik is hunting us, Emma. He’s just waiting to spring a trap to capture either or both of us. I worry it will happen when Kinah is alone and unable to defend herself… .”
“And yet, you have said Asad Malik has promised your death.” Emma looked around. “Where are your bodyguards?”
Khalid shrugged. “Now, you sound like my sister, Captain. She is always on me to have them.”
“Thanks for the tour, Khalid.” Emma sounded less military and slightly breathless. That irritated her a whole lot. Emma felt an unexpected yearning for him that was like a flowing stream that turned into a wild river within her. Khalid was too good to be true. Brody had never been a humanitarian and that’s where they were different. In Emma’s eyes and heart, Khalid was a true hero, fighting to lift his people out of abject poverty. He had the money, the position and resources to make it happen. There was a generosity so deep within him that it made Emma stand in awe of Khalid. How many men had she met that had all these qualities? Not many. All the more reason to remain at arm’s length from this fierce Afghan warrior.
“You’re welcome, Captain Cantrell. Now,” he said, glancing down at his watch, “I believe Rasa will have our dinner ready for us.”
Emma walked toward the door, dreading the meal. Hopefully, she asked, “Are you going to split us up? I’ll eat in the women’s quarter and you in the men’s?” In the Muslim world, men and women ate separately.
Khalid laughed and walked quickly to open the door before she got to it. “No. You are American and I honor the fact that Americans sit as families together. We’ll eat in the dining room.” He saw a wariness in her eyes and added, “Does this meet with your approval?” No longer could he afford to assume anything about this woman.
Emma kept her sedate demeanor. “This is not military protocol, Captain Shaheen. To tell you the truth, I’m a little uncomfortable with it all.” There, the truth was out. Emma noticed the genuine concern in his face and how much her words had hurt him. She knew how important it was for an Afghan to be a host. “But I’ll deal with it.”
“Yes?” Khalid said hopefully. “For I have no wish to offend you again.”
“I’m not offended.” Emma hoped she’d smoothed the situation over enough so they could have a quick dinner and she could make a run for her suite.
Asad Malik arrived in Kabul at 9:00 p.m. He and his men had met with a local Taliban sheik at a village outside Camp Bravo. He’d loaned them two pickup trucks so that they could speed their way to Kabul. The stars were bright and beautiful above him as they pulled up at the bottom of the hill where the Shaheen family home sat.
They got out of their pickups and quietly assembled near Malik. He put on a special pair of night goggles stolen from an American soldier during a heated battle. He liked these goggles because, suddenly, night became day. Everything was green and grainy, but he could see. This was the first time he’d ever been this close to the Shaheen estate. As he used binoculars and began a survey of the home, he realized it was going to be very hard to attack.
Ameen, his second in command, came up to him. “My lord, is there a way we can assault the home?”
Malik growled under his breath, “There’s heavy brush all around the hill. At the top, there is a ten-foot wall. And on top of the wall is concertina barbed wire.” Dropping the binoculars, he handed them to the young man, who wore a worn brown turban on his head. “Stay here. I’m going to look around. With these goggles, I’ll be able to see much more.” He picked up his rifle and melted into the night, leaving his men standing quietly by the trucks.

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