Page 10 of Asher

Heston joined Asher at the door, hanging onto one of many suicide straps attached to the ceiling. “She’s a piece of work,” he said, disgust in his voice.

Not taking his eyes off the duo on the roof, Asher nodded. The Marines might still be on guard at the gate to this embassy, but something was dead damned wrong in this far-off piece of America.

“Don’t shoot, Deck,” Murphy growled.

“Don’t intend to,” Decker replied gruffly. “Not until I see the whites of her lying eyes.”

The Black Hawk banked left and, once again, they were on the move.

Chapter Six

By the time Marlowe opened her eye again, she found herself in the great state of Virginia, of all unlikely places. Not Afghanistan or Pakistan, not even in that part of the world. But far, far away from those familiar, yet famously chaotic trouble spots. Which was good, considering how badly she needed to recuperate and recharge. Once she was back on her feet again, though, she was out of there. She had work to do and women to save. Those women in Afghanistan had no one else to rely on, and Marlowe refused to let them down. They were her family. Them. Only them.

Instead of the surgeon she’d never met in Pakistan, she was now attended to by Dr. Libby Houston, a bright, cheerful, blonde who wasn’t afraid to pull up a chair beside her bed to chat. Dr. Houston seemed to care. She was open and friendly, and she had five kids. Five. Unheard of in America.

She’d just taken Marlowe for a walk in the hall—with a walker. At first, Marlowe was annoyed that Dr. Houston thought she needed one, but, yeah. Once she was upright and on her feet, the walker came in handy. The last thing she needed to do was fall.The bottoms of her feet were still tender and her left shoulder ached. The sling was another godsend she hadn’t expected she’d appreciate as much as she did.

They didn’t walk far before Marlowe wore out, and that was embarrassing. She was young; she should’ve been able to run down that wide hallway. Twice. But nope, she’d toddled along like a decrepit old woman, back to her room, where Dr. Houston helped her into bed, then pulled a chair over and sat down to chat.

Dr. Houston wasn’t dressed like that nurse in—wherever.Oh, yeah, Pakistan.She wore jeans and a white t-shirt, not scrubs like most doctors wore. Mischief glinted in her extraordinary cobalt-blue eyes. “You were surprised when I told you I have five kids. Why’s that?”

Marlowe hated that she was easy to read. “What happened to the American dream, a white picket fence and two-point-five kids, Dr. Houston?”

“Libby. Just Libby, Marlowe.” Dr. Houston, err, Libby, shrugged. “I’m pretty sure that’s a myth. My husband Mark always wanted a big family, so, when I scored as high as I did on the MCAT—”

“What’s MCAT?”

“The Medical College Admissions Test. It’s a prerequisite for students going into the medical field. We didn’t tell anyone. Kept it a secret until I could sign MD after my name. Anyway, after four hectic years juggling time between our three girls, Mark’s job, my clinicals and med school, one night while he was fixing dinner, Mark asked if I’d ever consider adoption. So here we are now, the proud parents of five little girls, two we adopted fromPuerto Rico.” Libby leaned into Marlowe, cupped her hand, and whispered, “I’ll tell you a secret. I’m pregnant again.”

“Don’t you know anything about birth control?”

“Yessss, I do!” She squealed like a silly teenager in love. “But Mark always wanted six kids, and I made sure he’s going to get his wish.”

“Six? That’s half a dozen.” Marlowe held back asking, ‘Are you crazy?’

She couldn’t imagine getting a family that size out of Afghanistan. The logistics would be a nightmare. Saving one woman and child was tough enough, sometimes nearly impossible. But six? An adult woman and five kids, assuming her husband was already safe in the United States. What was Libby thinking? Not that she needed saving, or that she lived in Afghanistan, but six children?

The crazy woman was still grinning like a spoiled, little girl. “Which is why I’m not in private practice anymore. Working here keeps me closer to home. I work fewer hours, and I get to see more of Mark and my kiddoes.”

Marlowe couldn’t help but wonder why American women like Libby got to live lives of wealth and ease, while others in the world were forced into poverty and unbearable savagery. Too many times, she’d witnessed brutality waged openly upon defenseless men, women, and children, all done in the name of Allah. Not that Christians and atheists were any better. They weren’t. The crimes committed under the various names of God and religion were the worst.

But Libby was genuinely pleased to be pregnant? And she loved her husband? She had no idea how lucky she was. Trouble-freelives were not the norm in Afghanistan since the Taliban took over again. Women were considered less than men, unworthy of higher education. They were easy targets, harassed, and publicly beaten by the morality police if they dressed immodestly. Which basically meant without wearing that godawful burqa just so, or if they went out in public without male escorts. Like a dog on a leash, women were no longer respected or needed, other than to provide male children for the Taliban’s insidious plan for the rest of the world. To be used as unwilling suicide bombers. Heaven help the female children. Too many had mysteriously disappeared or were brazenly stolen from their mothers’ arms in broad daylight. That was one way the Taliban funded their activities, by selling virgins. Little boy and girl virgins.

Suddenly, Libby took Marlowe’s hand. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Very carefully, Marlowe extracted her fingers from Libby’s and slipped her hand under the blanket. “You didn’t. I just…”What? Don’t belong in America even though I was born here?“I was thinking how different things are here. Where I’ve been… In Afghanistan…” How does one explain the vast difference between these two countries to someone like Libby? Marlowe settled for, “Life here isn’t the norm for the rest of the world.”

“How so?”

“Well, like, you’re happily married, you have a big family, and you can support them. You were allowed to go to college, then to medical school. You’re a woman, but you’re also a doctor. You can do whatever you want, even adopt children from another country.”

“Puerto Rico is an American territory, so adoption wasn’t difficult. After the last hurricane, there were so many kids leftwithout parents or grandparents, it was the least we could do. Where were you born? Are you really from Afghanistan?”

“No, Chicago.”

“So your family lives in…?”

“No. I don’t know where my parents are, and I don’t care. I don’t have brothers, sisters, or other relatives, and I don’t need anyone, understand? Haven’t in years. Don’t expect that to change.”

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