Page 38 of What is Found

“I’m not thinking anything now.” He was too tired for that, as emotionally wrung out as a tatty old washcloth. “I want to understand how you almost got yourself killed today...well, yesterday,” he amended. “Why you were off station? What is Driver up to? It’s got something to do with that woman, doesn’t it?”

“Shahida?” She nodded. “Yeah, it’s about her.”

“She’s an asset they’re supposed to get out of the country?”

“Yes,” she said, “and no.”

“Meaning?”

“Come on.” She pushed to a stand. “You need to hear this from the horse’s mouth.”

“You realize how weird that expression is.” But he followed—to his everlasting regret.

CHAPTER 2

They werein the hangar and on seven crates drawn in a rough circle: Flowers and Meeks to his left, Roni perched to his right. Driver and Shahida sat as a kind of power couple at the nominal head. Musa and the boy John had seen outside the airport with Shahida huddled quietly in a corner.

Conspicuous by his absence, though, was Mac, the CIA guy.

“First, before start,” Shahida said, “I want thank you for come.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” John said. He was exhausted, running on caffeine and nerves. The smell of blood and antiseptic and burnt flesh seemed to steam from his skin. “Roni’s the only reason I’m willing to hear you guys out. But I got to ask, where’s Mac?”

“Stuff to attend to.” Driver straddled his crate like a bone-weary cowpoke. His skin, still smudged withdirt and Harris’s blood, was sallow in the hangar’s overhead light. He rubbed at his dark eyes, which were sunken far back in his sockets. “Off making arrangements.”

“For what?” John looked from Driver to Shahida. “Foryou? You’re an asset?”

“In a way,” Driver said.

“And you needfourguys to guard her? Isn’t that what the Zeroes are for?”

“More complicated than justherass,” Meeks said.

“Yeah, man,” Flowers said. His long blond hair hung lank and oily, the ends stiff and a dirty brown from Harris’s blood. “Don’t tell me you never heard what happens when a crow flies over Kandahar.”

“Not in the mood for riddles,” John said. “So why don’t you just tell me?”

“Okay, smart guy, riddle me this. What happens when a crow flies over Kandahar?”

“Like I said…”

“It covers its ass with a wing.”

John waited a beat. “Was that supposed to be funny? I don’t even understand how that’s relevant.”

“You would,” Flowers said, “if you knew what grown men did with little dancing boys.”

“What?” He transferred his gaze to Driver. “What’s he talking about?”

Flowers opened his mouth to reply, but Shahida held up a hand. “I answer myself for why,” she said. She’d discarded her shemagh, and her long black hair tumbled around her shoulders. She wore camis, butnow that they weren’t chasing down a mob following a transport plane, John had the leisure to see that she was also very carefully made-up: mascara, eye shadow, liner. Her cheeks were rouged and her lips, which were very full, were a deep russet. Even her nails were perfectly shaped and painted. “Is not only me they watch. Boy I bring today, Biri.” At the mention of his name, the child looked up, his eyes wide and dark with concern until Musa draped an arm around the boy’s shoulder and whispered into his ear. “My army is...different.”

“Army.” There was something profoundly sweet in how the boy burrowed deeper into Musa’s chest, and he had to clear his throat. “So,” he said, taking his gaze from the child to Shahida, “you’re a warlord?”

“No. Not way you think. I wage waragainstwhat mens do here.”

“That’sbaloney,” John said. “I’ve seen you with a rifle. You can’t tell me you’ve never been in a combat setting.”

“I do…” Shahida spread her hands. “What need doing. I have fighters, but we do different from resistance.”

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