Page 16 of Going Rogue
They’d made a bet before they reached the camp. Whoever failed to find food had to cook dinner. Since he’d gotten them discovered . . . he’d give her that one.
The grin left his face as the search partystopped a few feet away. Four men had come to investigate. He’d been able to make out as much before they flashed a light in his face, effectively blinding him.
When they shined their lights on Rogue, a collective stir passed among the men, which raised his blood pressure. Every muscle in his body went on high alert. He reached for his rifle as the man who seemed to be the leader spoke.
The words were Arabic, but Crane had trouble understanding them. The man either mixed several dialects together or spoke one Crane wasn’t familiar with.
He managed to pick up on a few, though.Gun. Woman. Danger.
Hoping at least one of them spoke the dialect commonly used in the western part of the country, Crane tried his best to explain that they were travelers who’d been kidnapped by a group of militants. He left out most of the details but told them about the Humvee and needing to get to friends near Al Asad Airbase.
When Crane finished, the leader turned his head and spat before launching into atirade about militants in the same dialect Crane had used.
Relief they could communicate settled some of the nerves in his gut as he listened to the man tell horror stories of how these militants were ruining his country. From claiming their land, stealing their herds, and even killing the heads of households, it wasn’t a pretty picture.
Crane’s grip had eased off his weapon until the leader asked about Rogue. They might share a common enemy, but the Bedouins’ strict religious beliefs meant they didn’t view an uncovered woman so kindly. The leader asked about herird, and it took a couple of tries before Crane understood what the man meant. When he did . . . the MRE he’d eaten hours ago threatened to come back up.
They were asking if she waspure—chaste.
With her busted lip, he could see why they’d wonder. Blood pounded at his temples as scenarios played out in his head. Them thinking she was loose or at least compromised, and going after her,orif he managed to convince them she wasn’t, herbeing separated from him to keep herirdintact. Neither option settled his stomach. Unwed men and women didn’t exactly mix in their culture.
The only solution he could find . . . He swallowed and glanced in Rogue’s direction, wishing another option existed because she wouldn’t like the only guarantee she’d be left alone. Hoping the apology he tried to telepathically convey somehow reached her, he had to say it—to protect her.
Making sure he had the leader’s attention, Crane answered, “She’s my wife.” He felt her body stiffen at his statement. Stepping a few inches in front of her, he sent a warning to the other men, who still murmured in the dialect he didn’t understand.
He focused on the leader, who nodded before asking them to move further into the camp. Crane caught Rogue’s eye in a silent question if they should follow. When she made the sign for ‘affirmative,’ beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
While the thought of food and a place to lay their heads for the night had its appeal,he couldn’t completely shake the fear these men wouldn’t come after her. He stood frozen with indecision, his hands on the gun he carried.
The leader pointed at the rifle he’d stolen. In Arabic, the man made it very clear weapons weren’t allowed in the camp.
Some honed sense from all the time they’d spent together told Crane Rogue was about to protest. To keep her from getting them in trouble, he agreed and held the assault rifle away from his body. He would still have his knife, and she’d wisely hidden the Glock.
The leader motioned toward the youngest man in their group—a teenager who looked too young to have such a haunted look when he took the rifle from Crane. It made him wonder what horrors the kid had seen. Maybe he was personally familiar with the loss of a head of household. Had he inherited the title from a father whose life had been taken prematurely?
With a command in the dialect Crane didn’t understand, the leader addressed the young man, who disappeared in one direction with the weapon. Then he gesturedfor him and Rogue to follow in the other.
Fighting the stiffness in his shoulders, Crane trailed behind their group and hoped this move wouldn’t prove a mistake.
An eerie quiet descended as they walked into the lighted area of the settlement. Six large, rectangular tents made a three-sided square around a central bonfire. Each white tent seemed to have two or three sections, he guessed, for different rooms. A relatively even amount of space, maybe around twenty paces, separated each “home” from the nearest neighbor. All of whom had come out to stare at the newcomers.
Shining in the light cast by the central fire, Rogue’s hair garnered more interest. His skin felt stretched too tight and his fingers twitched with the desire to grasp his knife.
Knowing that move would likely not go over well, he tucked his hands into the hip pockets of his cargo pants to appear more relaxed. But he felt far from it as he sized up the people in the camp.
Compared to the Bedouin’s clothing, he and Rogue were both underdressed.The men wore the traditional galabeya, a longrobe-like garment with a high collar. Buttons started at the neck and fell in a line down the middle of the chest. Though they wore black clothing, red and white head scarves wrapped the top of the men’s hair. But the women . . . black encased them from head to toe. Some wore thin dark scarves over their hair and faces, while a few wore a niqab, revealing only the aging skin around their eyes.
With her hair, face, and arms bare, the contrast Rogue made seemed massive. Enough that Crane didn’t know if they should stay. He opened his mouth, ready to ask if they could trade for food, then get on the road when the leader pointed beyond the open side of the camp to a column of smoke.
While he explained dinner was almost ready, it occurred to Crane this was the same smoke Rogue had smelled. His mouth started to salivate as the leader described the poached sheep and vegetables they had been cooking all day under a bed of rice. Next to him, Rogue’s stomach growled—loudly. One of the men chuckled in response. Then, the leader gestured for them to have a seat.
As he and Rogue sat on the ground, joining the circle the men had made around the fire, the tension gripping Crane slowly eased. They joked, laughed, and told stories, including him in their conversation about the meal and their way of life.
Before they all finished eating, the leader invited them to stay, informing him they’d have their own tent for the night. Thankfully, Rogue stayed silent.
Despite their severe views regarding women, the Bedouins had offered them hospitality where he’d expected none. It was enough to make Crane happy a pair of children had thwarted him. Well, that and the fact he’d be sharing a tent with Rogue.
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