Page 3 of Deadly Betrayal
“The warlord?” Azita sputtered, disbelievingher ears. “That murderer?” Her voice rose in pitch, making Khalidwince.
“Do you wish for me to lock you in yourroom?” Khalid’s eyes were pure obsidian and his face was tight withanger. He’d never looked at her that way before, and it scared her.She stepped back.
Laila latched onto her arm, pulling away fromKhalid. Tears streamed down her still-round face. So young, soinnocent. Azita wrapped her arms around the girl’s thin body andpressed her face to Laila’s shoulder. “I will think of something. Ipromise,” she whispered.
No one would force Laila to marry, not aslong as Azita lived. Least of all to someone as ruthless anddespicable as Khan Tariq.
“Azitakhanom,” Khalid growled as hegripped Laila’s biceps. “You are making this more difficult forher.”
“You are right.” She pressed her mouth toLaila’s ear. “Play along. I will come for you.”
The girl stepped back and nodded. Her eyeswere red-rimmed, her skin blotchy, but behind the sorrow in herexpression, steel glinted. Had Allah gifted Azita and Faroukh witha daughter, she’d have wanted her to be just like Laila.
The girl kept her eyes cast down as shewalked to the door between Khalid and her mother. Closing the door,Khalid paused and sent Azita an icy glare. “We will discuss thistonight. Now hurry and get dressed. I will wait for you in thecar.”
Azita looked down and blushed. She was stillin her nightdress. Turning on her heel, she raced to her room andgot ready for a day at the clinic. Her patients needed her, andthey would have her, but only until she figured out a plan to saveLaila from Khan Tariq’s bloody clutches.
That evening, Azita glanced once again at theold-fashioned wind-up clock on the nightstand beside her bed. Theclock was the only thing she had left of her mother, of a time whenlife was simple, happy. She gripped the edge of the bed and forcedherself to sit still and wait. After a while, she sneaked anotherlook at the clock and hung her head. Exactly one minute had passed.Sighing, she closed her eyes and worked to slow her breathing, tocalm herself.
Soon.
If he kept to his usual routine, Khalid wouldenter the room of his newly married second wife any minute. Samirawas young, only twenty, and Khalid was determined to father anotherboy. It was the perfect opportunity for Azita to sneak out.
When she heard the rhythmic creaking ofbedsprings three rooms down the hall, she threw a black scarf overher head and tied it to cover her hair and the bottom half of herface. A better choice might have been to wear achadri, theblue burqa of Afghanistan, but the idea of enclosing herself in thethick material that limited vision and movement made her stomach doa slow roll. Besides, she was already breaking rules by goingoutdoors after curfew and unaccompanied by a male relative.
She slipped out into the hallway and tiptoedpast Samira’s room to the front door. After a quick check of thecorridor, she exited the apartment and raced down three flights ofstairs. Minutes later, she sucked in deep breaths of the cool nightair, trying to tamp down the adrenaline surging through her veins.She’d made it past the first hurdle. The second one would begetting out of the idealized Western-style gated community in theShahrak-e Aria neighborhood of Kabul’s northern district, whereKhalid had moved them six months earlier.
She hated living here, hated the hypocrisy.Afghanistan was crumbling, but no one would know it in this oasisof wide, tree-lined streets, green parks, quaint shops, andrestaurants. The community even had a movie theatre. During theday, girls with flapping headscarves laughed and drove their richfathers’ expensive German or Japanese cars. It was a completefantasy. The worst kind of self-deception.
She scurried away from the main gate, keepingto the shadows. Armed guards monitored the community’s high fencethrough security cameras and foot patrols. She had to avoid both,or her mission would come to an abrupt end.
Before sundown, she’d taken a walk around theperimeter, looking for a weakness in the security, and she’dspotted a section of the fence that was partially hidden by agarden with lush shrubbery. She hurried to the same location, andafter securing the edges of her scarf and tucking the hem of hertunic into the waistband of her pants, she plowed through theshrubs and bushes obscuring the lower part of thetwo-and-a-half-meter tall fence. Branches scratched her legs andarms, and for once, she was glad her clothing left very little skinexposed.
Upon reaching the fence, she began to climb,digging her feet and fingers into the small holes. Unused to suchstrenuous physical activity, her arms and legs shook with theeffort. When she reached the top, she looked over and hesitated. Alarge field lay below her. It was much darker on this side, and shedidn’t know what awaited her in the shadows. She prayed it wasn’tguards or worse—hungry wild dogs.
Perspiration beading her forehead, she threwa leg over the fence and reached down with her foot, sliding itleft and right, searching for a toehold. Lowering herself, sherepeated the action with her other foot. Her fingertips crampedfrom the effort of holding herself up for so long. Could she reallydo this? If she fell, she could break a bone. And if she didn’thurry, the guards would catch her. She’d be lucky if Khalid didn’tkeep her under lock and key after that.
Saying a quick prayer to Allah and herbeloved mother, she descended as quickly as she could, barelyholding on with her aching fingers and feet. She was not physicallyprepared for such an escapade. And it was her fault for not keepingherself in better condition. Exercise for women was frowned upon,but as a doctor, she should have insisted, even if she’d had to doit in the relative privacy of her own room.
A quarter of the way down, her left footslipped and she swung wildly, making the fence clang against thesupport poles. When she didn’t immediately find a foothold and hersweaty fingers started to slip, panic seized her.
Her left foot flailed, grappling forpurchase. Finally her shoe slipped inside a hole. She paused,clinging to the fence like a drowning person to a life raft. Hersweaty fingers slid against the cold metal, the muscles cramping,her breath coming in harsh pants. Ignoring the fiery pain, shefought gravity as it sought to drag her down.
She could not fail. Laila needed her.
Tightening her tired fingers, she continuedher descent. When her feet hit the dusty ground, she took inseveral deep breaths to calm her racing heart and wiped themoisture from her forehead.
Blowing air on her hands to cool the burningof her palms and fingers, she ducked into the darkness and hurriedacross the open field, doing her best to avoid tripping over thepiles of rubble and construction debris. Once on the main road, shekept to the dimly lit areas, which doubled the time usually neededto trek to the Khair Khana neighborhood where her brother Shahramlived. But it was necessary. If the patrols caught her, she’d endup arrested or beaten. Or worse. Shuddering, she adjusted herheadscarf so only her eyes showed. Head down, she took quicksteps.
After what felt like hours, she turned thecorner onto Gulai Khwaja Boghra Road. Only a block to Shahram’sapartment. Excitement and trepidation warred in her chest, makingher heart pound erratically. Light-headed, she stepped out of theshadows, preparing to sprint across the street.
“Estad shaw!”
The patrolman’s barked command to stop hither like a barrage of bullets. Instinct shoved her back against thewall of the building behind her, under the cover of the shadows.She didn’t know if he was with the Afghan National Police (ANP) orthe Kabul City Police. Either way, she had no desire to findout.
“Psst.Khanom. Hide here.”
Azita spun around. In the low light from anopen apartment door, she could barely make out the gnarled face ofthe toothless old woman who beckoned her inside. Knowing she hadlittle choice, Azita did as she was told.
