Six Seconds

27

The frontier beyond Tal Afar, Iraq. Near the Syrian border

Days later, at the convergence of the Syrian and Turkish borders, Samara’s small group stole into north western Iraq.

Supplied with counterfeit documents, they joined members of their network’s relief agency.

A week later, they’d learned that a battle had broken out with a U.S. convoy near Tal Afar. They were close. The carnage was still burning in the market when they arrived. Samara had learned that one wounded Amer ican truck driver had been captured, that the insurgents intended to hold him hostage and make demands.

Ultimately, they would behead him.

Samara’s group intervened and won his release in exchange for cash. They would return him to U.S. au thorities as a sign of goodwill.

But after studying his ID, Samara had an ulterior plan.

Jake was lost.

Disoriented.

On his back, in tranquil light, cool water was sponged on his skin and the smell of flowers perfumed the air. He woke to the dark eyes of the woman tending to him.

His skull throbbed with flashes of Mitchell’s severed head.

Someone was shouting.

The woman calmed Jake, her touch comforting. Her soft voice carried a British accent and soothed him as she explained that he’d been wounded in an ambush but needed rest to survive.

Her name was Samara.

She was a nurse with the relief agency that had ne gotiated his release from the insurgents who’d attacked his convoy.

He was safe now, she said.

They were in an isolated remote reach, near the Syrian border. Messengers had been dispatched to get word through trusted channels to the nearest U.S. camp.

So soldiers could get Jake home to America.

In the days that followed, while Samara helped him, they’d learned something of each other.

Samara was born in London. Her father was a British professor, her mother an Iraqi nurse. Samara had married an Iraqi medical student she’d met at univer sity in London. They moved to Iraq, where they had a son. Both her husband and son were killed in the insanity that had plagued the country, leaving Samara to devote herself to frontline aid agencies.

Now, she was preparing to go to America to start a new life.

Jake thanked her for saving his.

“If you’re ever in California, contact me.” Jake gave her his e-mail address and phone numbers.

He showed her pictures of Maggie and Logan, told her about America, about his love for the open road, football, hot dogs and country music.

Samara never smiled.

She just looked at the photo of Maggie and Logan.

Then she looked at Jake.

She never revealed her thoughts to him.

Samara was amazed by Jake’s resemblance to her husband. He shared his good looks. He also had a young son.

Reflecting on it, as she treated Jake, Samara cautioned herself not to become distracted. But as Jake recovered, as they talked, grew familiar with each other, something happened. Conflicting emotions overwhelmed her, something that had died inside her had stirred.

One clear night when the sky was a sea of diamonds, after the others had gone to the nearest village for food, Samara and Jake found themselves alone.

In his tent, Samara checked on Jake’s condition and vital signs. Her face was beautiful under the dim lamplight. Her touch was soft. Jake searched her face, her eyes flickered like falling stars. Her shirt had slipped, exposing a patch of her bare shoulder. He put his arm around her and she didn’t resist.

He drew her near.

Samara looked into his eyes.

She didn’t resist when he kissed her.

A long, deep kiss.

Which she returned.

She sighed as she grew aroused and began to unbutton his shirt, her hands exploring his hard chest, sending a shock wave burning through him, until he forced himself to break away.

It was wrong.

He thought of Maggie and Logan.

This was wrong.

No words were needed.

Samara left the tent.

They never spoke of it the next day, or the next when two Hummers arrived.

“Sergeant Kyle Cash,” said the U.S. soldier whose grin preceded him out of the truck. “Mr. Conlin, sir, we done thought y’all was dead. Some folks back in Blue Rose Creek, California, are going to be mighty happy. Mighty happy, sir.”

“Thank you for coming for me, Sergeant.”

It was that sudden.

Jake thanked Samara and the relief workers then climbed into the Hummer. She stood there watching him as they pulled away. Not smiling, not waving, just watching him pull out.

Jake looked back at her.

The woman who’d saved his life. He looked at her until she’d vanished in the dust, leaving him to doubt whether he would ever see her again.

“You know, sir, it’s a miracle any way you cut it,” Cash shouted to Jake, who nodded. “When word got to us that a relief agency was ensconced up here and had saved an American, well, no one believed it.”

“Why?”

“Intelligence says this zone is rife with death squads.”

Rick Mofina

Six Seconds