Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Standing there and holding Marlowe changed Asher's plans. He couldn't bring himself to let go of her. They'd just had the strangest fight, and Harley had seen and heard the whole thing. He stood at the door to his veterinary office, his arms crossed and the bottom of one boot planted against the door jam. His cell phone was up to his ear, but Asher couldn't hear the other end of the conversation. The knowing smile on Harley's face was worrisome. What did he know and how much had he heard? Couldn't be much. Asher still didn't have a clue why Marlowe had been in Afghanistan, how she'd gotten there, or what she'd done there, and he'd spent the most time with her.

For sure, she wasn't military spec ops; he'd checked with a friend at the Defense Department about that possibility. She might be a deep undercover CIA operative. That would explain her reticence to trust or share. But it didn't make sense. The Agency would've spirited her away from TEAM HQ the moment she hit American soil if she were. Asher knew there were darker ops than black ops, but again, if she belonged to any clandestine alphabet agency, they would've removed all trace of her as soon as she hit town. Possibly before.

Interestingly, the moment he had Marlowe in his arms, the toxic anxiety in his gut vanished. Just, poof—disappeared. He avoided negative energy, simply because it exacerbated the uncontrollable terror he'd experienced that day in Somalia. When PTSD hit, the earthen walls closed in again. His lungs shut down as he fought for air, and once again, he was buried and suffocating, panicked out of his mind. Calmness was key. He knew that, and earnestly worked to control his emotions and thoughts, his breathing and the fucking memories. It worked during the day, most of the time. But nights were another shit show, and last night's episode still lingered like a bad hangover. Until now. Holding this headstrong little woman, feeling her much smaller body pressing against his like she needed him, backed those bone-gnawing demons off.

He'd felt this same connection the day he'd found her. Ironically, he'd been looking for a goat but found an innocent lamb. In Marlowe's screams and anger, in the ugly vitriol spewing out of her bloodied mouth and swollen lips, he'd recognized the same unholy terror he'd experienced in Somalia. Hanging there like she'd been, she'd nearly choked on her need to strike back at someone. At anyone. He'd just been her closest target.

Asher knew that kind of fear. It came from being powerless, not able to escape, rescue yourself, fight back, or move. The reasons that fueled Marlowe's panic were different than his, sure, but the aftermath they both lived with wasn't. The need for control explained why she threw up roadblocks when asked too many questions. Marlowe desperately needed to be in control. She still felt threatened, and sadly, that was also why she'd leave. That she had escape on her mind was easy to read, because—whenever she'd meet his eyes, Asher saw a reflection of the same panic that still dogged him.

But for now, with her smaller frame snug against his, with his bigger arms wrapped securely around her, and most of all, with Marlowe allowing him to be there for her, it was enough. It had to be. Like it or not, she would run again, and he'd never find her when she did. It killed that she might, somehow, return to Afghanistan by herself. That she'd choose living in Taliban-ruled hell over staying in America.

But he had her now, and in this present fleeting moment, Asher breathed in the soft, sweet scent of the strongest woman he'd ever known, and he wished she'd choose to stay. Surely there was something in America she wanted. It wasn't him, he got that message loud and clear. He just wanted the best for her, safety being his highest priority. If only it was hers.

"Let's go check out that pup of yours," he murmured, against her beanie-clad skull.

"For you, not me." See? Ever defensive. Always deflecting. Always saying one thing but meaning another.

He settled her in the wheelchair and rearranged her lap blanket, preparing a cushion for the wriggling ball of fur he was about to dump on her. The goofy little lab in the first kennel was as stubborn as she was. Asher rolled the chair alongside the chain ink, then crouched beside it and wiggled his fingers through the wires. It never even looked his way.

"Aw, look at you, you're beautiful," Marlowe crooned, her fingers between the wires and that crazy dog was halfway up the chain link again to get to her level.

"This the one, darlin'?" Harley asked, from behind Marlowe. Asher caught the tease in his friend's tone. Harley knew dogs but he also knew people.

She glanced over her shoulder. "I'm not your darling."

"She's not anybody's darling," Asher added. "Watch out."

"She's this little gal's darlin'," Harley insisted. "Never seen Herman focused on anyone before like she is now. You want to hold her, darlin', or should I show you something better?"

"There isn't a better dog and stop calling me darling," Marlowe bit out. "And Herman? What kind of name is that for a sweet little girl puppy, huh? What do you want to do, Asher? We're here for you, not me."

"Might as well let her out, Harley," Asher said, going along with Harley's tease that there were smarter, better dogs than Herman.

Harley lifted the latch on the gate, but the pup stayed where she was, whining at Marlowe through the wire. When she wouldn't come when Harley ordered, he ducked inside, scooped her under his arm, and dumped her on Marlowe's lap. "Don't drop her. She's a big baby."

"Aww, I would never drop her. She's adorable, and aren't you the cutest little girl?" Marlowe crooned as the fur baby tipped back in her arms like a human baby would.

Still crouched beside the chair, Asher stuck his chin up at Harley. "Got any others?"

"Sure, I—"

"No, wait. Stop it," Marlowe interrupted. "You haven't even held her, Asher. Look how sleepy she is. I think she's tired."

He stifled a smile. No sense pissing off Marlowe again. "Of course, she's tired. She's been climbing this fence to get to you this whole time."

"Uh-uh, not me. It's just that—"

"It's just that this little lady already picked you to be her mama, darlin'," Harley cut in. "You can't fight it. If you don't want to give her a home, it'll break her heart. Think about it. You get to give her a better name if you keep her."

"Why do you keep calling me that? I'm not anybody's darling," Marlowe snapped, cradling Herman and gazing down at her as if she were the best dog ever. "You're just a baby, aren't you? I'm calling you Darling. That's a good name for you, not me."

Motherhood looks good on her.

Where the hell did that insane thought come from? Lifting to his feet, Asher shook it out of his head. The heart might want what it wanted, but he knew better. Yes, he liked this woman, but the feeling wasn't mutual. Just because Marlowe semi-trusted him didn't mean squat.

So, while Harley gave them a tour of the other available dogs, most of them pups, Darling snored in Marlowe's arm. The damnedest domestic sensation kept creeping up on Asher, and every time it did, he chucked it aside. Yes, he was pushing the chair with Marlowe and her dog. Yes, this scenario resembled a husband with his wife and child. But no. Just no. This was not that.

Harley paused at the end of the second aisle, where a pure white boxer pup stood nervously peering out of the crate in the far corner of its kennel. Harley crouched and wiggled his fingers through the wire. "This is Walter. He's the only boxer left from his litter, and he's deaf. Most white boxers are. Breeders usually euthanize them to protect breed standards, but I don't have the heart for that, so he's available. He's a little older than most other pups, but he's smart, Asher. He's loving and he's trainable. It'll take time and effort, but he'll be a good companion for the right person."

Asher took a knee beside Harley and put his fingers through the wires, too. There was no sense whistling or calling to the pup. Walter didn't venture one step from his crate, just trembled at its opening, his blue eyes wide and fearful. The little guy didn't have the curiosity or boundless energy Darling had. He looked terrified and that resonated with Asher. Walter was alone in a world without sound. How well Asher understood.

Harley continued. "If you ask me, you'll have your hands full with the lab pup. You might want a more mature—"

Asher opened his mouth to tell Harley he wanted Walter just as, "We'll take him," burst out of Marlowe. That wheelchair of hers was beginning to resemble a throne the way she tossed out edicts and commands.

Asher turned to play devil's advocate. "Don't forget you're still in the clinic, and you've already got Darling. How are you going to take care of her and help me train Walter? Yes, he's adorable but—"

"I'll room with you. You'll let me, won't you?"

Another edict, but this one didn't sound too bad. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

Her head was nodding before he finished asking.

"Well, okay, then. Harley, looks like Darling and Walter are coming with us. Tell me what else I'm going to need." And God bless me because I have definitely lost my freaking mind.

Over the course of the next hour, Harley supplied Asher with two portable dog crates and everything he needed to feed, water, and care for his ‘kids', as Marlowe kept calling Darling and Walter. For the moment, Harley had put both pups in Darling's kennel, and Walter wasn't the frightened little guy he'd been before. He knew how to play and that was good. But even if he didn't, Asher was taking that little man home. Dogs deserved second chances, too.

"How about I keep these two and all the supplies until you leave today?" Harley asked.

"I don't know how long I'll have to stay," Marlowe replied, always one step ahead of Asher.

He set his hand on her shoulder while answering Harley "That might be best. My place is a disaster and we "—he made direct eye-contact with Marlowe at that telling word—"still need to puppy-proof my place. Also, need to make sure you move in first, so they know who's in charge." Asher had a feeling he wasn't.

"Sure," Harley said. "They're fine here. Take as long as you two need—"

"Where is she?" Alex barked from the barn doorway, where he stood like the Devil incarnate. The sun was behind him, making him darker and larger than life. Didn't help that he was smoking mad. He paused for less than a minute, then headed straight to Marlowe.

"Are you he who will not leave?" he asked, his tone razor-sharp and his eyes crystal-ice.

She stared up at him from her wheelchair, gulped, and answered, "Actually…" Her voice trailed away before she finished with, "I am she who will not leave."

Asher looked from Marlowe to Alex and back to Marlowe. They were talking code? They knew each other?

"Son of a bitch!" Alex hissed before he crouched to her level. "What happened?"

"You're Alex Stewart?"

"Of course, I'm Alex Stewart. Why are you here instead of where you're supposed to be? You haven't answered my latest texts."

"I lost my phone. They… they took it and I—"

"Boss, what's going on?" Asher interrupted.

Marlowe gasped. "He's your boss? Why didn't you tell me you worked for Alex Stewart?"

"I thought you knew. He owns The TEAM. Would someone please tell me what's going on?"

"Why didn't you tell me you were a woman?" Alex snapped.

"Why didn't you ask?" Marlowe yelled. "What are you? As big a pig as those Taliban guys?"

"Enough," Alex growled, lifting to his feet. "My office. All of you. Now."

The next minutes wheeling Marlowe back inside TEAM HQ were a blur. How the hell did she know Alex and what was that secret code about? CIA operators talked in riddles and codes. That was how they identified each other in the field. Who the hell was Alex? Another spy?

At the door to his office, Alex snapped, "No phones."

Like Harley, Asher took his out of his pants pocket and dropped it to the carpeted floor in the hall. By the time he had Marlowe situated in Alex's office, he was pissed at everyone. He parked her wheelchair alongside the window, facing Alex, and took the chair beside her and closest to his boss's desk. He ached to comfort Marlowe. She was pale and trembling, out of her element. They'd gone from playing with puppies to Force Protection Condition DELTA, and Asher didn't know why.

He put a hand on her forearm to calm her. "Are you okay?"

She turned to face him. "I thought I was safe here."

Asher's hold tightened. "You are safe. Like I said, Alex owns The TEAM, and it's the most elite, sought after covert surveillance company in the world. I work for him. You couldn't be safer. Nothing and no one can get to you here." Because I will fucking kill anyone who tries.

Scooting to the edge of his chair, he closed the distance between them, pressing his hip against the wheel of her chair. She reached for his hand, and he gave her what she needed. Which apparently was twining her fingers with his. Damn, they were ice-cold. Asher needed to calm down. He was angry, but not at Marlowe. Alex? That was something else again.

Judy sat beside Harley at the other end of the desk, both looking as flummoxed as Asher felt. Marlowe was in shock, trembling down to her bandaged toes. Alex charged in behind them, slammed his door, then locked it and took his place behind the desk, his stern focus on Marlowe. He lifted the receiver of his secure line to Murphy and Mark, his senior agents, to his ear, and ordered, "My office." He didn't speak another word until Murphy and Mark knocked.

Harley jumped up and let them in, then relocked the door and asked, "Now, Boss?"

"Do it," Alex bit out.

While Murphy and Mark dragged chairs from the conference table located behind everyone else and sat, Harley flipped the red switch behind the door and activated SCIF, Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility protocol. Which meant Alex definitely had top-secret intel to reveal. His heretofore clear windows went frosty, blurring everything and everyone inside to outside eyes. The low hum in the room ensured no listening devices were on-site or capable of breaching security.

As usual, Alex was dressed to kill. His charcoal gray suit was pressed, his black tie was straight as an arrow, and his white shirt immaculate. The vibe radiating off this man was a powerful deterrent to friendly banter. He stuck his elbows on his desk and centered his steepled fingers under his chin, almost—not quite—casually. His way of toning it down? Didn't work. Not the way he stared at Marlowe, which was pissing off Asher.

He leaned forward, drawing his boss's attention from her. "What's going on, Boss?"

Alex held up his index finger, shutting Asher down, still focused on Marlowe. "How did you get here? No, forget that. Who betrayed you?"

"Boss," Asher warned. "This is the woman we rescued on our last mission into—"

The son of a bitch shut him down again with that same pointed finger. "Afghanistan, I know. Do you realize who she is? How much she's done for the women and children left behind? Do you know what you've done?"

"Ah…" Until that second, Asher thought he knew what he'd done. He'd simply rescued another woman, not just the ones on their list, but one who'd been tortured. One who wouldn't have survived if he and Beau hadn't found her.

"I didn't know you worked for him," Marlowe murmured apologetically at his side. "Honest, or I would've told you. Mr. Stewart was, err, is my point of contact. He sends me names of endangered women. I contact the ones I can find. I hide them and their kids, and I take care of them until you guys show up and get them out of the country."

"You're shitting me?" Asher growled. "You? Just you? You're his sole in-country source? The person who's been helping us rescue all those women left behind is—you?"

She nodded, that one sky-blue eye brimming with tears. Asher couldn't believe it. Marlowe was a tiny woman, not some big jock who could fend off a bar fight. But she was the only one responsible for covertly getting scores of the wives of endangered Afghan nationals, friends, interpreters, guides, and others who'd aided the American military during the war, out of their Taliban-polluted country? Just her? He wanted to rip Alex to shreds.

"How could you do that to her?" he bellowed, on his feet now, still holding tight to the hand of the frightened woman he'd personally saved from shitting hell. "You nearly got her killed. You son of a bitch, I oughta—"

"Sit. Down." Alex snarled.

Which did not help. "Go to hell!" Asher roared at the man who could fire him. Like he cared? Not anymore. Marlowe was his first priority, like she should've been Alex's, the bastard. "They hung her up and whipped her like a dog! Or did you know that, too?"

Marlowe tugged his hand. "Shush. It's not his fault."

"Like hell, it's not. He's been there. He knows what those… those…"

"Assholes," she provided the descriptor Asher couldn't come up with.

Her favorite word got through to him. Asher sank into his chair and pulled the woman who'd come to mean everything to him, within mere days, onto his lap where he could protect her from his boss. From Alex, Christ! That a man like him had assigned a single woman the chore of accomplishing miracles in the ugliest part of the world was the worst of this mess.

"As you heard, he didn't know I was a woman," Marlowe explained. "We've never spoken. Only texted. He'd text me a list of women who needed rescue. I'd send him a list of the ones I found. Sometimes I found them all. Some I still can't find. Once I found them, I'd keep them and their kids hidden until he sent dates, times, and how many he could get out at a time. We coordinated everything by text." She shrugged. "It worked until I got, umm, caught."

"How on earth did you connect with each other in the first place?" Harley asked, his forearms on his knees and looking every bit as bewildered as Asher.

"Through a mutual friend, Arzad," Marlowe answered.

"Ah, that makes sense," Harley muttered. "I know Arzad. He's a good man."

Marlowe nodded. "He is. When Mr. Stewart came for Arzad and his wife, Arzad mentioned it to me. Everything in Afghanistan was unraveling by then, so I told him if other Afghans wanted to leave, I'd help them if he'd help me find a way to do it. He said he knew a guy." She turned to Alex. "Arzad gave me your number, and in a couple months, you texted with my first assignment. I'd made up that silly code by then because I knew you'd never hire someone like me. But I also knew most of the women at risk. I knew who you'd be looking for."

Alex growled. "You told me you had support."

"Would you have used me if you knew I was a lone woman doing the impossible? Just me? Not some big tough guy with tats on his face and big bulging biceps?"

He bared his teeth. "I don't send my agents on foolhardy missions, and I never send anyone alone. You should've been honest."

The tension on Asher's shoulders eased off at that sharply spoken truth. Alex had once burned the CIA for sending their agents out alone and them ending up dead.

"That's why I lied. I had to." Marlowe shrugged as if being in mortal danger was no big deal.

That ego of hers was going to get her killed if she returned to Afghanistan.

"Tomatoes. Tomah-toes. I saved lives, Mr. Stewart. Women, children, and babies. What would you have had me do, sit around and watch the news on TV while the Taliban murdered them? Sorry if I offend you, but I don't care what you think. I did what I could, and I'll do it again the first chance I get!"

Damn it. She was planning on going back. Asher winced at her false bravado. Either she was the bravest woman he'd ever known, she was borderline crazy, or… Marlowe had a death wish. He'd known the false bravado that got servicemen killed. They thought they were invincible until they found out they weren't. Like he'd learned in Somalia, the hard way.

"How did you get into Afghanistan the first time? I mean, if you don't mind telling us," Harley asked politely.

Her cheeks puffed with a long full breath before she exhaled and replied, "Through India, then Pakistan. I had a little money of my own after I, ahh, left home. It wasn't much, but I wanted to see the world, so I got a passport and... Ahh, sorry, that's a lie. I did get a passport, but I mostly wanted to see the Middle East, and then I fell in love with Afghanistan, so I stayed. What can I say? It's an acquired taste, and there's no place on earth like it."

Alex nodded as if he agreed. "How long ago was that?"

"About three years. I was there when you guys pulled out two months ago. I was at Abbey Gate, in the middle of all the friends you left behind. You deserted. You betrayed!" The tone in her voice spiked from calmly informational to downright accusatory. By the time she was done, Marlowe was pointing a stern finger at Alex. She was livid and the muscles in her neck were taut.

"You've got to knock that shit off," Asher snapped, his anger with Alex mollified now that he had more details. "None of this is Alex's fault. We've all been over there, but none of us betrayed anybody. You think we haven't done anything since then to help our friends? You think we made that decision to bail on them in the first place? News flash. That decision was made behind our backs, too. I lost buddies over there, but for what? So some asshole can buy votes by ending an unpopular war, without giving one damned shit for the American men and women who died over there? Why did we pull out? You seem to have all the answers, so you tell me. Because I still, to this day, fucking don't know!"

"You borrowed both my favorite words," she said quietly, reaching for his hand until she locked fingers with his again. "It's okay, this one time. I know you guys aren't directly responsible. I'm sorry. I just…" Her shoulders lifted. "I'm just so angry that I didn't save more people. I'm the only one those women trusted. I have to go back. If I don't save them, who will?"

Asher shook his head and said, loud and clear, "No."

Alex overrode Marlowe with a loud and clear, "Like hell you will! We'll save them, me and my TEAM. We'll carry on like we've been doing since Abbey Gate. You weren't my only inside man, Marlowe." He rolled his eyes at that dead-wrong descriptive. "I've got others helping me get our friendlies out of Afghanistan, but you're done. You've been made, and if you go back now, you won't accomplish anything because the Taliban will kill you, publicly, and in the most gruesome way. You made them look bad and you're a woman. They don't forget or forgive things like that."

"But how many women can I save by the time they catch me, Mr. Stewart? Huh?"

Man, this woman was insolent.

Alex shook his head. "Stop calling me Mr. Stewart. It's Alex or—"

"Or Boss," Asher supplied.

"Fine, Alex." She sneered, her answer full of sarcasm and disgust.

Alex rolled his shoulders, obviously irked. "I want you to think about something for a minute." He held up his index finger to shush her because, as usual, Marlowe was itching for a fight and already had her mouth open. "Just listen, will you? I want you to think about the Afghan women here in America, the ones you already saved. The ones who need you now, your sisters-in-arms, so to speak. They haven't assimilated yet. They miss their families, friends, and their country, and they don't speak the language. They're scared, and they need to see you again, to put their hands on you, to know you're okay, too. That you survived. You saved them once; they need you to save them again. Let us do the dirty work, while you reach out and comfort your survivors. They're your sisters now, and you have a responsibility to them and their little ones. They need the chance to thank you, their way. In their language. In person." Alex paused and then added a word Asher had never heard his boss utter before. "Please?"

Damn. He'd make one helluva used car salesman the way he'd just asked Marlowe for a commitment, not to him, but to the Afghan women she obviously felt passionately about.

Dead silence. Marlowe was struggling, and Asher understood her battle. There was a high to combat, an adrenaline kick to fighting the good fight, to winning. To being in the right place at the right time. To putting your life on the line and being victorious. Men and women on the front were hyper-focused twenty-four-seven. Even when they slept, they were hyper-alert, ever ready to jump up and march into hell for the sake of each other. They had to be. War wasn't about flags or country or patriotism. It was about the men and women beside you. Your buddies. Your squad. The soldiers who had your back when you were in a kill zone. When you were caught helpless in a crossfire. When you truly believed all hope was gone and you were going home in a box. That was truly all a guy cared about in the chaotic heat of battle. His thoughts might fly to home and family, but over there, with death so close you could smell it, the men and women with you quickly became your whole world, and you'd do anything for them.

Alex had basically asked Marlowe to stand down and accept a lesser role, that of comforter as opposed to savior. That of friend instead of warrior. A tough transition.

"I never thought about afterward," she finally breathed. "I would like to see them again. All of them. I mean, we didn't spend much time together, and over there, every minute we were together, we were afraid we'd be found out and killed and… Hmmm. Yes, Alex. I'll think about what you asked me to do. I really will."

Whew, one crisis averted, hopefully. Asher turned to his boss. "Do you know why the president ordered an immediate withdrawal?" Alex and President Adams were close, and that chicken-shit withdrawal from Afghanistan was uncharacteristic of the man.

Alex sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. "Adams didn't order it. He recently had a stroke. Dalton, his newly named VP, did. The White House kept it quiet, I suspect because that son of a bitch plans on being elected this November, if Adams dies."

"Christ, he's worthless," Harley muttered.

Dalton being behind America's hasty retreat from the country they'd mentored for years made sense. Corporate CEOs owned Dalton. Always had. The guy ought to wear a jacket like NASCAR drivers did, with brightly embroidered patches that displayed the names and logos of the CEOs he actually supported. Sure wasn't American taxpayers.

"I wish you'd told me this before now," Asher murmured to Marlowe. "I don't understand why you didn't trust me."

She dropped her gaze, and Asher knew it then. Alex hadn't convinced her of anything. She was still going back.