Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

The wafting scent of traditional Afghan dishes coming from the kitchen sent Seth's stomach churning, but he paused at the bottom of the stairs and glanced toward the sound of muffled voices in the dining room. He should go in there, but couldn't imagine sitting down at a table with the guys and putting food in his mouth like it was a big happy family dinner.

No fucking way.

"Hey, there you are."

He froze at Phoebe's voice from the top of the stairs and cast around for an escape. The front door sat straight ahead of him, the team's makeshift war room to the left, dining room to the right. Either of the latter two places would leave him trapped, so the door was his only option. He started toward it.

"Hey, wait. Seth! Where are you going? Aren't you hungry?"

"No," he answered and told himself no matter what, he wouldn't look back. If he did, she'd ensnare him again in that strange way she had.

"You have to be hungry. You haven't eaten all day."

Halfway out the door, he hesitated. The note of worry in her voice hit him dead center in his empty gut, and some of the resolve to avoid her withered.

"Please," she said directly behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Will you just stop for a minute and talk to me? You've been avoiding me since the briefing."

He opened his mouth to deny it, but the scowl she gave him would have scared a pathological liar into spilling the truth.

"Yeah," he said instead, and her brow wrinkled.

"Did I do or say something to offend you? If I did, I'm sorry."

"No." Jesus, he hadn't meant for her to think that. Honestly, he figured she'd be relieved to be rid of him. He wasn't exactly glowing company on the best of days and the last two had ranked among his worst. All the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of this fucking country had him so off-kilter he felt like a grenade just waiting for someone to pull his pin.

When he said nothing more, Phoebe's hand dropped off his shoulder. "Did Gabe talk to you about those reports?"

Thrown by the sudden topic change, he turned from the door. "Yes, he did."

She rolled her lower lip between her teeth. "Do you agree with his decision not to tell the others about the bomb?"

"He said he has it under control, and he doesn't want anything taking the team's focus off the mission. I agree that Hendricks has to be our priority, but I'm also sure Gabe wouldn't just sit back and do nothing if there was an imminent threat of the bomb going into play."

"You don't think there is?"

He hesitated. "I think there will be if nothing is done to stop Siddiqui."

Phoebe shoved her curls back from her face. It was the first time she wore her hair down, and his fingers itched to sink into all of those corkscrews. "I still think we should make those reports public. Siddiqui can't go through with his plans if everyone knows. Plus, he won't get elected."

"You're forgetting the huge bull's-eye you'll paint on your back as soon as you go public."

"No, I'm not," she countered somewhat primly. "I'll report it anonymously."

"Nothing's anonymous. He will find out who's responsible, and he will want revenge. And, worse, at that point, he'll have nothing to lose." When she didn't seem at all deterred, he gripped her shoulders. "Listen to me, this is not America. You are not entitled to safety here. Nobody is safe in Afghanistan."

She lifted her hands to cover his and gave his fingers a squeeze before backing out of his grasp. "You're very paranoid."

"Paranoia keeps you alive."

"And alone."

The verbal blow struck home, and he sucked in a breath. "I'm good with alone."

"You shouldn't be."

"And you shouldn't be here," he shot back. She was hitting too close to the exposed nerve that ran right through the center of his being. "You should be in some nice suburb back home with a couple red-headed kids and a husband who adores you. Your biggest decision should be what to have for dinner tonight."

Phoebe laughed softly. "I don't want that life."

"Why the hell not?"

"I'm needed here. Someone has to tell these girls' stories, or nobody will ever hear them."

"And those stories are important enough to risk your life?"

Something flickered behind her eyes—guilt?—and she glanced toward the dining room as the musical notes of girls' laughter drifted out. "Everyone has sins to atone for. I once believed that if I exposed the horrors of the world, if I saved enough women and girls by making people aware of what's happening to them, I could make up for mine." She shook her head, her curls bouncing. When she looked at him again, her smile was a little sad. "So, yes. Staying here and telling their stories is absolutely important enough to risk my life."

"Jesus. There's no karmic scale that lets you balance out bad deeds with good."

She raised a brow. "Isn't that what you're trying to do by coming back here?"

Another direct hit. She sure knew where to aim those sharp words. "No."

"And neither am I. I know I'll never do enough good to make up for the hurt I've caused."

How come he got the feeling those words were meant specifically for him? Considering they had only known each other a little more than a day, that made no sense. Probably his paranoia talking again. "I can't picture you hurting many people."

"You'd be surprised. And, yes, when I started on this path, I did see it as a way to redeem myself. But now? I'll gladly risk my life to stand up for these girls solely because if I don't, nobody else will."

"You can't save everyone, Phoebe."

"I can try."

Amazing. Foolish as all hell and probably a downright suicidal way to think—but, yeah, amazing. In all honesty, he didn't think he'd ever met anyone quite like Phoebe Leighton. He wanted to touch her, wanted to feel the softness of her skin under his fingertips. "You can't save me."

The expression on her face said she intended to do just that, and there was another uncomfortable sensation deep in the frozen recesses of his chest that he didn't want to name or explore. He turned back to the door. "I need to go."

"You need to eat," she corrected, grabbed his arm, and pulled with enough force that she caught him completely off-guard. He hadn't been braced for it and stumbled after her.

The buzz of conversation and clink of dishware got louder. Inside the dining room, under Zina's gentle direction, several of the older girls twittered around, serving up plates of naan, a flat bread , and bowls of soup to the team. The men sat around the table, visibly uncomfortable with the service but trying to be polite.

Every eye in the room swung his way when Phoebe dragged him through the door, and the scent of the food hit him full force. A tremble worked through him, tap dancing on something dark and twisted at his core. He wanted to punch someone. He didn't know why and fuck if he was going to analyze the source of the intense rage, but he wanted to pummel something until his knuckles bleed and swelled and the buzzing inside his skull stopped.

Which meant he should go. He wasn't fit for public consumption right now.

He broke from Phoebe's grasp and backed away from the table. In his peripheral vision, he saw Ian's lip curl in disgust.

"Too good to eat with us, Hero? Or are you having another pansy-ass panic attack?"

That. Was. Fucking. It.

Before he realized he'd moved, he had his hands around Ian's throat. "Don't fucking call me Hero."

Girls screamed. Men shouted. Hands dragged at his arms, his shoulders, but he held on and watched the face in front of him morph into one he recognized and yet didn't quite remember. One of his torturers come back to life. The one he'd nicknamed Devil. The one who had gotten a kick out of alternately starving him, then forcing him to eat until he vomited and making him eat that, too.

Fear clawed up his throat, and he tightened his grip. He wasn't going to be force-fed by this bastard. Not again. Never again.

Devil's features blurred and changed to Ian's, then back to Devil's, and Ian's again until he could no longer tell the difference between past and present. Ian. His torturer. They were one and the same, and he had to make the pain stop.

Just. Make. It. Stop.

Chairs scattered as the men jumped up to contain the fight. Soup splattered across the floor, naan flattened under several pairs of boots. The table scraped across the floor, shoved against the kitchen door by all the jostling bodies. Trapped in the kitchen, Zina pounded on the door and shouted. Several girls huddled in the corner out of fear.

Phoebe crossed to them first, shushing and consoling them as best she could.

Ian's face was turning bright red. Jesse and Quinn tried to pull Seth back while Jean-Luc and Marcus worked to free Ian. Gabe used his bulk to shove his way into the brawl, drew back his fist, and slammed into Seth's jaw.

"No!" Phoebe dove toward Seth as his legs gave out, but she didn't make it before he hit the floor. Going down on her knees beside him, she lifted his head and cradled it in her lap. His lip was split and bleeding. He stared up at her with dazed blue eyes—the gaze of a man who had no idea what was happening or why.

Jesse knelt, but she shoved him away. "Don't touch him! I think you all have hurt him enough."

" He's hurting?" Ian croaked and straightened unsteadily, rubbing at the bright red marks around his throat. "Lady, he just fucking tried to kill me."

"And you asked for it, didn't you?"

His jaw tightened.

"Yeah, I saw you poking at him all day long. All of you do it, in little ways, here and there, but Ian's the worst. And guess what? You poke at a snake long enough, and the snake's going to bite back. I swear to God, I don't know how you plan on rescuing anyone when you can't even pull together for dinner without bickering and bloodshed."

She felt a tug on her hand and glanced down, surprised to see Seth squeezing her hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"They should be apologizing, not you." She nailed the men with a glare, and most of them had the grace to look ashamed. Ian, on the other hand, didn't appear to have a repentant bone in his body. He growled, shaking soup off his jacket. She had no idea how anyone on the team managed to trust him enough to put their lives in his volatile hands.

On the other side of the room, Zina finally managed to open the blocked kitchen door with one powerful shove that moved the table several inches. She took one look at the scene before her, ducked under the table, and came up with her eyes spitting anger. "Get. Out."

Dammit. Phoebe tried to stand to put out this newest fire, but Seth still had a hold of her hand, as if he didn't plan on letting go anytime in the next fifty years.

Okay. She'd talk everyone back from the ledge while sitting on the floor. No problem. Just call her Wonder Woman.

"Get out!" Zina shouted when nobody moved, and her hair tumbled from its neat chignon. "I allowed you to stay in my home with my girls against my better judgment. Now you proved I should have listened to my instincts. Get out."

"Zina." She tried to get up again—but, nope, not happening. Seth stared up at her, transfixed, much the same way he had this morning, as if he wanted to memorize every detail of her features.

And she had to focus on the situation. Not on his gorgeous, sad blue eyes.

"Zina," she tried again. "Stop and think what you're throwing away. A hundred thousand dollars will do tremendous things for the shelter. For your girls. You only have to put up with them for a few days, and this will not happen again, will it, boys?"

She got an emphatic "No, ma'am" from everyone but Ian. And Seth, who was still staring at her.

"See? They'll behave."

As though to prove her point, Gabe ordered his men to start cleaning up the mess, and everyone—including Ian this time—pitched in to right chairs and mop up spilled soup.

Interesting that Ian listened to Gabe and even seemed to respect his commander. Maybe that was why he was on the team.

Zina watched them, still trembling with anger. Then she glared at Phoebe. "Why do you trust them so much?"

Good question. One she didn't have an answer for.

Seth saved her from trying to come up with one. As if suddenly realizing he still lay with his head in her lap, he bolted to his feet and strode from the room without speaking a word to anyone.

She hesitated, glancing between Zina, the men, and the hallway Seth had disappeared down. She wanted to follow him, but would Zina try to kick the guys out again if she left?

"It's fine." Zina waved a hand. "Go after him. I know you want to."

That was all the encouragement she needed. She climbed to her feet, followed the path he'd taken through the classroom wing of the building, and found him standing in the back courtyard, a lone figure silhouetted by silver moonlight. His shoulders moved with a heavy sigh. The hood of his sweatshirt fell as he scrubbed his hands over his head and knelt in the dirt. She started toward him.

The man was so freaking lonely. How could the members of his team not see how much he needed someone? A friend. A confidant. Maybe even a shoulder to cry on.

But that shoulder could never be hers, she realized with a sharp stab of guilt and froze. If he knew what she'd done, he wouldn't want to see her, not to mention confide in her. He needed a friend who hadn't already betrayed him.

Phoebe took a step backward, fully intending to leave and maintain what little distance still lay between them, but her heel crunched in the gravel. His shoulders tensed.

Crap. Now he knew she was behind him, and she had to say… something. Anything.