Page 20 of Asher

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, sitaround 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. Shewasplanning 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 thefriendsyou 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 helpour 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 orpatriotism. 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.

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