Secret Soldier by Dana Marton

heard the sound of glass breaking on the floor, then saw fire. Fire everywhere.
    Gerald flew through the door. “Get out! Get out!”
    He grabbed her up and ran with her, not stopping until they were at a safe distance. By then, half the hut was ablaze. Heat, worse than the full sun of the desert, sucked the air out of her lungs.
    “What was that?” she asked stunned, trembling.
    “A firebomb.” His breath came in harsh gasps near her ear.
    A couple of villagers were running toward them, some with their water jugs. Gerald left her and ran back into the hut, trying to rescue some of their things. He only managed to drag out the sleeping bag by the door when the whole roof caught on fire.
    She coughed from the smoke, her eyes watering.
    “Get back, dammit. What the hell are you doing?” Gerald dragged her away.
    She hadn’t realized she had run back to her hut, to him. Everybody was silent, standing back now. They all knew it was too late. The popping and whistling of the fire sounded like some unearthly laughter, and the flames seemed to dance with her meager possessions as if mocking her.
    Tears filled her eyes. She was having a really rotten day. She’d been forced into marriage with a stranger, two people had been killed because of her, she’d been kidnapped by bandits, gotten stranded in the desert, and now her home and everything in it was going up in smoke. She didn’t mind her clothes, what little she had, but the thought of precious food burning made her tears spill over. She had children depending on her.
    She wiped her eyes, noticing for the first time the throb in her ankle and slid to the ground to take the weight off. She couldn’t afford to aggravate the injury, not when she had work to do. She had to rebuild, replenish her supplies.
    Gerald squatted next to her. “Are you okay?”
    “Who an earth would do something like that?” Then she remembered Abdul’s son. He probably blamed them for his father’s and aunt’s death. “Did you see anyone?”
    He shook his head.
    “What are we going to do now?”
    “I’ll find a way to go to Tihrin tomorrow. That’s where the foundation is wiring the grant money, to the Banca Intemationale. We can get another car and new supplies there. You should let a doctor look at that ankle anyhow.”
    He sounded so calm, it made her relax a little. Tihrin was twice as big as Rahmara, on the edge of the southern oil fields, a hundred miles or so from Tukatar. It sounded like a very sensible suggestion.
     
    HE HATED DOING this to her. Unfortunately, it wasn’t his call. If it had been up to him, Abigail wouldn’t have gotten involved at all.
    In their room at the Hilton in Tihrin, Spike lay on his bed with his hand folded under his head and stared at the ceiling, doing his best to ignore the sound of running water that came from the bathroom. She was taking a shower. Naked.
    He was pathetic. He wasn’t even attracted to her. He was just puzzled about why she wasn’t attracted to him. It seemed strange, and a little annoying. He wished she would come on to him already; then he could gently let her down, and they could both move on. He could stop obsessing about her.
    The water stopped, and without thinking, he shifted so he could see her when she came out. She didn’t take long. He nearly groaned at the sight of the abayah she seemed to wear around the clock. He fought the urge to rip the black cloth off her so he could see just once what was under it. Then he could rest.
    At least she didn’t have her veil on. Her wet hair was twisted into a bun at her nape, the only way he’d ever seen it. Probably made sense to keep it off her back in this heat. Wet brown strands escaped to frame her face.
    He liked redheads and blondes.
    “Your turn.” Her graceful lips stretched into a smile. She didn’t have the kind of swollen, pouty lips he normally went for, and yet he found his glaze glued to them.
    “Right.” He bounced off the bed. She was distracting him. He