Author's note: Thanks to Imagine Coldplay, Nimrodel101, GuiltyPleasure82, jerseydanielgibson, Nimbus Llewelyn, Princess of Words, sofiarose613, girliemom, browneyedgenius, spanishgirl, ConlonKeith, RealityReflected, Nikstlitslepmur and Guests for your kind reviews! Your feedback is always appreciated.

November 15, 2009

It was a long, chilly, bumpy ride to the outskirts of Gulmira, made all the more unpleasant by the fact that multiple reporters — accompanied by their interpreters, camaramen and equipment — had all been crammed into the same Army cargo truck. Joe counted himself fortunate to be wedged between his wife, Holly, and his brother, Steven, the three of them pressed against each other to share body heat as they jounced along, the first warming rays of the morning sun blocked by the canvas stretched over the truck bed.

The cold was the least of their concerns. The other journalists were grim and quiet, unlike the rush of chatter and activity that had gone on as they had prepared to leave the base. They all knew the risks. Despite the Army's best efforts to clear the road they now traveled, there was always a chance of IEDs. This area of Afghanistan was in chaos — which was why they were there — and there were no guarantees of safety. The name "Daniel Pearl" kept floating through Joe's mind, and he pushed it out with an effort, wondering how many of the journalists here were thinking the same thing.

He wasn't so much afraid for himself. Thanks to his heritage, he wouldn't be totally helpless if something bad happened, but it was Holly he worried about. It was unquestionably a comfort to have his older brother Steven here — ostensibly as their interpreter — because as a former soldier he was certainly more experienced than Joe was in this type of situation. Unfortunately, he wouldn't be coming with them the whole way. Uncle Mike had made the call for this mission: the fewer people, the better. And Joe and Holly's unique abilities would be needed more than Steven's fighting skills.

They hoped.

The truck pulled to a stop, and the other passengers perked up and turned to peek curiously through the cracks in the canvas to see where they were. But almost immediately a soldier came around to lower the tailgate, and one by one the journalists disembarked, clutching their bags with their recorders and cameras and microphones. Joe turned to give Holly a hand down, and together they stood hand in hand and gazed across the rugged Afghan landscape, their breaths coming out in white puffs in the early morning air.

There were dozens of people scattered throughout the scrub brush, some of them just beginning to stir for the day. Some were sheltered by makeshift tents made by stretching a blanket or tarp over a propped-up stick and anchored at the bottom by rocks. A few had made rough lean-tos using branches for walls and tumbleweeds stuffed into the cracks. Quite a few were simply sleeping out in the open. Men, women and children alike were dressed in handmade clothing and their heads were pillowed by their travel bags, no more than what they could carry themselves.

Joe, Holly and Steven could hear the murmurs of the journalists around them as some began to make their way over to the refugees to speak to them, while others busied themselves setting up equipment. Joe and Holly exchanged glances, and knew without speaking that they were both longing to do the same. To talk to these people — simple villagers and sheepherders who had been driven out of their homes without warning due to forces beyond their control — and find out what they had suffered and then share their stories with the world.

But despite the expectations of his news editor and her book publisher, it couldn't be business as usual today. There was a more urgent task to be fulfilled. One that would ultimately make it possible for these people to go back home to stay.

"That way," Steven said to the two of them in an undertone, pointing with his chin toward the low peak to the east. "Once you're over the ridge, there'll be a few gullies and hills, but it's pretty much a straight shot to Gulmira at the foot of the mountain. Fifteen miles."

A pair of soldiers had taken up a post between them and the ridge, standing around with the patient air of men who knew how to "hurry up and wait" with the best of them. Joe and Holly looked at them and then exchanged uncertain glances.

"I'll talk to 'em," Steven said quietly.

As the three of them approached the soldiers, Steven called out something to them in Farsi. Joe didn't understand what he said — Steven had taught them both only a few phrases, just in case — but the taller of the soldiers perked up and grinned at Steven before saying something in Farsi back.

Joe and Holly waited through a short exchange they didn't understand — and clearly, neither did the other soldier, whose name tape read Allen — until Steven suddenly switched back to English. "Oh, they don't know the language," he said as he nodded toward Joe and Holly. "That's why I'm here. To translate."

"Where'd you learn?" the taller soldier, whose name tape read Williams, asked Steven curiously. "You serve here?"

Steven shrugged one shoulder casually. "Three tours."

"No kidding? What division?"

"I was in the Marines, actually."

"Oh, jarhead, huh?" Williams said easily. "I thought I detected the stench of unearned superiority coming from you."

Steven smiled slightly. "I made a lot of friends in the Army, actually. I think you guys know how to have a better time than we do."

Williams slapped Steven's back and howled. "You got that right!"

Then his smile faded, and he quickly called out past Steven: "Hey! Hey! What do you think you're doing? You can't go that way!"

Holly stopped so suddenly in front of Joe that he bumped into her and they both staggered as the tangled scrub brush caught at their ankles.

"We just wanted to climb the ridge to get a wide shot of the refugee camp," Holly called back as she held up her camera. A chilly breeze kicked up and blew her fine blonde hair into her face, and she brushed it aside impatiently.

Williams looked at her for a long moment, and then shrugged a shoulder willingly enough.

"Just don't go down the other side," he warned them. "Past that point, it's no-man's-land. Any Westerner who goes that way isn't likely to come back." He laughed wryly. "At least not in one piece."

Steven could see Holly swallow visibly, but she kept her tone casual as she told the soldier with a quick smile: "Okay. No problem."

Joe and Holly continued on up the ridge, and Allen looked at Steven curiously.

"So you left the Marines to be an interpreter?" he asked.

"No, I left the Marines to become a priest," Steven said.

Allen looked taken aback. "You're kidding, right?"

"Not at all."

Williams squinted one eye in disbelief. "What, you get sick of fighting?"

"Oh, I'm still fighting," Steven said easily. "Just... in a different way. So how many tours for you?"

"This is my second," Williams said. "Almost up though."

"Coming back for more?"

Williams shrugged. "Might as well. Nothin' left at home for me anymore. My girlfriend up and left. Couldn't handle the military life." His tone was matter-of-fact, as if this was a phrase he was accustomed to repeating until the words no longer stuck in his throat.

"I'm sorry," Steven said sincerely.

"Yeah, well, welcome to the Army." Williams looked down and scuffed the dirt with his boot.

"Man can't hardly call himself a soldier until it's happened," Allen put in sardonically.

"You got plans for a career back home when you're done serving?"

Williams opened his mouth to answer, and then glanced over Steven's shoulder and did a double-take.

"Hey, where did they go?" he asked Steven with sudden alarm, stepping around him to scan the top of the ridge intently. "Your friends?"

Steven readily pointed over a low rise to the south of them. "I just saw them head for that tent over there. They waved for me to come over; they're probably ready for me to translate. I better go now."

He started to stride away, but Williams called out from behind him, "Hey!" and Steven paused to look back.

"If you want to ride up front with us on the way back, there's room for ya," Williams said. "Even if you are a jarhead." His tone was friendly enough, though, so Steven nodded and smiled his thanks before striding away through the scrub brush.

As he neared the tent, though, he surreptitiously pulled out Joe's digital recorder and checked the battery level. Good, fully charged. It was crucial to record his conversations with the refugees and then translate them as quickly as possible; Joe and Holly were counting on him. They would have to base their stories on the material he collected, and so it was critical that he be as thorough and accurate as they themselves would have been. Steven took a deep breath, and then politely greeted the Afghani woman who was emerging from the tent, clutching an infant wrapped in her own coat.

Once Joe and Holly made it to the bottom of the ridge, out of sight from the refugee camp and the soldiers that patrolled it, there was no need to talk. Joe quickly swung his backpack off, they took off their jackets to reveal the bulletproof vests they wore underneath, and began to dress in the clothes they had brought along. Within minutes, they both had transformed: Holly in a baggy homespun dress, loose pants and voluminous head scarf like the local women wore, and Joe in a calf-length thawb and a roughly knitted cap that went over his dark hair. As usual, he had gone too long without a haircut, and he took a few moments to shove loose locks of hair under his cap so they would stay out of his eyes.

Finally, the cameras went around their necks and were concealed under the loose clothing. They quickly checked each other over, and nodded their approval. From a distance, it would be convincing enough. They stowed their clothing and press IDs in the backpack, concealed it under a bush, and then Holly climbed up onto his back. Hooking his arms securely under her legs, Joe took a deep steadying breath and began to run.

Normally he could run 15 miles in about 40 minutes, but with Holly on his back and the rough terrain, he'd be slower. Still, he felt the urgency eating away at him as his boots churned up dust. Steven would only be able to cover for their absence for so long. And Joe was more than a little anxious to have this over and done with, and Holly back in the relative safety of the Army's perimeter. Or even better, safely back home in Boston with their children.

The thought of their children made him smile a little despite his worry. Hank and Bruce had been so excited to have a sleepover in London for the duration of this mission that they had barely paid attention when he and Holly had hugged them goodbye yesterday. The boys had immediately bolted out the door into Maggie and Henry's backyard with their cousins Jim and Phil hot on their heels, shouting at the top of their lungs and rough-housing with gleeful abandon.

As for their little Petra, between her Aunt Maggie and her cousin Aisling, she was probably being mothered to within an inch of her life right now. Joe fully expected to find her with some elaborately braided hairdo when they came back, and no doubt 10 different nail polish colors on her fingers. Holly would be in raptures over it while Joe quietly rolled his eyes, as usual: he had never seen the point of dolling up little girls when they were already beautiful without all that. But Petra was their first and probably only daughter, and so he tolerated it with good humor. Let Holly enjoy it, if that's what brought her joy. And it did.

He let thoughts of his family drive him as he sprinted on, his breathing like a metronome and his wife's weight pressing on his back, and before he knew it, they were there.

They had approached the village from behind a low rise, and as soon as Joe had carefully set Holly down, they belly-crawled together until they could just peer over the crest of the rocky hill.

There wasn't a civilian in sight, although Joe and Holly knew there were plenty of them left somewhere in the village, the unlucky souls who had not been able to flee in the confusion of the invasion. Several tanks were parked in the middle of the dusty road that led through Gulmira, and rubble was strewn all around: broken pieces of artillery, masonry from a crumbled outer wall, a dead horse: evidence of the Afghan National Army's brief but unsuccessful resistance to the Ten Rings' attack. A handful of men were working to clear away the rubble for a caravan of loaded military-style jeeps that were waiting at the edge of the village.

"The cargo in those trucks, that's gotta be what we need," Joe whispered, eyes fixed on the caravan, and Holly whispered back: "We should split up. Get two different angles when they start to unload."

They spent a minute carefully scanning the area, and after another whispered conversation, they agreed on a plan: she would climb down to the edge of the ridge they were now on and slip into a half-destroyed outer building that would provide cover for her, while Joe would make his way to the cluster of gnarled trees closer to where the caravan waited. They gave each other a quick kiss, trying not to notice the fear in each other's eyes.

"We'll be fine," Holly whispered to him, and Joe whispered back: "We'll be fine." They squeezed hands tightly, and then went their separate ways.

It was tricky work getting into the damaged building near the outer wall without being seen, and Holly ended up hesitating far longer than she probably needed to, crouching behind a large boulder that she knew was hiding her more securely than anything in the village was likely to.

She'd done dangerous things for her work before. Gone to protests verging on riots more than once, and visited crime-stricken neighborhoods to interview and photograph some of her subjects... sometimes with a partner to assist, but sometimes not. She knew how to be cautious and aware of her surroundings, but willingly entering the territory of a known terrorist organization was a whole new level of crazy for her. Yes, Joe was close, and they had left a channel open so they could hear in their earpieces if the other one got into trouble, but even so...

Holly closed her eyes, steeled herself, and took one last look around before finally slipping out from behind the boulder, taking the terrifying six steps it took to get in the back door of the damaged building, and then standing in the shadows with her back pressed against the wall, listening with all her might to hear any cry of alarm from someone who might have spotted her.

But after a minute of silence, it was clear she hadn't been seen, and she was able to relax enough to look at her surroundings.

It looked like the building had been a shop. There were cloth sacks of various sizes and shapes stacked on shelves, and some of them had burst open, spilling lentils and rice across the floor. Clearly, some type of weapon had struck the front wall of the shop: it was severely damaged, with rays of sunlight shining through the holes, illuminating the inside in lieu of electricity, which apparently wasn't functional anymore, judging by the darkened bulbs hanging from the ceiling.

The dust was so thick in the air here that, after a moment's hesitation, Holly adjusted her headscarf to cover her nose and mouth as well as her fine blonde hair. She disliked the suffocating sensation she immediately felt, even though the cloth was thin — and something inside her instinctively rebelled at the thought of covering her face, even though some women continued to obey the old custom that hadn't had the force of law here in years, ever since the Taliban had been driven out — but on a purely practical level, she just couldn't risk coughing or sneezing from all this dust.

Placing her feet carefully to avoid the debris on the floor, Holly crept forward until she was beside the only window in the small building, its shutter broken and hanging by one hinge, and then she knelt down, making sure to keep herself in the shadows.

Carefully pulling her camera out from under her clothing, she took aim through the window. Once she had the viewfinder to her eye, the surreal fear she felt seemed to fade away. This was familiar. This, she knew. After a decade of being published in magazines and with her first book already under her belt, she knew she could handle this. Filled with a newfound confidence, she adjusted the zoom as she took several shots of the rubble-strewn village, with the bloated body of a dead horse in the foreground and the men perched on tanks in the background. Once she was sure she had enough to ensure the location was recognizable as Gulmira, she began focusing in on individual faces of the men working to clear the road of rubble.

After a few minutes of this, her heart leapt in her chest as she recognized one man: Omar Fazal. A lesser lieutenant, she knew from Uncle Mike's pre-mission briefing, but it was enough to establish incontrovertible proof that it was the Ten Rings here and not any of the other terror cells that operated in the region. Stilling her shaking hands, Holly held up her camera, framed Fazal in the center of the shot, and clicked a photo burst.

The sound of engines starting in the caravan drew her attention, and she swung the lens to the left to see the trucks moving forward along the now-cleared dusty road and then halting in the center of the village. A man at the front of the caravan shouted loudly, and the other men swarmed toward the trucks in response and began unloading cargo. She didn't have a very good view of it from here, thanks to several half-crumbled buildings in the way, but she could just make out Joe crouched low in the stand of gnarled trees to the east, and she could see that he had a much better angle than she did.

She had just resumed scanning the village through the camera lens to see if she could get any more close-ups of identifiable men, when suddenly her breath caught in her throat.

A man was striding down the dusty road, dressed in loose white linen pants and a bulky dark jacket, a stout man with a full dark beard frosted by gray who walked with the swagger of a man who was utterly confident in his position. The other men, catching sight of him, nervously picked up their paces and put on a show of working much harder as he passed by.

Holly knew him at a glance: Abu Bakaar. Second in command in the Ten Rings. A man known for his fanatical loyalty to Raza, the leader of the cell. A man who had personally assisted in the kidnapping and forced labor of Tony Stark during his months-long captivity.

Holly suppressed the surge of visceral loathing that washed over her and paused only to dry her sweaty hands on her dress before lifting up her camera once more. Hardly daring to breathe, she focused in on Abu Bakaar's face and began to snap photographs, intent on getting good shots, and plenty of them. What they needed more than anything else was to spur an emotional response from Tony Stark once these photos were in his hands, and instinctively she understood that Bakaar's cocksure expression would do exactly that.

A pair of men trundled across the road in front of Bakaar carrying a long, heavy munitions box, and Holly had just snapped a photo of that when she heard the unmistakable sound of boots approaching the building she was hiding in. Pulse spiking, she crouched low beneath the window and then frantically tucked the camera underneath the loose fabric of her dress. Glancing around for better cover, she made a split-second decision and silently wedged herself underneath a wide shelf loaded with canned goods, hoping against hope that whoever it was would only take a quick look around before leaving again.

A man entered the building. From her hiding place he couldn't see anything but a pair of dusty boots, but they paused for only a moment before striding over to a cupboard that was still intact, and a man bent down to open it.

It was Omar Fazal.

Holly held her breath, one hand pressed against the camera hidden under her dress, praying with all her might that he would take whatever he was rummaging around for in that cupboard and then go. Her pulse pounded unnaturally loud in her ears, and she felt sure that he would hear it, but the only sound in the room was the clinking of glass bottles.

Finally, Fazal pulled out a bottle half-full of brownish liquid. He glanced toward the door, holding the bottle curled close to his chest in an oddly furtive gesture, and then he leaned to the side to check out the window as he busily unscrewed the top of the bottle.

His eye fell on Holly.

He froze with surprise, and so did she.

They stared at each other for a long moment, eyes wide.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. Short, but loud. He tilted his head and looked her over one more time, and then laughed again. Still smiling, he looked away from her, put the bottle up to his lips and took a long, long drink. Then he set it down on the dusty countertop, walked over to her and said something she didn't understand.

She knew he expected a response, but the emergency phrases Steven had taught her seemed to have fled her brain entirely and she could not get a word out.

Fazal repeated the phrase, more impatiently, and after a short wait, the amused glint faded from his eyes. Abruptly he reached out, grabbed a fistful of her clothing, and dragged Holly out from under the shelf. Involuntarily, she cried out, the fabric of her scarf first puffing out away from her face, and then sticking to her lips as she sucked a shaky breath back in.

He held her firmly by both shoulders and spoke to her again, his voice gruff. This time he didn't wait for an answer, but his hand went up to the front of her dress and he tugged at the fabric so hard she felt something tear. Within moments, the two of them were locked in a strangely silent struggle, just the two of them, as the other men outside shouted back and forth to each other, oblivious of what was happening just a short distance away.

Holly clutched at the top of her dress in desperation, trying to block Fazal's groping hands, not knowing if he had somehow spotted the bulge of the camera under her clothing and assumed it was a weapon, or if he wanted to undress her for a much worse reason. The fear nearly blinded her, and she could feel her breath coming out in hot, desperate pants. He must not find the camera, he must not destroy those photos, she needed them. Tony Stark needed them. Nothing else mattered.

"Na!" said another voice in the room unexpectedly.

Both Holly and Fazal turned to stare at the source. Her own Joe — relief surged through her the second she recognized him — was standing in the doorway, wearing a hard stare. His face was thoroughly smudged with dirt and strands of his dark hair had escaped from under his cap, but despite his disarray he looked so unexpectedly intimidating that Holly was taken aback nearly as thoroughly as Fazal, who took an instinctive step backward.

"Na!" Joe said again, voice stern, dark eyes locked on Fazal's, and at his sides his hands clenched into fists.

Fazal's eyes darkened, and abruptly he shoved Holly away from him and turned to face Joe fully... but before he could make a move, another man suddenly appeared behind Joe and pressed the barrel of a gun into his back.

It was Abu Bakaar.

Joe stiffened, his eyes locked on Holly's, and he froze in place. Bakaar barked out something to Fazal, who answered back. Then Bakaar noticed the bottle of booze on the counter and said something else to Fazal in a clearly accusatory tone. Fazal shook his head, loudly replying and gesturing vigorously, first at Holly and then at Joe.

Joe and Holly exchanged worried glances as the two men argued. Neither of them understood what was being said, but it couldn't be good. If the men suspected for a moment that the two of them weren't the humble Afghani sheepherders they appeared to be...

Abruptly Bakaar grabbed Joe by the collar, turned him around and pushed him outside. Holly didn't even have time to fear their separation before Fazal grabbed her and dragged her out of the shop, too. The two men manhandled them both across the dusty road while the men who were unloading the trucks paused to watch. Holly tried to catch Joe's eyes to see if he had a plan for what to do next, but he was simply cooperating with Bakaar, letting him shove him around with his eyes meekly on the ground. That was probably best, Holly realized as she fought down her panic, considering the number of armed men surrounding them. Joe might be able to get in a few good blows, but it would be difficult if not impossible for both of them to escape unharmed.

But maybe they were only being driven out of the village... which was exactly what they wanted, assuming Joe had gotten photos of the things she hadn't. If he hadn't, they'd have to figure out a way to come back for more: an unpleasant thought. The heavy strap of Holly's camera dug into her neck and its hard corners bumped painfully against her collarbone. She resisted the urge to put her hand on it through her dress. Whatever else happened, she had to keep it hidden. Safe.

They had reached the edge of the village when Bakaar shoved Joe away from him, barked something short and to the point at Fazal, and then turned toward the village, striding away confidently without a glance back.

Fazal shouted at them roughly, gesturing with his gun, his meaning plain enough. Obediently they walked in front of him, side by side, making their way over rocks and weeds until they had gone up a small ridge and then back down it. The village was now out of sight. Fazal barked something again and they looked back at him questioningly. Without warning he put a heavy hand on Holly's shoulders and forced her down onto her knees. Then he grabbed her hands roughly and put them both on top of her head.

Her heart seemed to stop. So they weren't being driven away.

They were being executed.

Fazal turned toward Joe and began to swing the handgun in his direction. What happened next happened so fast that Holly barely had time to register it. Wearing a deep scowl, Joe grabbed the wrist of Fazal's gun hand with his left hand, hooked his right arm around the forearm, backed right up against him and bent over at the waist. Suddenly Fazal went up off his feet, rolling off Joe's back and then flailing downward, landing back-first on the rocky ground with a surprised grunt.

Joe was still gripping Fazal's wrist with white knuckles, and next moment his other fist went smashing into Fazal's face. The back of Fazal's head bounced against the ground, and Joe hit him again with a quick sharp movement. Fazal lay motionless, eyes shut, blood seeping out of his nose. The gun slipped out of his nerveless hand and fell to the ground. There was a long silence, and then Holly slowly put her hands down and shakily got back on her feet.

Joe locked eyes with her, his pale face even whiter than usual under the layers of dirt, and without a word they threw themselves into each other's arms, grateful to feel each other's solid warmth once more.

"Are you okay?" Joe whispered, pulling back to look her over, and then he reached over and gently pulled the folds of the scarf away from her face, the better to see for himself.

"I'm okay, are you okay?" she whispered back.

"I'm fine," he said breathlessly. "Please tell me you got something."

She knew he meant the photos. "I got- I got Fazal. And Bakaar."

"You got Bakaar?" he repeated. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I-" She pulled out her camera, quickly clicked through the digital slide, and then handed it to him. "Here. That's what I got."

Joe clicked through in silence for what seemed an eternity but must have been only seconds, and then his shoulders sagged in relief. "You got good ones, honey. Really good ones."

"I didn't get any of the weapons-" she started to admit, but he quickly reassured her: "I got that. I got those. The munitions cases, the Stark logo, the Jericho missiles. Everything."

"You got Jericho?" The relief left her legs feeling like rubber. They couldn't have left without that.

"I got Jericho," he confirmed. "We've got enough for what we need. Let's get outta here." Joe bent down, took the gun that had slipped from Fazal's fingers, and took off the safety.

"No, don't-" she hissed, but Joe was already pointing the gun — not at Fazal, but straight up into the air.

"After I fire the first shot, scream as loud as you can," Joe whispered to her intently. "After the second shot, not a sound. Then get on my back and I'll carry you out of here. They'll hear the shots and assume-"

"But when he wakes up-" she whispered back frantically.

"You really think he'll admit to Bakaar that he got overpowered by a couple of sheepherders?" Joe asked pointedly. He hesitated a moment, and then said slowly, reluctantly: "But if you think we should kill him-"

"No!" she said, horrified by the image that immediately popped into her head, and then another part of her wondered why it mattered. In 24 hours, Iron Man would be here. One way or another, Fazal would meet his justice.

"The photographs," she said quietly after a long moment. "That's our job. We need to get them out of here and in the right hands. That's all that matters."

Joe nodded in agreement, looking relieved.

"Ready?" he asked, finger tightening on the trigger.

She nodded, and he fired the gun into the air.

Taking a deep breath, she screamed with all the strength she had.

TO BE CONTINUED

Author's note: I'd love to know what you think!