Oath of Office

Dovzhenko gave a shrill whistle, advancing in two bounding steps, and head-butting the nearest man in the nose the moment he turned. A second man, with a thick beard dyed gaudily red, swung at him wildly, a massive fist whirring by the Russian’s temple, missing by a fraction of an inch. Dovzhenko gave the man he’d just head-butted a donkey kick to the side of the knee, buying himself a little time. He used the momentum of a spin to plant an elbow across Redbeard’s face. The big Afghan fell flat on his back. Dovzhenko kicked him hard, once in the neck and once in the side of the head. Redbeard was out, but his partner was still upright. He hobbled on one leg, spraying bloody mist out the gash of burst skin on the bridge of his nose with each exhaled breath. His chin was up, attempting to stanch the flow. Dovzhenko punched him hard in the throat and then caught him by the face with an open palm, driving up and over, slamming him to the concrete floor. The Afghan’s eyes rolled, showing their whites. The spray of blood from his nose slowed to gurgling bubbles. Both men were surely concussed, they might even have cracked skulls, but Dovzhenko did not care. Enraged from the fight, he grabbed the man by the ears, bashing his head against the floor over and over and over. These men had attacked Maryam…

Dovzhenko shook his head. No, that wasn’t right. Ysabel. They’d attacked Ysabel.

He turned to check on her at the same moment a dark blur flew at him. Something heavy hit hard in his chest, driving him backward. Hands in front to ward off another attack, he looked down to see a dagger sticking straight out from his leather jacket.

Screeching like she was insane, Ysabel dropped to the ground, sweeping sideways with powerful legs. Dovzhenko fell, landing beside Redbeard, wondering why the dagger blade didn’t hurt more than it did. He yanked it out as he rolled, attempting to evade the woman’s lashing feet that seemed bent on caving in his skull.

Dovzhenko had been kicked before by people who knew very well how to kick. Instead of rolling away, he rolled toward her, trapping the lead foot as it plowed into him. He kept rolling, leverage from the weight of his body slamming her backward. She hit the ground with a sickening thud. She tried to scream but managed nothing but a croak.

It was only then, her diaphragm too paralyzed to draw a breath, that she remained still long enough for Dovzhenko to get a good look at her.

Long black hair spilled from a blue hijab. Ebony eyes stared up at him over prominent cheekbones. Her nose wasn’t too large, though she probably thought it so, and it had a slight hook to it. The most remarkable feature about her was the scars. With the scarf pulled away he could see many on the bronze skin of her neck. They were not ugly, far from it. A fine white line to the right of a perfect cupid’s bow gave her lips a perpetual pout. The rest simply added to the smoldering intensity of her demeanor.

Dovzhenko remembered the dagger and kicked it out of her reach, his hand searching for the wound under his leather jacket.

“You could have killed me,” he said, withdrawing Maryam’s notebook, panting. The tip of the blade had nicked his bottom rib, but the cardboard-and-leather cover had prevented it from reaching his heart. He wasn’t bleeding badly, at least not that he could see.

“My auntie telephoned to say that a Russian was looking for me.” Her English was perfect. Almost, but not quite, British.

“I never told her I was Russian,” Dovzhenko said. “Your auntie has a good ear.” The aggressive phone call had at least put her on guard, if it had almost cost him his life.

“What are you doing with Maryam’s book?”

Dovzhenko closed his eyes. “I am afraid I bring bad news. Maryam—”

The back door creaked open, letting in a howl of wind.

Dovzhenko opened his eyes to find a large Afghan standing on the threshold, the wind whipping the shemagh tied around his neck. The new arrival took a quick scan of the unconscious Afghans on the floor and then shot a glance at Ysabel.

She held up her hand. “I am fine, Hamid.”

His gaze then fell to Dovzhenko.

The Afghan’s hair was cut close to the scalp, but he had a long black beard, groomed to a great scimitar of a point. Smile lines creased his cheeks and eyes — a rarity in a country that had suffered generations of war. His wide leather belt held a pistol and long knife. A Kalashnikov hung from his neck on a three-point sling with the release tab pulled and the rifle pointed directly at Dovzhenko’s chest. The fact that he carried a rifle was not surprising, but a relatively sophisticated tactical sling in a country where many carried their weapons on a length of old carpeting or a piece of rope made Dovzhenko think he might know how to use the thing. He had to be former military, but virtually every fighting-age male had fought on one side or another of one battle or another over the past four decades, so that wasn’t much of a leap.