Darkest Before Dawn (KGI series) (7 page)

It covered her completely. Not even her booted feet peeked from beneath the hem when she walked. And most importantly it gave her the ability to pull off the rest of her disguise.

She’d used rolls and rolls of medical tape to attach small
pillows to parts of her body to make her appear lumpy and shapeless. Indistinct. She padded her belly to make herself seem heavier, but she bound her breasts flat against her chest. Or as flat as she could make the generous mounds. Muslims weren’t to wear revealing clothes of any kind, and for that Honor was grateful because her breasts drew attention, a fact she’d long cursed. With this manner of appearance, there was no difference between her breasts and the rest of her body. She looked like an older rounded woman whose back had stooped her with age.

It was automatic when thinking of her appearance that she pulled out the piece of bark that she used to apply and rub in the henna dye. She checked her arms, shoulders and neck even though they were shielded at all times. Still . . . She adhered to the motto that one could never be
too
careful. Especially when it came to self-preservation and the overwhelming instinct for survival.

She took out the mirror she’d taken from the clinic. Already the idea for how she’d hide had been formulating in Honor’s mind as she’d collected up supplies in preparation to flee. And she knew a mirror was essential in order for her to ensure that the only visible part of herself stayed darker. Just as the penlight had been a source of light, no matter how small. Because she’d known if she had any chance, she would have to travel mostly at night and find a place to rest during the day and force herself to ignore the panicked demand in her head screaming at her to keep running, not to stop. Not for one minute. The logical part of her knew she did herself no good if she made demands of her body it wasn’t capable of fulfilling. If she pushed herself too far, she’d only incapacitate herself, and then she’d be a sitting duck.

She pulled at the headdress until it pooled at her neck, and she breathed in, allowing the wind to blow through her hair. It was a heated wind, not a relief wind bearing cooler, sweeter air. But it helped to remove the sweat on Honor’s neck and scalp and would dry it from her hair before she pulled the material back up into place. She picked up the mirror with one hand and the penlight with the other, turning it on.

Her eyes were always the first thing she looked into. It
gave her a measure of reassurance to know she was looking into her own eyes. Living eyes. It reminded her that she was a survivor.

She touched up places that likely didn’t need it, but she did so to give herself the illusion that she was making herself safer from detection. Then she turned her attention to her hair. Her greatest liability.

Her eyes were brown and while she was usually fairer skinned, her time here had burnished her skin, making it a darker brown, though she was still noticeably lighter than the native women. But her hair was blond. A dead giveaway. In her time of panic as she realized the problem of her hair when she’d been hastily collecting supplies from the relief center, she’d considered simply shaving it all off. But a bald woman would get every bit as much notice as a blond one, perhaps even more.

Thankfully, her brain kicked in and kicked her in the ass and then took over, shoving panic and all the chaotic emotions out so that her only focus was on her escape.

Once she was far enough away from the attack site to feel that she could stop and take the necessary time to complete her disguise, she vigorously rubbed henna into any skin that could be potentially exposed, even with the mountain of material covering her body. She paid special attention to her hands, ensuring that they appeared worn. She’d smeared dirt and even made small scratches and cuts to her fingers and knuckles, praying the antibiotics would ward off infection, in an effort to make them look like those of the older woman she pretended to be. She’d torn off the remaining fingernails. Most of them had been ripped to the quick when she’d dug herself free of the rubble. The bruises and damage she’d sustained during her digging aided her because with the swelling and abrasions, her hands appeared gnarled and misshapen.

Once she was satisfied that she’d done as good a job as she could disguising her flesh, she turned her focus to her biggest danger. Her hair.

She’d meticulously coated every strand of her hair in the dark dye and then carefully applied the color to her eyebrows. And when she was finished, she waited precious minutes she
couldn’t afford for it to set in and then she repeated the process. And then a third time. It wasn’t the best job, nor was it that convincing, but she was banking on the fact that no one would see her without her hair covered, and all but her eyes was hidden by the headdress. If a stray strand somehow blew free, it would appear dark, and for the few seconds it took for her to conceal it once more, someone wouldn’t have time to truly study the color or judge its authenticity.

It was hard to see well with the tiny light source she used, and she didn’t bother to even use the penlight. It was too risky. Instead she reapplied the dye to her hair, being as thorough as she had been the first time and ensuring that not a single strand was missed.

Finally finished with the repairs to her protection, she tiredly reached into the bag to pull out a protein bar, the bottle containing the last ounces of her water and the antibiotics and painkillers.

She drank first, sucking greedily at the liquid but tempering the urge to drink it down to nothing. Then she quickly ate the protein bar and chased it down with a small sip. She’d learned the hard way not to take the antibiotic or the pain reliever on an empty stomach. The first day had been hell with an upset stomach, her knee throbbing and her having to stop to dry-heave more times than she could count.

After downing both medicines, she reached for the binding around her knee, the last task before she could close her eyes for a short time. She’d taken special care to wrap it tightly before she fled from the clinic and to use some of the precious room in her pack for an extra Ace bandage and antibiotic cream to use along with the oral antibiotics she was taking.

The swelling had lessened some and the vivid black bruise had turned to a ghastly-looking mixture of green and yellow, which relieved her. It didn’t appear to be anything serious like a fracture or dislocation. It was painful, definitely, but the tight wrap had enabled her to have mobility, something that wouldn’t have been possible for a prolonged period of time if it were broken or dislocated. Not to mention she would have been screaming in pain and unable to continue after that first arduous day when she hadn’t stopped for twenty-four hours.

She doctored the cuts, pressed around the kneecap to test for the degree of swelling and then deftly rebound it after using some of the sunburn aid, which contained the numbing agent lidocaine.

Although she needed her hands to appear beaten and weathered to keep up her appearance, she still applied topical antibiotic cream to the deepest lacerations because she couldn’t afford for them to become so infected that she became ill and was unable to keep traveling. Knowing she would—hopefully—replenish her waning water supply in the morning, she used almost all of the remaining liquid to cleanse the dirt and pieces of debris still embedded in the skin. She hadn’t dared pay attention to them, and until now, she’d been able to block out the discomfort of the embedded shards.

Now when she carefully pulled them free and poured the last of the antiseptic she carried with her over the wounds, she let out a hiss of pain and held her breath, simply breathing through it and compartmentalizing it just as she had everything else. After patting the areas clean, she rubbed the antibiotic ointment on each of the cuts and then wrapped them in gauze. Just for this little time of rest. Before she went into the village in the early morning, she would unwrap them and pack dirt over the wounds again, and she’d keep her fingers curled so her hands weren’t readily visible by anyone. They spent much of the time beneath the enveloping folds of her garment, but when replenishing her supplies, she would need her hands and they would be exposed for a short time.

Up close, it would be more obvious that her hands were injured and not those of an older woman. But at a distance, with the rest of her costume giving the assumption of what she claimed to be, no one would look too hard at her hands. No one overly scrutinized any women here. It was forbidden. And while the Western culture ingrained in her chafed at the idea that women were commanded to only appear in public completely concealed, all but their eyes, and in some regions not even their eyes could be visible, she was grateful for the extreme laws women lived under at the moment because were it not for those laws, she would have never gotten as far as she’d come.

And since younger women weren’t allowed outside their home without the escort of a male family member or an older woman, like a mother-in-law, posing as someone younger would also gain her unwanted notice. She didn’t pat herself on the back for coming up with such a good disguise in the few minutes after she’d escaped the wreckage trapping her in the relief center. She’d been operating on raw instinct. Survival instinct. And she’d gathered every bit of her extensive knowledge of the languages and customs of the regions she worked in to help her not only escape her immediate prison but stay hidden in plain sight and pray that she was able to make it to a place beyond the seemingly all-encompassing reach of the militant group that terrorized such a widespread area.

After carefully replacing all items into her sack and ensuring that there would be no sign of her left behind, she once more leaned against the rough support the rock offered and closed her eyes, trying to push back the paralyzing fear of having to go into the village and show herself, even though only her eyes would be visible.

But eyes were the window to the soul, or so the saying went. Would her terror be there for the world to see? Would the villagers know of her pain, sorrow and abject fear just by looking into her eyes? Would she have the look of someone who was being hunted, who’d been handed a death sentence? For a second time? She’d been condemned to die in the attack, but somehow she survived. Could she survive being sentenced to death again?

It’s a game, Honor. One you’re winning. You can’t let yourself think anything else.

Honor swallowed and slipped further toward the veil of sleep. She could pretend all she wanted. She could wear the armor of denial forever. But neither changed the fact that this was no game. This was a fight and nothing less. The most important fight of her life.
For
her life.

There was no room for second place. Second place got her unimaginable pain and degradation and eventually death. Her only choice was to fight as she’d never fought before.

And win.

CHAPTER 5

HONOR awoke with the first rays of sun that crept over the horizon, bathing the area in its pale light. She emitted a mental groan because all she wanted to do was sleep. For days. Even as uncomfortable as she was among the rock formations and the sand biting into her skin.

The wind had kicked up, showing promise of being as forceful as the night before when she’d fought to control the swirling hem of her robe.

She could have sneaked into the village in the dark of night and gone to the small river that was the life’s blood of this village. It was where the people bathed, did their washing, got their drinking water and did any number of other daily chores. She could have washed her wounds and replenished her water supply, but she needed a small clay or metal pot—even a tin cup—to boil the water in now that she had run through the untainted water she’d gotten from the clinic.

But she wasn’t fool enough to think she wouldn’t have been discovered. Though the village was quiet and peaceful, not one that had yet been overtaken by outsiders, and they hadn’t had to defend themselves from an outside attack, she knew they would have been trained, their men, young and old; even the boys and some of the women as well would have prepared themselves for the eventuality of occupation.
And they no doubt had nightly watch patrols, just to ensure that they weren’t victim to a surprise attack in the dead of night.

There wasn’t a village that took for granted that they were impervious to the plights of so many others. And as more refugees from other decimated villages fled to villages just like this, the danger to communities rose. Terrorist cells and fanatics saw them as easy targets and as nothing more than the expansion of their empire. They didn’t see humans, good and decent people who hurt no one, who went about their daily life only wanting to be left in peace. People like those who’d struck at the relief center with such savagery had no humanity whatsoever. They saw themselves as superior to these simpletons, useless as anything but farmers and traders. Their women created beautiful accessories, clothing, decorative beading and fancier headdresses and long flowing gowns. People traveled far on their trade days to buy from the villagers. It was just another way they supported themselves and were able to sustain a livelihood.

As Honor slowly began moving, testing the limits and constraints of her body, pain shuddered through her, but she grimaced and continued on as if she hadn’t felt the protests of a hundred muscles.

She focused mostly on her knee, as it was her most serious injury. She still wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong with it, but the fact that she could walk on it without collapsing told her that it was bearable, and it would keep her moving toward her objective. She just had to move around and loosen up her muscles.

If only she’d been able to find other medications housed in the medical area of the relief center. Muscle relaxers would be a miracle. But all she had was antibiotics and what were considered over-the-counter pain relievers in the United States—ibuprofen and acetaminophen. Even if she’d been able to uncover the stronger narcotic pain relievers, she would have left them because she couldn’t afford to take anything that would impair her. She had to be sharp and on her toes at all times, and the pain, as unwelcome as it was, certainly kept that edge for her. She couldn’t relax when
every movement hurt, and it reminded her to keep in character at all times, as if she were an actor in a movie—but this was no movie. This was the role of her
life
.