Acceptable Risk - Lynette Eason
CHAPTER
ONE
AUGUST
GREENVILLE, SC
The pain compelled her—
No . . . propelled her.
It had to end.
Living this way wasn’t living. She would be doing everyone a favor if she just ended it. She couldn’t believe the burden she’d become to the people she loved most.
Dr. Helen Craft approached the window, tears tracking down her cheeks to drip off her chin. She touched them in wonder. When was the last time she’d cried? The day her father died? No, it was the day the Taliban had driven the van loaded with explosives into the playground at the orphanage.
She was working in the small medical clinic across the street and felt the blast like she was standing beside it. Only she hadn’t suffered a scratch. Not like the children.
“The children,” she whispered. Forty-five killed instantly. Thirty-three injured.
A sob escaped her and she unlocked the window.
The images clicked on an endless loop with no stop button. She couldn’t even pause it without alcohol or some drug.
Operating on a child who’d lost a leg.
Digging through the rubble to find more children with more injuries than she could help at once.
A missing hand.
A missing face . . .
One operation after another.
One child dying, then the next and the next, until she’d lost count. Later, she’d learned sixteen of the thirty-three surviving had succumbed to their injuries.
“I couldn’t save them,” she whispered. “Why couldn’t I save them?” What good was she when they all died in spite of her best efforts?
And the workers. Her friends—
She grabbed her head, the screams continuing to echo. “Stop, please stop. I just want it to stop.”
She threw open the window and looked down. Down represented peace. If she went back, the torture would continue.
“Helen! What are you doing?”
She didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge her sister’s terrified cry, just stepped out onto the ledge . . .
“Helen, no!”
. . . and launched herself into the air.
Free-falling.
Until the pain was finally gone.
CHAPTER
TWO
SEPTEMBER
HELMED PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN
Sarah Denning sat on the dirt floor of the Afghani prison cell and shivered in the ninety-degree heat, fighting the fear that had been her constant companion since the Taliban had attacked the school yesterday. One minute she’d been a guest teacher at the request of her friend, Talia Davenport, the next, a prisoner of cruel men who would use her and kill her without blinking.
She tugged the piece of cloth covering her head lower and patted the bottom section that concealed her mouth and nose, while praying she could stay anonymous until they were rescued. If rescue was even on the way. If their captors found out she was an American . . . or worse, who her father was—
The guard gave the barred door a violent tug and she jumped, her heart stumbling into overdrive. The door held fast. She doubted he was worried it wouldn’t. He let out a satisfied grunt and turned to walk down the hallway, his boots pounding the dirt floor before he disappeared from sight. Sarah’s pulse slowed a fraction. The longer he was gone, the better their chances of rescue. However, how long before he returned?
“Sarah?”
The whisper reached her from the corner of the cell. “Fatima?”
“I’m coming over there.” The teenager crawled on all fours, dodging her classmates, to curl against Sarah’s side with a shiver. “What’s going to happen to us?”
Sarah wrapped an arm around the fifteen-year-old. During her weekly guest teaching spots, she’d come to recognize Fatima as a bright, highly motivated young woman with the desire to be a pioneer in bringing change to her country. Sarah had treasured those days at the school and building relationships with the girls. “I don’t know.”
But she did. They all did.
“They’re going to sell us,” Samia said from the other side. “We’re to be brides to the Taliban, aren’t we?”
Brides? More like sex slaves. Punching bags. Assigned to a life of abuse and misery. And terror.
She, Talia, and the twelve students had been taken from the school and loaded into the back of a waiting van. No one tried to stop them and she didn’t dare resist. Approximately twelve hours later, they’d arrived here.
Wherever here was.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah,” Talia whispered, her voice cracking, her fear tangible. “I’ve been there for three years, and while we’ve had a few minor scares, there’s been nothing like this.”
“It’s not your fault, Talia, you couldn’t know.”
“I don’t want to be a Taliban bride.” Nahal, the youngest of the girls at thirteen years old, scooted closer to Sarah, as though Sarah could keep that from happening.
Sarah had been afraid before,