Chapter Two

Peshawar, Pakistan

Seven months later

Lizette Steyn disengaged the slide, pulled up the door handle and swung the aircraft door outward. Frigid air swept in and she barely repressed a shiver. “Freezing fudge buckets,” she muttered before greeting the ground agent at the top of the stairs. The miserable structure that was Bacha Khan International Airport looked archaic—with all the developing nations Lizzy had visited in the past five months, that was saying a lot. Peshawar, the wild west town of Pakistan, felt as cold as a dead man’s nose.

“Well isn’t that just grand,” Brianna muttered, stepping out of the wind. “All I bloody packed was a vest and a sleeveless shirt.”

Lizzy refrained from rolling her eyes. The two other cabin attendants had as much sense as two rolling hamsters. Brianna, a hardy Irish girl who started flying for JetHaven around the same time as Lizzy, was a workhorse in the cabin, but loved to go on partying benders the minute they arrived at the hotel. Then there was Suzie. This was Lizzy’s first flight with the high-maintenance Capetonian. Thanks to her lax attitude onboard, Lizzy and Brianna worked their asses off. Lizzy didn’t mind. Suzie was still new to the job, although Lizzy doubted she’d last out the month.

Had she ever been that juvenile? The past six months had affected her in so many ways. Lizzy now felt like a mother hen, especially with Tweedledee and Tweedledum whining behind her.

“How hectic is this weather! Aren’t we supposed to be in a desert?”

Lizzy turned to Suzie. “You’ll need to get into the habit of researching weather conditions on future flights. Early March is barely spring in Peshawar. It snows in Afghanistan in the winter and we’re east of the border.”

Suzie rubbed her goosey arms. “But we’re nowhere near Afghanistan!”

“Hun, where do you think Peshawar is situated?”

“Um. Somewhere in Asia?”

Lizzy gave up on the conversation and readied herself to greet their disembarking passengers. They carried a smaller contingent than they were normally used to, thus utilizing a smaller Airbus—the A318 Elite.

The six male passengers looked somber as they gathered their sparse belongings. Definitely a team from an American three-letter agency, Lizzy thought. Possibly CIA, FBI or NSA. Throughout the flight the hardened men had kept to themselves, shut in the boardroom at the front of the aircraft, only pausing for the breakfast service. Lizzy had worked on a number of clandestine flights that flew into high-risk regions. She’d also ferried diplomats and their families, military personnel and news correspondents. After some gruff thanks at the door, the men drove away in a black Hilux into the early morning light.

The crew bus pulled up and Lizzy covered her hair with a scarf before teetering down the wet stairs and dragging her trolley bag to a seat. She was the first onboard the musty coach and settled her tired ass on a window seat in the middle. Brianna popped up through the door. “We have a twenty-four-hour layover. I’m heading into town after I’ve cleaned up. I hear the Khyber Bazaar has the best Persian rugs. On her last flight to Peshawar, Jane got a fierce Pakistani Persian that is fucking unbelievable.”

Jane, a fellow crew member, was an interior designer wannabe. Indigenous knickknacks filled her Kenyan apartment, and it smelled like a damn Brazilian rainforest. Lizzy had no inclination to replicate the jungle-style Zen that Jane strove to create.

“Sweet cheeks, you should know better than to venture into Peshawar on your own. There are travel warnings in place for good reason. I’m going to hibernate in my room, order room service and watch the first Bollywood movie I come across.”

“Oh, come on.” Brianna tossed her suitcase onto a seat. “That hotel isn’t even a two-star, never mind a three-star. The last time I stayed in Peshawar, I thought one of those stinky-ass street donkeys wandered into my room, and then figured out it was just a fucking cockroach the size of a damn stallion. You really wanna spend your afternoon in a cockroach motel? Plus, you know what Captain Stuart is like—he’ll be knocking on your door in no time, trying to drag you down to the bar for a virgin martini.”

Brianna had a point.

“Besides, Suzie is coming along. It’s her first layover and the girl needs to live a little. It’s not like we’re going out on the lash! It’s a dry town. Hell, not even the hotel has a mini bar!”

“Tell me about it, doll,” Suzie swung herself across from Lizzy. “I need a tall glass of chardonnay, like ASAP.”

Yip. Good luck with that. Lizzy swiped lip balm over dry lips. “Just chill, you’ll be back in Nairobi by tomorrow night.”

“Thank fuck!” Suzie sighed. “A white wine followed by a macchiato. At least Kenya has stunning coffee.”

Kenya was the base of operations for JetHaven, and all the flight crew lived in Nairobi. The private security contractor provided specialized and tailored services to accommodate VIP, diplomatic and crisis flights across Africa and the Middle East.

The bus driver’s brief glance reflected disdain at the girls’ antics.

I feel you, buddy, Lizzy thought as they waited for the cockpit crew to disembark. She felt herself caving in to the whims of dee and dum. Apparently, there was a fabric bazaar near the Khyber area. Lizzy could grab some pretty materials and keep an eye on the girls at the same time.

“Here comes Captain Stuart and his sad-ass swagger…definitely thinks you’re a hottie.” Brianna winked.

Lizzy sniggered. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Suzie leaned over. “I bet he’s going to make a move in 3…2…1—”

The American captain crab-walked up the aisle, his eyes immediately swinging to Lizzy before landing on the open seat next to her. Suzie casually jumped the aisle and slipped in beside Lizzy, giving him an innocent grin. It didn’t deter the man.

“Thank you for looking after me, Lizette. You make good coffee.”

“Not a problem.” Smiling politely didn’t dent his ardor.

“You should have popped into the cockpit for a chat.”

“Busy flight, what can I say.”

Stuart narrowed his eyes. He knew the crew had been blessed with low-maintenance passengers on this leg of the journey. He liked to think that because they were both from California, it gave him a leg up. Lizzy might have the same accent and have spent her first decade in the sunny state, but Johannesburg felt more like home. That was until a brawny soldier with a fake name broke her heart, and she chose to run like a coward. Suddenly she felt bone weary. So damn tired. The pilot was still yammering on and Lizzy forced herself to listen. “Even when the flight is quiet, you still dart around like a dynamite Barbie. Such a little thing with so much energy.”

“Did you just call me Barbie?” Lizzy glared, and Stuart backed away. The first officer climbed onboard and the captain used that as an excuse to take a seat.

Lizzy simmered as she stared out the window. She dragged that awful stereotype along as a shadow wherever she went. She’d dynamite-Barbie his arrogant ass. She didn’t even look like the stupid doll. Lizzy glanced down. Her chest was on the small side, 32 C. Fair enough, she was blonde and slim, but definitely not tall or willowy or even Marilyn Monroe-like. So maybe she did bounce more than walk, but that didn’t warrant the comparison. She hoped she wasn’t perceived as an airhead. She liked to have fun, but still held an interest in the world around her and tried to be thoughtful and kind.

The bus pulled off.

The only human—aside from her parents—who really knew the real Lizzy was John. Not that “John” was his real name. She’d bet Calaway wasn’t his last name either. Lizzy wondered what other shitty covert names he used in the field. John had swept into her life, caught her in his strong arms under a shady tree, then pretended to like her. After meeting at the picnic, they’d dated only six weeks, but it was intense and Lizzy thought it was the real thing. He treated her love and trust like they were grapes in a barrel, stomping all over them with his giant feet. All of his charm had been a ruse to get close to her friend.

First Ivan—her ex-fiancé—had kicked the shit out of Lizzy both mentally and physically, bruising her young heart. Then John had come along and picked it up off the floor to finish the job, slashing it into tiny pieces. Yet she still missed him so much, it hurt.

Six months had passed since she discovered their relationship was one huge lie, that her best friend—Abigail Evans—had covered up for her covert friends, and left Lizzy out of the loop. Lizzy had a lot of time to think things over. Abby still emailed her every week, Lizzy opened up a couple of the messages but never replied.

Abby spoke of her sweet family; of how proud she was of her strong husband and his brave friends. Of John’s loyalty and kindness and how torn he was over what had gone down in Johannesburg. How he’d destroyed any chance with Lizzy.

The anger still raged, but her love for Abby was slowly winning out, and so was the confusion and indecision that defined her life. John’s team of clandestine bad boys had used her to get to Abigail, with no consideration for her family’s safety.

If it were just Lizzy involved she could forgive them, but her parents could have been hurt. Forgiveness was off the table but a conversation with her friend was on her radar. Maybe once she returned from Peshawar she could sort out the details of her aching heart.

Once they’d checked in, the girls decided to meet at Lizzy’s room in an hour. She collapsed for a twenty-minute nap before taking a quick shower. By the time she was dressed, there were shrieks at the door. Oh boy. This was going to be an interesting day trip.

Lizzy swung the door open. “Son of a biscuit! You’re not wearing that!”

Brianna stepped in wearing a teeny black tank top and jeans. “What? All my bits are covered. I’m rocking the Tomb Raider vibe.”

“Barely! We’re in a Muslim town, you crazy Irish beserker. Don’t move, I’ll find something in my bag.”

Suzie slipped in the room next. At least she wore a loose T-shirt. It still wouldn’t cut it.

Lizzy threw a black, long-sleeved, Nike shirt at Brianna. “Try that on. Let’s hope you get it over those giant boobs.”

“Leave my tits alone! The ladies are a perfect size. Cost a lot of money to get them to look this pretty.” Then Brianna groaned as she stared at the tiny piece of material. “Like I’ll fit in this. You’re like a tiny bad-ass snow fairy…with attitude. Do you shop in the bloody kid’s department?”

Lizzy had in the past. It was fun buying the occasional My Little Pony T-shirt covered in pink glitter.

Suzie traced Lizzy’s shoulder. “Look at what you’re wearing—you look like a Pakistani fashion model in your waistcoat thingy.”

“It’s called a scraf.”

Lizzy wore a dusty pink kurti—a loose, long blouse—over fitted blue jeans, paired with a soft cream waistcoat known as a scraf in Asia. Her favorite brown sandals finished the look.

Brianna wiggled and groaned as she pulled the shirt over her head. It was a tight fit. Her breasts pressed together, threatening an escape. Lizzy yanked up the front and draped a large pashmina over Brianna’s “girls.” At least she wore a tank underneath.

Now for Suzie. Lizzy had nothing left in her trolley bag of tricks, but she was pretty sure the front desk would help. “We’ll pick up a scarf for you at reception.”

“I’m not wearing some used smelly-ass scarf!”

“Then you’re not going. This is Peshawar. You need to cover your hair—out of respect for the locals. There’s always the telly.” Lizzy picked up the remote.

Suzie huffed out a breath. “Fine. But I get to choose.”