Read Online Down Range (Shadow Warriors - Book 2) by Lindsay McKenna - Free Book Online Page B

and then chastely kissed each of her cheeks. Long ago, he’d given her the name of Wajiha, which meant “beautiful one” in Pashto.
    His greeting was a very warm, loving welcome bestowed upon family members only. Morgan had been injured trying to save his family. A man was never supposed to hug a woman in Islamic culture, but Reza felt strongly she should know how grateful he was for her willingly putting her life on the line to try to save his youngest child from Khogani’s slaughter.
    “ Wa ’alaykumu s-salāmu wa rahmatu l-lāhi wa barakātuh, Reza.” Morgan returned the ancient greeting in Pashto. It meant “May peace, mercy and blessing of God be upon you.” She hugged him and placed a kiss on each of his bearded cheeks. And then she grinned, threw her arms around him and squeezed the hell out of the wiry Afghan. He pounded her happily on the back of her Kevlar vest, enthusiastically welcoming her.
    Jake walked over, watching the warmth between them. He smiled, glad to see Morgan happy. Her face, even in dawn light, was suffused a pink color. It was her eyes, wide with affection for the Afghan guide, that touched him the most. Jake dropped his gear and Reza released Morgan.
    “ As-Salāmu ’alayka, Lieutenant Ramsey,” Reza greeted him, placing his palm across his thin chest. “Welcome. I am Reza. I will be your guide.”
    Jake returned the proper Pashto greeting and then thrust out his hand to the short, wiry man. Reza eagerly took it, pumping it up and down with unbounded earnestness.
    “Come, both of you.” Reza gestured for them to follow him into the nearest mud home that had a huge hole blown through one side of it. “We must hurry. Taliban watch us from the mountains.”
    Morgan entered and saw four small, hardy horses munching on some dried grass. One of them had a Western saddle on its back. The other two had the typical Afghan saddle made of wood and nails covered with a rug. The fourth animal was a packhorse.
    “Hey, you remembered,” she told Reza, pointing to the Western saddle.
    “Of course, Wajiha. You told me to look after your saddle, and I did. You promised to return, and here you are.”
    Morgan choked up as she saw tears of gratefulness come to Reza’s eyes. He was the only survivor of his destroyed village. Her smile disappeared as Jake entered. Moving to the Afghan, she pulled the Velcro pocket open on her Kevlar vest and retrieved a number of photos.
    “Just a minute, Jake,” she called.
    Jake nodded his response, leaving them as she went to Reza’s side and spoke to him in a low voice. He couldn’t hear what she said in Pashto, but the look on the Afghan’s face was one of surprise. Tears began to trail down his high cheekbones as he took the photos from Morgan. She placed her arm around the man’s shoulders, pointing to each one, telling him something about it.
    Jake felt like an outsider and busied himself appraising the four animals. They were small bay horses with black manes and tails. Horses in Afghanistan always looked short and stocky, but then Jake knew they ate whatever the barren, rocky mountains gave to them, which wasn’t much.
    He heard Reza sob. Turning, he saw the man clasping the photos to his breast, his other hand pressed against his face, crying openly. He gave a quizzical look, but Morgan held up her hand into a fist. It was a signal that said, “stop.” Jake respected the sign and remained with the animals.
    Reza got ahold of himself after five minutes, carefully tucking the plastic bag of pictures inside his dark brown wool vest. His eyes were bright, his face in anguish as he bowed and profusely thanked Morgan.
    The Afghan picked up the lead rope of the packhorse and led him outside, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve.
    “What was that all about?” Jake asked, concerned. Morgan wiped her eyes and then turned to face him.
    “I had taken pictures of his family and many others who lived here,” she said in a strained tone. “I always