Excerpt of Lipstick In Afghanistan by Roberta Gately

Prologue

Afghanistan, 2002

“Do you hear it?” The voice was almost a whisper.
Elsa held her breath, and then she heard it too, a faint
rustling
of footsteps over twigs and leaves. Out of the corner of her
eye,
she glimpsed several shadowy figures darting through the
trees, and
when she turned, she saw a glint of sunlight reflecting off
the barrel
of an assault rifle.

There was no denying it—the Taliban had found them.
Oh, Jesus! she thought. We’ll never escape.

Elsa knew the Taliban’s ruthless hatred; the death and
destruction
they wrought was undeniable.

Seized by a sickening wave of fear, she wanted to cry or throw
up, but there was no time. She tried to catch Parween’s eye,
but her
friend was looking back, intent on fi nding the source of
the sound.

“Run!” someone shouted, and suddenly, the chase was on.

But not for Elsa. Her legs were tangled in the fabric of her
allenveloping
burqa. She struggled to free herself and fi nally threw off
the covering and ran, her plastic shoes barely touching the
ground.
She’d never run so fast before, and her heart pounded as she
swallowed
air in great gulps.

She heard heavy panting.

Was it her own?

Her chest tightened, and a scream rose in her throat, but there
was no sound. She couldn’t think clearly. She knew only that she
didn’t want to die there in Afghanistan.

Oh, God, let us make it, she prayed.

Just ahead was a small house, and though unprotected by the
walls that surrounded typical Afghani homes, it was their
only hope.
If they could reach it in time. But the distance seemed too
great
and her sprint too slow. Still, she pushed on, her arms pumping
wildly.

After what seemed an eternity, Elsa and the others reached the
house. She turned and stopped dead in her tracks. A growing
sense
of panic washed over her.

Parween.

Her eyes swept the horizon, but there was no sign of her friend.
Elsa’s throat burned as she tried to catch her breath, and
she felt
as though her heart would explode in her chest.

She buried her face in her hands.

How had it all gone so wrong? What were they doing here?
What was she doing here?

A nurse from Boston in fucking Afghanistan, for Christ’s sake.
Hot tears stung her eyes. With trembling hands, she tried to
wipe
them away.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Where are you, Parween?”