The Sheik's Safety (2 page)

He dribbled water onto her parched lips, and when she moaned, he sloshed some into her mouth, massaging her graceful neck, helping her to swallow. “Drink.”

His eyes settled on the small triangle of skin between her collarbones revealed by the top two open buttons. Her pale skin shone in the moonlight. If she was a mercenary, a hired assassin, they had picked well this time.

This one could have gotten to him.

He helped her drink some more, folded the wet cloth and placed it on her forehead, then went back to the well to draw water for Hawk and considered whether to unsaddle him while they rested.

“Sorry, friend.” He patted the stallion's neck, de
ciding he could not afford to give the animal that comfort. “We might have to leave in a hurry.”

He strained the water for the horse as carefully as he had for the woman, but still when Hawk tasted it, he shook his head a couple of times.

“You'll get a cleaner drink when we get to camp.”

Hawk bent to the bucket as if understanding, but looked up after a few moments, his ears turning. He picked up his head and neighed.

Saeed listened to the night. Nothing. Then he could hear it too, a low rumbling sound. He stood and searched the desert until he spotted the source: a black SUV coming at them from behind, flying over the sand. Moonlight glinted off the rifle barrels that hung out each window.

Here we go again.
By Allah, he was tired of this game. And he had no choice but to play it out to the end.

He pulled the woman under the cover of two palms that grew side by side, their twin trunks offering sufficient protection.

He glanced at Hawk, out in the open, and let out a sharp whistle that sent the stallion galloping off into the desert to safety just as the first series of shots rang out.

He peered from behind the palm and took aim. The rifle flew out of the driver's hand the next second. Somewhat of an improvement, as now only three of them were shooting, but the SUV picked up speed, the man's full attention on driving now.

Saeed had his great-grandfather's bolt-action Remington, a finely made piece, but still only eight rounds, no more. He had to pick his aim carefully. The next shot shattered the windshield, the one after that hit the radiator. Steam rose from under the hood but the vehicle didn't halt.

It didn't even slow.

He aimed again and hit the man in the passenger seat, then squeezed off another round, trying for the driver. The SUV veered to the left as it came to a slow halt on the sand.

The two men in the back got out and hid behind the open doors for a minute before throwing themselves to the ground.

Using the tufts of grass for cover, Saeed crawled along a natural indentation in the sand, moving as fast as he dared toward the well. Its raised stone edge, about half a meter high, offered more substantial protection, and if he managed to reach it without being detected he might be able to pick off the men from the side.

He made it—a miracle—squeezed off a shot, ducked down again. Return fire came swiftly. He kept quiet, waiting for them to get closer. He could not afford to miss. No margin for error. Zero. He was down to his last two bullets.

He peered from his cover then ducked back when they shot at him. The men had separated, circling the
well one on each side. He would be in the line of fire soon. He rolled into the open, aimed, shot, rolled back.

One attacker remained.

Saeed lay low to the ground, waited until the man came into sight—rifle first, holding the AK-47 extended before him. With his last bullet, Saeed shot at the right arm then pulled back immediately. A shout of pain and rage flew across the sand. Good. He wanted him incapacitated but alive. He wanted answers.

He took off his kaffiyeh and wrapped it around the Remington's barrel then lifted it above the rim of the well.

No shots.

He stuck his head out. The man was rolling back and forth, grasping his wrist.

“I will pay the blood price in gold,” Saeed said as he walked to him. “For the name of the one who sent you, I will pay double.”

The man looked at him with death in his eyes and lifted his rifle with his good arm.

Even though the assassin was too far, Saeed grabbed his dagger and charged forward, prepared for the bite of bullets, knowing the certainty of death but wanting to go out fighting. He was the sheik, he would not shame his people by dying from a bullet in the back that he'd gotten while running from his enemy. He thought of his family and hoped he had time for a quick prayer for them.

He could clearly see the man's finger on the trigger, the small movement of the last two digits as he began to squeeze it.
Allah be merciful.

Something hissed in the air. The next thing he knew, the man was facedown in the sand, a knife sticking out of his back.

Where had that come from? Saeed drew up short. Movement by the palm trees caught his gaze, and he stared at the moonlit figure of the woman standing with her feet braced apart. Her long hair streamed around her shoulders, flitting in the strengthening breeze.

His captive was awake.

 

S
HE HOPED TO HELL
she had made the right decision. Because now that she had thrown her spare knife, she was officially unarmed. Dara rubbed her right shoulder as she took in the surprise on the man's face, visible in the full moon even at this distance.

They were at an oasis, although she had no clue how she'd gotten there. She had come to in the middle of a gunfight and her first thought—after she'd pushed back the sudden rush of memories of the crash and the onslaught of grief—was to sneak off unseen. Then she spotted the SUV.

The vehicle was worth staying for. But she couldn't make a beeline for it with three men filling the air with bullets. She contented herself with
watching the fight, hoping they would kill each other and save her the unpleasant trouble.

The one with the blue headdress wasn't half-bad, but woefully outmatched by the two with AK-47s. The decision to save him hadn't been conscious. Instinct had whipped her arm forward when she threw the knife, instinct honed by years of combat experience.

She watched, wary now, as the man started toward her, his heavy dark robe parting to show a long white shirt that reached almost to the bottom of his white pants. He finished rewrapping his headdress as he walked, leaving only his eyes free. She assessed him, trying to determine how much of a threat he was.

His figure trim and muscular, he walked steady and didn't appear wounded. He looked to be in his midthirties, a couple of years older than she was, a man in his prime. None of her observations pleased her. Least of all that he was armed.

She locked her trembling knees as he came nearer. Under no circumstances did she want him to know how weak she was. She glanced at the vehicle. Too far. She didn't have enough strength to run. She looked around for a makeshift weapon and came up empty. Great. She really hoped the guy felt some gratitude for her saving his life, because judging by his size and the state she was in currently, no way she could wrestle him down.

Ah, hell. She wasn't supposed to come into con
tact with anyone except for the arms smugglers they were here to pick up. The Colonel had high hopes they'd talk if put under enough stress, and lead him to Tsernyakov, the elusive businessman who was responsible for eighty percent of the illegal gun trade in the region.

No one was supposed to know about the unauthorized U.S. military operation in the country. From the look of him, the guy striding toward her had a couple of questions. She wracked her brain for a logical explanation on what she was doing in the middle of the desert in a camouflage uniform.

He stopped a few feet from her, a silver-studded antique rifle slung over his shoulder. He had her two knives tucked into his belt, his sinister curved dagger still in hand. The light of the full moon glinted off the dagger's golden sheath that looked like a museum piece.

She raised her gaze to the man's face, hoping to read his intention. “Where am I?”

The cobalt blue of the headdress matched his eyes that appraised her with curiosity and distrust. What little skin she could see looked tanned by the sun, his eyelashes and eyebrows the blackest black. He looked fierce and proud, a warrior from another time.

“Jabrid,” he said.

She hoped that was the name of the oasis and not Arabic for “prepare to die.”

The intensity of his gaze was unnerving. Scenes from a long-ago-seen movie floated through her mind, about a desert prince coming upon an English woman, the sole survivor of a caravan attack, throwing her over his horse and carrying her off to his sumptuous tent. She could swear the man in front of her was the guy. Except, no horse, she noted with relief. And then, without taking his eyes off her, he whistled.

The brief series of notes was not earsplitting, but high-pitched and swift, carrying over the sand. She turned in the direction of a soft sound coming from behind her, and what she saw took her breath away.

The magnificent black stallion coming toward them was straight out of the film. His long mane and tail swept through the air, his saddle covered with a richly woven blanket—red and white, she could just make out the colors in the moonlight—the tassel fringe bobbing like so many tiny bells. A white mark, in the distinct form of a bird spreading its wings in flight, graced the animal's forehead.

“Do you have any more knives?” the man asked with a British accent, drawing her attention from the horse, which came to a stop next to him and was now nuzzling his wide shoulders.

The muscle cramps in her legs were strong enough to make her knees buckle, but she bit her lips and thrust out her chin, refusing to fall down. She lifted her hands a little, palms forward. “Fresh out.”

He looked her over then nodded, slid his dagger into its sheath. “Who are you?”

“That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?” She widened her smile, trying to look innocent.

His eyes narrowed. “You want a million for the answer?”

She laughed. Never let them see you scared. “I meant I'd give a million if anyone could tell me.”

He took a few seconds to digest that. “You don't remember?” he asked with a hint of incredulity, one ebony eyebrow cocked.

“Nothing before I woke up under this palm to the sound of shooting.”

“Nothing?” The second eyebrow joined the first.

Her lips pressed together in mock consternation, she shook her head. Shouldn't have done that, she realized as the landscape swam around her. Three days of forced march through the desert without food and water had left her severely dehydrated. She swayed a little, but caught herself. He must not know what an easy prey she was.

He made an unintelligible sound as he looked her over again. “You sound American.”

No sense in denying that, since her unmistakable accent had already given her away. “Yes, I think so.”

“Why were you armed?”

“I don't know.”

“Where did you get the second knife from?”

She glanced down and pointed at her boot.

“And you're sure you don't have any more?”

“I don't think I do.”

“I'd like to check.”

She thoroughly resented the suggestion. Could be worse though—he could have demanded a strip search. In her current condition, she was pretty much obliged to do whatever he asked. Well…within reason. She plopped onto the sand, grateful to be off her feet. A few more minutes and she would have fallen. Maybe if she played nice, he would let her have some food and water, not to mention the SUV. He didn't need the vehicle anyhow. He had his horse.

She took off her boots and tossed them to him, then while he looked them over, she took off her socks, too, enjoying the air on her feet, reluctant to put her footgear back on when he returned it.

“Any water in that well?” She nodded toward the stone circle with her head. Her tongue felt swollen, her lips painfully chapped.

“Too much sand in it,” he said as he pulled a flask from the saddlebag and handed it to her, his eyes narrowing once again, as if he were trying to decide what to do with her.

She gulped the gritty liquid, holding onto the flask with both hands, prepared to fight for it if he tried to take it away.

“We're a few hours ride from camp, plenty of clean water there,” he said.

Tempting, but no. She met his dagger-sharp gaze. She was definitely not going to some desert bandit camp with him.

“I need to get to the nearest town.” She drank the grainy water to the last drop, smiled at him as she laced up her boots. “I'd like to get in touch with the American embassy. Do you think I could take the car?”

“You're not well enough to go anywhere alone.”

“You could…escort me?”

He waited a while before responding. “Tihrin is too far. I'll take you to the camp, then when you're better, I'll take you to Tihrin.”

“I'm really pretty good.” She stood, and prayed he didn't notice the slight wobble. She had to get to a phone. She had to tell the Colonel what had happened to the team.

“In a few days.” He whistled for the horse again, lower this time as the animal was nearby. “Right now, we'll be safer at the camp.”

Right. Because he looked safe. Not.
“Why don't you ride the horse and I'll drive the car and follow you?”

“We leave the car.”

She needed some time to come up with a plan. “Mind if we rest a little before we go? I'm not sure I'm up for horseback riding yet.”

He glanced at the bodies behind him then back at her. “A few minutes,” he said. “There might be more of them coming.”

He was just full of good news. She wondered if the four dead men were in any way connected to whomever had shot down the plane. Where was an M4 when she needed one? “Can I have my knives back?”

“No.”

Not very accommodating, was he? “In case there's another attack?”

He shook his head. “I will protect you.”

For a moment she considered reminding him who had saved whose life, but decided against it. No sense in appearing too contrary, no point in raising any suspicions.

He took a few steps toward the bodies on the sand, stopped and turned back. “What is your name?”

“I don't remember.”

“I'm Saeed,” he said, and left her.

She watched him as he went from one body to the next, checking them over, coming up empty-handed as far as she could tell. It took all her strength to make her way to the horse a few short feet away.

“Come on, boy.” She let the animal smell her, patted his head. “What a fine horse you are.”

Purebred Arabian. She remembered her grandfather's horses on the reservation, a couple of pintos and a half dozen wild mustangs he'd bought through the government program. They were all beautiful in their right. But this one—this one was a prince.

“Here we go.” She moved to his side and checked to make sure the cinch was good and tight. When she tried to put her foot in the stirrups the animal danced away.

“You're not scared of me, are you?” She kept on talking, utter nonsense in a calming voice, as she tried again. Same result. Horses were supposed to be in her blood. Apparently, someone forgot to tell this one. The stallion had been trained, and trained well. Figured.

“Tayib, hoah.”

The deep voice coming from behind startled her, but seemed to calm the horse. Saeed stepped forward and grabbed the bridle.

“You can get on now,” he said, four AK-47s slung over his shoulder.

For a split second, she considered fighting him for the guns.

His gaze was sharp on her face, steady. She could barely stand. If she didn't succeed, what would he do? Kill her, leave her to die in the desert or tie her
up and take her to his camp anyway? She had to face the truth—she could not overtake him. To try would accomplish nothing but tip her hand and make escape more difficult later.

She mounted, and as soon as she was in the saddle, he vaulted up behind her. His arms, one on each side of her now, held onto the rein and set the horse going with a gentle flick.

As if the moving animal had unbalanced her, she slid to the side, testing Saeed. His arm barely moved, although she'd leaned her full weight against it.

He was strong and in control of his strength. In control of her, too, for the moment. As temporary as it was, she didn't like the feeling. Dara straightened herself in the saddle. He was taking her, whether she wanted to go with him or not.

Fine. She would ride to his camp, eat, get her hands on a few flasks of water, then sneak away at the first opportunity. Shouldn't set her back more than a day.

 

S
AEED KEPT HIS EYES
on the desert, constantly scanning the horizon, unsure when or from where the next ambush would come, knowing only that they weren't done with him yet.

The woman in front of him had made a valiant effort of staying upright when they'd first mounted, but was now sagging farther back in the saddle, losing
her strength rapidly. Her back touched his chest and she jerked forward, but soon was slipping again.

He let go of the rein with his left hand to pull her fully against him, leaving his arm around her waist to hold her in place, unsure how much longer she could do it on her own. “Rest.”

“I'm fine,” she said, but didn't pull away.

She felt frail in his arms, but he knew better. She had survived several days in the open desert, taken out an armed assassin with a knife from forty meters. Helpless she was not.

And yet, despite knowing she was probably part of whatever band of thieves had robbed his tribe, he could not quench the surge of protective feelings inside him. Probably because she was a woman, in his arms.

It had been a while since he'd held anyone. Although her head was covered with her makeshift headdress once again, it would be some time before he would forget her face and the way she had looked at him. Her eyes shone like jewels—black onyx with freckles of gold.

She felt soft in all the right places, all sinuous muscle in others. Her shapely behind wedged between his thighs moved against him slightly to the rhythm of the horse, bringing thoughts to his mind the likes of which he had been too busy to think for far too long.

He brought his focus back to more pressing issues. “Where are the rest of your people?”

She stiffened. “I don't remember anyone.”

Hard to say if she was lying or not. He would have expected a foreign woman who found herself in the desert in the middle of a gunfight with no idea of how she'd gotten there to be a little more frazzled. Maybe she was in shock, too numb for hysterics. No. Not shock. She had thrown that knife with precision, good and steady. And she appeared fine, save her weakness from exposure and lack of food and water. And of course lack of memory—if she wasn't faking that.

With his attackers dead, once again she was the only possible source of information he had. As much as she wanted to reach Tihrin, he could not let her go until he found out for whom she worked and what her purpose was here.

She shivered in his arms.

“Here.” He slipped off his kaffiyeh, wrapped it around her head, neck and shoulders as best as he could. “Before today you don't remember anything?” He tried again.

Her response came slower than before. “Nothing. I think maybe I got lost.”

He chewed on that for a while.

She wasn't an assassin. She could have let that man shoot him or, for that matter, she could have buried that knife in his chest just as easily as she'd done in the attacker's back. But if she wasn't in league
with the assassins, chances were she was in league with the thieves. Her proximity to the cave when he had found her certainly pointed in that direction.

She had come to steal from him, then had a fallout with her partners in crime who'd left her in the desert for dead. If that was the case, she could hardly reveal her identity to anyone. But with time, if she came to trust him… For a suitable reward she might be willing to give up those who had betrayed her.

But not anytime soon. She was completely limp in his arms. He tightened his hold on her to make sure she wouldn't slip out of the saddle now that she was out again.

The wadi they rode in deepened, until he could no longer see out. He didn't mind. If someone drove across the sand at a distance they wouldn't see him, but he would be able to hear the noise of their motor. And they were close to camp now. That, too, made him more comfortable.

Soon he would be able to see the small rocky
jebel,
not even a hill but more of a tall outcropping of stones, that protected the encampment from the wind on the east side. A small path led down, steep but doable. Hawk could manage just about any terrain.

He turned the horse up the familiar incline when they reached it. Another few feet and they were high enough so he could see over the bank. And saw the men. He pulled on Hawk's rein, and without a word,
made the horse retreat, then stopped him when he was sure they were back out of sight again. There were people on the ledge above the encampment, two Jeeps with seven men that he had counted.

Not his people.

Had he been alone, he would have crept closer to investigate; as it was, he had to go around, miles out of his way, to get all the way behind the camp without being seen.

He managed, pushing Hawk more than he should have, worried he might lose the stranger in his arms.

 

D
ARA STARED
at the enormous weaving to her left that hung from the black ceiling of the opulent tent, dividing it in half. Willing the pain in her shoulder to go away, she let her gaze glide over the vibrant colors that made up the slightly off, ornate pattern in the badly woven material. She had fleeting memories of a woman, wrapped in black from head to toe, bending over her. What happened to her?

Sunlight filtered through the cloth panels, the voices of distant chatter coming from outside. Déjà vu. She shook her head to clear it of the memories of summers she had spent on the reservation when she was young. She had loved her mother's Lenape heritage as a small child, hated it as a teenager, denied it as an adult. Maybe if her mother hadn't abandoned her father and her when she was twelve, it would have been different.

She sealed off the thought and the feelings it brought with practiced ease and sat up, noticing for the first time the indigo dress of fine linen that reached to her ankles. And panicked. Somebody had dressed her, which meant she'd been undressed first. The voices rose outside. Women. There were women around. She relaxed and straightened her dress, letting her fingers glide over the soft material. It had been a while since she had worn one. She was used to army fatigues.

Because she was a soldier, she reminded herself, annoyed because she liked the dress. She didn't miss that kind of stuff. Didn't need it. She stood and looked around. She had the skills to get out of here with or without help, trained for not only fight but escape and evasion. Other than her shoulder and a mild burning sensation around her right eye, she was fine.

Kilim carpets covered some of the sand; colorful bags hung from the tent posts; a handful of large pots and pans lay around the ashes of the cooking fire. A strange loom stretched to her right, a half-finished black-and-red cloth on it. She looked for a weapon. A small kitchen knife would have done. Nothing.

She rubbed her right eye, her stomach growling. God, she was hungry. And thirsty. She glanced at the plastic containers in the corner and hoped they held water.

Some kind of funky butter in the first, tea leaves in the second, an aromatic spice in the third. She popped the lid off the last one and sighed in relief.

The water going down her throat felt like heaven. She drank as much as she dared and stopped far from being satisfied. She was in the middle of the desert. When she left, she had to take as much water with her as she could.

She remembered the men at the oasis, the fight, Saeed. She needed to figure out where she was, get her hands on some food and water, borrow or steal a car, or at least a horse. She wasn't sure she could manage a camel, but if it came to that, she'd sure as hell try.

Voices rose and fell outside like music. She could make contact and hope they were friendly and would help her with supplies, or sneak away before anyone realized she had come to. She looked through a small gap in the outer panel of the tent where time had loosened the threads of the weaving.

She could see another dozen tents from her vantage point, a couple of men around an open fire, armed as if for war, with bullet-studded belts looped over their shoulders and rifles lying across their knees or in the sand next to them.

A sudden noise behind her made her spin around into a crouch, ready to fight.

A small boy of five or so stood by the tent divider,
wearing a colorful dress, his large brown eyes rounded at the sight of her. She straightened and smiled, not wanting to scare him.

He watched her with open curiosity, unruly black curls framing his head, gold glinting at his ears. After a few seconds of perusal, he spoke in Arabic.

Dara smiled and shook her head. “I don't understand.”

“I'm Salah. Are you my new teacher?”

“No,” she said.

His big brown eyes rounded even larger. “Is my father going to marry you?”

“Absolutely not. I'm just visiting.”

He visibly relaxed. “That's what Fatima said. She says Father will marry for alliance between the tribes. He can't marry a foreigner. It wouldn't be any use at all.”

Dara blinked at so much practicality coming from such a little person. Who was Fatima? Probably one of the boy's father's wives.

“Is your father Saeed?”

The boy nodded.

The fact that there were women and children around set her at ease. She didn't think it would be so at a renegade terrorist camp. Saeed had saved her life by carrying her out of the desert. And he had said he would help her to get to the city once she was bet
ter. She would just have to convince him she was better now. She had no time to waste.

“Can you take me to your father, Salah?”

The child shook his head. “He's with the elders. I'll call Fatima and Lamis and then he can talk to you when he comes back.”

Of course. Although Beharrain was a progressive country, in most regions the old traditions held fast. Women did not keep company with men unless they were related. She had read the culture advisory report, all twenty pages of its dos and don'ts before deployment.