Sheik's Revenge Page 10

  “Why,” she said softly, “does it even matter to you who killed Escudero? Why did you need to run my profile through databases?”

  He was silent for a long while.

  “Maybe, Faith, I just couldn’t excise you from my mind. Maybe I wanted to know who Liliana really was.” He glanced down at her. “Maybe Lili bewitched me so that I was driven to do it in spite of my priorities.”

  Surprise fluttered through her.

  “And then, when you showed up in Algiers, I had to wonder if the same person hired you to kill both me and Escudero—and why.”

  He leaned forward as he spoke, and ever so softly caressed her cheek. In spite of herself, a primal need for comfort, for love, to be held, unfurled inside her and she had to fight the desire to just lean into his touch, to give into him entirely.

  “The Escudero hit had nothing to do with you,” she said quietly, a fog of cool depression, a blanket of exhaustion swamping her mind as she started to fade again. She couldn’t fight all this anymore, not without rest. The pregnancy was taking a serious toll on her body on top of it all.

  “Sleep now,” he whispered gently. “We have a long, hot ride ahead in the morning.”

  Beyond exhaustion, Faith did fall asleep, curled on the tarp under the blanket by the fire.

  *

  Omair watched her, listening to her breathing, unsure of what he was feeling right now. The fire popped and camels munched on dry tufts of vegetation nearby, the sound of them comforting in the desert night. He needed to go hobble them, he thought, so they wouldn’t stray in the darkness.

  He looked down at Faith again.

  “I don’t know who you really are,” he whispered. “But you’re one hell of a woman, and I intend to find out.”

  She murmured in her sleep, and Omair felt a strange pang in his heart. God help him, he was falling, absurdly, for a woman sent to kill him, and it had started the moment he’d first laid eyes on her in that cantina on the banks of the Tagua River. And she could still be pulling the wool over his eyes.

  Omair fed more wood onto the fire, mulling things over. Then he slung her rifle across his chest, went out to secure the camels, and climbed to the ridge of the dune behind them. Using his satellite phone he called his private investigator in the States, all the while keeping an eye on Faith asleep by the fire.

  “Run the DNA profile and print partial from Tagua again, this time couple it with the first name Faith, and see if anything comes up.”

  Reception was bad for some reason, and the P.I. on the other end asked Omair to repeat himself. He did, louder. And he glanced down at Faith wondering if she’d heard, but she lay still, apparently fast asleep.

  “The name could be an alias, but I feel there’s a very good chance it’s real,” he told the investigator. “I suspect she’s American, and if she’s a private contractor the odds are she came from military or law enforcement background before she hired herself out. If so, her DNA profile could be in older military databases, or in law enforcement databases.”

  Omair signed off and saw that he’d missed a call. It was from Zakir. Quickly he dialed his brother in Al Na’Jar, fearing bad news about Tariq.

  Zakir answered on the first ring and cut to the chase. “He’s out of the coma.”

  Relief burned fierce into Omair’s eyes as he clutched the phone. He looked up to the sky for a moment, and said silent thanks as he choked up.

  “What is the prognosis now?” His voice was thick. There was a beat of silence, and Omair’s chest tightened in trepidation.

  “Tariq believes he failed Julie. As a doctor he felt he should’ve been able to do something to save her on the runway, before the next explosion.”

  “That would have been impossible.”

  “Try telling that to him. He’s beating himself up over it—it’s like he’s lost the will to live, Omair. Our brother is badly scarred, in more ways than one. It’s going to be a long and difficult road ahead for him.”

  Omair heard the pain in his blind brother’s voice, and he hurt, too, for Tariq. For Zakir. “How’re Dalilah and Nikki holding up?”

  “They’re being strong for him. If anyone can work magic on Tariq, it’ll be Dalilah. He always loved her most. She’s the one who could make him smile.”

  Affection filled Omair’s chest. Dalilah could make any man smile.

  “I should be there,” he said.

  “No, it’s best you continue with your mission. Get the man who is behind this.”

  Hearing Zakir’s voice steeled Omair’s will—his mission was to stop the threat against them all, and he was going to do just that, no matter how long, or where, it took him.

  “And the media has bought the line about Tariq’s passing?” he said.

  “It’s been in the news for the past four weeks.”

  Sometimes, thought Omair, the biggest lies were the easiest to believe.

  “It’s the right thing,” he said. “It will keep him safe, it’ll help him heal.”

  It would also put Omair in immediate line of fire as next in line to the throne. He glanced at Faith. Who was he kidding—he was already in the crosshairs. And Faith was his answer to whoever was behind this, he was certain of it.

  Omair trudged down the dune and made straight for his camel. Untying Faith’s bag, he returned to their small camp and once again emptied the contents onto a mat a short distance away from her. The fire crackled softly as he felt around the inside lining of the bag. He’d seen the way she’d kept glancing at the bag, and he’d begun to suspect she might be trying to divert his attention from something hidden in there.

  His fingers touched something that felt like a stiff piece of paper under the lining. Omair frowned. He turned the bag inside out and discovered an opening along one of the side seams. He dug his fingers into it, removing a crumpled, faded and torn photograph.

  The snapshot was of a woman, maybe in her late twenties, holding a baby in what appeared to be a christening gown. The woman was seated, and judging by the style of her clothes and hair, Omair figured it had to have been taken twenty to thirty years ago. A male hand rested on the woman’s slender shoulder. There was a wedding band on his ring finger and from his sleeve it looked as though he was wearing a military dress jacket. The rest of him had been ripped out of the photo.

  Omair frowned, then shot a glance at Faith. The moonlight threw pale silver on her hair, and firelight played soft shadows of gold and yellow over her skin. Why, he wondered, had she brought this photo with her on a hit? Could the baby in the photo be Faith? Could this woman be her mother? There was some resemblance, and if the photo had been taken about thirty years ago, the timing was about right for this to be Faith and her mother.

  I didn’t choose it, my mother did.… I don’t talk about my father. Ever.

  Omair wondered if Faith had torn her own father out of this family snapshot, out of her life even, and the notion sent a strange pang to his gut. The fact she had this damaged memento with her on a mission told him her mother was important to her, and that her past had been painful. Faith’s words sifted into his mind.

  Family is very important to you…

  He held the photograph nearer the flames, examining it more closely for telling details, trying to make out what kind of military jacket the man was wearing, what country.

  *

  Faith rolled carefully onto her side where she lay by the fire and edged herself up slightly, trying to see what he was looking at now. She’d woken to hear snatches of his conversation on the ridge. While she’d feigned continued sleep she’d heard him telling someone to run her DNA profile and print again, this time using the name Faith. If she wasn’t already doomed, she would be once her name went into the databases.

  A jolt of electricity shot through her body as she realized what he was looking at.

  Her photo.

  Faith dug her fingers into the tarp, inching up a little more. Laid out on the cloth beside him, along with her veil and the belt he’d used to
bind her wrists, were her GPS, sat phone, batteries, knife and scope.

  He set the photo down with her other belongings and began carefully feeling around the seam of her bag again. She could not allow him to find the test. The last thing Faith needed was for her captor to find out she was pregnant. Especially if he began to suspect the baby was his.

  Fear swelled in her. She had to get away from him. Now. While his guard was down, while he thought he was winning her over.

  And once she escaped, she had to find proof that STRIKE might have set her up. Those were her priorities.

  She’d flee as far and fast from her captor as she could, then she’d break strict security protocol and call Travis on his personal cell number. Years ago she’d hacked into the system and found the number. She’d been digging for information on Travis—her life, after all, was being placed in his hands, and Faith thought she might need a backup plan one day.

  Well, that day was here.

  And when she did call Travis, she was going to test him. Because either her captor was lying, or Travis—her own people—was lying and truly did want her dead. And if the unit did want to retire her there was no going back. STRIKE would attempt to finish the job no matter where in the world she tried to go. The only answer would be to find a way to completely disappear and start anew.

  Faith slid her fingers toward a stone lying at the edge of the tarp. Levering herself up, she tossed the rock into the darkness to the right of her captor. It landed with a soft thud on sand.

  Her captor stiffened and glanced to his left. Slowly he reached for the rifle at his side.

  Faith curled her fingers around another bigger rock, and hurled it after the first, farther into the darkness. It made a dull thud. The camel nearby snorted.

  Her captor got up and began to move into the darkness, toward the noise, weapon ready. Faith surged to her feet and crept rapidly toward the blanket with her things. She grabbed the knife and belt, and like a cat she stalked up behind him in the sand, any sound she might have made being drowned by the now complaining camel in the dark.

  She found her captor trying to placate the animal. From behind, Faith lunged, looping the belt over his head. She yanked it tight.

  He gasped for breath, but before he could reach behind him, she pressed the tip of her blade into his back.

  Chapter 8

  The prepaid cell phone inside the top drawer of Isaiah Gold’s desk rang. His pulse quickened as he yanked open the drawer and answered it.

  He listened carefully to what the caller had to say, then killed the call. Isaiah leaned slowly back in his leather chair, mulling over what the envoy of the New Moor had just told him—the Russian arms dealer had been killed in Algiers by Sheik Omair Al Arif, who himself had escaped the bullet of the STRIKE operative sent to assassinate him.

  And because Faith Sinclair had missed, the MagMo sniper positioned in the minaret had in turn hesitated and failed to take her out. The MagMo sniper had since been found stabbed to death in a market in the casbah.

  Both Sinclair and Al Arif had meanwhile gone to ground. Whether together or solo was still in question.

  Isaiah reached for his pen and tapped it rhythmically on his desk blotter. What really troubled him was not so much the fact Sinclair had failed to assassinate Omair Al Arif—that could still be done, and the Moor saw the attempt as being a good faith move on the part of the senator. No, what concerned Isaiah was the fact Sinclair must have by now realized she’d been set up by her own country. She could wreak untold damage if she took this to the media. The revelation she was an assassin sanctioned by the United States to kill on foreign soil could take down the U.S. government, kill Sam’s bid for the presidency. Which would in turn scuttle Isaiah’s own ambition to be a quiet and driving force behind one of the most powerful offices in the world.

  Sinclair was a dangerous loose cannon. She had to be found and eliminated, stat.

  Isaiah rubbed his brow. Sam didn’t need to know about this. Not yet. It would distract him from the campaign. He’d handle it himself.

  He scooped up the prepaid cell, pocketed it, and left his office to take a walk into the park. Once he was near the fountain he dialed an unlisted number and listened to the phone ring.

  Travis Johnson answered.

  *

  As Faith tightened the belt around her abductor’s neck, she kept her blade pressed into his lower back. And she realized, from the bottom of her soul, she was unable to kill the father of her baby. Especially now that he’d created doubt about his identity, and her own unit.

  Adrenaline screamed through her blood as she torqued the belt tighter, strangling his breath.

  “Drop the weapon,” she whispered, hating the fact her body was trembling.

  The rifle fell with a soft thud to the sand at his feet.

  The camel moved on, still hobbled.

  She tightened the belt more, and he reached to grasp her wrist. But she pushed the tip of the blade into his skin.

  “Don’t move.”

  He stilled, but was rasping for breath.

  She had to be careful not strangle him to death, just render him unconscious. But he held on, fighting it. Then slowly she felt his body give, and he slumped to the ground. Faith rolled him quickly onto his side, into a prone position, and checked his pulse. Relief rushed through her—he was still alive. But relief was followed by a sharp disgust at her own actions. Something had changed profoundly in her. She couldn’t do this kind of work anymore. But now it was not about work, it was about survival. Hers and the tiny life growing inside her.

  With shock Faith realized just how raw and protective a maternal instinct could be, and how much that instinct was driving her right now.

  Perspiration broke out over her lip as she quickly bound his hands behind his back, using the belt. Then she bent his legs back, as if he was kneeling on his side, and strapped his wrists to his ankles.

  Breathing hard, Faith scooped up the rifle and raced back to the blanket. She slipped the photo of her mother into the side pocket of her cargo pants then felt along the lining of the bag. Sweat was drenching her body—he could come around any minute now.

  The pregnancy wand was still there—it had slid around the inside of the lining to the base of the purse where it hadn’t been immediately evident to him. Faith reached deep inside the lining, tearing fabric as she yanked it out.

  In the quavering firelight, the blue line was still there. She stared at it. It looked so surreal, under this desert sky, a lifetime away from life as she knew it, the father of her child lying unconscious nearby. Suddenly overwhelmed, Faith lowered herself slowly and sat on the blanket for a moment, trying to gather herself.

  Another clutch of emotion chocked her throat as she recalled him making love to her, how vital and alive she’d felt.

  We’re on the same side.… You can help me.…

  Remorse filled her, but she slid the wand into the side pocket of her pants with the photo. Gathering up her GPS, Faith reinserted the battery and powered it up to get her bearings. She then reconnected her sat phone battery and attempted dialing the evac number one last time. It rang three times and once again clicked into the same out-of-order voice mail message. Her captor’s words echoed through her mind.

  They set you up to kill the wrong man…take the fall…hang you out to dry…

  Faith turned slowly around to look at him, and an eerie sensation crawled over her skin. It was if he was speaking to her.

  She had to get out of here before he woke and started messing with her head again. Because he had undeniable power over her, both mentally and physically. And she was weak in the face of it.

  The fact she was carrying his child didn’t help—it was eating at her, burning her up inside.

  Family is everything.… There is no room in my life for children of my own.

  Faith inhaled deeply. Her only real family had been the army, and then her unit. Now even that might be questionable. If so, she was totally on her own. S
he had to be strong.

  Faith pulled the robe she’d been using as a pillow over her head, and bound a piece of cloth around her head like a turban.

  Slinging her rifle over her chest, she tucked her knife into her hiking boot and went over to where he lay. Cautiously she slid his satellite phone and pistol out from the holsters at his hip, then she reached around his waist for his dagger. He was lying on top of the scabbard and she had to heft him aside to access it. His body felt solid, strong. A memory of him naked slammed so suddenly and sharply through her head that Faith dropped him in shock. Her heart thumped in her chest.

  She glanced at his face. In the moonlight his powerful features looked like a sculpture, and again she heard his voice in her head.…

  Why sacrifice yourself for the people trying to overthrow my country?

  Faith’s hands began to shake. But she steeled herself, reached around his waist again. This time she managed to grasp the hilt of his jambiya and remove both it and the scabbard from his belt. Slowly, Faith unsheathed the blade.

  The steel glinted in the lunar light and the weapon felt good in her hand. The bone from which the hilt had been crafted was still warm from his body, and it was clearly antique. It had been inlaid with tiny brass stars and ruby-red stones that glittered with life in the firelight. Momentarily mesmerized, Faith stared at the dagger, and she couldn’t help wondering who had possessed it over the passage of time, what warriors had once ridden over these sands with this jambiya thrust into their scabbards? In this region of the world a jambiya was a status symbol, almost mystical to some.

  Wind soughed suddenly around Faith, lifting the ends of her robe, making sand rustle and scurry like a living thing at her feet.

  Mine is a warrior’s duty. That’s my lot. It’s a lonely one, but an honorable one.…

  Her attention shifted back to his face, his aristocratic features, his thick dark lashes, the power that once moved through his limbs now momentarily gone.

  Who are you—this father of my baby?

  A sheik fighting some ancient war? A terrorist defending an ideology? A mercenary for hire? Someone else entirely?