Sheik's Revenge Page 15

  She stared at him, her hands beginning to shake. The desert temperature was climbing fast, and she was looking even more pale save for two hot spots still riding high across her cheekbones.

  She lowered her knife slowly, pulled at her shirt. When she spoke again her voice was thin.

  “Omair, please, listen to me. I can’t have this baby. I can’t go home—I can’t ever see the father of this child again. I need to disappear, or I’m going to die. And my baby will die, too.” She pointed to the chopper wreckage. “These people will find me.”

  He took the gap and grabbed her wrist, forcing her to drop the knife to the sand. “I know what you are made of, Faith. You don’t run—you fight back.”

  “Oh, you got me wrong, Omair. I do run. You just told me yourself, back at the cave. I run from every bogeyman in my closet. I ran from my father, my home, relationships, and now I’m running from my country, from you. And you’re no different, you know that? You hide behind this blood honor thing when really it’s an excuse to take the law into your own hands.”

  “It’s necessity, Faith. There’s no one else out there who will protect my family. Until I find the man behind all of this, until I get the Moor himself, I won’t rest. I can’t.”

  “And meanwhile you use this vendetta to justify your one-night stands, avoid commitment, relationships, being responsible for your own children?”

  He reeled at her words. They hit hard, they hit home, and they hit deeper than he cared to admit.

  “If it was my child,” he said simply, “I’d want to know you were in danger. I’d fix it. I’d keep both you and my child safe.”

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Well, it’s not your child. So it’s not your problem.”

  And it hit him right there, like a blow to his solar plexus—he’d wanted it to be his. He’d wanted to try to make it work with her before he knew there was a baby, and when he’d found the test he’d been momentarily exhilarated by the thought it could be his. Now he felt as though she was ripping his heart right out his chest.

  He also felt in his gut she was lying about this baby—holding something back. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the tension in her body. She was afraid. She cared for him but was holding back something huge, something that might be putting his entire country in jeopardy.

  Desperation mounted in Omair, but he was distracted suddenly by the thudding sound of a chopper in the far distance. Both tensed and glanced skyward. A shimmering metallic speck emerged over the horizon, coming straight for them.

  Omair shaded his eyes, squinting into the sun as he watched. It could be either friend or foe, he couldn’t tell from this distance.

  “Give me the rifle scope,” he said as the noise grew louder.

  But she already had the rifle in her hands, was raising the scope to her eye.

  The helo came in fast, looming in size, noise growing deafening in the hot dawn air.

  “Give me the gun, Faith,” he demanded, suddenly worried she might shoot an Al Na’Jar chopper down.

  But he saw her finger curling around the trigger as the helo neared. It was close enough now for Omair to recognize the distinctive Al Na’Jar emblem on the side of the craft. He lunged out to grab the gun from her as the chopper came over them, downdraft whipping desert sand into a stinging, blinding whirlwind.

  She struggled to fight him off as the helo lowered to the sand, and a stray shot was fired from her rifle, the bullet pinging off the skids of the chopper.

  An Al Na’Jar soldier in full gear dropped from the craft to the ground as the skids skimmed sand. He raised his weapon, aiming at Faith as he ran forward in a crouch.

  Omair saw the soldier coming at her with singular purpose—he was misreading Faith’s intentions, thought she was threatening the prince of his country, shooting at his chopper. The soldier fired just as Omair threw himself at Faith, forcing her to the ground and covering her body with his.

  “Hold your fire!” He waved his hand, yelling above the fiercely swirling sand, the deafening roar of the chopper.

  The soldier continued to come forward in a predatory crouch, weapon still trained on Faith.

  “Hold your fire, dammit!”

  The man lowered his weapon.

  Omair rolled off Faith, turned her over, while still protecting her from the raging downdraft with his body—sand with this force could cut like glass. But as he moved, Faith’s head lolled limply to the side, her mouth open.

  The sand under her head was dark with blood.

  Chapter 12

  Washington, D.C.

  Senator Sam Etherington was in a high campaign mood as he stood atop the stairs of the Capitol building fielding questions from reporters gathering below. The U.S. flag snapped crisply in the breeze behind him and he felt tanned and fit—it made for a good photo op, a good backstop to his recently announced tough stance on American justice. A nice subliminal image of a young president-in-the-making who had the country’s future and the well-being of families in his virile and capable hands.

  Isaiah watched quietly from the sidelines. Sam’s cavalcade waited at the base of the stairs, engines running. He had a busy day ahead and the campaign clock was ticking.

  Sam pointed to a young reporter with wild dark hair, a cute gap between her teeth. Her smile was huge and disarming and her big eyes belied the shark’s instinct and political acuity Sam knew lurked beneath. She tended to take her subjects by surprise, coming out of left field with her funky clothes, big boots and short skirt, then she’d hone in for the kill with a razor-sharp intellect. Sam liked her. He imagined she was good in bed, too.

  “Ms. DiCaprio?”

  “Senator, yesterday news broke that MagMo has claimed responsibility for the Al Arif jet bombing at JFK. What will an administration with you at the helm do about it?”

  He smiled, liked the fact she’d pointed out he would be the next U.S. president. Cameras clicked and he made sure they had his best angles.

  “The safety of U.S. citizens on home soil is paramount. As this case at the legislature today showed us we—”

  “Will we go after them on foreign soil?” she interrupted from below.

  Irritation rippled through him, but he maintained his broad smile. “We will do everything to ensure safety of U.S. citizens.”

  He pointed to someone else, but DiCaprio wasn’t ready to let him go.

  “Senator!” she called out. “If you don’t mind going back to the question, one of your campaign cornerstones that was also announced yesterday focuses on energy and oil from countries like Al Na’Jar. How can you guarantee this? Al Na’Jar is not an OPEC member and there are no treaties—”

  Sam cut in, his smile turning to steel. “Negotiations are in the works—”

  “MagMo is apparently fueling a rebellion in that country. If they take control, how will you deliver on the campaign promise?”

  He stilled inside. The other reporters were taking notes, the cameras rolling.

  His secretary stepped in. “If we could keep questions to the matter at hand, which is the overturned conviction of a dangerous criminal who should remain behind bars…”

  Sam loosened his red tie, held his hand up to his secretary. “It’s all right.” He forced a wide smile. “I’ll finish this one, and then we move on.”

  His gaze met DiCaprio’s directly.

  “I don’t know where you’re getting your information as to who is fueling unrest in Al Na’Jar, Ms. DiCaprio, but if you’re referencing stories posted on the well-known conspiracy theorist blog, Watchdog, I can refer you to some other sites that might also appeal to your news instincts—there’s a particularly good one that covers Bigfoot sightings, and another the Loch Ness monster. Then there’s the Roswell site—I shall have my press secretary forward the URLs to you at the Washington Daily.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Sam’s press secretary stepped forward. “Next question for the senator, and if we could keep to the topic at hand, the senator has an extre
mely busy schedule…”

  Bella DiCaprio pushed quickly through the back of the crowd.

  Determination powered her walk to the subway station. No company vehicle for her today. She’d been laid off yesterday due to newspaper cutbacks. And instead of letting the old union-entrenched deadwood go, they’d tossed her to the wind.

  Her editor, a man she really admired, had given her the spiel—sitting her down and telling her she was one of the best young reporters they’d had, she had the instinct, the credentials, yadda yadda. Fat lot of good it was doing her now. She had rent to pay, a cat to feed.

  A white van drew up behind her. The window wound down and a tubby guy with dreads poked his head out the window.

  “Bella my belle, want a ride, sweetness?”

  “Hey, Hurley,” she walked up to the driver’s side. “What are you doing here? Is there a pizza joint around here I missed?”

  “Where Senator Sam goes, we go.” He waffled his eyebrows. “Get in.”

  She laughed, climbed in.

  “Not quite as good as the company car,” he said as the van rattled down the highway.

  She sighed heavily, slumping back into the seat. “It’ll save me transit fare, thanks.”

  Hurley slid her a glance as he drove. “Newspapers are dinosaurs, Bella. Print media is so over.”

  “Yeah, well it paid the bills. My rent is due next week.”

  “Move in with me and Scoob.”

  She shot him a glance. “You’re kidding me, right? I’d go homeless first.”

  He chuckled, his big hearty laugh comforting her.

  She closed her eyes and smiled. “I love you, Hurley, you know that.”

  “And Scoob?”

  “Not Scoob—he’s a freak.”

  “What were you doing back there, anyway?”

  She sighed heavily. “I’ve got a feeling about the

  senator and this Al Na’Jar business—I couldn’t just let it drop.”

  “You used your press pass?”

  “Sue me.”

  “Maybe the paper will.”

  Bella pulled a face.

  “Come write for the website.”

  “Jesus, Hurley, the conspiracy theorist blog? Do you know Senator Etherington just made a mockery of you guys back there?” She wound down the window.

  “All the reason to make a mockery of him,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the road.

  “Ah, Hurley, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to take a dig at you guys—”

  “Citizen journalism—it’s the future, Bella. You could break a major news story on the blog and help lead the way.”

  Bella sank farther into the seat, depression washing over her. She’d hit bottom of the barrel, as low as she could go, but she could not go to Watchdog and work for nothing. She couldn’t let go of her stories, either.

  *

  Sam’s team ushered him into his limo, his detail holding reporters with more questions at bay.

  “What does that DiCaprio have on me—why is she linking those issues?” he snapped at Isaiah the instant the door to their sealed capsule was shut.

  “You’re being paranoid, Sam. Those issues link themselves. There will be more questions like hers, from far tougher sources. Deal with it.”

  Sam inhaled, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What’s the news on our other matter?”

  “It’s under control.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  Isaiah was silent for several beats. “The operative failed her mission, but we have a location on her. If she’s still even alive in that desert, she won’t get far without being seen.”

  Ice washed down Sam’s spine. “She’s still out there?”

  Isaiah straightened his sleeve. “It’s just a matter of time before we find her. We have a chopper in the air.”

  “Whose chopper?”

  “Don’t worry, Sam—leave the details to me. I’m handling this.”

  “Christ, Isaiah, and you say I’m paranoid?”

  “I said I’m taking care of it. Our friend knows we’re acting in good faith. Once we have them both, we’ll tie up the last loose end.”

  “Her handler?”

  “He’s the only one who could link this to us.”

  “And who’s going to tie this up?”

  “The less you know the better, Sam. Trust me.”

  Sam scrubbed his hand hard over his face. He was beginning to worry about his choice in Isaiah. Then again there hadn’t really been a choice. Isaiah Gold had what it took to get Sam where he needed—zero moral conscience. Isaiah was all about power, and his way to power was through Sam.

  “By September this will all be water under the bridge, Sam,” Isaiah said very quietly. “You’ll have the party nomination officially in the bag. Next step, the Oval Office.”

  *

  Omair gathered Faith up into his arms and bent into the downdraft as he raced for the roaring chopper.

  The instant they were all on board the helo started to lift. The medic pushed Omair aside, taking Faith onto a makeshift stretcher at the back.

  “She’s been shot!” Omair yelled over the roar of engines, anguish tearing through his chest. “And she’s pregnant!”

  The medic cast him a look, and moved fast as he checked her pulse and cut away Faith’s robe to find the source of the bleeding.

  Her body started to convulse.

  Omair felt powerless.

  He couldn’t get angry with the soldier even if he wanted to—the man had done what he thought was right, and he’d done it in the interests of their country.

  Someone gave Omair a headset, helped him put it on.

  The pilot was speaking into the headset, giving his flight plan and expected arrival time in Al Na’Jar. He was calling for an ambulance to be waiting.

  “It’s not a bullet wound,” Omair heard the medic say in his headphones. Something inside his body stilled.

  “Looks like a blade cut through the flesh on the outside of her arm. It’s bleeding profusely but superficial.” The medic worked quickly to staunch the blood as he spoke.

  Omair’s heart thudded, and his brain spun. He remembered her waving her knife at him, him grabbing her wrist, forcing her to drop the blade to the sand. The next thing they’d heard the helicopter approaching. And he’d slammed her into the sand to protect her from fire—he must have forced her against the sharp blade lying there.

  “Then…why is she unconscious?” he said, voice thick.

  “She’s coming around,” the medic said.

  Faith’s eyelids fluttered and she moaned, then suddenly tried wildly to push everyone away and get up. The medic strapped her arms and legs down.

  “For her safety,” he said to Omair. “The knife wound is not my main concern.”

  Omair glanced at the medic. “What is?”

  “Heat exhaustion,” he answered, feeling her pulse again and checking her temperature. “It can come on fast and is potentially a life threatening condition if left untreated. The body gets too hot and the brain does not get enough oxygen because of all the blood pooling in the extremities. When this happens individuals can lose consciousness, experience delirium. Shock doesn’t help.”

  Omair rubbed his brow. This was his fault—he’d done this to her.

  “The baby?”

  “How far is she?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  “If she’s in the early stages there should be less risk. In later stages it could be more of a problem.” He connected a drip with fluids as he spoke.

  She moaned, opening her eyes again.

  “Faith,” he grasped her hand. “You’re going to be fine.” He tried to smile. “It’s just a surface wound, but you have some heat exhaustion. My medic here is taking care of you, and we’ll have you at the best hospital in Al Na’Jar in no time—”

  “No!” She started to fight against her restraints, her eyes going feverish and wild. “Please…Omair, I can’t go there.… Please, don’t do this to
me!”

  In his headset he heard the pilot saying they were about to enter Al Na’Jar airspace.

  Omair lurched to the front of the chopper.

  “Change direction,” he barked. “I want to go north, to Isla del Cheliff in the Mediterranean. You can stay in Algerian airspace.”

  He returned to Faith.

  “My brother Da’ud had a yacht,” he explained, stroking hair back from her temple. “I’ve kept it anchored off a small island in the Mediterranean. We’ll go there, put the yacht out to sea, head out through the Strait of Gibraltar into the Atlantic. There’ll be no one else on board, just you and me, as long as the medic here clears you. We’ll work it all out from there, Faith.”

  Her body relaxed and her eyes filled with tears. She squeezed his hand hard, and Omair bent down, held her close.

  “Why are you doing this for me?” she whispered.

  Because, Faith, I think I’m falling in love with you.

  “It’s the baby, isn’t it? And you still want information on who—”

  “Shh. Not now.”

  Suddenly, he realized this was about more than his country. He’d thought for a horrific moment that he was going to lose her, and it made him realize how much he wanted a chance to get to know her better. For the first time in his life, Omair was falling hard for a woman—and she just happened to be an enemy assassin, carrying another man’s child.

  The irony was a sharp stab to his heart.

  *

  Anxiety laced through Faith as she woke in strange surroundings.

  She was lying in a large double bed, with silk sheets. The air was cool. Mirrors lined one wall, bookshelves another—expensive cabinetry. Refractions from water danced on the ceiling. She was on some kind of boat.

  She sat up sharply, but swayed under a wave of dizziness. Her head was pounding and her arm throbbed.

  She was wearing a soft white robe, with nothing underneath. Faith gingerly edged the robe off her shoulder and touched a clean white bandage around her upper arm. She remembered now, her arm hitting the blade as Omair had forced her to the ground, the pain of it slicing into her. Then there was a gap in her memory.

  She glanced around the room. There was an IV drip beside her bed, unattached. She checked her wrist, saw a bandage over her vein from where the drip had been removed. Faith threw back the covers and got up, bracing against the wall for a moment to steady herself.