Sheik's Revenge Page 6

  Chapter 5

  Shock ripped through Omair as he looked into soft amber eyes lined thickly with black kohl. Blond wisps escaped her French braid and blood dribbled down the side of her face from a gash across her temple.

  But there was no mistake—it was her. The woman he’d not been able to excise from his mind or his heart since Tagua was right here in North Africa. And she’d just tried to blow his head off. Her leonine eyes held his, unflinchingly.

  “Who in hell are you?” he growled, pressing the steel blade of his dagger against her throat. “What are you doing here?”

  “Santiago, please, you don’t want to do this. Put the knife down.” This time she spoke in fluent, soft Arabic and for a nanosecond something inside him almost wavered.

  “You just tried to kill me, Liliana,” he growled though his teeth. “Why? Who sent you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Like hell you don’t!” He spun her around again to face the wall as he lifted the hem of her chador. Underneath, pieces of a high-tech sniper rifle were strapped to her body. Omair drew his pistol, cocked it, and stepped back.

  “Turn around, nice and slow. Hands out at your sides.”

  She did as he said.

  “Take off the chador.”

  Her eyes tightened in defiance, two hot spots forming on her cheekbones.

  “Do it!”

  She yanked the robe up over her head, and dropped it to the ground where her sling bag and knife lay. Underneath she was wearing camouflage cargo pants, a lightweight cotton shirt, hiking boots, desert gaiters, and she had a handgun and military-style water pouch strapped to her hips in addition to the rifle components.

  In spite of her gear, the weaponry, in spite of the defiance crackling in her eyes, there appeared something softer about her than he remembered. She seemed more feminine, her curves more generous—lush even. Maybe it was the blond hair, the color of her eyes that made her even more stunning.

  Omair checked himself—she was a cool-hearted killer who knew just how to use her looks. He’d seen what she’d done to Escudero’s skull, and she’d just tried to do the same to him.

  “Take off the side piece and water pouch, drop them at your feet.”

  She unstrapped the pouch, mouth tight. She let it fall to the ground, followed by her gun.

  “Now face the wall again, hands up, legs apart.”

  Again, she acquiesced. Omair had a sense she was quietly waiting for a gap. Well, he wasn’t going to give her one. Or he’d be dead.

  He unbuckled his belt, yanked it from his pants, stepped forward, and quickly grabbed her hands down from the wall. He bound them tightly behind her back using his belt.

  He wrapped her veil over her nose and mouth, then scooped her chador off the ground, pulled it back over her shoulders and hair and secured the clasp at the front. Now she was bound and essentially trapped under the oppressive black fabric.

  “Who sent you to shoot me, Lili?”

  She remained silent, eyes defiant above her veil.

  He pressed his body against hers, forcing her backward against the wall. “Either you’ll tell me now, or later,” he whispered, near her face. “And believe me, now will be easier.”

  She swallowed slightly, but her gaze never flinched. “I didn’t shoot you. I missed.”

  He laughed.

  “I never miss.”

  A slither of emotion went through him. “Why did you?”

  She moistened her mouth. “I looked through my scope and saw it was you,” she said quietly. “I hesitated, then lost my mark.”

  “Yet you still pulled the trigger,” he said, knowing on some level she’d already hooked him again and was reeling him quietly in, or he would not even be having a conversation.

  She remained silent, pulse at her neck throbbing.

  “If you weren’t expecting to see me in your crosshairs, who did you think you’d come to shoot?”

  She said nothing.

  Irritation flared in Omair. “Damn you, Lili,” he growled, his mouth close to hers, so close he could almost taste her, and God, he wanted to. Up close he could also catch the scent of her shampoo. In spite of himself he felt his body stir, and intrigue whispered through him.

  “I fell for your act once, in Colombia,” he said. “It’s not going to happen again.”

  “I think you should let me go,” she said coolly. “Before I scream for the police.”

  “Go ahead, scream.”

  This time her eyes watered.

  “Right, maybe you don’t want the Algerian police to see what you have strapped under that chador. Possibly you don’t have the right papers to be here, even?”

  Still holding his gun to her, Omair scooped up her knife and bag from where they’d fallen to the cobbles. He took a quick inventory of the purse contents—GPS, sat phone, and just as he thought, no ID documents. He dropped her knife and water pouch into her bag and slung the strap across his chest.

  Removing the rifle components strapped to her body would have to wait until he had more time and privacy, but she wouldn’t be able to assemble them under her chador with her hands tightly bound behind her back.

  Holding his pistol inside the leather bag slung across his torso, he kept the snout aimed at her waist. With his free hand he grabbed her brusquely by the arm.

  “Now, walk nicely with me,” he whispered against her ear. “Make like you’re my wife. Screw this up, Lili, and I’ll shoot where it counts. You’ll bleed out before anyone even knows you’re hurt under that black robe.”

  She glowered at him over her scarf. He replaced her shades, and led her down the alley, back toward the noise of the market.

  “Where are you taking me?” she said with a calm that belied the tension he could feel in her body.

  “Somewhere private.” He bent down, bringing his mouth close to her veil, and he inhaled her scent in spite of himself. “Perhaps your employers didn’t tell you, Liliana—if there’s one thing I’m very good at, it’s making people give me information. I never fail,” he whispered. “Ever.”

  *

  And then he’d kill her, Faith was sure of it.

  The longer she kept silent, the longer she’d live, and the more opportunity she’d have to escape. Time was her weapon now. And if she thought about it logically, he’d just given her a second chance to finish the job she’d been sent to do—which was kill him.

  She still had a chance to go back home with her head held high and her career intact.

  As her captor marshaled her back into the mayhem of the market Faith scanned her surroundings for possible escape routes. At the same time she remained acutely aware of the pistol pressing into her waist from inside the bag—the bag that contained her positive pregnancy test. Faith hadn’t wanted to leave the wand in the hotel room garbage can so she’d slipped it inside the lining of the black bag along with the photo of her mother.

  She glanced up at the harsh, yet striking profile of her captor—Faroud bin Ali. She was carrying his child, the child of a notorious and wanted terrorist that she’d been sent to eliminate. The idea was surreal. But she couldn’t dwell on her pregnancy now. Her priority was survival—and to finish her job.

  He escorted her up to a stall where he began rapid-fire negotiations for the purchase of two robes and some bolts of cloth. All the while he kept the bag and pistol pressed into her side.

  Faith listened to him, her brain racing to find avenues of escape as she continued scanning the marketplace crowds. At the same time she wondered why Faroud, a key MagMo terrorist, had been posing as Santiago Cabrero in Tagua, and why he’d wanted to scuttle an arms cache destined for MagMo. It didn’t make sense, and it made her uneasy. Even more troubling was why STRIKE had tasked her with the hit on him. Was it possible they knew of her interaction with him in Colombia?

  Had she been set up? How? Did the man in the minaret have anything to do with it—and what about the disconnected evacuation number? A chill s
laked through her in spite of the heat. She reminded herself that STRIKE operatives functioned exclusively on a need-to-know basis. The unit was so tightly compartmentalized she didn’t even know who the other operatives were, unless in the rare event she was assigned to work with one. There could be a rational explanation for this all, and she hoped she’d find it once she reached the safe house.

  The Arab vendor packaged the garments and handed them to Faroud. He bundled them under his arm and led her into a throng of people jostling beside another stall.

  “This way.”

  He held tightly onto her arm as he bartered for two goatskin water pouches, ropes, a sheet of canvas,

  blankets, a kettle, pot, rice. He also bought dates, nuts and tea. He was preparing for a trip.

  Anxiety skittered through her—he was going to take her out into the Sahara, where she’d be out of her element. She needed to escape before that, but couldn’t see how. Heat beat down, the noise and strong scents of the market making her dizzy and nauseous. Faith also felt thirst, but her captor had taken her water pouch. She considered asking him for it, but before she could think further, Faith caught sight of a tall man in white robe and dark red turban. He was moving with purpose through the crowd, directly toward her.

  “That man,” she whispered urgently to her captor. “He’s going to try and kill me.”

  “What?”

  “I said he’s going to kill me.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know!” Panic licked. She was trapped, defenseless with her arms bound behind her back under her chador. The gun was still pressed into her side. All she could do was use Faroud, rely on his desire for information to keep her alive.

  “He tried to shoot me from the minaret after I fired at you,” she said. “Look, he’s coming this way,” she hissed under her breath. “You’ve got to let me go.”

  The man neared, but Faroud turned his face away, and continued bargaining for his purchases from the stall. Faith cursed him as the red turban came closer. Her heart began to race. She considered bolting, but Faroud’s gun was still pressing into her waist. Then suddenly Faroud laughed loudly at something the vendor said, and he spun around, bumping sideways into the man with the red turban. The man stumbled, fell.

  “Come,” he said to Faith, gripping her arm.

  She stared, incredulous, at the man lying on the ground. He wasn’t moving. Blood was pooling under him. She glanced at her captor. His eyes were hard.

  “I said come.”

  He yanked her arm and propelled her quickly toward the large keyhole archway at the market entrance.

  “Faster,” he said quietly near her ear.

  She glanced back over her shoulder. A crowd was starting to gather around the fallen man. A woman screamed.

  Faith swallowed as her abductor led her quickly under the archway and out into the traffic-congested street. She hadn’t even registered that he’d unsheathed his dagger and stuck it into that man’s gut.

  He was one frightening and skilled opponent, one she could admire—if she was on the same side.

  Vehicles crawled along the road outside the casbah, exhaust fumes stinking hot. Her captor marched her toward a line of yellow taxis.

  “Who was that man?” He spoke fast, eyes scanning the street as they walked.

  “I don’t know. Thank you for taking care of him.”

  He stopped, looked down into her eyes. His features were tight. “Who are you? Does life mean absolutely nothing to you?”

  Faith reeled at the sudden judgment, at the anger in his eyes. This man was MagMo. He brokered in terror, the death of innocent civilians.

  “You have no right to judge me!” she snapped. “I saw what you just did to that man back there, a man you didn’t even know. I could have been lying to you, yet you killed him without blinking or breaking stride.”

  She glared at him. “What were you doing in Colombia anyway?”

  “I had a purpose.”

  “What purpose?”

  He shoved her toward a cab, opened the door. “This is my show. I ask the questions. Get in.”

  She scrambled in, her body humming with sudden rage. She wanted to yell at him that he’d screwed up her mission that day in Tagua, that he’d screwed up her entire life. And now she was carrying his baby. But the truth was she bore equal responsibility. She’d made the decision to sleep with him. She was the one who’d lost her mind over him.

  Sitting awkwardly with hands bound behind her back and rifle components poking into her body, Faith clenched her teeth as Faroud climbed in beside her, his powerful frame dwarfing hers. He kept the pistol in the bag pointed at her as he instructed the driver to go to a place he referred to as the camel market.

  His body was warm against hers. The heavy black chador and veil bound tightly over her nose didn’t help with the heat, and there was no air-conditioning in the cab. The air coming in through the open windows was stifling as they drove. Traffic was heavy, and loud with honking horns. The noise of the North African city began to pound against Faith’s head and she felt queasy again. Again, she debated asking him for water, but decided against showing vulnerability until she absolutely had to.

  Once outside the city center, the traffic eased and their cabbie drove faster, Arabic music whining from his radio, beads swinging from his rearview mirror. He smelled of stale cigarette smoke and incense. Another wave of nausea swept over Faith, and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick. She eased her bound hands to her side so she could lean back against the seat and she closed her eyes as she rested her head back, concentrating on not throwing up.

  “Were you lying about that man in the market, Lili?” he whispered, this time in Spanish, presumably so the driver wouldn’t understand.

  “No,” she said, eyes still closed.

  “Why did he want to kill you?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.” She paused. “Believe me, I wish I did.”

  “Why did you kill Escudero?’

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He was fishing—had to be. He’d read her note with the time and place of the weapons deal. He’d seen Escudero get shot, and he’d found her sniper hide, but he had not seen her. There was still no proof she’d been the one to fire on Escudero.

  “You had the note—”

  “It was for someone else,” she said. “I had no idea what it was for—I just passed it on. The cantina owner asked me to do it. I only heard later about Escudero.”

  “And then you suddenly left the country?”

  She said nothing.

  “Were you sleeping with the cantina owner?”

  Faith opened her eyes. He was looking at her in an unguarded way. He caught himself, and his features hardened again. But something she’d glimpsed in his face got to her. She remembered the way he’d felt in her arms, between her legs; the flowers he’d left on her pillow.

  “It’s none of your business who I was sleeping with,” she said quietly.

  “You slept with me.”

  Her face felt hot. “You used me,” she said.

  “And you were open to being used.”

  Her mouth tightened and she looked away, out the window, eyes burning. He was right, that’s what cut. She’d been rendered vulnerable by her desire for the man who’d watched her nightly from the cantina shadows. And look where that had gotten her now. He hadn’t even come to watch—he’d just wanted her information.

  “Why did you want the note?” she said.

  “I had business to finish.”

  “You wanted to scuttle the weapons deal?” Or just kill the bodyguard? But she couldn’t say that out loud—it would prove she’d been on the knoll and had seen him.

  He inhaled deeply, as if tempering frustration. “Like I said earlier, Liliana, I have the gun. I get to ask the questions.”

  The scenery changed as they drove, dense buildings giving way to sparsely scattered settlements, and in between, there was nothing but sa
nd or dry flinty ground. Tension built inside her. She needed to get a better sense of this man before he took her too far.

  “You left me flowers,” she said, quietly. “You didn’t have to do that—why did you?”

  “You gave me a good night.”

  Faith clenched her jaw. A good night, in exchange for the information on the note—that’s all it had been for him. For her…it had changed her life. She’d been on the pill. They’d used protection. But the stomach bug must have left her system vulnerable. And condoms were known to occasionally fail. Obviously hers was case in point.

  “A very good night,” he whispered after a few beats. “One of the best.”

  Faith’s face grew hot and she clenched her teeth together as she continued to stare pointedly out the window. For the first time she was glad for the veil.

  *

  Omair’s body went hard. He couldn’t help it, sitting so close to her like this, talking about their shared night of pleasure, remembering how smooth and firm her naked body had felt under his, how she’d thrown her head back and cried out as she’d climaxed on top of him. He remained physically attracted to her in spite of the fact she’d just tried to kill him. Or perhaps even because of it. It just enhanced that air of danger she’d exuded right from the beginning.

  But he didn’t like the coincidence of her being both in Algiers and Tagua at the same time he was.

  He wondered who she was working for—he’d get it out of her sooner or later. Clearly she wasn’t of indigenous Maghreb blood. She was more likely freelance, a hired gun for MagMo, and a damn fine one. Omair understood mercenaries—he was one himself. And he could respect her skill. Yet he always worked to a code. He never took a job that went against his political philosophies, and he never harmed women or children. Which was why he was struggling with how to handle extracting information from this particular captive.

  Not only was she female, he was attracted to her.

  He reminded himself she could use his attraction as a weapon against him—he had to get over that. This was a woman who had no qualms about killing him.