Sheik's Revenge Page 9

  “What’s your real name?” she said as her world began to spin violently, sickeningly around her.

  “You first, Lili. What’s your name?”

  She flattened her mouth.

  “You could have killed me in Tagua, Lili, while I lay naked in your bed. Why not then?”

  “That was not my job in Tagua.”

  “Your job was Escudero.”

  She tightened her fingers on the camel horn, clenching her teeth. Her mind was growing weak, fuzzy, and his questions were coming at her like battering rams.

  Suddenly he came at her with yet another tack. “What has Faroud bin Ali allegedly done to become a most wanted terrorist?”

  “He…he’s responsible for a recent jet bombing at JFK, and he’s behind fresh injections of cash financing MagMo operations in North Africa.”

  Omair froze, reined in his camel.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  She’d just accused him of being responsible for placing a bomb on his own family’s jet. And she’d claimed MagMo was the organization responsible for the bomb, yet MagMo had not yet made an official statement. Her intel was so bizarre he felt a sudden pang of pity for her. This highly skilled sniper had been hired for a bogus mission, and he was beginning to think she honestly believed she was killing a murderous terrorist.

  His pity segued into compassion as he saw her almost slide from the saddle again. She was showing signs of fatigue, possibly even hypothermia and dehydration. A ripple of anxiety chased through Omair—he’d thought she would hold up better.

  “We’ll camp here for the rest of the night,” he announced abruptly. Couching his camel, he dismounted, then took her camel by the lead rope, stopping it, as well.

  From his saddlebags he removed a tarp and laid it out on the sand in the lee of a dune, then he untied her wrists from the saddle horn and helped her down to the ground.

  In her weakened state she stumbled and fell heavily into his arms. And as Omair held her for a moment, a powerful urge to protect her rose unbidden through him. Urgency also nipped at him—he needed to get her hydrated and warm, fast.

  Quickly, he helped her hobble over to the tarp where he put on her socks and boots, noting the slender arch of her feet as he did. Images of that hot night under her mosquito net in her room above the cantina assailed him. Omair shook himself.

  Removing a heavy blanket from his saddlebag, he wrapped it around her shoulders then fetched the goatskin water pouch and lowered himself down onto the tarp beside her. He untied and removed her veil. Her complexion was wan in the silver moonlight, her eyes dark holes. He unstoppered the goatskin and helped her drink.

  She swallowed hungrily, which gave him a sharp spark of relief, and Omair realized how much he hated having to pry information out of her. He did not hurt women—it went against his personal code. Especially this woman—he still felt something for her. And now that he was beginning to think she’d been deceived for some ulterior purpose, he was angered for her.

  Omair built a fire and when the flames were

  crackling hot and orange and shooting small sparks up into the black sky, he seated himself beside her again.

  “Any warmer?”

  She nodded. He put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close, and he rubbed her arms.

  Finally he felt her stop shivering and he relaxed a little.

  He put a pot of water on the fire to boil for tea and found a small bag of dates in his bags.

  “That information you were given about me, Lili,” he said, reseating himself beside her. “It’s so wrong it would be laughable if it weren’t so serious. Do you really wish to protect the identity of someone who has hung you out to dry like this?”

  She stared at the flames, her face deathly pale.

  “Lili?”

  “My name’s not Lili,” she said, very quietly, a sad look filtering into her eyes.

  Omair’s pulse quickened. “What is it?”

  “Faith.”

  “Faith?”

  She glanced at him sharply, and her gaze held his for a long moment. Omair caught the gleam of tears in her eyes. His chest cramped, and he had to struggle against the urge to take her into his arms again, to hold, to comfort.

  “It’s an interesting choice of name for an assassin,” he said.

  “I didn’t choose it, my mother did.”

  “Your father had no say?”

  Her lips tightened and she glanced away. “I don’t talk about my father,” she said flatly. “Ever.”

  Omair inhaled deeply and offered her the bag of dates. She reached for it without hesitation, taking a handful and beginning to eat.

  “Faith who?” he said calmly, quietly.

  “Just Faith,” she said.

  “It’s a start,” he said, putting the packet of dates in his pocket. He believed her—that Faith was her name. He’d seen the way her eyes had shot to his when he’d spoken it. And her father was a sore point. He filed this information away.

  “I suspect we have a common enemy in MagMo, Faith. The man I’m hunting is the organization’s new leader. I believe it is he who is ordering the deaths in my family.”

  She looked slowly up into his eyes. “You mean the man they call The Moor?”

  “The New Moor,” Omair said. “Not the old man who was recently captured by the U.S. military after an attempted biological attack on the States.”

  Faith swallowed, her gaze holding his, intense. She was silent for several beats and wind sighed up along the ridge of dunes behind them.

  “I heard about the attempted mass suicide attack and the FBI agent who helped stop it,” she said finally. “But I didn’t know MagMo had a new leader.”

  “I just learned this news myself while in North Africa posing as a weapons dealer seeking to replace the stock lost by MagMo in Tagua.”

  “So you were posing as someone friendly to MagMo?”

  “That is correct.”

  “So…someone might conceivably confuse you with being a terrorist.”

  “A terrorist called Faroud bin Ali?” He snorted softly. “You’re trying to rationalize what’s happening to you, Faith. Face it, we’re on the same side, united against MagMo.”

  She rubbed her face in frustration. Omair took the boiling water from the flames and threw another log on the fire. As the fire crackled he made sweet tea and handed her a mug.

  “Careful,” he said. “The enamel is hot.”

  She wrapped the edge of the blanket around the steaming mug and cradled it between her hands, drawing warmth from it. Omair was relieved to see color returning to her cheeks.

  He made a mug of tea for himself, then reseated himself on the blanket beside her. He liked the feel of her next to him, and he sensed the start of a fundamental shift in her. He told himself to play it carefully from here.

  She sat staring into the flames, sipping her tea, clearly mulling over what he’d just told her.

  Turning to him suddenly, she said, “That man with the white suit and red carnation—”

  “The Russian?”

  “I didn’t know he claimed he was Russian.”

  “He’s been dealing arms for decades. His specialty is Chinese guns to Africa and Cold War munitions to the Balkans.”

  In the firelight he could see the carotid at her neck pulsing fast. Omair was hit with another memory flash of bodies tangling, skin slick with sweat, a fan turning slowly above them, sounds of the jungle outside. His own pulse quickened.

  “How did this Russian get you to meet with him in the hotel courtyard?” she asked.

  “I was going to supply him with guns. He was buying for MagMo, to replace the cache that blew up in Colombia.”

  “Jesus,” she said softly, glancing away for several beats.

  “Who did you think he was, Faith?”

  She said nothing.

  “Faith, if your people asked that Russian to set me up, they had to know he was an arms dealer, and that Mag
Mo numbered among his top clients.”

  She drew the blanket tighter around her and stared into the fire. Wood popped and crackled. Omair poked at the embers and sparks spattered up into the thick blackness.

  Silence descended around them.

  “I love this world, you know?” he said, nodding out toward the endless shadows of dunes under moonlight. “There’s nothing quite like the desert at night, the profound silence, the timelessness of the sand, the history. It’s like this in my country.”

  “Are you going to tell me which country?”

  Omair sat silent for several beats. “Faith,” he said quietly, touching her arm. “Tell me who hired you—it will help me find the Moor, I am certain of it. You are my one link after all these weeks in Africa.”

  Faith looked deep into his ink-black eyes. He’d taken his turban off and his hair gleamed in the moonlight. The flames made his skin glow copper. He looked like a desert warrior—both frightening and devastatingly handsome. His looks had done it for her back in Colombia. They did it for her now, too. Again, that little whispering thought crept into her—would her baby look like its father? Would the child want to know who its father was one day?

  No. She couldn’t go through with it. Could she?

  Her mouth turned dry.

  Even if she wanted to, it was a ludicrous idea. Yet looking into this man’s eyes now, she felt a bond, just knowing his baby was inside her. And the urge rose in her to share. With him. Anyone. Again, she fought it down. She was exhausted. She couldn’t think about these things now. What her captor was telling her was fundamentally devastating, if it was true.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But I can’t tell you who sent me.”

  “They’re not worth protecting, Faith.”

  “I…have a contractual obligation,” she said. She was still a soldier, and a good soldier’s duty was not to question, or even to know the context of every military decision. And the revelation of STRIKE—a government-sanctioned hit unit—would undermine the United States. It would start wars. She couldn’t be responsible for that—and she still couldn’t be certain this man was telling the truth.

  “I can’t trust you, either,” she said. “I don’t know who you are, or why I was given the wrong information about you, and there’s always the chance you’re just messing with my head.”

  “Fine,” he said, sipping his tea. “I can understand this. As I said, I’ve worked as a soldier for hire and have had similar contractual obligations myself. A mercenary has a reputation to uphold—it’s a small world.”

  “Can you say who you’ve worked for in the past?” Faith said.

  He pursed his lips, studying her intently, as if weighing how much to reveal to her. “For the most part,” he said slowly, “I worked for the FDS, but I’m on my own now.”

  Surprise stabbed through her.

  “The Force Du Sable? The private military services company based on São Diogo?”

  “Yes.”

  Faith stared at him, her mind reeling. “The United States has used the FDS before, in sensitive situations, particularly in Africa.”

  His eyes narrowed sharply. “This is important to you—the partnership of FDS with the United States?”

  “And smaller nations use them, too,” she added quickly, cursing herself for her slip. “Those without strong armies to defend themselves under attack.”

  His gaze bore into her and Faith felt her cheeks warm under his intense scrutiny. The memory of him in the cantina sifted into her mind, him walking toward her over the old wooden floor, his shirt open to his waist, his skin gleaming, the fit of his jeans crying out for sin.

  The look in his coal-black eyes that fateful night had held similar dark intent to now. But while she’d thought the intent that night was purely carnal, she now knew better. He’d wanted something from her all right, and it wasn’t just sex. She swallowed, embarrassed by her foolishness.

  Was she being as foolish and blinded by him now? Because if he really had contracted to the FDS, technically it made them allies.

  And it made it even more absurd to think STRIKE had ordered her to hit an FDS operative. Ex-operative, Faith reminded himself. People—times—change. He could have done a job since leaving the FDS that had made him a U.S. target now.

  She moistened her lips. “And now you’re working solo, hunting this New Moor, because you believe he’s attacking you and your family?”

  “And you can help me.”

  “It’s very important to you, family.”

  “It’s everything.”

  He said it with such finality it was like an underscore.

  “Do you have a wife, children?”

  The question seemed to take him aback, then he laughed lightly. “I wouldn’t be sleeping around with women like you, Faith, if I was married.”

  Like a blow, his words rammed into her gut. She told herself she was being ridiculous. She’d gone in wanting a hot one-night stand. So why was she hurt? Why did she feel his words diminished her in some way? She looked away.

  He noticed.

  “Faith?”

  She met his gaze, and a moment of realization hung between them.

  “What I meant, Faith, is that I take the vow of marriage very, very seriously and there is no room for it in my life, nor for children of my own. There can’t be. Mine is a warrior’s duty now.”

  She wondered what he would say if he knew she was carrying his child, and Faith snorted. “A warrior’s duty?”

  He shrugged.

  “It sounds so…ancient.”

  “It is.”

  She thought of the antique-looking jambiya he carried—the kind passed down by tribal leaders for centuries, and she wondered where he’d gotten it.

  Faith finished her tea, and before she could even think to ask more questions of her own, an overwhelming wave of nausea and fatigue hit her. She set her mug down on the tarp, and put her hand to her brow as her world began to spin again.

  “Are you all right?” He touched her arm with such care, it made her chest hurt. She shook him off.

  I’m pregnant and it’s playing havoc with my body and my brain, never mind this mission.

  “I need sleep,” she said.

  “Sleep then,” he said gently. “I’ll keep watch.”

  “I thought I was your captive, not that you had to protect me from capture.” She spat the words at him out of frustration.

  He grinned and Faith’s heart did a funny torque at the sight of it. She hadn’t seen him smile, really smile, not even in Colombia. The role he’d played there had been dark and sullen.

  “Remember, we’re on the same side, Faith. You can help me find the Moor.”

  “It would help if you told me your name,” she said as she lay down, curling onto her side under the blanket, using the robe he’d put there for a pillow.

  He nodded. “Yes. When you can tell me who you work for, I’ll tell you my name.”

  She lay there, looking up at his profile etched against the firelight, the moonlit dunes rising behind him. And as she began to fall asleep, he said suddenly, “Who ordered the hit on Escudero—was it the same person who wants me dead?”

  She jolted back, and cursed inwardly. He was still playing her, allowing her to drop off and then hammering her with an abrupt question.

  “I didn’t kill him,” she replied wearily.

  He put his head back, his neck tense. “Look, there’s no use for this charade, Faith. I know you did it. I saw your sniper hide, and I have forensic evidence that will no doubt prove it was you.”

  Anxiety punched through Faith, and she edged herself onto her elbow quickly.

  “What evidence?” she said as she fought back another wave of nausea and dizziness.

  “I found some strands of hair and a very unique shell casing at the sniper hide. I’ve sent the hair for DNA analysis, and the casing to an arms expert with a private forensics firm.”

  “What?” Her heart hammered.

 
“I have a private investigator doing the work for me, and lab is one we use often—”

  “We? Who’s we?”

  He ignored her question. “They worked up a DNA profile from the hair. It was originally blond, but dyed dark.” He paused. “Just like Liliana’s.”

  Her mouth went dry. She’d seen him pick up the casing, but she hadn’t known about the hair.

  “There was also a partial print left on the shell casing. My investigator started running the DNA profile and print partial through various international databases four weeks ago. I believe, Faith, if I send him some of your DNA and your prints, we will find our match.”

  Something akin to terror washed through her body.

  If her DNA profile and prints had been run through any law enforcement or other major government databases in the U.S., even covertly, an alarm would have instantly sounded in STRIKE computers. And if it looked as if someone was investigating her in connection with a hit on foreign soil, it would be enough to scrub her from the program.

  Proof of a U.S.-sanctioned assassination on Colombian soil would be devastating to her, to STRIKE, to the U.S. government, and they’d do everything to bury her.

  “You have no idea what you just did,” she said, her voice going hoarse. “You signed my death warrant.”

  His eyes flashed. “How so?”

  “When did you say your investigator started running my profile through databases?”

  “Four weeks ago.”

  During her debriefing.

  Faith’s heart sank like a cold, hard stone. Perhaps she’d never been cleared. Perhaps, because of this man and his private investigator, alarms had triggered a need to retire her. That could be why she was assigned such a rush hit, and why a sniper might have been lying in wait to kill her.

  She dropped her face into her hands, feeling sickeningly overwhelmed suddenly.

  He put his arm over her shoulders again, and Faith leaned into him—she couldn’t help it. His solidity, his warmth, his humanity, was a comfort in the darkness she felt inside. Ironically, the man she’d been sent to kill, the man she believed to be the enemy, might just be her last ally in this world.

  If he was telling the truth.