Finding Sheba (Omar Zagouri Thriller Book 1)

by H. B. Moore

  Azhara gasped and covered her mouth.

  The three of them stood in awed fascination as the massed bodies approached the camp. Hundreds of paces wide and dozens high, the cloud of locusts pummeled its way straight toward them. Cries and screams resonated throughout the camp as the others scrambled for cover.

  “We must pray to Yahweh for protection as we journey to his land,” Batal shouted.

  As the first spindly legs touched Nicaula’s skin, Batal pulled her to the ground and covered her with his body. Azhara burrowed against her other side.

  The droning closed in, and despite Batal’s protection, Nicaula felt the insects assail her flesh, one after the other. Her stomach recoiled at the touch of the locusts’ wings and their pursuit of nourishment.

  Were the evil djinns stirring the locusts against her? Could Yahweh protect them, or would she and her people die this way—devoured by insects of the desert?

  An eerie sound reached her clogged mind. At first she thought it was the undercurrent of the swarm, and then she realized it was the sound of urgent prayer. The voice grew louder, and through the pitch of the storm, the queen heard Batal praying.

  His words were muffled, but his demands seemed clear. Nicaula added her voice to his, hoping that anyone—goddesses Al’Uzza, Allat, Menat, or even Yahweh—would respond.

  The minutes passed slowly as the swarm continued on its relentless course. Nicaula’s tears crusted the sand to her face. Her body had grown so numb, she was no longer sure she was a part of it, and Azhara’s weight next to her offered no protection.

  Finally, the furious beating of tiny wings lessened. The lifting came gradually, like the slow pull of a young root from moist soil.

  The queen kept her tight position until she was sure—sure of what she heard.

  Quiet.

  Nicaula lifted her head, sputtering sand from her mouth. Everything was gritty—warm—sharp.

  Almost as suddenly as it started, the wind quieted, and the sand softened. Nicaula’s senses returned. She felt the caked sand against her scalp, the fierce dryness of her throat, the stiffness of her legs and back, and the calloused flesh of Batal’s hand on her arm. Without realizing it, she had buried her head against his chest, and his arms had wrapped around her.

  She shut her eyes as she took comfort in the man by her side—one to protect her and care for her as no other could. Even with her eyes closed, she could see the features she’d memorized so long ago: his ebony curls, his eyes blacker than night, his high cheekbones, his lips that said her name . . . She let out a long breath, then reluctantly pulled away from him and found herself staring into his steady gaze. Her heart pounded with relief over their safety, combined with the intensity of his expression.

  He moved ever so slightly, so that their bodies no longer touched, and Nicaula released her gaze. His youth, passion, strong will, and devotion combined for a dangerous concoction.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  She nodded, swallowing against the stiff lump in her throat. She wanted to touch his face and brush the sand from it. She wanted to feel his arms around her again. She wanted . . .

  Batal stood and helped her to her feet. Her legs wavered like delicate oleander. She took an unsteady breath as his calloused hand released hers. As the warmth from his touch faded, she looked over at Azhara, who had sat up, her black hair wild and tossed.

  Through bleary, itchy eyes, Nicaula gazed across the former campsite. Tens of thousands of hoppers had settled onto the palms of the oasis, breaking the branches, devouring everything edible. The decimated sight brought stinging moisture to her eyes.

  The locusts had moved on, but left devastation in their wake. Only bare branches and roots from former bushes were left. The people rose from their positions, throwing off rugs and robes, assessing the damage. Then the sound of bawling beasts reached her ears.

  Instinctively, Nicaula knew something was missing. One more scan for the familiar form confirmed the truth. Her Arabian horse was gone.

  Someone touched her arm, and she turned to see Batal. Past him, Azhara still sat in the sand, her head lowered. The soldier answered Nicaula’s unspoken question. “Azhara is all right.”

  Batal let his hand linger for a moment, and she looked up, meeting his gaze. His expression was somber—but there was more. Concern and tenderness belied the surface.

  Nicaula knew she should draw away, but she remained, savoring the commander’s touch for a brief moment.

  “Are you well?” he asked.

  Pulling back reluctantly, the queen scanned the terrain. “The oasis is destroyed, and the Arabian is missing.”

  Batal took a step forward, closing the little distance that separated them. “I am asking after you, not the horse.”

  Nicaula looked at him in surprise. “He was my favorite.”

  Batal turned from her and called out to several soldiers, commanding them to search for the queen’s horse. When they had left, he looked at her, letting out a heavy breath. “Yahweh heard our cries.”

  “But he took my horse,” she said.

  “No,” Batal said. “The locusts frightened the horse, but Yahweh spared our lives.”

  “Perhaps you are right.”

  “When we meet this great king, I fear you will never look upon me with favor again.”

  A finger of trepidation traced its way along Nicaula’s neck. What can he mean? “Meeting the king of Jerusalem will not change your position as commander, even if he bequeaths an army of men into our services.”

  “I am honored to be your commander,” he said.

  Nicaula squinted against the pale light, studying his features. His words did not match the concern she observed on his face. “Why are you troubled?”

  “During the swarm, I realized I must confess something to you.” Batal avoided her direct gaze and looked past her shoulder. “I am young, and perhaps that makes me more foolish than other men.”

  Bumps rose on Nicaula’s arms as a breeze wrapped itself around her tunic. He is about to confess his affection for me. At the thought, panic surged through her. It was one thing to indulge in a private attraction for the commander of her army, but another to speak of it.

  “It has been many months since your grief,” Batal continued in a quiet voice. “And because of that, I feel I can be bold in my request.”

  She must stop his confession. “Batal,” she interrupted, “please do not speak of this.” She stepped away and turned from him.

  “Nicaula!” A firm hand gripped her arm, surprising her.

  The queen turned, shocked first at the sound of her name, then at the action that accompanied it. His eyes had darkened.

  “Let go,” she said in a low voice, hoping that he would obey, although her heart wanted him to take her in his arms.

  “Hear me out, before my valor fails me.” His hand dropped to his side, but his eyes were filled with angst.

  Nicaula folded her arms, if only to calm the wildness of her pulse.

  “If you marry the king, you will be numbered as only one among his many wives. You deserve complete devotion.”

  The queen felt her legs weaken. How could Batal have guessed her fears?

  He stepped closer to her, crowding her space, yet she could not move. “I will always remain your servant until the day of my death. But if you ever desire that I fulfill a more intimate role, I will do so, and not because you commanded it.”

  Through the sand on his face, Nicaula saw perspiration shining there. He had spoken the words she had forbidden him to. “Is this desert poetry? To save me from becoming a numbered wife?”

  Batal’s gaze was bold. “I speak no poetry or fables. I know I could never compare to a king or a prince, but I will remain faithful and devoted until death—”

  “Death?” Her voice was too high; he was too close for her to thin
k clearly. She whispered her next words. “Do you know what you are saying, Batal?”

  “Marry me, Nicaula . . .” His eyes searched hers.

  Like a flower blooming after a desert rain, warmth ruptured in her chest and traveled to her feet. “You wish to marry a queen?”

  “If you were not a queen, my love would be the same.”

  Her breath stopped in her throat, and for an instant, she did not know if she should inhale or exhale. Azhara’s groan interrupted Nicaula’s faltering. The woman was awake.

  “It is . . . impossible,” Nicaula said.

  She moved from him, before he could see the tears in her eyes. Her limbs felt heavy as she knelt to check on Azhara. Nicaula wanted to tell him how she truly esteemed him, how if she were not queen, she would wish to make him her husband. But she could not become betrothed to a mere soldier, no matter what her heart said.

  CHAPTER

  20

  Al Mahrah Plateau

  “Take me,” Alem sputtered. A couple of dark-feathered vultures crouched nearby with their heads lowered, nestled against their beige breasts, beady eyes keen. One took a hopeful step closer. But when Alem shouted again, it stopped.

  The sand was everywhere—in his mouth, nostrils, and ears and beneath his fingernails and even toenails. His near nakedness only aided the sand’s intrusion. He lay near a boulder with just his legs in the shade, the rest of his body burnt blacker than the night. Along his torso, painful blisters had reared up.

  The hours had blended together, and he didn’t know how long he had been out here. The day before, he’d crawled to this shady spot, using the last of his reserves to do so. Alem tried to lift his head to examine his body. At least the bleeding had stopped, though painful welts rose on his forearms and chest. He closed his eyes against the burning heat of the sun. Any perspiration had dried long ago, and he doubted he had a droplet of moisture left in his body.

  “Bring me some water if you’re just going to stare at me,” Alem called to the birds. His throat burned with the effort of speaking. For the first few hours, he’d made good progress as he traveled along the wadi leading to a plateau. He remembered others in the work crew telling him about the vegetation in the highlands. But without food or water, his strength soon ran out.

  “Never mind. I can’t swallow anyway,” he croaked. He cracked an eye open and was met by the unblinking stares of the vultures. His fist closed around a scoop of sand, and he tossed it toward the birds. They remained unmoving, ever patient.

  “O God—Allah—Yahweh—Grandmother—whoever sees my plight . . .” Tears would have formed in his eyes if there were any moisture left. “I failed you, Grandmother. I tried to restore honor to our name, but here I am—about to die because of my foolishness.” The heat seemed to close in on him, making it difficult to breathe. His skin literally continued to bake, and his throat—it was an entity to itself. He wanted to cut out his tongue and disappear from existence. Nothing in his training as a runner, or any physical ailment, could have prepared him for this torture—a torture worse than death.

  “Let me die now,” he cried out. He’d heard about people being stranded in the desert, seeing mirages, going insane. Well, he was heading toward that.

  Mercy right now would be immediate death. He turned slowly to his side, not only surprised that he could do it, but also that he could still feel pain.

  Pressing himself against the cool underside of the boulder, he slipped into a listless sleep. After a moment or two, or maybe an hour, he felt a sharp scratch on his shoulder. Vultures.

  Disappointed that he was still alive, he used his final ounce of energy to swat the creatures away. “At least wait until I’m dead,” he said, although his statement wasn’t coherent. He drifted again, his consciousness hovering between wakefulness and dreaming, when he saw his grandmother sitting next to him. He watched her lips move, but he couldn’t hear a word. She faded to white, and for a while Alem felt as if he were floating. Maybe I am dead.

  A loud bray sounded above him.

  With great effort, he looked up and saw the loose, hairy lips of an animal.

  A camel.

  “I’m still alive?” Alem whispered, letting the camel sniff him out. “Are you my answer?” If this was a nursing camel in the wilderness, its milk would be nectar from the gods. Wandering camels could survive a couple of weeks with no water, but how long had it been since this animal drank? How far away was the nearest water? Alem rotated his body into a sitting position, moaning. He squinted at the animal through blurry eyes. The camel looked wild, and no bridle or rope indicated that it had ever been tied or ridden.

  He scanned the camel’s belly, looking for engorged nipples. It was a male.

  Alem rose to his feet, using the boulder for support as he staggered with dizziness. The camel’s image faded before his eyes and then jolted back again. He reached out and touched the animal’s coarse fur. “Will you let me ride you, boy?”

  The camel lowered its head and nuzzled Alem’s arm. “I don’t have anything to eat either, but you can still walk.” He moved his hand to its neck and scratched the flea-infested fur.

  Buoyed with temporary hope, he tugged at the animal’s neck. “Come on, boy, sit.”

  The animal bawled—sounding like a cross between a roar and an elongated belch. Alem wished he’d paid more attention to the camel commands he’d heard occasionally throughout Yemen.

  He pulled again. “Down.” The camel didn’t budge. “Down, you scruffy thing!” Alem barked hoarsely. He tried to yank the camel’s neck toward the ground, but it wrenched away and trotted off a few meters.

  “No, you don’t.” Alem stumbled toward the animal. After several more tries, his energy was depleted. He would have to wait, hoping that the camel would stay close by and sleep. He staggered back to the boulder and leaned against it, keeping a sleepy eye on the camel’s movements.

  As the sun melted against the western horizon, the camel sank to its knees. Alem was ready. He moved unevenly toward the beast and hoisted himself onto it. The animal balked at the added weight and lurched to its feet. But Alem held tight, refusing to let his chance for life slip away.

  “Now let’s see about that water,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The camel took a lumbering step forward, causing Alem to cry out in pain as the bristle of the camel’s hair penetrated his open wounds.

  Each movement was excruciating as he was jostled about, but he hoped that every step was a step closer to water.

  This is for you, Grandmother.

  CHAPTER

  21

  The Empty Quarter

  “We’re here,” Mia said, waking Omar from his hazy dream.

  “As long as it’s anywhere but the Empty Quarter, I’ll open my eyes,” he said, receiving an answer in the form of another slug against his arm. He moaned and opened his eyes. “That’s starting to hurt.”

  Mia’s gaze focused on her satellite phone. “The coordinates match up.”

  At least she doesn’t seem quite as angry anymore, he thought as he rubbed the sting from his shoulder. If physical violence can be considered a sign of softening. He looked through the windshield of the jeep to see a row of billowing tents ahead. Smoke curled from a campfire, and his nose twitched as he caught the smell of dinner. “Hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  “Me too. Even if it’s a camel, I’ll eat it.”

  “Ew. Even without kosher laws, I still wouldn’t eat a camel.”

  “What if you were starving?”

  Mia shook her head, her dark curls bouncing at her shoulders. “I’d rather die with a clean conscience.”

  Clean conscience? Her words were like a punch in the stomach. Does she really think she has a clean conscience after she left me, then started dating the one man she knows I can’t stand? If she’d dated anyone else but Levy, I might be able to forget about it
. Omar eyed her as she stopped the jeep and climbed out.

  He followed, his gun over his shoulder. Several of the Arabs stood, postures rigid.

  “As-salāmu ‘alaykum!” Omar called out. He saw the recognition on their faces, and two men rushed forward to greet him. Omar laughed when they asked him if he was all right. “Never better,” he said, doing a quick scan of the camp. Where was the boss? He introduced Mia as his wife in Arabic to the men.

  “You just want to share my tent,” she said to Omar in English.

  “We broke up, remember? Well, you left me, but I’ve moved on. Completely.” He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “You need to keep your fantasies to yourself, sweetheart.”

  Fists clenched, Mia smiled at the men, who all stood now. One of the men invited them to join the meal.

  “Of course,” Omar said, moving his hand to Mia’s lower back. He steered her toward the food. “Besides,” he whispered in her ear, “we won’t be here long enough to share a tent. Just use your charms on the crew boss, and then we’ll be gone.”

  Without waiting for her to answer, he settled onto a mat and reached for a handful of rice and meat.

  With reluctance, Mia settled next to Omar and scooped a handful of rice. He turned to the man next to him. “Where’s Rabbel?”

  “He left for another job. I’m the boss now.”

  Omar scanned the other Arabs, catching the eye of one he recognized from his former crew. “The black-skinned man—is he still here?”

  “He left with Rabbel.”

  The Yemeni rose to his feet and walked away into the darkness.

  “What was that all about?” Mia whispered.

  Omar leaned toward Mia. “Go back to the jeep. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  She rose, bowing her thanks to the Arab men, and then casually moved to the jeep.

  Omar stood and thanked his new comrades. When he reached the jeep, he grabbed a half-torn map, then told Mia, “Wait here, and fire a shot into the air if anyone approaches you.”