No Rules

by Starr Ambrose

  The ride ended thirty minutes later, far too soon. Donovan once again offered his hand to help her down, then led the way to a nearby shop overflowing onto the sidewalk with baskets and pottery of all sizes and shapes.

  A boy of about ten or eleven stood abruptly from the folding chair where he’d been relaxing. “Masa’a alkhair,” he said in greeting.

  “Hello,” Donovan said. “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes, perfectly. Let me help you find something from our wonderful merchandise.”

  He smiled. “I’ve come to see Hakim.”

  “Ah, you are a friend of my grandfather. I would be honored to help you.” The boy was polite, but made no move to find his grandfather.

  Donovan smiled. “You and I will do business later. Tell your grandfather that Wally’s friend, Tyler Donovan, is here.”

  The boy raised his eyebrows. “You speak of Professor Shikovski?”

  “Yes.”

  “One moment, I will get him.”

  He spun and disappeared behind hanging rugs, and she heard his sandals slap against hidden stairs.

  “Is this Hakim’s shop?” she asked. Intricate designs on both the pottery and the baskets intrigued her.

  “It’s his daughter’s shop. She’s widowed, so he reduced his teaching hours at the university to help her run it.”

  It seemed to Jess that buying something was the least they could do to help Wally’s friend’s family. She’d barely begun to browse through a tower of intricately woven baskets when the rug moved aside and an older man appeared.

  “Tyler Donovan.” he greeted them. “I am glad to meet you. Wally speaks highly of you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’d like you to meet Wally’s daughter, Jess Maulier. Jess, this is Hakim Mazarek.”

  To her surprise, the man’s open face crumpled with sadness. “Jessie,” he said softly. “You are here. Then my worst fears must be true. What happened to my friend Wally?”

  The uncomfortable news of Wally’s death had brought tears to Hakim’s eyes, and a quietly spoken, “Come.” As he led them upstairs to the family’s living quarters, Jess was surprised to find herself blinking back tears, too. The grief took her by surprise and made her self-conscious, as if she might not have a right to grieve a man she’d no longer known. She was glad for the stretch of silence as Hakim showed them to a couch and went to the kitchen to make tea.

  She sat quietly, trying to sort out her feelings. This Egyptian man, this stranger she’d never heard of before today, knew her. He knew that her father had loved and protected her so much that her being there, no longer anonymous and hidden, was proof he must have died. For the first time the depth of her father’s love hit home. As Donovan roamed the room, taking in the details of family photographs and furnishings, she struggled with an unexpected twist of pain in her chest, a realization that she had lost more than she would ever know. Surreptitiously wiping her eyes with the ends of her hijab, she did her best to compose herself before Hakim returned. If Donovan noticed, he didn’t say anything.

  Hakim returned with a tray bearing a pot and three cups. Donovan sat next to her as they silently accepted the steaming cups of tea. Jess wanted to question the water source and whether it was from a tap or bottled, but since it had obviously been boiled and Donovan had taken a cup, she bit back her doubts and took a sip of the dark brew. A strong bitterness nearly gagged her. She swallowed quickly and reached for the sugar she’d initially declined, stirring in three teaspoons before gingerly taking another sip. Better, but still the blackest, strongest tea she’d ever tasted.

  Hakim set his cup aside after little more than a taste. “You must tell me what happened to my friend. Please.”

  Donovan nodded. “As you surmised, he was killed by an Egyptian man who followed him all the way back to his house in Michigan before he caught him.” Donovan skipped Wally’s visit to Houston but explained about the torture and induced heart attack. “Wally was unable to give us the information he had before he died.”

  It wasn’t exactly true, but Jess didn’t contradict him. This was Donovan’s area of expertise, and if he was guarded about what he revealed to whom, she was fine with that.

  “I know he came to see you when he first arrived in Luxor. Did he tell you what he was looking for?”

  “Two students, yes? They were being held someplace. He came to me to ask about unrest at the universities, political groups, whether anyone might use kidnapping as leverage, or to make a point.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I knew of no such groups. There is political unrest, yes; these are times of change. But the focus is on our own government, with nothing to gain by holding American students hostage. If this is what happened, my guess is it is not a group connected to the university.”

  She saw Donovan’s disappointment. “Did he ask about anyone else, or tell you who he intended to check out?”

  “No, I’m sorry. We spoke mostly of family news. He told me Jessie had a contract for a new series of books.”

  She nearly dropped her tea. “He knew that? He…he talked about it?”

  “He was very proud of your work. My grandson learned to read English with the Mossy Log Meadow books Wally gave him.” Hakim pointed to a bookshelf, where she recognized the green spines of five Mossy Log books wedged in next to weightier tomes. Tears sprang to her eyes again.

  “He promised to come back and visit again after he located the hostages and arranged for their rescue, but I think he was afraid of something he found out and wouldn’t come here.”

  Donovan came to attention. “How do you know? You saw him before he left? Met him somewhere?”

  “No, no. He sent a boy with a message. This was his plan if he thought he was followed, to make sure no one connects us to this other work he does. To keep my family safe.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Something that made no sense, but maybe it was not meant for me after all, eh? Maybe it was meant for you. He said I should cancel his order, that unfortunately he found a small shop with better merchandise that had what he needed, and he was going home. His exact words. Of course, there was no order. He is my friend from years ago, not a customer for my daughter’s pottery and baskets. So I assumed that merchandise referred to the information I supply.”

  “Perhaps.” Donovan’s eyes met hers, a knowing look that confirmed her own thoughts—the merchandise Wally had found was more likely a vase. An old one, better because it held the key to where the hostages were being held.

  “That’s all he said?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  So was she. It was nothing more than they’d already known. No clue as to what kind of vase, where it was, what it meant about the two hostages whose lives hung in the balance.

  “Do you know of any other shops he might have meant?” Donovan asked.

  Hakim shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Wally knew so many people. He mentioned the souk, but the marketplace must have a hundred shops.”

  Donovan set his teacup aside. “Thank you. You’ll call if you think of anything else?”

  “Of course. And you will come back sometime, when we can talk about our old friend Wally.”

  “I will,” he promised, and she saw the sincerity in his face, heard it in his voice. He looked forward to sharing stories about his friend and mentor. For a moment she wished she could hear them, too, and learn more about the life her father had led after leaving her in the supposed safekeeping of her mother. But she’d never be back here again.

  Hakim escorted them down to the shop, saying his farewells. “A moment,” Donovan told him. “I have business with your grandson.”

  “Good luck,” Hakim said with a laugh, standing back with folded arms to watch.

  The boy got up from his seat by the sidewalk, grinning in anticipation.

  Donovan performed the introductions, shaking hands with the boy, Saja. “Jess, perhaps you’d like to pick out a souvenir of your trip to E
gypt?”

  Getting home safely with no food poisoning or internal parasites had been her only hope. But since he’d mentioned it, she had spotted some intriguing shapes and colors in the ceramics.

  She lifted one of the bowls she’d admired, and the boy nodded enthusiastically. “The lady is a good judge of quality. That one is my mother’s original design, excellent quality.”

  “It’s very pretty,” she agreed.

  “Very expensive,” Donovan added, looking at the tag.

  “Not for such quality.” Saja looked offended. “My mother is a true artist. You will not find that anyplace else.”

  “I want it,” Jess said.

  “I’ll give you half that price,” Donovan offered.

  “Impossible. My mother, she would kill me. It requires much skill to make a bowl so delicate, with such luster in the glaze.”

  “Expensive luster, huh? Then perhaps you should pick a different one, Jess.”

  She knew the rules of the game in bargaining, but decided Donovan deserved a hard time, and Omega deserved to reward her for her assistance. “No, I want this one.”

  Saja beamed. “Wise choice. Smart lady, as smart as she is pretty.”

  “She’s not so smart if she wants to pay more than she should. But she is pretty. I’ll add ten pounds.”

  “You insult your lady.”

  “I…What?”

  “She makes a wise choice, and you don’t respect it.”

  Donovan’s look showed amused approval. “Good move, kid.”

  “I’d like this woven bag to carry it in, too.” Jess said.

  The boy grinned.

  Donovan pulled out a wad of bills and peeled off several, handing them over. “Full price. Next time I come without the lady.”

  “Then it will be your loss, no?” The kid flashed a wicked grin as he took the money.

  Donovan laughed and ruffled his hair. With a wave to Hakim, they stepped into the narrow side street and started toward the main road where they would find another horse-drawn caleche.

  “I hope you really like that bowl, ’cause the kid ripped me off good.”

  “Oh, I do. I—”

  The next word caught in her throat as Donovan yanked her sharply aside, knocking her into his chest. He grunted at the impact and staggered, pushing her into a parked donkey cart. The bag survived the impact better than her elbow, which scraped against the unfinished side of the cart, leaving skin and picking up slivers.

  What the hell? Had he pushed her out of the way of an oncoming car? She hadn’t heard anything. As she turned to look, Donovan crashed into the cart beside her, wrestling with a man in a white robe similar to his own. Arms locked in a furious struggle, they banged into the cart again, rocking it.

  Jess jumped backward as the donkey brayed its annoyance and the cart jerked forward. Donovan used it to his advantage, landing a vicious uppercut that knocked the other man to the ground. He rolled, then dived back into the fight.

  In the street behind them, men yelled out in Arabic. Footsteps pounded toward them, but it barely registered as her eyes caught on something alarming—a smear of red on the side of Donovan’s robe. Blood.

  She started forward without a clue to what she could do, only knowing that he needed help. He didn’t turn, but must have seen her as he pushed away from other man. “Stay back,” he ordered.

  The other man crouched, ready to spring. She took in his turban, robe, and the full beard that was unusual in what she’d seen of Egyptian men. It created a good disguise, which was probably its purpose. If she saw him again, she would never recognize him. His mouth curled in a murderous snarl as he thrust his arm forward, jabbing at Donovan. She saw the knife then, six inches of flashing silver, surprisingly clean after drawing blood.

  Donovan raised his thobe, bunching it up until he could whip it over his head in one clean movement, never losing track of his opponent. She stared at his white undershirt, gasping at a large patch of blood on his side. The next second it was hidden from view as he twirled the thobe around his left arm and advanced on the man. He circled, each of them watching and calculating. Without warning, Donovan lunged.

  It happened faster than she could follow, a feint toward the knife, then a blur of motion as he kicked, spun, and grabbed. The knife clattered to the street and almost simultaneously a sickening crunch came from the stranger’s arm as Donovan shoved it behind his back. The man screamed and struggled. Donovan flinched at an obvious sharp pain, and the man took advantage of the moment, lurching away and cradling his broken arm, then running down the street. Startled yells followed him as two men tried to grab him, but he slipped past and disappeared around a corner.

  Jess rushed to Donovan as he stumbled to lean against the donkey cart. She forgot about not touching him, pulling his bundled left arm aside to get a look at the blood spreading on his undershirt. Two other men reached him at the same time, one of them Hakim.

  “Let me see,” she ordered, lifting his shirt.

  “I’m okay, just a scrape.” His voice was brusque as he pushed her away, but Hakim held onto the shirt, exposing a slice on his side just above his hip.

  For a moment, she felt light-headed and sick. It was more than a scrape. He needed a doctor.

  Chapter Ten

  Donovan tugged the undershirt from Hakim’s grip, stretching it loosely over the wound. A small circle of blood showed, but with the loose fit it didn’t absorb any new blood. She knew the cut was still bleeding down his hip, soaking into his pants beneath the shirt.

  Jess wanted to touch him, to lift his shirt again and examine the wound closely, but the men were crowding close.

  It might not be too deep, she told herself. It had been bleeding freely but not spurting. But she remembered the six inches of flashing steel and knew if the knife had gone in straight before slicing to the side, the injury could be serious.

  Hakim took charge, slinging an arm around him and urging him toward the shop.

  “No,” Donovan protested. He stopped, surrounded now by several neighborhood men and a few women. “I’m okay,” he insisted. Unwrapping the thobe from his arm, he rolled it and tied it around his waist in a makeshift bandage, wincing once as he secured it with a tight knot. “I can take care of this myself. The man is gone and you don’t need to get involved.”

  She wanted to protest that he most certainly could not take care of it himself, that he obviously needed stitches, perhaps surgery, not to mention a good dose of antibiotics and painkillers. But she saw the hard look he sent Hakim and read the meaning there. Hakim was to maintain the appearance that they were nothing more than customers who had happened by his shop, then had the bad luck to be attacked in the street.

  “Police,” someone said, and she heard the word echoed by others in the crowd.

  Donovan lifted a hand and spoke over them. “Please, I don’t have time. I need to make my flight and filing a report will delay me and serve no purpose. The man is gone. I’m okay, really.” He grinned to emphasize it, and she wondered at the control it took. She’d seen the wound, as had Hakim, but the rest of the crowd had not. With blood not yet soaking through the rolled length of material at his waist, they seemed less insistent on calling the police. Two men made a halfhearted attempt in English to persuade him to stay and get help, but he waved them off and started toward the corner confidently, motioning for her to come along.

  She hurried to his side, understanding they had to leave, and anxious to get away before he began to feel the loss of blood. Walking had to be exacerbating the bleeding.

  She heard Hakim call out to someone behind them, then saw his grandson dart past, running to the cross street where he yelled to someone. A small cab pulled up as they reached the corner, and Donovan thanked the boy quietly, slipping him another bill. Jess climbed into the backseat and watched Donovan anxiously as he settled in beside her and told the driver where to take them. As soon as they started off, he pulled out his phone.

  She was sitting close en
ough to hear Kyle answer.

  Donovan ducked his head, speaking in a low voice. “How soon can you get back?” Jess couldn’t make out the response, but her stomach tumbled at the doubtful look he flashed her as he listened. “Do you think you can give Jess some help with a medical issue over the phone?”

  Panic grabbed her. “What?”

  He shushed her with one hand as he listened to Kyle’s reply. “Tell you later. You’ll just have to do your best and check it when you get back. Stand by, I’ll call when we get to the house.”

  He closed the phone, then silenced her appalled look with a stern glance toward the driver who dealt with tourists every day and most likely understood English.

  She said nothing during the ride, fidgeting nervously and casting glances at his side. She couldn’t see blood; maybe the bleeding had slowed significantly. Or maybe all those layers were soaking it up before she could see it.

  And what in the hell was he thinking? Did he expect her to take temporary measures until someone more competent could get there, or did he actually think that she could stitch him up?

  The six-minute ride seemed to take forever. When they pulled up at the blue door, she stepped out, then hovered, ready to grab his arm if he staggered. He didn’t. He paid the fare, thanked the driver, and gave a cheery wave. His steps were slow, but looked casual rather than painful. She knew different.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, he grabbed his side and slumped. She was ready, slipping an arm around him for support. He leaned into her heavily, catching his breath, then pushed away. “I can do this.”

  He put one hand on the wall and attempted the first step unassisted, then sucked in sharply and swore. “Stubborn idiot,” she muttered, grabbing him around the waist with a firmness that brooked no argument. With slow, patient steps they climbed to the third floor.

  He was breathing heavily as she laid him on the couch. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, gathering strength, before panting out, “In the bedroom. Green bag. There’s a smaller black bag inside. Bring it.”