And in aiming that rifle at him, she’d made herself an enemy to his family, to his country. And Omair wanted to know who’d paid her to do it.
Her head began to nod, her eyes flickering closed. Finally her head lolled onto his shoulder. She’d fallen asleep, her breathing calm and rhythmic, like it had been when she’d slept on his shoulder in Tagua. A strange rush of emotion filled Omair’s chest.
Then he thought of Tariq in a coma, of Julie dead. Of his parents and Da’ud, murdered in their beds.
And Omair’s heart steeled.
*
Faith woke in horror to find herself sleeping on her captor. She jerked back, self-hatred fisting inside her chest. This was the second time she’d fallen asleep on top of this man. What in hell was going on with her? She was a washed-up operative, that’s what. And she didn’t know what to do about it, or her baby.
Just focus on escape, survival. You can deal with the rest later.
Shadows were lengthening, the sun dipping low toward the western horizon as their taxi drew up alongside a cluster of flat, adobe buildings positioned around a dusty square where men stood around with whips in hand as they watched over small groups of camels. Beyond the camel market stretched an endless sea of desert.
Her captor held her close as he paid the driver.
Faith shot a look at the pods of camels in the square.
“What are we doing here?” she demanded.
“Buying transport.”
“I’d prefer a Hummer,” she said dryly. “Especially if we’re going out into that.” She jerked her head toward the sea of sand.
He laughed, and it irked her further. She yanked against his grip in a show of irritation, but he simply tightened his hold as he led her toward the camels.
“We can forgo this entire exercise right now, Lili, if you just tell me who paid you to kill me, and where I can find him.”
“And what will you do then?”
“Kill him.”
A fist of anxiety tightened in her chest. He had no idea the United States wanted him dead.
“And if I tell you who sent me, you’re going to let me walk free?” She laughed in his face. “I know what you people are capable of, I know your agenda. If I hadn’t missed you in that courtyard I’d have done the world a favor.”
His stopped dead in his tracks and a strange look crossed his features.
“What do you mean?” he said.
She flattened her mouth, glaring at him as she reminded herself to be careful in revealing nothing about herself, or STRIKE. Operatives were sent into countries that would not welcome knowledge of a foreign government soldier on their soil. STRIKE hits were usually surgical, in and out, and no U.S. fingerprint was to be left on any hit, which is why her unit, and country, would wash their hands of an operative if a job went sideways. Like hers was going now.
But her job was to kill this man. She could still salvage it.
“Fine,” he said darkly. “We’ll play this your way—the hard way.”
He ushered her toward one of the camel pods being guarded by a leathery old Bedouin in dusty garb, and he began negotiating the purchase of two camels. The gap-toothed Bedouin then threw two saddles into the deal.
Faroud was clearly in his element out here as he laughed and chatted easily with the old desert man. But in spite of his apparent camaraderie, he had a definite command about his presence. His was the bearing of a man used to being in control, a man most likely used to money, and lots of it. Faith found herself wondering what their baby might look like. If it was a boy, would it look like him, or possibly like her own father?
Her mouth turned bitter at the thought of her father.
Besides, what on earth was she thinking? She couldn’t go through with having a baby—she couldn’t be a mother. Tension wound tighter through her.
Her captor shucked his linen jacket and handed it to the old Bedouin. “Watch my wife for me while I saddle these animals up,” he said with a nod of his head in her direction. “Then you can keep the jacket. We just married,” he added. “She might get cold feet and try to run for the hills. If she does, stop her.”
The old Bedouin cackled heartily, but took the request very seriously, edging toward Faith with camel whip in hand as Faroud expertly saddled the camels then went with the goatskins to the nearby well.
He returned, walking toward her, a goatskin full of fresh water in each hand, his muscles rippling under his damp cotton shirt. He’d rolled up his sleeves and he’d strapped her water pouch to his own hips. Condensation dampened the sides of his pants. Faith’s throat tightened with thirst.
He grinned, and damned if it didn’t make him look more devastating. But she knew what he was doing—he was showing her he was in control of the one thing she was going to need most in the desert. Water. It was going to be his interrogation tool. And his smile was to show her that he could be nice, as long as she cooperated.
He tied the water bags and rest of the gear to the saddlebags and then called the Bedouin to bring her to him.
She refused to go with the Bedouin, making her own stand, showing him she wasn’t going to make things easy for him.
Irritation flared darkly across Faroud’s features, and he stalked over to her, grasped her arm. Faith jerked against his grip, anxiety coursing through her veins at the prospect of leaving all civilization and heading into that sea of sand with him in control of her water.
“Don’t think I won’t hurt you in front of these men,” Faroud growled through his smile as he hauled her over to the couched camels. “And don’t think they’ll care if I do.”
He shoved her up to one of the animals. “Get on.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“I’m not asking.”
Fear twisted through Faith now. She glanced at the sea of sand. The deeper they went into that searing desert, the more challenging it would be for her to find her way back, if she managed to escape. She had to make her move before they went too far.
“Get on,” he repeated.
Faith tried to swing her leg up into the saddle but she was off balance with her hands bound behind her back and she stumbled as her pant leg twisted in the chador fabric.
He caught her, then lifted her chador and hoisted her up, his hands gripping her butt. And as she settled into her saddle, he brought his mouth close to her face, his hands lingering on her. “You still feel good, Lili.”
Heat speared through Faith in spite of herself. “Go to hell.”
“Been there, done that.”
“Yeah,” she said very quietly, “well, so have I.”
It stalled him, and for a moment Faith couldn’t read the look in eyes, but she felt a brief and strange moment of kinship. And as he took his hands off her she told herself she had to look for gaps like this in his psyche, and dig in. He wasn’t the only one who knew how to play this game. If she was unable to escape, she’d best find his weak points before he found hers. And while he had water and physical control on his side, she had information.
He suddenly hit her camel hard on the rump. “Yaa!”
Faith almost fell from the saddle as the beast lurched to its feet.
“Would be easier to ride with my hands tied in front of me,” she snapped, trying to regain her balance.
“I have no intention of making your life easier.” He secured her camel to his own with a length of rope, and then mounted himself. Clucking his tongue, he flicked his new camel whip lightly against the beast’s haunches. His mount rose and their little caravan ambled out of the market like wobbly ships into an endless sea of sand.
The sun was already low on the horizon, shadows growing long. Faith took note of her bearings—they were moving southwest.
Her first strategy would be to try to lull him into a false sense of complacency in the hopes he’d drop some defenses. Then she’d surprise him, take the gap, finish her job and find her way back to Algiers and to the safe house.
But as the shadow
s lengthened even more and her thirst grew more fierce, Faith wondered if she was going to have the physical strength. And another, deeper problem niggled at her—when the time came, would she actually be able to kill the father of her child?
Chapter 6
The sky was purple with dusk by the time they reached a dry wadi bed with a few straggling palms. The last dwellings Faith had seen were several miles back—there was nothing but desert and a night of darkness ahead.
Her captor halted their little convoy, dismounted, and couched her beast with a cluck of his tongue. The protesting animal folded its front legs, clumsily lowering itself to the ground.
“You can get off now,” Faroud said.
Faith’s legs were stiff as boards and she needed to use the bathroom. As she tried to maneuver her leg over the saddle, she once again got tangled in the wretched chador.
He took her arm and helped her off. But Faith’s numb legs buckled under her and she cursed as he caught her in his arms, her chador hood coming off in the process. He held her gently and his eyes softened for a moment.
“Lili,” he said quietly. “Don’t make this so hard on yourself.”
She shrugged him off, but stumbled again as she tried to get her feet to work. He caught her again, and he touched his fingertips to the cut on her forehead, where the concrete shard had sliced across her brow.
“I’ll clean that up and put something on it.”
“It’s fine,” she said, moving her head out from his touch.
He removed her sunglasses, veil and the chador. Faith felt relief in being able to breathe unfettered by fabric. Turning her around, he untied her hands. His movements were gentle and Faith cursed him for it. It would be easier to fight back—and kill him—if he was mean.
“How are your wrists?”
“Fine,” she lied.
They’d already been chafed raw from the belt and he could see it.
“Look, I know what you’re trying to do,” she said. “But false sympathy is not going to work on me. I’m not going to suddenly bond with my captor.” Immediately she regretted even uttering the words—already he was winning ground in a psychological chess game.
He chose not to reply. Instead he removed her watch from her wrist and as he pocketed it she swiveled and tried to make a run for it. But he lunged forward, grabbing her by a chafed wrist, and he had his dagger out before she could even blink.
He waved the blade of his jambiya in front of her face. The steel glinted in the dusk and she saw the hilt was embedded with jewels.
“I know you’re an expert with a rifle, Lili.” He touched the tip of the blade gently to her nose. “But I’m good with this. Very good.”
Her eyes watered and dizziness swirled. She wasn’t up to this. Already she felt dehydrated, sick, exhausted. She’d underestimated the rough toll the day—and pregnancy—had already taken on her body, and it rattled her composure.
He led her over to one of the palms and made her hug it as he retied her hands on the other side. Crouching down behind her, he began to unstrap the holsters on her legs, removing the pieces of her high-tech military rifle, including scopes and ammunition. It was his first opportunity to do this without any witnesses.
He then patted her down carefully, and very intimately, his hands moving up the insides of her thighs. Faith closed her eyes, gritting her teeth against the memories of the last time he’d touched her there.
She made a noise of protest when his hand reached too high between her legs.
“Sorry,” he said quietly.
That shocked her. “You sound like you actually meant it,” she said.
“I did.” He carried the components of her rifle a short distance away and laid them on a piece of cloth. “I didn’t choose to make you my enemy, Lili. You made that choice when you pointed your rifle at me. And you can stop being my enemy anytime you want by giving me the information I need.”
“Right, and then you’d let me walk away alive, especially now that I’ve seen your face and can identify you.”
He glanced up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“Why don’t you explain it to me anyway?”
She shut her mouth, glancing away.
“I don’t want to kill you, or hurt you.” He examined her nightscope as he spoke. “Thing is…” He began to screw the pieces of her rifle together. “I don’t believe this is personal for you. I think you’re a freelance contractor. And I understand—I’ve worked as a mercenary myself. But why die for a bit of cash? Why sacrifice yourself for the people trying to overthrow my country?”
Faith’s pulse quickened.
“What country?”
He laughed dryly. “Don’t try to play me for a fool.”
Uncertainty wormed into her.
He wasn’t acting like a man who’d managed to avoid being photographed—he’d seemed genuinely surprised when she’d mentioned being able to now identify him. And MagMo didn’t have a country, unless he was referring to some abstract notion of unity. And she really didn’t like the coincidence of him being in Tagua, and her now being assigned to kill him.
“Why were you in Colombia?” she asked.
“I told you, I had business.”
“What would you have done if I hadn’t fallen asleep in your arms that night?” she said. “How would you have gotten the note—because that’s what you wanted, not me.”
He glanced up sharply. “Oh I wanted you all right, Liliana, from the moment I saw you. But you were off-limits to me, until that note arrived and went right down your cleavage. Then your cleavage became my business.”
“Would you have killed me for the information?”
“Someone finding your dead body in the morning would have alerted the cartel. I couldn’t afford that.”
“But otherwise you would have?”
His eyes hardened. “I will do whatever I need in order to protect my brothers and my sister, their families, and my country. So my advice to you, Lili, or whatever your name is, is don’t stand in my way, don’t try and hurt my family, then I won’t have to hurt you.”
Confusion, uneasiness, snaked even deeper into her. This didn’t sound like the Faroud bin Ali described in her dossier. And those cartel weapons in Colombia had been destined for MagMo buyers, so if he was a MagMo terrorist, why had he sat waiting in Tagua for a note so he could scuttle the deal?
“I don’t understand why you’d want to intercept that weapons deal—”
“Shall we start with why you killed Escudero?”
“I told you. I just passed on the note.”
“The longer you take to talk, the more difficult this is going to be,” he snapped. “For both of us.”
“Good, because I really hate the idea of suffering solo.”
He scrutinized her, eyes narrowing, then he rapidly assembled the rest of her rifle.
She had to hand it to him—it was a prototype weapon, and while she could assemble it blindfolded, it had taken him mere seconds to do it, even in this dwindling light, even while talking to her. He clearly knew his stuff.
But he also had a vulnerable spot—his family. While this confused her, it gave her a window she could use into his personality. She recalled the look of profound grief on his face back on that knoll in Tagua and she wondered if he’d received news about his family back then. Whatever he’d heard on the phone, it had given him great emotional pain—this was a man who, while harsh, had deep capacity to care.
Perhaps that just made him more dangerous.
He slung her rifle across his chest and returned to his camel where he untied her sling bag and carried it back to his mat. Tension strapped over her chest.
Her pregnancy test was in there.
He couldn’t find out about that. It was too private. It made her too vulnerable. He’d use it against her.
Panic licked through Faith as he upended the bag and the contents tumbled out onto his piece of cloth. He picked up he
r sat phone, and scrolled through the contacts and call log. Faith knew she was safe there—nothing was stored in her phone. He set the phone aside and turned his attention to her GPS, going through the menu.
“Are you American, Lili? British?” He spoke in English for the first time.
She didn’t reply.
“Your GPS support language is in English,” he said.
She still said nothing.
“Mine’s in Arabic.” He used the tip of his dagger to unscrew the battery casing on her GPS, then he removed the battery. He did the same with her phone. He examined her watch carefully before crushing and grinding it to a pulp between two rocks.
Conflict twisted through Faith as she watched him severing her last links to the outside world. STRIKE could have used any one of those devices to track her location. Now she was uncertain whether she even wanted to be tracked by them—at least until she’d ascertained exactly what had gone down with her disconnected evac number and that sniper up in the minaret. Again, she reminded herself there could well be a rational
explanation for both. The evac number could be explained by a technical glitch. The shooter could have been part of the security detail for the meeting in the courtyard. It didn’t necessarily mean she’d been set up.
He began to feel around the inside of her bag, looking for side pockets. Then he felt along the inside seam—too close to where she’d hidden the pregnancy test and photo of her mother.
“Faroud!” she called.
He glanced up sharply.
“Faroud bin Ali.”
“What did you say?” He got to his feet, shock in his features.
“That’s what you call yourself.” She too spoke in English now. “Is it your real name?”
Slowly he came up to her, amazement on his face. “You don’t know my real name?”
Her gaze flicked to the purse behind him. She had to get that wand and photo out of there.
“You tried to kill me,” he said, “and you don’t even know who I am?”
“I know you’re a wanted terrorist with the Maghreb Moors organization. That’s enough for me to pull the trigger.”
“Maghreb? You think I’m MagMo?” He took another step toward her, and he stared at her for several long beats. A warm breeze rustled suddenly in the dry palm fronds above, like an ominous whisper of foreboding.
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