by Lynda Filler
The waves pounded against the boat. They were going so fast, it felt like they were on a ride at Disneyland in Paris. The only difference, no one was smiling. Xavi looked determined. His buddies were focused and ready. Maggs raised her face toward the salty mist spraying up from the Gulf. And Luci thought of her daughter Alice cuddled up with her dolly in the safety of a townhome in Paris.
She caught action to the right of the boat. A school of sharks had decided to check out their fast boat. She shivered at the memory of the Great White sharks in Cape Town. It seemed like that was years ago, yet it had only been six months. Would the violence in her life never end?
Her phone vibrated.
“What have you got, RB?”
“You were right. All new yachts are outfitted with hidden GPS for pirating, totally independent of the navigation panel. Good thing our buddy Tariq lives in the desert. He’s not up-to-date with the latest technology in the billionaire yacht world.”
“Are we close?” Luci cut through RB’s gloating.
“Yes. I’m sending it through now. You can see the island, right?”
“We’re coming up on it.”
“From what I see—and you can check this too—he’s on the eastern side of the island, going slow. Have you got it yet? We’ve got the satellite on the area. He’s the only yacht moving.”
“Got it! Thanks.”
She turned to Xavi. He attempted a smile. He looked down at his phone, then spoke to his buddy who was piloting the boat.
“Slow. Quiet as possible.” He showed him the satellite map.
The waters were rough around the island but as they moved closer to shore, things got less choppy.
“Depth finder says we’re good. There is only one small marina over there. Once he docks, we can go in, out of his sightline, and do what we have to do.”
49
Banana Island
IT WAS FIFTEEN minutes to midnight. Tariq’s man took the boat in slow and moored at the pre-arranged spot. It was a relatively quiet night on the island, but Middle Eastern music blared from the speakers at the Anantara Resort. The noise covered the sound of their engine as they docked.
He went below to see how Sabrina was doing. After her hysteria, he’d given her another tranquilizer, so he could be sure she’d remain quiet.
She slept peacefully and he removed her leg ropes to make it easier to transport her to the other boat. The second boat would take them to an abandoned dock near the new Homad Airport. Once he had the funds, he had decided he would leave her and continue to his next destination.
Xavi and his team pulled their boat up to a private dock not forty yards from Tariq’s boat.
“There’s no lookout. Sloppy.” Xavi spoke low to Luci. Voices carried on water.
“Yes. I can see two up front. What about you? There should be three and Tariq.”
“Only four heat signatures, and something else, warm. Maybe a dead body.”
The team came ashore soundlessly. Black semi-automatics held tight to their bodies. But anyone that might be out this late, would be at the event being held around the pool at the resort. Private homes were spread out along the beach, but the nearest one that could be a problem, seemed to be unoccupied.
They made their way along the wooden dock, memories of hunting in Afghanistan keeping them aware and alert. Within minutes, they had surrounded the boat.
Tariq heard a noise above him. He’d left his men up top and told them to be sharp and quiet. He listened, but everything seemed normal.
He stroked Sabrina’s cheek, feeling a desire for her that surprised him. What could it hurt? He raised her burqa and pulled at her skirt. He got the zipper down and began to pull on the garment, dragging it down her thighs and pulling it off her feet. She moaned in her sleep and tried to move her hands. But they were still bound with rope. Suddenly her eyes opened, and she felt a cool breeze on her legs. Tariq pulled at her underwear and she tried to scream, tossing and determined to pull away from him, even if it meant she’d die.
Tariq smiled. “I will get my money. But first, I will defile you the way you have defiled my faith!”
Sabrina lost control, sobbing as Tariq forced himself upon her. He hit her to stop her from struggling. Then Tariq fell, his blood spurting from an artery.
Xavi took Sabrina in his arms and held her while she cried.
“Shh, everything’s okay now.” Xavi stroked Sabrina’s head while his men untied released her from her bindings.
“Hey, little momma, we’re going to be parents.”
Sabrina fainted, a sad smile upon her face.
50
One month later
THEY FLEW RAVEN’S jet into a privately-owned airport near Aberdeen. The flight held precious cargo, entrusted to the care of the world’s most capable bodyguards.
A smartly dressed tawny-skinned woman hesitated at the top of the airplane steps. Her jade eyes surveyed the surrounding mountains for any signs of danger. A gentleman emerged behind her, carrying a petite young lady in his arms who insisted on grabbing him by the neck while he kissed her all over. He was followed by an Amazonian woman in a sleek knee-length black knit dress, wearing Christian Louboutin heels, their red soles brightening up a somewhat dreary Highland day.
“Momma,” the young lady called out upon arriving at the bottom of the stairs. “Luke won’t thop kithing me!”
Luci turned to the love of her life and her heart was full. She was grateful every day for this tiny creature who had somehow brought her in from a cold world filled with hatred and death and shown her how to love.
Two men waited by the Land Rover. They’d been part of the advance team to secure their accommodations. RB, who spent far too much time in front of computer screens, seemed to be enjoying his surroundings. Zach, who had joined the team, seemed totally out of his element in the stark but stunning granite mountains and the verdant heather valleys.
“Is everything set?” Luke asked, while he secured the young lady in her car seat.
“Security has been better than expected. We’re ready.”
The unorthodox family set off on a journey through the Scottish Highlands.
The sun came out, as did the tears, when the assembled group of less than two hundred people participated in the intimate wedding of Prince George Xavier to Ms. Sabrina Sayyid. Her magnificent antique lace gown reflected the modesty of her Muslim heritage, while Prince Xavi chose to wear his military uniform weighted down by honors he’d received during his ten years of active service. Ms. Rosy aided the bride as maid of honor; but by the way she kept glancing at Prince Xavi’s best friend, it was unlikely that she would continue being single for long.
Xavi and Sabrina had insisted that Zach be part of the wedding party. The tall sandy-haired Semitic man who appeared to have recently shed a beard, seemed happy. And maybe, for the first time he might be able to let go of both the murder of his parents, and his own inability to form lasting relationships. The royals managed to fool the press by setting their wedding date at the requisite six-month window, and then planned everything in total secrecy a few weeks after their return from the Middle East.
Balmoral Castle was the perfect setting for their nuptials; remote, dramatic, and royal. It was a break in tradition, but everything about this couple was what the press called “contemporary”.
Sabrina smiled at Xavi as he slipped the ring onto her slightly swollen finger. He hesitated to push it further when it met resistance, but Sabrina smiled and nodded, her right-hand hovering protectively over her stomach.
Luci held Alice on her lap, her tiny head asleep against her shoulder. She’d never been married, but she’d been in love. Her mind wandered to her lover and hoped his death had been sudden and free of pain. But the life they’d led had been filled with danger and seemed like it would always be so.
She inhaled the crisp mountain air, the purple heather dotted the hillside, white and pink roses bloomed along the bridal path. She wondered if her life would ever know tranquility.
She could feel Raven looking her way and trying to read her thoughts. He sighed and took her hand in his.
She didn’t pull away.
The End
SILK ROAD
Prologue
Kyrgyzstan, Central Asia
T he winds echoed frightening events that were about to change the fate of a young woman’s life forever.
The remote farmhouse, wedged between mountain peaks, was heavy with late spring snow. Zaria struggled to force the rough-hewn door closed behind her. She pulled the frayed potato sack curtain back to take one last glimpse at her eight-year-old sister and her two younger brothers bundled up in the open back of the ancient truck.
Her sadness was particularly acute today because it was her fifteenth birthday. Her parents felt Zaria could no longer take the risk to be alone at school or leave the homestead on her own. Young women were often kidnapped when away from the watchful eyes of their family. So rather than take the risk of public school or wandering in the local village, her parents had decided she would remain on the farm to milk the cows and do the household chores. Unfortunately, it was a financial necessity that both her parents work for others on the farms several miles away.
Zaria heated the water in the kettle to make her tea while she fingered the pages of a used geography book, she’d taken from school on her last day two months before. Her dreams of traveling a world no one in her village had ever seen were still what her heart desired when she laid beside her siblings on the mats at night. The girl took one last look at the map, then carefully cut a page from her geography book. She folded it and placed it in the pocket of her coat. A teacher once told her that if she focused every day on her dreams, eventually they would become real. But for now, she must stop her day-dreaming and clean the breakfast dishes, and prepare the bread, before doing her farm chores.
She hummed an Arabic melody her mother had taught her while the family sat in front of the fireplace in the evenings. Momma and Papa would tell stories of good times, before the revolutions, the riots and the changes in government, and also before the corruption of the drug lords. Momma talked of a life when food was plentiful, and their home was in good repair.
Before.
Years before Zaria was born.
Every morning after everyone left, it was her ritual to do her work then open her book and try to calculate different routes that the family could take to reach the open sea. Her momma said her name in Arabic means ‘ocean,’ and one day they would all make a journey to the vast waterway that could take them to Europe or even Australia.
She sat down for a few moments to drink her tea. She glanced at the book once more, but still, she could not imagine how magnificent it must be to see nothing except emerald waters and never glimpse land on the other side.
One day she would go, even if it would be by herself. It was her dream and her destiny. She could feel this in her soul.
She brushed her hair out of her eyes and tried not to be sad. Today she was very lonely with her family gone, but she set about kneading the bread and leaving it to rise while she fixed things in their small house. Their home was really only two rooms with no privacy from her brothers. Sometimes she was ashamed that they could see she was becoming a woman. In some ways, she longed for a family of her own. But not now, not until she realized her dreams.
She was a good daughter and would follow whatever her parents’ thought was right for her. And now, until she was betrothed, that meant staying here on the farm.
Enough of these thoughts. It was time to feed the animals.
Zaria bundled up in a threadbare coat that once belonged to her mother. She wrapped her head in a woolen scarf and pulled on thin-soled boots. Her sheepskin gloves were too snug, but she would have to wait for her parents to get new ones.
There was very little snow on the ground, most of it was ice. The wind had turned to rain and sleet, and Zaria could barely make her way to the barn one hundred meters from the house. She kept her head low, her scarf pulled up over her face and imagined how the bread would smell while it baked after she returned from the barn. She trudged forward.
Suddenly she was tripping. She reached to break her fall, but a heavy black sack was pulled over her head and smothered her. She fought hard and tried to scream, but her words were lost in the burgeoning storm. She tried to move, but now her arms were pinned down. She kicked out; her foot made contact with her abductor. He screamed in anger, cursing her in Russian. He hit back hard. She was no match for his strength. As her whole world went dark, her last thoughts were of her family and how disappointed they would be. This voice did not belong to the man her parents had chosen for her to marry. There was no gentleness or kindness in her abductor. But it no longer mattered.
All her dreams were shattered. She must accept her fate. She might never see her family again.
Zaria had become one of many ala kachuu, kidnapped brides.
1
Old Town, Geneva Switzerland
T he Indian man enjoyed his walk up to the top floor of the eighteenth-century six-story grey-stone. He placed his key in an ornately carved wooden door, discretely reinforced in twenty-first-century one-quarter inch thick steel plate.
He hesitated before entering, casually checking an 8-point security system displayed on his phone. When he was sure his quarters were free from intrusion, he walked into his personal space.
He was greeted by his affectionate sable Bombay To’ak who sniffed the air accusingly.
“I know. I should give up my Gauloises, but I’m not perfect.” The cat gave in as she always did. Faced with the option of affection or disdain, To’ak still chose love. She wove her way in and out, rubbing up against her master's legs making it impossible for Himanish to move.
“All right give me a second.” Laughing, he gently placed his parcel on the table and bent down to stroke his affectionate companion.
“Tell me To’ak, how was your day? Any visitors? Hmm?”
To’ak purred like a freight train. Her master's sensual strokes would cause any female to melt.
“Nothing to say for yourself?” Himanish pulled a chunk of dark chocolate from his weathered bomber jacket and gave it to the queen of his castle.
“Rare creatures deserve the finest Swiss chocolate, right?” He gave one last stroke to her ebony pelt, then moved further into his living space. His eyes were always alert for any charge or change in the atmosphere. He and To’ak shared the sixth sense that had kept them alive throughout their years together.
Satisfied, the man turned off the interior security system and poured a glass of red wine from the bar. He waited to look at the mail he’d picked up at the bookstore down below. One of the highlights of his day was checking for handwritten letters he occasionally received from mostly bibliophiles around the world. Receiving his mail at the main floor bookshop was an extra level of precaution that prevented anyone from entering the levels of security lining his stairwell or accessing his home.
He carried his crystal goblet, pulled his laptop from his briefcase, and placed them both on an antique refectory table. His computer took a few seconds to boot up. After a quick check on his secure website, he could turn his attention to the rare Shakespearean tomes awaiting his attention wrapped in brown paper across the room. He sipped his wine and scanned. An alert in the system caused all thoughts of literature and letters to flee his mind.
“Damn, Ivanov again!” The notorious drug trafficker was very active recently. Something was going on, and Himanish would have to dig deeper to get more intel.
The clandestine operative for a very secretive branch of the United Nations Human Rights Council pushed his wine glass away and instead walked over to his chef’s kitchen and turned on his espresso machine. Italian coffee and reading classified documents, not dwelling on English literature were going to be his preoccupation this evening.
2
Paris, The 17th Arrondissement
O n a side street not far from Parc Moncea
u an elegant Haussmann townhome stood recently renovated to the highest twenty-first century standards. Its majestic elegance masked a myriad of high-tech security elements rarely found outside the offices of international intelligence agencies in the wealthiest countries around the world. Two women and a young child plus the occasional visitors were its principal inhabitants.
Luke Raven arrived from Canada before breakfast. The argument was on-going. But Samaar had to agree, she needed a break. She’d recently rescued Sabrina, the bride-to-be of the heir to the British throne, under harrowing circumstances in the Bay of Qatar in the Middle East.
Her intention, when she set up her home in Paris, was to retire completely. She had left her life as an operative for the Mossad, on loan to MI6. But then Luke had called. The Raven Group needed her.
First, she’d set up home in her favorite city in the world, Paris. Or rather Luke had overseen the reconstruction of the townhome. She loved the freedom she felt in the City of Love, the sidewalk cafes, the markets, fresh fruits, the early morning vendors hawking fish. She often roamed her neighborhood stopping in bohemian boutiques, looking at feminine lingerie, imagining she was someone other than a highly competent assassin.
Her mind wandered to the sexy underthings she’d purchased last week. So, unlike the persona she allowed the world to see. But after her ‘rebirth’ of sorts in Cape Town where she had slight modifications to her facial structure and their last assignment that ended with the wedding of Prince Xavi and Sabrina in Scotland, maybe Samaar was ready for something more in life.
The man in front of her talking his heart out was making her own heart skip a beat. It had been a long time since she’d allowed a man to get close enough to feel love. If she was honest, she was afraid to love again. But then along came Luke Raven.