Silence hung between them. If he was reading her emotions right, he would say she was stunned or possibly just in a state of disbelief. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it didn’t feel right to think that she might have, in some way, expected the worst from him.
“And maybe you can get a few hours’ sleep before I get back. You’re right, you’re probably better off here than trailing along after me. Besides, that would wake the baby.”
She looked at him oddly.
“His name’s Everett.”
“I know,” he said thickly, but the name stuck in his throat.
He picked up his son. Somehow he was able to think of him in terms of a relationship, as an entity but not as a name, an individual who somehow made their situation all too glaringly real.
“I’ll walk you both back to your room.” He gazed down at the bundle in his arms. He looked at Sara and circled her shoulders with his arm, drawing her along with him to the door.
She smiled, a rather tired effort, as she reached to open the door.
“As far as your blackmailer...” He met her eyes as if delivering a silent promise. “Like I said, we’ll deal with him. I promise you, Sara, this will work out. No one will hurt either you or the boy.”
She nodded.
He realized that again he hadn’t referred to the child by name. He thought of him as his, but the name, somehow, in an odd way, meant acknowledging his son’s mother. Because Everett was a name that he knew Sara loved. She’d once mentioned that if she ever had a boy, she’d call him by that name. Saying the name felt like he was accepting what she had done and in doing so, forgiving her for not telling him. He wasn’t ready for that.
* * *
“WHAT’S GOING ON?” Emir asked as Talib slouched down into one of the leather chairs that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s before that. The leather sank beneath his weight, yet not so much that it still wasn’t providing support.
The office was a place that he considered the heart of the family compound. It was a place that reminded him of the strength and loyalty of his family and where Nassar Security had begun.
“You look terrible, Talib,” Emir said. “Something on your mind besides the obvious? I’m betting it’s not the breach of security and the explosion at Ian’s hotel either.”
Talib looked at his brother and for a moment wondered why he was here. There was nothing Emir could do or say that would change any of it. Not the part that haunted him, the boy—his son.
“You know, don’t you?”
“Sara came here with your son.” Emir nodded.
Talib’s eyes met his older brother’s. He ran a hand through his hair. “It was that obvious?”
“I guessed,” Emir said. “Am I right?”
Emir smiled in that all-knowing older-brother way that, through the years, had been nothing short of infuriating. This time there was too much on his mind to even think about it.
“That the boy is mine.” He nodded. “That’s what she says.”
“What do you say?” Emir asked, his dark eyes clashing with Talib’s, challenging him.
“How’d you know?” Talib asked instead.
“A blind man could see that, T. He’s like seeing you when you were a kid.”
“I can’t believe she’s here. That she never told me, that...”
“What are you going to do about it?”
He lurched to his feet, as if sitting for another moment was just too difficult. “I’ll take responsibility.”
“A given,” Emir said easily. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
Talib paced the room before turning to face his brother. “She’s in trouble.”
“I assumed as much,” Emir said as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, his dark eyes fixed on him. “You mentioned once that she didn’t like to travel. And yet, here she is halfway around the world. You two are no longer a couple—so why is she here? I couldn’t think of anything else other than the fact that it’s your business to protect and she needs help. What else could it be?”
Despite his oldest brother’s look, which could be disconcerting at times, this time it didn’t faze him. His brother was bang on as usual.
“She’s in trouble alright, in more ways than one,” he said, thinking of the boy who was innocently caught in the midst of it all. He went on to tell Emir what he’d learned from Sara.
“Tad demanded money at regular intervals. Sara met them all until she ran out of money. It looks like he’s not alone and they’ve upped their demands in the time since then and when she arrived in Morocco. I plan to give them a quarter of what they’re asking. If whoever is at the helm of this in Morocco is outraged enough they might slip up. I’ve already set up a transfer of funds to meet part of the demand,” Talib added.
“We’ve used the strategy before,” Emir said.
Talib nodded. “I’m hoping it may flush them out.”
“I’ll assign another agent to that case I mentioned earlier,” Emir said. “You need to stay focused on this. Has our office found anything?”
Talib went through what he knew. “I’m going back to the Sahara Sunset this morning.”
Emir nodded approvingly. “You couldn’t get a more impenetrable security. A crown prince or two has been known to stay there.”
“You’re telling me it was a good choice,” Talib said with a self-deprecating smile.
“I don’t need to,” Emir said. “Old habits...”
“Never die,” Talib said, referring to Emir’s need as an older brother to give advice to his siblings.
“Have you considered moving them?”
“To the compound,” Talib said. “Yes, in fact I already suggested it. She won’t go.”
“Probably not an issue. From what you’ve said you’ve eliminated, or at least controlled the possibility of any danger at the moment.”
“Exactly. They’re safe where they are. It’s secure.”
“But you’re considering this as a temporary measure. Depending how long it takes to contain the danger?”
“If anything changes, I’ll move them immediately. But the security there is every bit as tight as at the compound. And I know the security team well.”
“Agreed. Is there anything I can do?” Emir asked.
“I’ll let you know,” Talib said as he moved to leave. He hesitated at the door before turning around. “Thanks,” he said. “Sara’s ex is a small-time crook but he’s got someone contracted here that has me worried. Mainly because he’s an unknown entity. I’ll feel better when I have an ID on him. But one thing is clear—he has more resources than her ex-boyfriend.”
“So who is he? Any ideas?”
“The ex-boyfriend’s name is Tad Rossi and he has Moroccan roots. I’m assuming it could be anyone he had connections with here. It might be a deeper dig to find them then I thought.”
“Really? The boyfriend was Moroccan too?”
“Apparently she has a type.”
“A type?” Emir frowned.
“You know dark-haired, exotic—or so I’ve been told,” Talib said with a grin. “Or maybe it’s just tall, dark and handsome.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Seriously, she met him at a Moroccan travel presentation. It appeared to be coincidental, but I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“She was singled out.”
“It’s a possibility I considered,” Talib replied. “Despite that theory, he seems like a rank amateur. It won’t take much to bring him down and close this case. Then I’ll be available.”
“Will you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Emir asked softly.
Talib met Emir’s gaze and somehow he couldn’t acknowledge the obvious refe
rence his brother was making. It was all too big and too incomprehensible.
“You have a son, T,” Emir said gravely. “Our family has an heir. Getting to know him might take a bit of your time.”
An heir to the Al-Nassar wealth and history—it was inconceivable and he’d been treating it all so lightly. He frowned. When this was over, and only then, he needed to rethink his position, because he knew, as Emir had implied, that his son needed to be here—with him.
That wouldn’t go over with Sara, but he’d have time to bring her around.
In the end, he knew she’d do anything to protect their son.
And he’d do anything to protect his family—even if it meant his own life.
Chapter Fourteen
“What do you have?” Talib asked as he answered a call from his youngest brother, Faisal. He wasn’t surprised to hear from Faisal, considering that the trouble had originated in America. Faisal headed the Wyoming office of Nassar Security. As a result, he was their go-to person for most things relating to the United States. They’d worked through the night on this one, no different than any other case.
“Barb Almay contacted me,” Faisal said, referring to their head researcher. “She was doing some research for you and hit a sticking point. Tad Rossi was placed under arrest, but she couldn’t get any more information than that. So she called me.”
“Under arrest.” Talib frowned. “And?”
“I pulled some strings here and discovered that the man you’re looking for is now out of the picture.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tad Rossi was arrested yesterday for assault of an elderly woman at a banking machine near the state border of New Hampshire and Maine. The woman fought back and with the help of a passerby, he was restrained and held until police arrived.”
“Good Samaritan?”
“Exactly. You’ll be interested in this—he had a newly issued passport on him as well as a small bag.”
“Needed money for the flight over?”
“My guess,” Faisal said.
“So now he’s, at least for the time being, in a jail cell.”
“Not exactly. He was killed early this morning. Attacked by another prisoner while being transferred from the police holding cells.”
“You’re joking,” Talib said, but it wasn’t a question. Faisal would never joke about something like that. “Do you have anything else on him?”
“Not a lot. He’s been in the States for the last twelve years. Any ties he has in Morocco reveal nothing from this end. You might have a better chance of uncovering something where you are.”
“Thanks, bro,” Talib said as he disconnected. He flipped the phone in his hand as he pondered the situation. Before this news he’d hoped to interrogate Sara’s ex-boyfriend and find out who he’d contracted here. Now, they’d lost that connection. Whoever was here was working alone and the danger had escalated drastically, for the threat was now not only anonymous, but also connected to no known entity. It was reduced, as Sara had described, to a robotic voice on a phone line.
* * *
THE DARKNESS WAS just beginning to thin as Talib pulled into the parking lot of the Desert Sands Hotel. Shadows shifted across the lot, where only four other vehicles were parked. He knew one was Ian’s—the others, he could only assume belonged to upper management, security, or other, similar such people. He didn’t envy his friend being dealt such a massive hand of trouble, but Ian would persevere and succeed. He always did.
He got out, giving the car door a light push as it closed with a slick precision that didn’t make a sound.
He glanced around.
He was alone. Everything was deadly silent.
There was no parking lot attendant. He frowned. There should have been at least a contracted guard considering everything that had happened.
A breeze ran through the lot. The shadows seemed to shift and then everything was still. He looked around. There was nothing. He was jumpy. Like this was his first case, his first assignment. It was a poor analogy for he’d never been jumpy before, even then, in his youth—in the beginning of his career. He wasn’t sure why he was jumpy now.
He stopped, caught in his own musings.
He had a son.
It was incomprehensible.
The kid would be the first of the next generation in his family. And he’d missed over two years of his life. Something shifted. The shadows seemed to move around him. And, on the horizon, a streak of sunlight cut through the dawn sky, tantalizing, in a way teasing with the fact that soon it would take back the night. But his mind was occupied with other things and he didn’t hear footsteps until he was swinging around, swinging into danger.
He was aware of it immediately, and too late. He should have dumped the thoughts and pulled his gun. That was his first mistake. To say he was overwhelmed was an understatement. But that was no excuse. His mind told him to reach for his gun, his fingers moved as if in that direction. He would have done it, given another second.
He only had enough time to duck as he tried to make out the blur, the shadow of a man coming at him. It was not only too late, but also not enough. The only thing the move did was make sure that the bat his attacker was wielding caught him on the edge of his shoulder instead of the side of his head. He was thrown off balance and had to fight to keep on his feet. The pain that ran through his shoulder was sharp and immobilizing. He could see the bat coming down again. This time he had an arm up as he grabbed the man’s wrist, but it was again too late to stop the bat and he was only able to slow its progress. The bat connected with his upper arm and pain rocketed through him. He twisted the man’s wrist with everything he had, ignoring his own pain, pushing to hear a snap of bone.
But the snap didn’t come and he was in too awkward a position. He let go, unable to hold on any longer. He lost his balance, but caught his fall with one hand—his right, the injured arm. The pain ran up his arm into his throbbing shoulder.
He looked up as he struggled to stand.
Dark hair, wiry, a half head shorter than him but thick and wearing a soft, camel-colored jacket. They were all facts that his brain registered in the muted light that hung somewhere between day and night.
He was sure his attacker didn’t have a gun. He would have shot him by now if he had. That spoke volumes. A small-time crook, a street hood. Quick money. He was being taken out by what appeared to be a rank amateur. But there was little time for pride. Instead, the thoughts were quick and automatic as he struggled to pull his gun.
Again he was too late. The man got a second wind and rushed him. Talib’s hands weren’t as skilled or as quick as usual. His dominant right hand was bruised, temporarily crippled from the earlier blow. Otherwise, he would have taken him down at the outset. Instead, he grabbed his attacker’s arm with his left hand, making him drop the bat, grimaced at his own pain and plowed through it. The bat fell to the pavement and rolled out of reach.
One of the blows had hit the side of his head and he was seeing stars. He had to get it together. He pulled himself upright with a willpower that had seen him through a stint with the Royal Moroccan Army.
This was inconceivable and unthinkable, but the truth was that he’d had his guard down. He deserved all of this and more for his own stupidity. But he needed to get out of this.
But even realizing that, something else occurred to him—he had to fight harder or he was going down. He had let it go too far. The advantage of surprise had been everything for his attacker.
Sara depended on him. The truth of that had him pushing to stand upright.
He managed to get in a few blows of his own and his attacker was struggling. If he could just get control of himself, he knew that he could come out the victor. He didn’t keep himself in peak condition to lose to a street hood. The hours he’d spent in the gy
m wouldn’t be wasted. His head spun but he forced himself to stand up.
He had an advantage. He was armed, his fuzzy brain reminded him. His attacker wasn’t. The bat still lay a distance away on the pavement. He reached for his gun. That’s when he found himself grabbing air.
This was outrageous.
Then he had his gun in his hand and then somehow he didn’t. It was on the pavement and he wasn’t sure how that had happened, but his hand was stinging like it had been hit. He had no weapon. This was a fight using hand-to-hand combat.
He looked up. He couldn’t have been more wrong. The gun and the bat were still out of reach on the pavement, but his attacker was no longer unarmed. The morning sun was clearing the darkness away, sending streaks of light across the pavement and reflecting off the knife in his hand that glinted for a split second, almost blinding him.
A switchblade.
The realization seemed to change everything. It was like the last push in his army survival training, only it was more immediate than that. This was life or death like he’d never faced before.
Suddenly his head cleared, and the stars were gone. He had one chance here, one chance to live or die. There was no more time for anything but the skills he had and the gut instinct to move in the right direction at the right time. To be offensive or defensive, to make the best choice of either of those options. His weapon was his bare hands and the power of his mind.
The man was rushing him.
He twisted left, away from his attacker, who was swift and lethal despite his smaller size. He was wearing a hoodie and dressed in black, his face indistinguishable from so many others on the street. Talib bent low and came up with the edge of his hand on the man’s already injured wrist.
The man grunted—he’d scored a hit but the switchblade was still tight in his hand and coming at him again. The morning sun was streaking across the pavement, reflecting off the knife in his hand and off his face. There was a hard look in his eyes and an unfocused look in one of them. The glint lasted a second, shifted and almost blinded him.
Son of the Sheik Page 10