Son of the Sheik

by Ryshia Kennie

  The man glared at him, the eye connection was brief, a millisecond, no more. But in that look a challenge was laid out. He could see the pain behind the challenge. He’d injured him badly. Still, he held the knife. Now, the switchblade came down again, close, slicing his shirt just below his rib cage as his hand caught the man’s wrist, sending the knife short of its target. The man snarled as he pushed him off balance. That was all the time that Talib needed to gain the advantage.

  This time, as the man came in for another attack, he was ready for him. He came in from the side as the knife sliced through air. He had his attacker’s wrist. He twisted and felt a bone crack as the man grunted in pain. The switchblade dropped and Talib’s foot came down on it. At the same time, a knee hit his groin slightly off center, but still sending him reeling. His palm touched the pavement and he saw that his gun was just to his left. He reached and had it.

  But his attacker had had enough.

  He was already running across the parking lot, holding one arm against his chest. The man was too far away for Talib to have an accurate shot.

  “We’ll take your son!” the attacker shouted hoarsely, before he disappeared past the fringes of the lot and into what remained of the night.

  The words seemed to echo over and over through the parking lot, or maybe it was through his shell-shocked brain. A son and a threat all at the same time. He ached where no man should ever have to ache. He was immobilized. He lost track of the minutes before he was on his feet and ready to walk.

  He was alone. His entire body was bruised and he knew that he would feel the effects for a while. He hadn’t been bruised up this bad in a long time.

  He looked around, getting his bearings, making sure that he wasn’t going to be assaulted again in a surprise attack. Nothing moved.

  He stood there for a moment just taking breaths, combing the shadows as if somewhere on the edges of the pavement his attacker still lurked.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What the hell happened to you, man?” Ian asked as Talib came in through the service entrance.

  Talib tried not to favor his left leg, where his attacker had kicked him, or his shoulder that had also been clipped. They were what pained him most; he wouldn’t think of what else hurt.

  “You need to see a doctor.”

  “I’m fine. Looks worse than it is.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Ian’s look of concern almost made him laugh.

  “Definitely. Besides, there’s no time,” Talib said impatiently. “Was the surveillance camera on the guest parking lot working this morning?”

  “Of course,” Ian replied. “That was one of the first security measures I put into place. Exactly as you recommended.”

  “I need to see it.”

  Ian frowned. “You’re not saying...” His dark brows drew together. “This is more than a security issue.” His gaze roved over him. “Someone messed you up good, my friend.”

  “There was no one in the parking lot, Ian. No security.”

  He looked at Talib as if he’d forgotten the initial state his friend had been in, as if the shock of first sight had only now been addressed. “What happened?”

  “I was attacked in the parking lot. Guy with a bat and a switchblade.”

  “Sweet mother,” Ian muttered. “That’s why you asked about the camera. I can’t believe this. You were right all along that I should have steered clear of this hotel. Purchasing it might have been premature.”

  “No. You might have led too soon off the block with opening but otherwise...” Talib shook his head. Bad move, his head was aching...deeply. “Do you have an aspirin?”

  “Yeah, sure—give me a minute.” Ian disappeared and returned a few minutes later with a bottle of pills and a glass of water.

  Talib swallowed a couple of the painkillers and drained the glass before putting it down and turning to look at his friend.

  “Crap, you look bad,” Ian muttered.

  “I’ve been worse,” Talib said. There had been the time when he’d crashed a Ferrari and ended up three days in a hospital and with a scar that ran the length of his right thigh. That had been worse. This time he was still walking, although the pounding in his head was difficult to ignore. There was no point dwelling on it. His body would heal in its own time. Unfortunately, he didn’t have that time to waste. He needed to keep moving and protect Sara and his son. “Let’s run the footage and see if we can pin an ID on this piece of camel dung. He had his first and last run at me or anyone I care about,” he said, thinking of Sara and the boy.

  Fifteen minutes and a few calls later, they had a lead, and the name of a Moroccan national. He was a man with a long list of petty crimes and with no obvious link to either Sara or his son.

  “Interesting,” Talib said. His headache had calmed to a dull roar. He looked at the name he’d scrawled on a piece of paper along with a few other bits of information they’d dredged up. It was a name that meant nothing to anyone. Hired by someone to take him out or, at the least, ward him off.

  The question was, who had hired him?

  * * *

  IT HADN’T BEEN EASY, but Habib finally got the information he needed. He knew where she was, where the kid was. For a while it had seemed like the whole scheme had fallen apart, but now it was moving forward.

  He gritted his teeth. To think he had started life as one of them. Rich like all the rest. He’d attended the same privileged primary school and then, because of his father’s foolhardiness, they had lost it all. He remembered the school-yard taunts. Kids could be cruel, but what he remembered the most was the fact that Talib’s father, Ruhul Al-Nassar, could have saved his family from the financial and social ruin that followed. Ruhul could have been a silent partner in the financial opportunity that his father had presented to him. If Al-Nassar had invested in the oil company his father had had a chance to partner in, they would have been rich once again. But Al-Nassar had refused. He’d said the investment wasn’t something he was interested in. In fact, he’d hinted that his father wasn’t capable of turning the business into a lucrative enterprise. He’d even pointed out his past failures. Listening silently on the other side of a closed door, he’d heard it all. His father didn’t have the money to do it alone and the opportunity had slipped out of his hands almost as quickly as the life of luxury they had known disappeared. Instead, the mighty Al-Nassar had offered his father a job and, worse than that, his father had taken it.

  He’d hated the Al-Nassars from that moment on. He could have gotten over the school-yard taunts for those few remaining months at private school. He could have skated over the public school education for his last six years. But he’d never forget the chance that was lost to his family because of an Al-Nassar. His father was dead now and so was Ruhul Al-Nassar. The grudge had been carried to the next generation, to Talib, the man who, as a boy, had once been his classmate. He’d always secretly blamed Talib. He was sure that somehow, in some way, he had influenced his father’s decision. He’d never know but he’d go to his grave believing that. He hated them all but he hated Talib most of all. Now, he finally had a chance to get it all back.

  He considered his options. The idiot Tad had been wrong. Kidnapping the child was exactly what he needed to do. Just short-term. He didn’t need the kid longer than that. Al-Nassar had to know by now that the kid was his and he’d do anything, give anything, to get him back. He knew about family loyalty and he knew all about them. They fought for what was theirs. It was a trait that he would use to his advantage.

  He lit a cigarette and took a drag. The thought of what all of this could do to those who had made him feel so inferior ran through his body, in a shiver that snaked down his spine.

  Tad had told him they only needed a fright and he’d initially agreed to that.

  But he was having doubts now. Th
ey already knew the kid was the key to everything. This time he would be successful. If they thought money would save the kid, then the Al-Nassars would throw money at him. It was a brilliant plan and surprisingly simple. Once he had the money it was game over and the desert was pretty unforgiving. If the kid was hardy, maybe he’d come through in one piece. He didn’t really care how that turned out. He’d handle the kid next time and it would be serious, a real kidnapping. Meanwhile, Al-Nassar had moved her and the kid, and it had taken him until now to find out where. By this time tomorrow he’d have the kid and be long gone and Al-Nassar would quit playing games with him and give him every dime he demanded.

  In fact, with Al-Nassar in the game, it was going to be a challenge, but that just upped the fun. The Sahara Sunset was one of the best as far as security. But no security was impenetrable. He’d gotten most of the information he needed—now all that was required was time and an opportunity. In a career of crime that he’d honed over the last decade, he’d learned that there was always a weak link. There was always someone who could be bought and whose skills could be used. It had taken him less time to find the hotel than it had to find that link that could be bought. Only an hour ago, the necessary money had changed hands. Now, he just needed to set the plan in motion.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “The police caught and lost your attacker,” Ian said in that quick way that was unique to him. He tended to get straight to business and avoided any pleasantries or time wasters, as he liked to call them. It was what worked for both of them. “I just spoke to the detective on the case.”

  “What do you mean lost?” Talib asked.

  “The bugger slipped police restraints as he was being transferred. Had him on a minor traffic violation and it was only your mention of the lazy eye that had our officer frisk him and find the switchblade.” He gave Talib the name of the suspect, but it meant nothing to him.

  Talib returned to the Sahara Sunset later that day with a feeling of relief and of coming home.

  He knocked on the door, not wanting to scare her.

  “It’s me, Talib,” he added for good measure.

  The door opened and her smile of relief almost melted his heart. “Talib,” she said. “Where have you been?” And that was followed by an immediate gasp. “What happened to you?” Her hands were on his cheeks, as she gently ran her fingers down his bruises. “Who did this?” she asked in a tone like she was about to launch war on the perpetrator. She had his hand before he could answer any of that and dragged him over to the couch. In truth, he followed willingly, rather enjoying the attention.

  “You need ointment, bandages...” She tsked.

  “I’m fine, Sara, really.” He patted the seat beside him. “Sit down with me. That’s all I need right now is you.”

  “I can’t believe it. What happened?” she asked as she sat down close beside him. Her bare arm rubbed against his and the thought of his bruises went to the back of his mind.

  It was like being met by a wife’s loving scolding. He’d never thought that of a woman, never thought he’d want to be in that position. The words were oddly unromantic and yet they made him feel as though his world just turned around.

  “Talib,” she said, shifting on the seat so that she was turned sideways to look at him. “I was worried.”

  “I would have been here sooner. I had a bit of a scuffle.”

  She brushed his arm with her hand. “I’m so sorry, Talib. I should never have come. I’ve put you in danger, disrupted your life. I’m sorry.”

  “The only mistake you made, Sara,” he said thickly, “was not finding me sooner.”

  Thirty minutes later, as they sat together over coffee, there was rustling in the bedroom and the sound of their son’s voice chattering in his version of English and baby talk. The mix was uniquely his own.

  Sara stood up. He touched her arm with gentle fingers. “Please,” he said. “Let me. I’ve never gotten him up from a nap.”

  Something in her face broke, like she might cry. He leaned down and kissed her. “I didn’t mean that as a jibe. I really meant that I want to make up for lost time,” he said.

  “I know,” she said softly.

  Later, they ordered supper, a pizza, and enjoyed it together as a family. They were moments they would all remember. He stayed with her through that night, spooning her, feeling her soft curves and realizing that restraint was more difficult than he thought.

  But he knew that he had to get moving. He didn’t have the luxury of hanging around a hotel suite. It was his job to keep them safe.

  His phone rang early the next morning and he answered to hear Barb’s voice. “The suspect was last seen leaving one of the seedier areas of the Medina the evening before the attack.” She gave him the address that they both knew housed more criminals than upstanding citizens.

  “Possibly where he lives,” Talib mused. “Or there was some sort of business dealings, or a myriad of things.” He considered the options. “Not a great area,” he said. “Anything else?”

  “Still working on it. This is a tough one. There isn’t much information easily available.”

  “None of your research is easy, Barb,” Talib said with a laugh. “You’re the best. Keep digging.”

  “Always.”

  He disconnected. There was only so much that could be found by their desk-bound researchers. He needed to get back in the field and check the address out.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said to Sara who’d been awakened by the call. It was just after 6:00 a.m. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine, Talib. We’ll be fine,” she reiterated. “Everything is secure. You do what needs to be done to make sure our son is safe.” She hesitated, then took his right hand in both of hers. “Be careful. Don’t do anything risky,” she said. “Promise me.”

  He couldn’t do that. Instead he leaned down and kissed her, wanting to pull her into his arms and offer more comfort than that brief kiss. Instead he left her with the promise that he’d see her soon.

  Thirty minutes later Talib stood outside a run-down apartment building on the edge of one of Marrakech’s oldest souks. Unlike the other areas, this particular section didn’t have the vibrancy that drew the tourists and locals alike. Much of what might once have been heritage buildings were now weathered and broken. He passed a small, gray, rectangular building, which was wedged between two bigger buildings of a similar style, before arriving at his destination—a decrepit, four-story brick structure.

  Farther down an alleyway, two white-haired men were smoking and talking. Both of them were too far away to ID him and neither of them paid any attention to him. He could slip in and out. A check with the super had confirmed that the tenant worked an early morning shift leaving well before six in the morning and returning to the apartment later in the afternoon. Hopefully, there was evidence in the apartment of who he was, who he knew and, better yet, who he might be associated with.

  He jimmied the lock on the main door and slipped inside. He was met by a rush of stale, hot air that made him want to breathe as little as possible. The smell of something rancid, like cooking oil, wafted through the air—it was an unwelcome stench. There was no one else around. He took the concrete stairs, one at a time, with caution. The staircase was steep and narrow. The apartment was at the end on the second floor and as he stood outside of it, silence seemed to tick around him.

  He put his ear to the wooden door. No sound. A door banged shut on the floor above him and his hand jerked back from the knob. He looked around. There was no one, nothing near him. Minutes later he was inside. The room was meager. Directly in front of him was a cot and to his right, a small television. There was a bathroom to his left, the only other room unless you counted a closet and an open-area kitchenette. He stepped farther in, moving around a stack of travel magazines.

&
nbsp; “Going somewhere?” he murmured. The possibility was there—if this was their man, that he was picking the next destination where he could take the money and run. But there were no answers from a stack of magazines.

  He stepped deeper into the room. Despite the fact that clothes and paper were strewn across the bed, they were arranged in an oddly organized way. It was a contradiction and yet it was clearly a pattern. He lifted a magazine from the bed.

  A piece of pale yellow note paper slipped out from the pages of the magazine. There was a name on that paper. It was a name that wasn’t unfamiliar to him. It didn’t necessarily mean anything, but he’d gone to primary school with a boy by that name. It wasn’t a common name. And there was a phone number. He grimaced at the thought of calling the number out of the blue, and saying what? What did Habib Kattanni have to do with a two-bit criminal who had fled detection? He frowned. His mind went back to the fact that Habib had gone to school with him. It was years ago and he couldn’t imagine what the connection might be now. In fact, logically he’d like to say there was no connection, but the evidence seemed to be hinting otherwise. That gave rise to the question that the man might have the same name as the boy he’d gone to school with, but there the similarity stopped. Same name—different person. They were all things that needed to be followed up on. He thought back, remembering the boy who had been there for a term, maybe two—he wasn’t sure. And then he’d left. There’d never been any explanation. What he remembered was his father saying something about the disgrace of it all. His father would have known for he’d employed Habib’s father for a brief time after what everyone referred to as the scandal. Unfortunately, his father was no longer around for answers.

  Talib looked at the paper and tried to dredge up any memory of the man. But there was nothing. It had been a long time ago.

  Habib.

  The few memories he had weren’t good. He remembered that he was a whiney, unlikeable kid, but that didn’t mean anything. Kids were a lot of things before they matured and became who it was they were meant to become. He couldn’t see anyone he had gone to school with sinking to this. But why was Habib’s name here, in this apartment? Was it a case of same name, different identity?