by Amelia Autin
That brought it all down on him again—Tahra could be dying. His darling Tahra...who’d been right to accuse him of not trusting her with the truth. Why hadn’t he told her at some point during the past eighteen months, especially once they became constant companions? Because of Zorina, of course. As if Tahra could ever do what Zorina had done.
“Marek?” Suddenly Alec was standing in front of him, and he looked up at the other man. “The police wouldn’t tell me much about what happened,” Alec said, taking a seat next to Marek. “Other than to let me know Tahra was in the hospital here because she’d been wounded in a bombing. And the receptionist won’t divulge anything,” he added, inclining his head toward the same woman who’d guarded Tahra’s privacy from Marek. “Do you know anything more?”
Marek shook his head in automatic denial, then realized that wasn’t fair to the American. Tahra did work for him. Not only that, but Alec was also the principal security attaché and adviser to the US ambassador. Which meant he was entitled to know of any threat to the embassy’s security. “All I know is what the eyewitnesses in the park told the police. They saw Tahra grab something from the fence next to the preschool and throw it as far away as she could before yelling to the children to run. But she was not able to escape herself before the bomb—”
He couldn’t finish because the idea of a blast anywhere near Tahra threatened his composure. Zakharian men never cried. Hadn’t he been taught that since childhood? And yet...without that emotional release he needed something else. Vengeance. An eye for an eye. But right now there was no one on whom to wreak vengeance. No terrorist organization had come forward to claim responsibility for the attacks. That could change at any time, but for now...
Alec glanced away for a moment, as if to give Marek time to get his emotions under control. Then he said, “I heard you tell the receptionist Tahra’s your fiancée. Probably not the best time to say it, but congratulations—Tahra’s one in a million, and you’re a lucky man.” Alec and Angelina were the only ones who knew how Marek felt about Tahra. Not that he’d ever actually come right out and told either of them, but anyone who’d seen Marek and Tahra together—which Alec and Angelina had—would know...
Alec added, “Tahra didn’t mention the two of you were engaged, but I’ve been pretty busy lately. Guess she didn’t have a chance to tell me.” Something in Alec’s steady gaze told Marek the other man suspected he’d lied about being Tahra’s fiancé, but wasn’t going to call him on it. Yet. Not when the lie had garnered information about Tahra’s condition.
He opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn’t quite sure—when a man in medical garb walked into the waiting room, spoke to the receptionist, then came over to where Alec and Marek were seated. Both men stood quickly.
“You are waiting to hear about Tahra Edwards?” the surgeon asked in Zakharan.
Alec spoke first. “Tahra works for me at the US embassy.”
“She is my fiancée,” Marek threw in, not even waiting for Alec to finish.
The surgeon nodded. “She is in recovery. Her wounds are serious, but not life threatening. There was internal bleeding, but no major damage to any vital organs. We were easily able to effect repairs without complications via a minimally invasive technique called a laparoscopy. She has a broken right wrist, but it was clean and we set it without difficulty. There will be some scarring, of course, from the fléchette rounds that pierced her body.” His lips tightened as if merely the idea of fléchettes angered him. “But she was turned away from the bomb when it detonated, so her face is fortunately untouched.”
He hesitated. “The only thing that concerns me is the head injury she received. Severe concussion. Apparently the force of the bomb blast threw her into a park bench, and her head took a terrific blow. There is some swelling of the brain, but there does not appear to be any internal bleeding inside her skull. We have induced a medical coma to allow her body to heal without the distraction of pain. We are monitoring her closely, however, and will deal appropriately with any cause for alarm.” He smiled reassuringly at Marek. “Your fiancée was a healthy young woman before this happened, and the prognosis for a complete recovery is excellent.”
How Marek was able to hang on to his stoic expression, he never knew. “Thank you,” he told the surgeon in a voice wiped clean of emotion. He shook the man’s hand. “Thank you.”
“Always glad to deliver good news,” the surgeon replied with a smile. “You can see her as soon as they bring her up to her room. She will not be able to respond, of course, but remain positive—it is always possible she can hear you even in a coma.” He glanced at Alec and switched to English. “You may also see her as soon as she is conscious, but she will not be returning to work any time soon.”
* * *
“She saw my face,” Sergeant Thimo Vasska reported to his superior officer in the headquarters of the Zakharian Liberation Front. “It is possible she could identify me.”
Before the lieutenant could reply, another man entered the room so quietly he was there before either man was aware. Sergeant Vasska stiffened, then nervously saluted the supreme commander of their revolutionary force.
“That is unfortunate,” Colonel Damek Borka said in his flat, emotionless voice. It wasn’t his real name, of course. Everyone in the Zakharian Liberation Front went by a pseudonym because the danger of disclosure was great...although more for some than for others. “Unfortunate...for her and for you.” The colonel said nothing more, but his face conveyed how badly the sergeant had screwed up.
Failure was unacceptable, the man knew. If the witness could not be silenced, the Zakharian Liberation Front would have no choice but to remove the link between the botched attack today and their secret organization. Sergeant Vasska nodded his understanding. “Yes, sir,” he said, saluting again. “It will be dealt with immediately.”
* * *
Marek stared down at the unconscious woman in the hospital bed, his emotions churning. Tahra, his darling Tahra, could have died today. And he wouldn’t have been able to do a damn thing to prevent it.
He took her unbandaged left hand in his and raised it to his lips. Forgive me, he told her silently, aware that the nurse attending Tahra and setting things up could hear every word he said. But until you are conscious, I have no choice. I must protect you the only way I know how.
He waited until the nurse turned away, adjusting something on one of the machines monitoring Tahra’s condition, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the little ring box he’d been carrying for weeks. Tahra had declined his proposal, but that had changed nothing. She was still his mariskya and always would be. He had drawn back, wanting to give her time to see what a mistake she was making, but he’d had to repeat the lie he’d told the receptionist to hospital staff, that Tahra was his fiancée, or else he would have been shut out of her sickroom. And that he couldn’t have borne.
He surreptitiously slid the engagement ring onto her finger, then kissed her hand again. “Sleep well, my darling,” he whispered in Zakharan. “I will keep you safe from this moment forward.”
Tahra slept on, oblivious, but he took comfort in the slight rise and fall of her chest.
Marek caught the nurse’s eye. “I have left my phone numbers with the main desk. Call me immediately, please, if there is any change in my fiancée’s condition.”
The nurse nodded, and Marek walked out, passing the two soldiers from the Zakharian National Forces posted right on either side of the door, returning their salutes automatically. He hadn’t even had to ask Colonel Marianescu to post guards, although he would have if necessary. The colonel was too smart not to realize the attacks today had to all be related and were a threat to national security. Which meant Tahra—a witness to the attack on the school—was also vital to national security. No one else had been close enough to the man who’d left the knapsack to identify him, but several witnesses in the
area had indicated Tahra had been much closer to the terrorist. Anything she could tell them about the attack would be crucial. Which meant it was very possible her life was still in danger...and not from the injuries she’d received.
Chapter 2
Tahra floated in a sea of disjointed memories. Carly was there, and her parents. Then her parents were gone, and seventeen-year-old Carly was kneeling in front of ten-year-old Tahra, saying gently, “They’re not coming back, honey. They’re never coming back. But I’m here. And I’ll take care of you, I promise.”
Tears and years.
There was Carly, fiercely confronting the secretary of state. “You think you can sweep this under the rug? Hell, no. That’s not going to happen. The State Department is going to come up with a better solution, and this had better not impact Tahra’s career in any way, you hear me? Not in any way. Believe me, you don’t even want to be thinking along those lines, understand? Because I’ll blow the lid off this scandal so fast it’ll make your head spin. And you won’t be the only one affected by the fallout. You got that?”
Carly, so protective of her baby sister, who, Tahra was ashamed to admit, had always had trouble standing up for herself in any confrontational situation. She’d fought off the foreign diplomat who’d attacked her—at least she wasn’t that much of a coward—and had saved herself from being savagely raped by stabbing him repeatedly. But when the State Department had tried to blame everything on her and throw her to the wolves, Tahra had called Carly from jail as her world crashed in around her. And Carly had come charging to the rescue again, bailing her out, then storming the secretary of state’s office. Carly, who wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything...except losing those she loved.
In the way of dreams, Tahra was a little girl again, watching from the sidelines as most of the kids in her kindergarten class played Red Rover during recess. She knew she would be good at it. She could run like the wind and she was stronger than she looked—the locked hands could never hold her in Red Rover, she’d break through the line in a heartbeat. But the other kids never asked her to join in the game, and she was too shy to force her way into their charmed circle the way Carly would have had no trouble doing.
Then, through the murky depths of her dreams, she heard a voice. A masculine voice. Deep. Strong. Just a hint of an accent that made the English words sound unbelievably sexy. A voice she knew she should recognize...but didn’t. What was he saying? At first she couldn’t quite force her brain to comprehend, but then...
“I am back, Tahra. I promised you I would be, and here I am. I will always keep my promises, mariskya. Just as I will always honor and cherish you. Just as I will protect you with my life.”
The words floated in the ether surrounding Tahra, but there was something incredibly appealing about them. About the simple way they were uttered, too. There was also something about the voice she responded to instinctively. And she knew he spoke the truth. Whoever he was, she was safe with him, the same way she was safe when Carly was there.
She didn’t recognize the foreign word, though. Mariskya. Didn’t know what it meant. But she wanted to. The way he said it, she knew the word was important. She also desperately wanted to know who he was. Because—like the word—the man who’d spoken it was important, too. She just didn’t know why.
* * *
“The Zakharian Liberation Front,” Colonel Marianescu announced in Zakharan to the seven other men and one woman sitting around the conference table in the War Room inside the royal palace. “They have claimed responsibility for yesterday’s bombings. What do we know about it?”
Marek exchanged a rueful glance with Angelina because he knew the answer was “Nothing.” The Zakharian Liberation Front had never popped up on anyone’s radar until yesterday. And while technically this wasn’t an indictment of Angelina or him because she was responsible for the queen’s security and he was responsible for the crown prince’s, any threat to national security could be a danger to the royals, and they both knew it.
The silence in the room was deafening. “I see,” said the colonel. His lips thinned. “Needless to say, the king is not pleased.”
His last five words were a lash against the pride of all his listeners, but especially Marek. Until he’d met Tahra, nothing had been more important to him than the king he was proud to serve. Keeping the queen safe—and subsequently the crown prince when the king had personally asked him to take over protection of his son—had been especially important to him because those things were of paramount importance to the king. The king had made it abundantly clear that in any life-and-death situation, the safety of the queen and the crown prince came first. Then the king. That had required an adjustment in thinking, but everyone on the three security details had eventually come to accept it.
But from the moment Marek had met Tahra, the royal family had slid one notch in his personal priority hierarchy. Had he somehow overlooked a threat to them because of that? He didn’t know, and the uncertainty ate at his gut. Because duty was everything to him. Or at least it had been...until Tahra.
Marek dragged his attention back to Colonel Marianescu with difficulty. The colonel was saying, “It is fairly obvious from the one-sentence credo stated in their press release that the Zakharian Liberation Front’s political agenda is in opposition to the refugees Zakhar has recently welcomed inside its borders. ‘Zakhar for Zakharians’ leaves no room for any other interpretation. And all the targets of yesterday’s bombings were—”
The door to the War Room opened, and King Andre Alexei IV strode in. Everyone scrambled to their feet, but the king said quickly, “As you were, gentlemen. I apologize for being late—I had intended to be here from the beginning, but I was detained by the Privy Council.” He spoke softly with his cousin, Colonel Marianescu, then nodded and faced the room again, standing. “What I have to say will not take long.”
Marek had rarely seen the king like this—cold anger was coming off him in palpable waves. “I will not speak the name of this organization because its very name is an affront to every decent Zakharian. Nor will I repeat their credo for the same reason. All I will say is that this organization’s actions are unacceptable. Unacceptable!” The king paused and clenched his jaw against the anger that obviously threatened to get away from him.
When he had himself under control again, the king continued. His voice was soft, but no one in the room took his words as anything other than a direct order. “I want three things. First, I want the refugees who are here at my invitation to be protected at all costs. Second, I want the individuals involved in these murderous and cowardly acts caught and brought to justice. Third, I want this organization rooted out and destroyed. It is one thing to espouse this credo—every man is entitled to his own thoughts. It is another thing entirely to take violent action to force that on others, and it will not be tolerated. Is that understood?”
A chorus of “Yes, Sire” echoed through the room.
The king nodded with satisfaction. “Very good, gentlemen. I will leave you and Colonel Marianescu to work out the details. Thank you.” He turned and spoke privately with his cousin for a moment, then they headed for the door together. As they had when the king had entered the room, everyone stood and remained at attention until he was gone.
Angelina caught Marek’s eye. “Have you ever seen him this angry?” she whispered as they took their seats again. “Not even the assassination attempt on his son generated this kind of reaction as I recall.”
“I did not witness it myself, you understand,” Marek replied in an undertone that couldn’t be heard by the others sitting around them. “But he nearly killed Prince Nikolai for attempting to kill the queen. That was before she was the queen,” he clarified. “The man who did witness it said the king’s anger was awesome to behold—similar to his reaction today, I would imagine. I do not know how the queen convinced the king otherwise, but somehow she did,
and Prince Nikolai lived that night—he went on to stand his trial before being convicted.”
Angelina nodded her understanding. Prince Nikolai was dead now, which they both knew, but not at the king’s hand. Then quickly, as Colonel Marianescu returned to the head of the table, she asked, “What is the word on Tahra? Has she regained consciousness yet?”
Marek shook his head, fighting off his own surge of anger at what had nearly happened to her. “She is still in a medically induced coma. Until they bring her out of it, she will not... That is, she is still—”
“Shh,” whispered the man on Marek’s left. “Colonel Marianescu is speaking.”
“Suggestions?” the colonel was saying.
No one spoke, and once again Marek and Angelina exchanged speaking glances. They were the only two captains in the room, included in this high-level meeting because they headed the security details for the crown prince and the queen, and neither felt comfortable speaking up first. But when the silence dragged on, Marek asked, “Do forensics on all the bombs confirm it was the action of one group? Yes, the Zakharian Liberation Front has taken public credit, but before we rule anything else out...”
“Good point, Captain Zale.” The colonel’s gaze swept the room. “Forensic analysis is not complete, but yes, the preliminary assessment supports the theory that the bombs were all the work of one group. In fact, that they were all the work of one man.”
“That tells us something,” Angelina pointed out. “If all ten bombs were assembled by the same man, we may be looking at a relatively small organization.”
The colonel nodded. “Possible, of course. A good working theory.”
“Especially since the organization has managed to fly under the radar until now,” Marek added. His eyes sought out those of Major Stesha, the head of the secret intelligence service, who had sat himself at the far end of the conference table that could seat many more than the nine who had congregated there, and who—up until now—had avoided catching anyone’s eye. As if he felt the shame of failure more keenly than anyone else. “It is also probable the Zakharian Liberation Front has only recently come into existence,” Marek continued, welcoming the change his words wrought in the expression on Major Stesha’s face. “‘Zakhar for Zakharians’? As Colonel Marianescu said, that credo can only refer to opposition to the influx of refugees who have settled here over the past two years, and in even greater numbers in the past six months.”