Hostage for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 3)

by Annabelle Winters

  Cristy sat on the wooden bench now, once more aware that she didn’t have any damn panties on and her blouse didn’t close all the way. How long before her new friend Harry decides to . . . decides to . . . decides to . . .

  No, she thought firmly, pushing her legs tight together as she instinctively hunched up and hugged herself. Rizaak will find me before that. I know he will.

  Come on, Rizaak, she thought as she felt the ship roll left to right, heard the roar of the bow cut through the water. I found you last night. Now you must find me. Come to me, Rizaak. Come to me.

  She stood now, feeling that strange connectedness to him rise up in her, and for some odd reason she clambered onto that nailed-down mess hall table, standing in the center of it now, her arms spread out to the side like she was a white witch spinning a charm, a curvy goddess commanding her angels, a queen calling out to her king.

  A queen calling out to her king, came the whisper in her mind’s ear, and her eyelids were fluttering now as she kept her hands stretched wide, her chin pointed up, a smile that felt like madness coming to her face.

  “Come to me, my king,” she said in a voice that sounded strange in that tinny enclosed room. “Come to me, my king.”

  20

  I must go to her, Rizaak thought as he watched Tom slowly sit cross-legged on the floor before him. Jane had stopped thrashing about and in fact had gone remarkably still under Rizaak’s chokehold, so still that he wondered if she had passed out. But Rizaak knew how to control his strength, and one glance at Jane told him that she was finally just exhausted, completely drained for the moment. Temporarily, at least, she was under control.

  Rizaak’s mind raced as he thought ahead. Harry and Dick were still out there. They were the wildcards. For now he wasn’t worried about the rest of the crew—this didn’t seem to be some full-scale criminal operation. It couldn’t be, really: the United States was very careful about the ships it allowed into its mainland ports. The Dublin Dog was almost certainly part of a legitimate—probably even honest—business. Malone may have been crooked, and certainly he used his position as Captain to serve his own purposes; but Rizaak didn’t think Malone had ever used his ship for something this big—carrying bank robbers and hostages from America to Ireland! Yes, Malone had clearly been pulled into this by his sister. And Harry and Dick were just henchmen. What about Tom, though? Had he been pulled into it by Jane as well?

  No, Rizaak decided as he glanced over at Tom once more, who looked exceedingly docile right now as he sat cross-legged and calm, almost like a yogi or something. No, Jane isn’t the mastermind. She’s the fuel for whatever fire Tom was able to muster up to do this thing, but Tom was the brains behind this. Or at least he was the brains as far as this motley crew was concerned.

  And then, without thinking, Rizaak just instinctively asked the question: “Who has put you up to this, Tom?” he said with the confidence of a man who already knew the answer, even though Rizaak was shooting in the dark.

  Tom was startled, his neck jerking as he glanced wide-eyed at Rizaak, panic streaking across his face before he blinked and looked down. A moment later Tom looked back at Rizaak, a puzzled, innocent expression on his face. But it was too late. Tom had given it away with that first look of panic.

  Yes, Rizaak thought as he felt his attention pulling towards Cristy once again, reminding him that he needed to make a move soon. But he forced himself to focus and think this through first. Yes, Tom, he thought now. There is more to this. You are working for someone else, are you not? And I think it is just you that knows of this someone else. Jane does not know of it. She is too erratic to be trusted. Harry and Dick certainly do not know. So who is it that hired you, Tom? I believe it is someone from overseas. Someone with power and influence in Europe, perhaps even beyond. Who?

  But now Rizaak shook his head as those years of military training came back to him, those hours of practicing interrogation techniques, understanding the right questions to ask. And the most important question was usually not “Who?”

  No, the most important question was always, “Why?”

  Yes, Rizaak thought as he remembered the experienced intelligence agents telling him that if you answer the why of it, the who and the what and the when will emerge naturally as a result.

  And now Rizaak thought that of all the gang members, Tom had seemed the least concerned about the actual money—whether it came from the bank’s vault or Rizaak’s accounts. He was almost too willing to leave the bank before getting the vault open. Yes, the police had arrived, but with so many hostages in the bank, the cops would phone in and try to negotiate first. There would have been time for Tom to get the vault open, wouldn’t there? And Tom had gone into the back alone, had he not? Gone alone to where the manager’s office was, where the passageway to the main vault began. He had gone there with that black duffel bag, had he not? But when Tom came running out, saying he saw the police through the back window . . . yes, when he came running back out, did Tom have that duffel bag with him?

  No, he did not. Rizaak had been trained to observe details, and it was second nature to him. He scanned his memories for that bag, and now he was certain Tom did not have it on him when they left the bank.

  Rizaak had assumed the bag was empty, of course—to be filled with cash from the vault. But now Rizaak felt a chill go down his back as he wondered if perhaps the bag hadn’t been empty after all. If maybe . . . just maybe . . .

  Yes, maybe Tom hadn’t been hired to take something out of the bank at all! Ya Allah, maybe instead he had been hired to put something inside the bank! Inside its walls! A deposit, not a withdrawal!

  Ya, Allah, Rizaak thought now as he watched how Tom looked away again, the man’s face ashen, almost gray with fear, colorless with guilt. What have you done, Tom? What have you done?

  First answer the question of WHY, Rizaak reminded himself as he continued to stare at Tom. WHY would Tom’s secret employer want to stage a bank robbery in which nothing was actually stolen. Clearly the reason was not money. And there is only one other motive for anything like this: Power.

  So it was about power. Influence. But power over what? Influence over whom? Yes, Abdul bin-Khawas—old Uncle Bin—was certainly a competitive businessman who played in the world of international banking and finance: a world that was all about power and influence in some sense. So could it be one of Uncle Bin’s competitors doing something to undermine Midland Bank and therefore Uncle Bin himself? Try and get Uncle Bin into trouble? Perhaps.

  And now, as the WHY began to come together for Rizaak, a feeling of cold dread began to creep into his being as the answer to the question of WHAT made itself known . . .

  The thought had come to him almost immediately after he guessed that Tom had been hired to place something inside the bank, but Rizaak had dismissed it. But now the thought came back to him, and that sense of dread told him he was right.

  Because what would someone go to so much trouble for to sneak into a building in the United States? A building owned by a Middle-Eastern Arab, nonetheless!

  Ya, Allah, please let it not be true, Rizaak thought as he looked at Tom’s face and shook his head as he thought about what would happen to poor Uncle Bin once it became public . . . once it became public . . . once it became public that a bomb had gone off inside an American bank owned by an Arab.

  But wait, would Uncle Bin truly get the full blame, Rizaak thought now as his dread changed form and doubt began to creep in at an almost instinctual, intuitional level. Yes, would the blame fall to Uncle Bin, a lower Sheikh of the Al-Khawas family, someone without direct royal blood? Or would the blame be cast on the supreme Sheikh of “poor” Uncle Bin’s homeland, Rizaak himself? The young, independently minded, progressive but rebellious Sheikh Rizaak Al-Khawas, who just HAPPENED to be at the bank that very day, and just HAPPENED to leave the bank very conveniently as a hostage!

  Ya, Allah, Rizaak thought now as the image of his uncle cropped up in his mind, that image of his uncle
sending him to the U.S. on a “fun” diversion to role-play as a bank customer. No, Uncle Bin. No. You could not have, Uncle Bin. No. It could not be true.

  Could it be true, Uncle Bin? Could it be true?

  21

  Abdul bin-Khawas stroked his long white beard and pushed his fat Siamese cat off the red silk cushion that lay beside him on the day-bed in his chambers. The cat looked a bit too smug, thought Abdul. He was not in the mood to deal with smugness.

  Abdul was prone to smugness himself, he knew, which was why smugness in others—even animals—bothered him. Especially when Abdul himself was not feeling smug. Like now.

  Ay, Allah, he thought as he checked the news on the large flatscreen monitor that sat on the smooth ivory tabletop by the foot of his day-bed. CNN-International had already mostly dropped coverage of the bank robbery. It had been almost five days now, and although the hostage situation had made it newsworthy for three full days, the police had made zero progress and so there was nothing else to report. The leaked security footage had made the rounds on YouTube, and in fact was still making the rounds: footage of masked robbers terrorizing innocent citizens; clips of a courageous bank teller stepping up to offer herself as a hostage; and finally, footage of a tall, handsome, foreign-looking man offering HIMSELF as a hostage instead of the woman! What old-fashioned chivalry! And, by Allah, those idiots took BOTH of them hostage!

  Ah, Rizaak! Always the hero, thought Abdul as he rubbed his eyes and turned on his side, groaning as he felt a cramp in his thigh from sitting in the same position and staring at the television for days on end. Always the bloody hero! Choosing to join the military at age eighteen. Participating in live anti-terrorist operations with Western forces after a year of training. At first Abdul assumed it was the fire of a hot-blooded teenager that would fizzle out after that first taste of action. But it did not, and so Abdul then decided it was mostly for perception, the young Sheikh of Al-Khawas showing the West that his nation was progressive and modern, committed to fighting the worst elements of Islamic extremism. It had played well—indeed, Rizaak had played well: his tall, tanned physique in those military uniforms, war-paint on his face like he was in some goddamn Hollywood movie. Yes, it had played well indeed! Good show, young Rizaak!

  But when Rizaak stayed in the military for almost four years, pulling the small but well-trained Khawasi forces into ongoing joint operations with America, England, and even Israel . . . ya, Allah, that was more than just show. It was more than just the fire of a teenager. It was the drive of a man who truly believed in his own vision. It was the ambition of a man who actually believed he could change the world on his own. It was the passion of a leader—a new kind of leader, a new kind of Sheikh.

  But the old kingdom of Khawas did not need a new kind of Sheikh, Abdul had always thought. Rizaak’s father had done enough damage with his reforms and edicts, his “committees” and “elections.” The supreme Sheikh may well be the arbiter of Allah’s will on this Earth—but it is still ALLAH’S will that must be enforced! And is Allah’s will not stated clearly and beautifully in the holy Quran, in the Sharia Laws, in the age-old traditions passed down from the great prophets?!

  Yes, Abdul had decided all the way back then as he watched young Rizaak turn more and more to the ideals of the West: Democracy. Capitalism. Equality for women. Freedom of dress. Freedom of education. Too much! Yes, he had decided that Rizaak was going too far, that the way things were going, by the time Rizaak’s reign was complete the nation of Khawas would be nothing but a caricature of England or America, a nation stripped of culture and tradition, a whitewashed state that was looked upon with scorn and mockery by the rest of Arabia.

  But what could Abdul do? He was just “Uncle Bin” (a name he HATED!)—the younger brother of Begum Al-Khawas, Rizaak’s mother. Sweet old Uncle Bin had no blood-link to the throne! In fact there were no other blood-links to the throne besides Rizaak. The late Sheikh Al-Khawas—Rizaak’s father—had married only twice, even though by tradition he should have taken four wives. The first wife proved barren, and Abdul’s sister the Begum had produced only a single heir before the Sheikh died beneath the hooves of that stallion!

  Now Abdul rubbed his eyes and almost laughed as he thought about what might have been! If only Rizaak had brothers—other men of royal blood—then chances were that at least one of them would think like Abdul did. At least one of them would see that letting go of your culture and tradition in favor of the soulless lure of democracy and capitalism is haraam! It is heresy! An insult to our ancestors, our people, our God!

  If only, Abdul thought again as he finally struggled to his feet and shook his right leg to wake it up so he could walk to the balcony and look out over the capital city of Khawas. If only . . .

  The balcony was three stories above the clean, evenly paved roads that lined the capital city at perfect angles. This part of the city had been redesigned by modern architects and engineers—Muslims, all of them, but educated in the West—and Abdul did not much care for it. He still liked the rustic, winding camel-paths that had traced their way through the old city. Of course, the people who had to drive through those bumpy, dusty paths every day often complained, but what did they know! And who cared about them anyway!

  Abdul sighed now as he looked at the Royal Palace of Khawas in the distance, how its majestic grand dome still retained every bit of the original goldleaf coating, making the building gleam almost as bright as the midday sun. The tall minarets—one at each corner of the sprawling palace—were marvels of engineering even today, Abdul thought: And they were built over a hundred years ago! How long before Rizaak decides to “remodel” the Royal Palace itself! As it was, half the rooms had been opened up for use by various groups and organizations composed of common people. Commoners in the Royal Palace! With access to rooms that had once been private sanctuaries of the old rulers and their sprawling families, their captive harems!

  Yes, Rizaak had to be stopped. Reasoning with him would not work—Abdul had tried it early on, but quickly found that he was no match for Rizaak’s razor-sharp intelligence, his keen understanding of politics and diplomacy, his clear, logical way of thought and speech. Indeed, Rizaak had even been able to talk religion with Abdul in a way that got the old man flustered as he tried in vain to outdo Rizaak in matters of Sharia Law and the teachings of the Quran.

  “Nothing my father has done, and nothing that I plan to do as Sheikh directly opposes the core values and teachings of the Quran, Uncle Bin,” Rizaak had said to him the last time they had talked about such matters. It had been almost a decade now, and the conversation had been brief and casual, but Abdul remembered it clearly. “As Sheikh it is my duty to INTERPRET Allah’s will for the people. It is not to simply order them to do things based on word-for-word prescriptions from a text written thousands of years ago. This is only way to truly PRESERVE our great, ancient culture, Uncle Bin! It is the only way to make sure Islam stays relevant, stays useful, stays GREAT! I respect and cherish my history as much as anyone—indeed, more than most, I would argue,” Rizaak had said with an affectionate smile as he grasped his uncle’s arm and squeezed gently, his gaze calm and respectful but conveying a finality to the conversation, a finality that Abdul had found insulting.

  The memory of that subtle reminder of Rizaak’s power ignited a little of that old anger in Abdul now, but this was not about avenging old insults or anything so trivial. No, this was about something greater, something that would live on after he was gone, after all of them were gone.

  And so I must stay strong, he reminded himself as he turned away from the view of that yellow sandstone palace in the boundless desert. I must stay strong and follow through. Yes, things have not gone as planned—but, by Allah, in some way has this strange turn of events, with Rizaak being a hostage, not made things easier?! By the angels, perhaps Allah is guiding me after all! Perhaps I am destined to succeed because I am on the righteous path, serving Allah Himself!

  Now Abdul walked to his pr
ivate study, approaching the wooden writing desk that stood against the light blue wall. He pulled open a drawer and took out a cell phone: an old-style flip-phone.

  He looked at it for a moment, and carried it over to a silent computer screen by the opposite wall. He turned on the screen and scanned the live camera feeds that were coming through. Good. Everything was clear. Things were as expected. Allah indeed was on his side.

  And so Abdul looked down at that phone and quickly punched in a sequence of numbers. Then he took a deep breath and glanced up at the ceiling, his lips moving as he recited the words from the Quran.

  “Allah-hu-Akbar,” he muttered. “God is great.”

  Then he hit the “Send” button on the phone and turned back to the computer screen, his stomach clenching tight as he saw the flash of an explosion before all the cameras went dead.

  22

  Harry stared at the television screen in disbelief. Did they just say that a BOMB had gone off at Midland Bank in South Baltimore? That very same bank? The SAME DAMN BANK?!

  His broken nose throbbed as he took quick, shallow breaths, trying to quell the panic so he could hear what the hell the reporter was saying. Harry had wandered down to the empty mess hall where there was a TV hooked up to the satellite antenna, and he had been flipping through the news channels when the story broke.

  “Sonofabitch,” he muttered as the realization began to sink in that he was now a . . . a . . . a TERRORIST! He had no idea how the hell the bomb got in there, but it was clear that it didn’t matter at this point. A bomb had gone off a few days after a bank had been robbed and hostages had been taken. Even a moron could connect the dots.

  His eyes glazed over and his head spun as he listened to the reporter talk, but only flashes of information registered: Midland Bank owned by an Arab who lives overseas . . . one of the hostages just HAPPENS to be the owner’s nephew and is also the SHEIKH of some Middle-Eastern kingdom . . . a conspiracy is suspected . . . Sheikh Rizaak Al-Khawas and his uncle are considered suspects along with the gang . . . being taken hostage was part of Rizaak’s escape plan after planting the bomb . . . a brilliant strategy to disguise the true motive as a failed bank robbery . . . the bank teller must be part of the conspiracy as well . . . Homeland Security has taken over the investigation in cooperation with the FBI and the CIA . . .