Читать книгу The Sheikh Who Stole Her: Sheikh Seduction / The Untamed Sheikh / Desert King, Doctor Daddy - Dana Marton - Страница 12

The sound came again. Tariq listened, reluctant to end the kiss. Probably just the hyena coming to try its luck again. The damn beast was nothing if not persistent. Tariq had the tire iron somewhere at their feet. He figured he had another second or two of savoring Sara before he had to pull away and chase the stupid animal off again.

But with Sara in his arms, he couldn’t spare much thought for anything else. He wanted to protect her himself, and not trust her to Karim, even though he would trust his brother with his own life.

“Who the hell’s been out here?” a heavily rasping voice said in Arabic, just outside the villa.

Sara froze in his arms. Tariq held his breath.

“Probably some camel herd. Better look around,” another man grumbled.

They had about a second to hide. Tariq pushed Sara to the sand and draped a blanket over her, kicked sand over it, then dropped to the ground and wiggled in next to her. He barely had time to pull the satellite phone and the tire iron with him before the men came in.

SARA LAY WITHOUT MOVING, barely daring to breathe. Bandits scourged the villa, walking not a foot or two from them on occasion. If it weren’t for Tariq’s calm, solid presence next to her, and his restraining hand on her arm, she would have freaked out and betrayed herself a hundred times by now. She inhaled his masculine scent and soaked up the comfort of his strong, lean body, which he kept like a shield in front of her.

The men were talking excitedly in Arabic. She wanted to ask Tariq what they were saying, but would have to wait until they were alone again. The arm she was lying on went numb, but she didn’t move. If anyone was looking their way, the slightest shifting of the blanket would betray that someone was hiding beneath. How long could they hold out?

Not long, it seemed. The following moment something hard connected with her shoulder. She didn’t think she made a sound, but she must have, because someone yelled, a single shrill word. The next few seconds passed in a blur.

The blanket was lifted, and she saw two men. The one who must have kicked her in the shoulder was staring at her with a frightening grin on his dirt-smudged face.

Tariq rose with a roar, sand scattering all around him.

By the time she blinked most of the sand from her eyes, he had the guy who’d kicked her disabled. She could barely glance at him, where he lay on the ground with his head bashed in. Tariq, pipe held above his head, was running for the other man, ignoring the gun pointed at the middle of his wide chest.

“Run,” he yelled to her.

He was never going to make it.

She lurched forward on instinct, knowing there was nothing she could do, knowing that as soon as Tariq was gunned down, she would be next.

But he threw the pipe, knocking the gun aside, then lunged at the man, flying through the air and landing heavily on his target. A mountain lion, indeed. He could have been an action movie stuntman, except nobody yelled, “Cut!”

The men rolled on the sand, evenly matched. She hoped. How much would Tariq’s injury slow him down? Was the other guy smart enough to notice it and use it to his advantage?

She dashed back to the dead man and snatched his weapon, aimed it at the other bandit’s head as she moved toward him. “Stop!”

The men rolled, paying her no heed.

“Don’t shoot,” Tariq grunted as he flipped the guy again.

What did he mean, don’t shoot? Of course she was going to shoot. Just as soon as her target stopped moving.

“Too loud,” Tariq said on the next breath.

And she lowered the gun. He was right. It would be best if they kept quiet, so the rest of the bandits didn’t come rushing to join the fray.

Great, so she couldn’t use the gun. Okay, to be truthful, she wasn’t sure if she would have been able to hit the right man, anyway. But she wasn’t going to stand here, just hoping for the best. She tossed the gun out of reach of the men and looked around for a quieter weapon. The tire iron would have been perfect if they weren’t right on top of it.

Her gaze landed on the heavy pot made of some sort of tarnished metal. She retrieved it, and when the men turned again so that the bandit was on top, she swung it, whacking him over the head with all her strength.

“I got him.”

She didn’t knock him out, but the unexpected attack stunned the man enough that Tariq could gain the upper hand. He got the man’s knife from his belt somehow. He drew it up, and as they flipped, let his weight drive the blade home.

Both men went still the next second.

“Tariq?” She dropped the pot and rushed to untangle them. “Tariq!”

He sat up and looked at her, a quick grin spreading on his bruised but handsome face, though his dark eyes didn’t smile. They looked tired, but alert, and something else she couldn’t decipher.

“What is it?”

“You’re lethal with a pot. I’d hate to see you with a cast-iron skillet.” He pushed to his feet finally and retrieved the knife, wiping it on the bandit’s shirt before shoving it into his belt. Then he collected the guns, handing her the smaller one. “It’s time we got out of here.”

He strode to the door and peered out. She followed. A few other bandits loitered around the water pipes. Maybe they wanted to get an early start. Maybe they were in a rush, meeting someone at a given time, wanting to make up for the hours the sandstorm had forced them to linger.

“You should be able to get to the Hummer without them seeing you. Keep to the cover of the buildings,” he said. “Get in the car and stay down.”

“And you?” Sand that still floated in the air from the storm dimmed the sun a little. Not enough to keep it dark, but giving the light an eerie cast.

“I’m still going to see if I can slice a few of their tires.”

The idea just about stopped her heart. Was he insane? “There’s no time for that now. They’re awake,” she said, with an edge of desperation in her voice.

His somber gaze held hers, telling her he was fully aware of the severity of the situation, and didn’t like their options any better than she did. “We can’t have them following. We’d never make it to the chopper. Go. If you run into trouble, start shooting. I’ll come for you.”

Of that, she had no doubt. But she would have preferred a plan that didn’t include the use of any weapons. “Be careful.”

“You, too. If I don’t come for you, get in the car and drive as fast as you can.” He held out his hand and pointed. “Karim will find you. If he doesn’t, the closest village is a four-hour drive that way.”

He held her gaze for so long that she thought he might draw her to him. She wished for it, for the feel of his strength around her, a moment of comfort. But both realized they had no time for anything except the quickest possible escape. He handed her the satellite phone, but kept the tire iron, stepped back and took off in the direction of the bandits, keeping low to the ground, hidden behind the chest-high rifts of sand the storm had created.

She started in the opposite direction, watching out for bandits who might be searching through the site. How on earth was she supposed to get by them unseen?

HE HATED TO LEAVE HER alone, even if she was a fiercely independent woman. She was capable, he’d seen that. But she was in foreign territory. All the more reason for him to hurry and finish his mission, so he could get back to her.

Tariq cursed the dark shirt he wore, which would make him stand out from a distance. The bandits had camouflage uniforms made for the desert, the color of sand faded by the sun. He peeked around the corner of a building to judge how far it was to the next wall that would hide him.

Three men were smoking in the shade, about thirty feet away. They weren’t looking in his direction, but as soon as he moved, they would see him. He waited a minute or two, hoping they would clear out. They showed no signs of getting ready to move on.

“Take another wife,” the oldest of the men said.

“I have four already,” another said as he stomped sand off his boots. “The law won’t allow more.”

“Divorce one,” the third man advised with a sharp laugh. “It’s easy enough.”

“They all have children.”

“Boys?”

“Mostly. Only two girls from the first.”

There was a meaningful silence.

They were Beharrainian, their local accent unmistakable. Although most inhabitants of the Middle East and a large part of Africa spoke Arabic, the dialect changed from region to region, country to country.

Tariq didn’t recognize the voices, and hoped the men weren’t from his own tribe. But then again, he could hardly claim to know his tribe so well that he would recognize each voice. Other sheiks would have.

The thought pricked him with guilt.

Other sheiks lived their whole lives among their people. He’d been sent away at the age of five. Hardly his fault.

And yet everyone seemed to think so. Everyone expected more from him than he could deliver.

And four years after he had returned, as hard as he tried, he still didn’t fully feel like one of them.

What man would betray the honor of his tribe by selling drugs that debased his own people? What kind of man would wait among sand dunes to shoot innocents, blow up oil wells that fed tens of thousands? What kind of man would throw aside the mother of his daughters? How was Tariq supposed to relate to that?

He knew well enough what would await a divorced woman—disgrace and poverty. If she was lucky and her father was still living, she might go back there. Or a brother might take her in. If not … The chance of finding another husband was slim. Most men here wouldn’t dream of marrying anyone but a virgin.

Tariq winced, recalling the selection of sixteen-and seventeen-year-olds the tribal leaders had paraded before him, girls they’d expected him to marry to strengthen alliances. He might marry yet for the sake of his tribe, but by everything that was holy, if he did, he would wed a grown woman. Not one who had been forced into marriage by her male relatives.

His ideas did not make him popular among the conservatives.

He thought of Sara. If he had his way, if he were a man without obligations … He pushed the thought aside and drew back. The men didn’t look like they were going anywhere. He would have to find a roundabout way.

He moved as fast as he could, the sand making it easy to proceed quietly. He rounded the next building and surveyed the area ahead of him. Nobody there. He dashed across the open stretch of sand and pressed against the unfinished wall of what one day would be a five-star spa.

“There’ll be hell to pay.” The words came from somewhere behind him.

The place was crawling with bandits.

He slipped inside the building and ducked down, making sure he kept under the windows as he moved toward the exit opposite. But a name caught his ear—Karim ibn Abdullah, his brother. Despite the heat, a chill nested in Tariq’s chest. What had they done with him? He stilled.

“… the only one of the brothers left,” a man said.

“He’s a dark one,” another responded in a glum voice. “He will want revenge.”

“I’ll take out his other eye and see if he can find us then.” The first man laughed it off.

Karim had lost the sight in one eye in an unfortunate accident, at the same time as Aziz’s leg had been crippled, twenty some years ago. Tariq had often wondered if the “accident” had been meant to kill them. It ended up saving their lives instead. Their father had declared them unfit to rule, and therefore no competition for his favorite son, Majid, who had eventually wrested control of the throne.

“The shah probably has plans for him already. We don’t have to worry about him. Allah’s will be done.”

The other one grunted. “I wonder if all the money will be found when the brothers are gone, or if they will take their secret to the grave with them.”

“The shah will find a way to get the treasure. I wouldn’t mind helping him.” The man laughed. “He took care of Tariq and Aziz.”

“I heard that those were accidents. He didn’t even know Aziz would be at the well.”

“He is a modest man. Doesn’t like to brag …. So, do you still have that mistress in Khablad?”

Tariq moved along as the conversation switched to women. Grief for Aziz sat heavy in his heart. He clamped his jaw tight, fury coursing through his veins. Who in hell was “the shah?” Was Karim in danger? He had to get back to Sara and the satellite phone and warn his brother. But first, the trucks.

He walked through the building and stopped just inside the doorway. He was nearly at the vehicles. Unfortunately, more bandits hung around here.

He waited until one came near, then made a small noise. The man didn’t seem to hear. Tariq kicked his boot against the wall. That stopped the guy. He turned toward the building and stuck his head in.

Tariq was ready. He’d considered the tire iron, but put a chokehold on the man instead, and with one quick move, pulled him in. A knife appeared, but he deflected it, then gained possession. Not that he could use the thing. Instead, he snapped the man’s neck, then laid him on the ground and began to remove his uniform. A giant bloodstain on the cloth would draw attention, and he needed to blend in.

When he was dressed and had the white kaffiyeh wrapped loosely around his head—enough to obscure his features, but not so much that people would wonder what he was doing with it now that the winds had died down—he stepped outside.

Nobody seemed to pay attention to him as he made his way to the resort’s main hotel tower, where the bandits were camped out. He slipped inside. Six men were visible, but he couldn’t see into every corner. He walked about, keeping to the shadows until he made sure his first assessment was correct.

“Too early,” someone said.

“We might have to stop again if there’s another storm,” a second man responded.

Tariq paid them little attention. He had a knife he was itching to sink into the tires, but three of the men were sitting near the trucks, sharing a carafe of Arabian spiced coffee. The scent of cinnamon carried in the air as one of them poured.

“… Gallbladder. I’ll have to go into the hospital sooner or later.”

“I hate doctors,” his friend responded, and they began to swap horror stories of medical mishaps in their respective families.

Tariq scanned the blankets on the sand, packages of food, guns that had been left around, a five-gallon water jug. He pretended to go for water, and managed to swing an abandoned AK-47 over his shoulder in the process.

He moved toward the truck in the back, parked a few feet farther from the men than the one in front. He knelt out of sight, and was just raising the knife, hoping the hissing air wouldn’t make too much noise, when someone came around the back of the vehicle, nearly falling over him. Tariq sprung up, one hand over the man’s mouth even as the other was slicing his neck. He rolled the body under the truck, behind the large tire, where it might not be immediately seen. Then he slashed the rubber before moving on.

Four years ago, living in California, he would have found the idea of killing a man unthinkable. But a lot had happened since he had left that life behind. This was another world. Sometimes it seemed another reality, another dimension. He’d had to defend his life enough times that he’d learned to do so with skill. And when, in a disagreement over borders, apart of his tribe, his fakhadh, had clashed with a Yemeni gang that outnumbered them five to one, he had been expected to lead them in tribal warfare that seemed to throw him back centuries.

Except for the automatic weapons.

He didn’t know whether to curse those or be grateful for their effectiveness, which had ended the fight in short order. In his great-grandfather’s time, such an argument could have lasted generations before enough men were killed on each side that everyone felt honor had been restored.

The brief war had been a shock to his California, CEO sensibilities. But it had happened a few years ago. Now he was fully immersed in the volatile lifestyle of his countrymen. He was used to the fighting and the killing, the intricacies of Middle Eastern politics, the contrast of poverty and riches, the assassins. And he was getting used to being lonely, not being able to trust anyone.

Sara Reeves’s clear blue eyes flashed into his mind. He could trust her, for now. She had little interest in his country, beyond the contract that had brought her here. A contract that was signed already and sitting on his desk back at his office, although she didn’t know that.

Tariq crouched by another tire and sank his knife into it.

“How did this happen?”

“Who is responsible?”

People were coming back from scouring the construction site, talking with vehemence. He listened, then swore when he caught bits and pieces of the diatribe. Some bodies had been found. The bandits were organizing a search of the buildings.

He glanced toward the other truck, in plain sight of the men. Couldn’t reach it without being seen … He had to get Sara out of here.

Unnoticed by the bandits who were milling about up front, shouting and shaking their weapons, he walked toward the other truck and stuck the knife in one tire. But he couldn’t do more without risking discovery, so he headed out, regretfully leaving behind the tire iron that had served him so well until now. He couldn’t afford to catch the bandits’ attention with anything that seemed out of place.

He kept his head turned away from them, but walked with brisk confidence, a man on a mission.

“You stay with the shipment,” one of them barked at him, apparently mistaking him for the man whose clothes he wore.

“Be back in a minute,” he said without slowing, making his voice scratchy, as if something was stuck in the back of his throat, or as if he’d just woken up.

The man grabbed him by the arm.

If he tried to explain his way out of this, chances were they would realize the voice wasn’t right, nor were the eyes. There weren’t so many of them that they wouldn’t know each other. So he simply turned and shrugged the man off with impatience.

He almost made it. It came down to a stupid bit of chance, a coincidence. As the guy gestured in displeasure, the barrel of his rifle got caught in Tariq’s headdress and pulled it off.

Tariq had just enough time to register that the game was lost.

The next second a dozen guns were pointed at his head.

WHERE WAS HE?

“Come on, come on, come on,” Sara whispered.

There was an awful lot of movement near the buildings, a lot of shouting. And the sounds were coming her way. She sat in the Hummer, expecting Tariq to come flying in so they could take off, but he didn’t appear.

If anyone came up to the building before Tariq got here, he’d be sure to check out the vehicle. Under the circumstances, this didn’t seem like the best place to hide. She got out, careful not to slam the door behind her, and looked around. No place to conceal herself here. She went to the back window. Bandits were running in and out of buildings, as if searching for something. It wouldn’t be long before they reached her.

Fear and desperation coursed through her as she grabbed the gun Tariq had left her. Her other hand held the satellite phone. She would do what she had to, but facing the men head-on would be suicide. And the first one would reach her within seconds.

She tucked the gun and the phone into the waistband of her suit—there was plenty of room, considering they’d barely eaten since yesterday—and rushed back to the car. Stepping up on the hood, she jumped and pulled herself up to the roof through a hole in the ceiling. At least, she tried to.

She was a businesswoman, one too busy to spend regular time at the gym. She bit her lip. It didn’t seem this hard in the movies. Where was her upper body strength? Apparently, working on a keyboard all day long did nothing for her biceps. And her skirt wasn’t helping, either. After a few seconds, it became abundantly clear why action flick heroines always wore pants.

Sara swung her legs and felt the gun slip, clenched her teeth with frustration. The only saving grace was that the weapon fell onto the sand instead of the car, making no noise at all. She swung harder on the next try and gained purchase with her feet at last, rolling away from the hole a fraction of a second before the first bandit rushed inside.

She held her breath, grateful that at least she still had the phone.

The man shouted for the others, who arrived in a hurry. She heard some banging. Were they kicking the car?

The engine started.

No, no, no. She and Tariq needed that to get out of the desert. What could she do? Distract the men until Tariq got there? What if he wasn’t coming? She didn’t want to consider that possibility. Lying low seemed to be the smartest thing for now. With some luck, they could get the car back once they regrouped.

Exhaust wafted up through the hole next to her. She fought not to cough.

Then the vehicle began to move, the sound changing as someone put it in gear and drove outside. They didn’t go far before they stopped. She crawled toward the partially completed wall that would frame the upper floor of the building someday, hoping to get a glimpse of what was going on. Gunshots went off the next second, freezing her to the spot. At first she thought they might have seen her somehow, but no bullets pinged anywhere nearby.

Tariq?

Then an explosion shook the building, deafening her. She lay flat on her stomach. Oh, God.

Those bastards had blown up the Hummer. Why? What sense did that make? But of course, the idiots didn’t need a reason. They were ticked off, and did whatever they damn well pleased. A peek over a low spot in the wall revealed a smoldering pile of twisted metal, confirming her worst fears.

Best case scenario—she and Tariq would manage to evade the bandits and survive. Yet they would still be stuck in the middle of the desert. Sara clung to the satellite phone, their only hope at this stage. The men were laughing as they strode back where they’d come from.

One of the trucks was rolling out of their headquarters. A couple of men jumped on, while others went inside. A few seconds later, two reappeared, dragging a man to the back of the truck. He was dressed like the others, but his wide shoulders seemed familiar. Tariq? Her heartbeat raced. She couldn’t make out the man’s bloody face. He seemed deathly still.

Fear and shock clutched her heart, and pain sliced into her chest. She waited for an eternity, her mind in turmoil, before the other truck appeared, as well. Then the bandits drove away. She waited some more, hoping Tariq would emerge from one of the buildings. When it became clear that he wouldn’t, she went back to the hole.

They had taken her gun. She stared at the bare sand at least nine feet below her. No other way down but to jump.

If she broke a leg, she was as good as dead.

Not that she would survive all that long up here in the beating sun, without water. She stuck the phone in the back of her waistband and leaned forward to make sure she wouldn’t fall on it. She would still be better off with a working phone and a broken leg than the other way around. She took a deep breath and jumped, yelping in pain when she landed hard on her feet and fell over, the shock reverberating up her shinbones.

She stood gingerly, testing her ankles. No major damage. She said a brief prayer of thanks as she limped to the door. The trucks were dark points in the distance.

She stared at the charred remains of the Hummer for a brief second, registering anew that she was trapped here. Then she flexed her ankles and started out in search of Tariq, scared of what she would find. The tension in her spine tightened with each empty building she walked through.

No sign of him anywhere.

Except for the bloodstain on the floor of the main building the bandits had slept in. They’d taken him. The realization was too scary to accept, but she couldn’t deny it. She was his only hope. She needed to get with the program and make a plan. Where would they take him? She wouldn’t allow herself to think that he might not be alive.

“Don’t let him be hurt,” she whispered into the empty air, fighting the desperation that threatened to engulf her. She was alone, without a car or a weapon. But she refused to think that all was lost. She had the phone.

Her fingers closed around it and she pulled it from her waistband, just as a dark shape appeared in the doorway.

Looked like she wasn’t alone, after all. The hyena was here.

“Go away,” she yelled, and glanced around desperately. She had nothing to defend herself with, so she grabbed a fistful of sand and threw that at the slobbering beast. That didn’t seem to faze it. She drew a deep breath and tried to calm herself. Animals could smell fear. She raised herself to her full height, hoping to look more formidable. Easy. She could handle this. She had to, because she wasn’t going to let Tariq die.

The repulsive scavenger meandered in, keeping its beady eyes on her, giving a bark. The sound reverberated across the room and bounced off the walls, sounding like deranged human laughter.

She stepped back, her heel striking something: the tire iron, half buried in the sand. Sara said a prayer of thanks as she used it to fend off the intruder.