Читать книгу Her Kind Of Trouble - Evelyn Vaughn, Linda Winstead Jones - Страница 14

Had Tala drugged me?

Not just me.

“Rhys!” I shouted—or tried. Turns out there was cloth tied across my mouth. I inhaled deeply through my nose, smelling damp, musty air. It proved that I was at least alive. I also wore a blindfold. My hands were tied behind my back.

And somebody nearby was arguing. In Arabic.

Lie still, I thought, carefully testing my wrists against the strength of the fabric that bound them. Let them think you’re still out.

But footsteps sounded, hollow on some kind of wooden planking. My aborted shout must have gotten their attention.

“Tsk tsk, Mrs. Sanger.” I thought I knew that voice—deep and cultured and tinged with a British accent. “Have you been feigning all this time?”

Mrs. Sanger?

Then I remembered the damned ring I got from Lex. I should have left it at the hotel…or at least in my passport case.

Hands sat me up—my feet, at least, weren’t tied—and tugged at the gag, pulling my hair. From his voice, at least four feet away and above me, I knew the hands didn’t belong to the speaker. “My men assure me they did nothing to render you unconscious.”

They didn’t have to, if Tala had. “Where’s Rhys?”

“His safety depends on your cooperation.”

Instead of taking my cue—cooperation with what?—I took a fairly large chance. I had to find Rhys. “We might as well ditch the blindfold, too. I already know your face, don’t I?”

He laughed and said something else in Arabic. Hands pulled at the second knot behind my head—wrenching my neck slightly and taking more hair—and cloth fell away from my eyes.

Where the hell were we? It was almost as dark as when I’d worn the blindfold. Underground dark. Hugely dark. For a crazy moment I thought—a pyramid?

But I’d never heard of a pyramid in Alexandria…and I doubted one could be this roomy. Two swarthy men beamed flashlights into my face. But even squinting against yellow light, I recognized the man in the business suit, standing before me. It was Sinbad. From the airport. From the bazaar.

Hani Rachid.

He still had an Eye-of-Horus design painted on his cheek.

And he had at least four people with him I could only call henchmen. The implications didn’t escape me. It looked like Hani Rachid was some sort of crime lord.

“Imshee,” I told him, using his own word for piss off.

Again, I tugged at the bindings on my wrists. I thought I felt them give, just a little.

He laughed. “Your husband may be a weakling and a fool, allowing such disrespect. I am neither. You will stay away from my family or suffer the consequences, you and this false priest.”

Only when he pivoted and kicked did I see Rhys lying, blindfolded and bound, in the shadows near Rachid’s feet. My friend’s gag didn’t fully muffle his cry at the kick.

I feared it wasn’t the first. “Leave him alone!”

“Do not presume to order me about.”

“And you wonder why your marriage crashed and burned? If I were Jane, I would have left you, too.”

His eyes narrowed, and he took a furious step forward. Good—closer to me was farther from Rhys. But when I merely glared upward, refusing to flinch, he stopped himself—then turned and swung a vicious foot into Rhys’s ribs.

Rhys rolled back with a grunt. Another of Rachid’s men darted quickly behind him and kicked him from that direction.

Somewhere far below and beyond Rhys, I heard pebbles plop into water, as if the wooden plank we gathered on was some kind of platform. The echo was incredible. Even more incredible was a glimpse I got, when one of the henchmen briefly flashed his light across shadowy pillars and arches.

Colonnades. Definitely too roomy to be a pyramid.

So where the hell were we?

Wherever we were, it was time to leave.

With a tiny lurch, I wriggled my hands free of their ties. Now all I needed was to watch for my chance.

Five men, total. Not good odds. But if they kicked Rhys again…

“This is your only warning, witch,” insisted Rachid. Again with the witch! “You and Tala may think you are powerful, but I know ancient secrets, as well. Leave Egypt while you can, or suffer the consequences. As an example—”

To my horror, he turned back to Rhys. “This man pretends to be a priest, in order to insinuate himself with my wife. That was a deadly mistake.”

“He is a priest,” I protested, before Hani could kick him again. My words echoed back at me from who-knew-where. I usually didn’t think of Rhys that way—it sure made me feel guiltier about how attractive I found him—but it was the truth. He’d petitioned to leave his clerical duties in order to marry, a petition that was tragically granted a few days after his fiancée died. But technically… “I swear he is.”

“This does not excuse his familiarity with my wife.”

“Your ex-wife. He counseled her.” But I might as well have been arguing in a cone of silence, for all that Hani listened to me. He drew back his foot to kick my helpless friend—and I had to risk it.

I surged to my feet, stumbling slightly as circulation returned to my blood-deprived legs. Plank flooring bowed under my shifting weight—if this was a platform, it was a cheap one. I showed my freed hands. “I said, leave him alone.”

Then I bent my knees slightly, centering my balance the way I would at the start of any tai chi exercise. Tonight, however, I meant to incorporate less well-known, combative aspects of the normally gentle art.

Several of Hani’s helpers backed away, saying something in Arabic. Hani snapped back at them in the same language, then said to me, “They think this is part of your magic. I think they simply did not tie you well.”

At least he wasn’t hurting Rhys. “Who says I need magic?”

He swung—and I easily dodged the blow. When he stepped forward, I stepped back, leading him even farther from my friend. Scowling, in the darkness, Hani swung again.

Again I ducked. Once I got him far enough from Rhys, I would use the force he was putting into his punches against him, perhaps throw him across this plywood flooring, hopefully frighten the others into running. But for now…

Suddenly, unnervingly, Hani grinned—and surged forward with another punch. Again I ducked and backed from it—and stumbled off the edge of the plywood, onto crumbling rock.

And nothingness.

I went completely still, balanced on the one foot that still had purchase.

The platform seemed to stretch between rock braces, over who-knew-what kind of drop. The space beyond Rhys wasn’t the only edge.

Only my tai chi stance, honed after years of practice, kept me from falling into the surprise abyss. More pebbles plopped into water, far below.

Where the hell were we?

Even now, with at least three flashlight beams in my face, my perch was precarious at best. All my weight and balance rested, for a moment, on the ball of one sandaled foot, braced on old, crumbling stone.