me a chance.”
“It’s not me that’s the problem.”
“I know,” she interrupted. “It’s the customs, the tribes outside the city, the…”
“It won’t work.”
“Look, I know what I’m getting into. I’m qualified. I specialized in Middle Eastern studies—an exchange student. I’ll help you find your sister. You just need to trust me.”
RYSHIA KENNIE has received a writing award from the City of Regina, Saskatchewan, and was also a semifinalist in the Kindle Book Awards. She finds that there’s never a lack of places to set an edge-of-the-seat suspense, as prairie winters find her dreaming of warmer places for heart-stopping stories. They are places where deadly villains threaten intrepid heroes and heroines who battle for their right to live or even to love. For more, visit www.ryshiakennie.com.
For Rourke, who was dedicated to the art of fun.
The “Wookie Man” would have loved to
rip this book to shreds, while enjoying
every word and every moment of it.
Marrakech, Morocco
Monday, September 14, 5:54 a.m.
The first haunting notes of the call to prayer seemed troubled, almost off-key, when usually the melodious sound wove through the predawn stillness, beckoning with an easy allure not unlike the nimble fingers of the weavers in the casbah who wove the many rugs sold to the tourists. Like the rugs, the ancient chant was as much part of the rhythm of life and the fabric of Marrakech as was the still night-shrouded skyline. But today, in a mansion hidden in the depths of palatial grounds and secured by the most current technology and the best in security guards, the simple power of the timeless notes not only felt off, they were lost in the guttural roar that sounded more wounded beast than man.
Emir Al-Nassar crushed the pen in his right hand. On the desk, the smartphone lay where he had thrown it, the blue protective cover fractured, the crack running through the Blue Jays’ baseball emblem. A thin line of ink ran down his arm and dripped onto the thick Persian carpet. Like blood, he thought, and wondered how much more blood would be spilled before she was safe once again.
“I won’t lose her, too,” he muttered thickly, his voice choked. The emotion that had welled up only seconds earlier had taken everything he had. “None of us will.”
But, despite his words, the unthinkable had happened. His sister had been kidnapped.
He couldn’t fathom how frightened she might be. And at this particular moment there was nothing he could do. He was at the whim of the demands of others. But inaction was not in him, no matter what they had ordered.
His mind was already jumping through a series of options. Most importantly, what action would not increase the danger that already threatened Tara and what would ultimately bring her home where she belonged. He needed to think logically, think that it was someone else’s sister, that it was not Tara. It was the only way he could give everything to her rescue without the emotion he knew would only cloud his judgment.
He dropped the broken pen, not caring about the stain that might ruin the ancient carpet. He took a step away from the desk as the last notes of the call to prayer died away. He turned slowly, as if facing an executioner. Through the open blinds, the city lights shone a warm glow across Marrakech’s still-shadowed beauty. It was a view he never got tired of. But today he could have been anywhere in the world for he saw none of it.
A door slammed somewhere in the hallway and suddenly the room was full of unleashed testosterone as two of his brothers, Talib and Zafir, entered the room.
“Emir, what’s going on?” Talib began. “Your Jays are done and the Yankees don’t play for another hour, even with the time difference, so—”
“Shut up about bloody baseball, Talib,” Zafir interrupted as he looked at Emir and the silent awareness that had always run between the twins jumped like a living coil across the space that separated them. “No one cares about your fave team or even Emir’s for that matter. He wouldn’t call us here, at this hour of the morning, unless—” He broke off, looking to Emir for confirmation, his eyes troubled, as if expecting the worst.
“Tara’s been kidnapped,” Emir said with no emotion. His back was to them and he was still facing the window that allowed a view of the grounds his sister loved so much. He turned to face his brothers, schooling his features, reining in his thoughts. It was difficult, for he couldn’t believe how foolish his sister had been.
“Kidnapped,” Zafir repeated, a frown slicing his handsome face, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing.
“Impossible!” Talib said as his fist smacked the palm of his hand and disbelief laced through the word. “We have one of the best security teams in the country. How?”
The word reverberated for a second, then two, as Talib and Zafir processed what this meant, how the impossible had become possible.
“She was on a night out with the girls. But, at the end of the night, she left her girlfriends behind and, it appears, her security, too. Fortunately her team caught up with her. The reports say she was with her security team just outside the gates. The evidence is in the signs of a scuffle and the fact that they left one of them dead.” Emir said the words reluctantly, as if it had been his fault. “I can’t imagine how they got so close to the compound—how they got her—unless security was distracted. They were two of our best.” It wasn’t an excuse and he still couldn’t believe it had happened.
Zafir clenched his fist, his jaw tight. “She’s alive?” And while it sounded like a question, they all knew it was really a command or, more accurately, a demand that she was alive or there would be hell to pay.
“As far as I know,” Emir said, his voice devoid of emotion. He glared at Zafir for flirting with the reality he hadn’t dared consider—that Tara was hurt, or worse. “She was taken just outside the grounds.”
“She dodged her security?” Talib repeated as if not believing the possibility. “She knew the risks. She...” His voice broke and he turned away.
“When we find her, she’ll be grounded for the rest of her life,” Zafir snarled as if anger at her would somehow ensure his sister’s safety.
“She’s twenty years old,” Emir reminded him. The words came almost by rote, meaningless considering the scope of what had happened. But sometimes it was difficult to remember that his sister was officially an adult. He thought of her as his little sister in need of protection. And the fact that, physically, her petite size made her almost doll-like only accentuated those thoughts. But Tara’s personality was another story. It was as forward and brash as her physical being was delicate. Emir prayed that her larger-than-life personality and piercing intelligence that could challenge and often match him in many a game of chess would see her through.
“Her security tracked her, apparently found her immediately before the kidnapping,” Emir continued. “The kidnappers used knives.
