feed the camels,” she said and stepped forward to pass by him.
He wouldn’t have it.
She was close enough now to smell his breath, the sour sweat of his body. Several weeks’ worth of dirt was ground into his patched-up, faded camouflage uniform. She stole a glance at the look of determination in his face.
He was not going to let her go.
The dagger. Since she had the bucket in her right hand, she bent to set it down slowly, as if giving in to his will. But in a sudden move, he knocked the camel feed from her and had both of her hands pinned to her side. She struggled against him. He was strong, stronger than she’d thought.
“Stop.” She fought back with everything she had, kicking, trying to smack her forehead into his face, doing anything and everything to make up for not being able to use her hands. “Let me go!” Desperation gave strength to her voice.
The carpets tangled under their feet, making it harder for her to find her balance. She twisted and kicked backward, got him in the knee by pure chance. His hold loosened at last. Almost clear. Then she tripped on her robe just as he grabbed for her, and they went down together with a solid thud that stole the air from her lungs.
Chapter Two
“Civilian casualties will be significant.”
Majid glared at the man who dared to voice his ridiculous concern. When a sculptor created a beautiful piece of art, was he criticized for the marble chippings he left on the floor? “If anyone dies, it’s the usurper’s fault. The people will understand that.”
And once he was king again and the media was under his thumb, he would make sure everyone would see it his way. Casualties. Of course there’d be casualties. Bismillah! He was reshaping his country.
Those who committed treason should suffer. How quickly they had jumped to the usurper’s side, forgetting their lawful king. They should be punished. The leaders of the traitors would be rounded up and taken care of—certainly his cousin’s family. The others he would let live. He needed people if he wanted to collect taxes. He needed workers for the country he was even now preparing to birth.
“How many men do we have?” he asked his temporary council.
His secret advisors consisted of a few sheiks whose tribes were involved in weapons smuggling and as such benefited from his venture. Also those to whom he had promised land, and two semiinfluential industrialists who hoped for sizable oil contracts from his government once he was restored to the Beharrainian throne. All were enemies of the current false king, people he had angered by interfering with their business and limiting their income.
Today they all gathered to talk war in the large cave Majid was using as his headquarters at the moment.
“We have ten thousand men,” the oldest of the sheiks said.
“That’s enough.” Saeed had less than that when he’d stolen the throne four years ago from Majid. He would pay for that. “Once that devil’s spawn of a cousin of mine is dead and the palace is ours, the army will switch sides and follow their rightful king.”
That’s how it had been before—a lesson he had learned well. His entire army had deserted in a single day, seeing Saeed’s rising power, fearing for their worthless hides. They were disloyal to Majid before. They would be disloyal now to Saeed.
“The time is here, my friends,” he said as a calm settled over him. To rule was his destiny. “We will cut off the head of the snake and stomp out his nest.”
Saeed, the false king, would soon be executed and so would his whore, his American wife.
He would spare only Salah, Saeed’s son, eight years old now and fancied to be heir. For him, he had other plans.
His three-year-old twin daughters couldn’t be allowed to live, either—they might have sons when grown. Nobody who could ever claim any connection to the throne and come back to haunt him would be left alive. That included Nasir, the king’s brother. He was the more dangerous of the two. Had he taken any wives yet? Had he sired any children? He would have to be looked at carefully.
Majid took a sip of spiced coffee, then set the cup onto the stone ledge by his side. The first time he took the throne, he’d been lenient with his cousins. He would not make that mistake twice. This time when he was finished, they and everyone they held dear would be dead.
WHERE WAS SHE?
Nasir scanned the small camp. Her prison cell was empty. So was his tent. Of all the other tents, only one had its flap down. He strode toward that, fairly certain that he would find her inside.
She couldn’t have run away, not yet. The desert was void of life around them as far as the eye could see. She couldn’t have passed out of sight in the short time since he’d last seen her. And somebody would have noticed her walking away if she’d tried. Not that he didn’t think she would attempt to escape. But she wasn’t stupid. She would wait for a better opportunity.
The first sounds of struggle reached him when he was a few meters from the tent. He broke into a run, threw the flap open when he reached it and saw the desperate struggle on the floor.
“Ahmed!” Rage flooded him as he lifted the hefty bastard off the woman, threw him aside and stepped between the two, willing the man to fight.
“You had no right to her.” Ahmed spat the words and charged, his face red with effort and fury.
Nasir was ready for him, his body braced. Ahmed had the advantage of weight, but the disadvantage of inexperience. Nasir ducked his blow.
Ahmed would be trouble over and over again until dealt with. Over the past weeks, he had developed a deep-seated hatred for Nasir. The man was way too hotheaded. Nasir relaxed his limbs and focused on the fight. He could not allow anyone to put his mission in jeopardy. He watched his opponent, noticing the way he shifted his weight and planned his next attack to come in low.
The only way to stop him for good was to kill him, but Ahmed was a distant relative of Umman, and Nasir couldn’t afford to turn the camp leader against him until he got what he had come for.
“Son of a whore.” Ahmed charged again.
Nasir turned, twisted so the man missed with the second punch and stumbled outside through the flap, pushed by his own momentum. Nasir stepped after him, waited for the next attack and dropped the bastard, nice and clean—with admirable restraint—in front of plenty of witnesses.
Without checking whether Ahmed was getting up or not—he wouldn’t be…not for a while—Nasir stepped into the tent, grabbed Sadie by the arm and dragged her outside, making a show of it.
He couldn’t find a single look of disapproval among the men who were gathering around. Good. They understood his actions and accepted it.
“Come.” He pulled Sadie behind him roughly. They would expect that, for him to assume her guilt in the matter without questioning. Punishing her now for being in a tent alone with another man was his responsibility, his right, even if he deemed the necessary punishment to be death.
He shoved her inside his tent with great show but a gentle hand, then closed the flap behind them. Plenty
