and took aim. The rifle flew out of the driver’s hand the next second. Somewhat of an improvement, as now only three of them were shooting, but the SUV picked up speed, the man’s full attention on driving now.
Saeed had his great-grandfather’s bolt-action Remington, a finely made piece, but still only eight rounds, no more. He had to pick his aim carefully. The next shot shattered the windshield, the one after that hit the radiator. Steam rose from under the hood but the vehicle didn’t halt.
It didn’t even slow.
He aimed again and hit the man in the passenger seat, then squeezed off another round, trying for the driver. The SUV veered to the left as it came to a slow halt on the sand.
The two men in the back got out and hid behind the open doors for a minute before throwing themselves to the ground.
Using the tufts of grass for cover, Saeed crawled along a natural indentation in the sand, moving as fast as he dared toward the well. Its raised stone edge, about half a meter high, offered more substantial protection, and if he managed to reach it without being detected he might be able to pick off the men from the side.
He made it—a miracle—squeezed off a shot, ducked down again. Return fire came swiftly. He kept quiet, waiting for them to get closer. He could not afford to miss. No margin for error. Zero. He was down to his last two bullets.
He peered from his cover then ducked back when they shot at him. The men had separated, circling the well one on each side. He would be in the line of fire soon. He rolled into the open, aimed, shot, rolled back.
One attacker remained.
Saeed lay low to the ground, waited until the man came into sight—rifle first, holding the AK-47 extended before him. With his last bullet, Saeed shot at the right arm then pulled back immediately. A shout of pain and rage flew across the sand. Good. He wanted him incapacitated but alive. He wanted answers.
He took off his kaffiyeh and wrapped it around the Remington’s barrel then lifted it above the rim of the well.
No shots.
He stuck his head out. The man was rolling back and forth, grasping his wrist.
“I will pay the blood price in gold,” Saeed said as he walked to him. “For the name of the one who sent you, I will pay double.”
The man looked at him with death in his eyes and lifted his rifle with his good arm.
Even though the assassin was too far, Saeed grabbed his dagger and charged forward, prepared for the bite of bullets, knowing the certainty of death but wanting to go out fighting. He was the sheik, he would not shame his people by dying from a bullet in the back that he’d gotten while running from his enemy. He thought of his family and hoped he had time for a quick prayer for them.
He could clearly see the man’s finger on the trigger, the small movement of the last two digits as he began to squeeze it. Allah be merciful.
Something hissed in the air. The next thing he knew, the man was facedown in the sand, a knife sticking out of his back.
Where had that come from? Saeed drew up short. Movement by the palm trees caught his gaze, and he stared at the moonlit figure of the woman standing with her feet braced apart. Her long hair streamed around her shoulders, flitting in the strengthening breeze.
His captive was awake.
SHE HOPED TO HELL she had made the right decision. Because now that she had thrown her spare knife, she was officially unarmed. Dara rubbed her right shoulder as she took in the surprise on the man’s face, visible in the full moon even at this distance.
They were at an oasis, although she had no clue how she’d gotten there. She had come to in the middle of a gunfight and her first thought—after she’d pushed back the sudden rush of memories of the crash and the onslaught of grief—was to sneak off unseen. Then she spotted the SUV.
The vehicle was worth staying for. But she couldn’t make a beeline for it with three men filling the air with bullets. She contented herself with watching the fight, hoping they would kill each other and save her the unpleasant trouble.
The one with the blue headdress wasn’t half-bad, but woefully outmatched by the two with AK-47s. The decision to save him hadn’t been conscious. Instinct had whipped her arm forward when she threw the knife, instinct honed by years of combat experience.
She watched, wary now, as the man started toward her, his heavy dark robe parting to show a long white shirt that reached almost to the bottom of his white pants. He finished rewrapping his headdress as he walked, leaving only his eyes free. She assessed him, trying to determine how much of a threat he was.
His figure trim and muscular, he walked steady and didn’t appear wounded. He looked to be in his midthirties, a couple of years older than she was, a man in his prime. None of her observations pleased her. Least of all that he was armed.
She locked her trembling knees as he came nearer. Under no circumstances did she want him to know how weak she was. She glanced at the vehicle. Too far. She didn’t have enough strength to run. She looked around for a makeshift weapon and came up empty. Great. She really hoped the guy felt some gratitude for her saving his life, because judging by his size and the state she was in currently, no way she could wrestle him down.
Ah, hell. She wasn’t supposed to come into contact with anyone except for the arms smugglers they were here to pick up. The Colonel had high hopes they’d talk if put under enough stress, and lead him to Tsernyakov, the elusive businessman who was responsible for eighty percent of the illegal gun trade in the region.
No one was supposed to know about the unauthorized U.S. military operation in the country. From the look of him, the guy striding toward her had a couple of questions. She wracked her brain for a logical explanation on what she was doing in the middle of the desert in a camouflage uniform.
He stopped a few feet from her, a silver-studded antique rifle slung over his shoulder. He had her two knives tucked into his belt, his sinister curved dagger still in hand. The light of the full moon glinted off the dagger’s golden sheath that looked like a museum piece.
She raised her gaze to the man’s face, hoping to read his intention. “Where am I?”
The cobalt blue of the headdress matched his eyes that appraised her with curiosity and distrust. What little skin she could see looked tanned by the sun, his eyelashes and eyebrows the blackest black. He looked fierce and proud, a warrior from another time.
“Jabrid,” he said.
She hoped that was the name of the oasis and not Arabic for “prepare to die.”
The intensity of his gaze was unnerving. Scenes from a long-ago-seen movie floated through her mind, about a desert prince coming upon an English woman, the sole survivor of a caravan attack, throwing her over his horse and carrying her off to his sumptuous tent. She could swear the man in front of her was the guy. Except, no horse, she noted with relief. And then, without taking his eyes off her, he whistled.
The brief series of notes was not earsplitting, but high-pitched and swift, carrying over the sand. She turned in the direction of a soft sound coming from behind her, and what she saw took her breath away.
The magnificent black stallion coming toward them was straight out of the film. His long mane
