HER EYES and peered around in the dark tent, listening to the sound of gentle snoring somewhere nearby. A moment later when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see the lone sleeping figure by the outer wall of the tent. Shadia, the servant woman.
She better not have—Dara rubbed her eyes with her fingers, sniffed them. No suspicious odor. Good. Shadia hadn’t done anything disgusting to her while she’d slept. Which was fortunate for everyone around. Because although she’d shown amazing restraint and politeness this afternoon, not wanting to offend her host, if somebody came near her with a bucket of camel urine again, she was ready to defend herself.
She sat up, careful not to make a sound. Now that her body was rehydrated and she had food in her stomach, she was close to being back to her full strength. The rest helped, too. She was ready—if not for leaving, at least for a small reconnaissance mission. Although, if she came across a vehicle she could grab, she was out of here.
She rose little by little, arranged the blankets to show a lump in case Shadia woke and looked her way. Barefoot, she crept toward the spot where the wall carpets overlapped, separated them silently and peeked through to Saeed’s side. The flap was closed, this section of the tent as dark as the other.
The sword was gone from the pole.
Saeed didn’t trust her. She couldn’t blame him.
Her eyes settled on a briefcase by the tent’s outer wall. It hadn’t been there before. She moved forward silently, stopped and listened before squatting down. She pressed her palm against the lock to muffle the sound as she pushed the button. The metal clasp sprang open against her skin with a barely audible click. She let it up slowly.
The briefcase’s lid opened without a sound, and she rummaged through the contents, identifying them as much by feel as sight in the dimness of the tent. Files, a couple of letters—their envelopes previously opened—a satellite phone. Her fingers closed around the latter. She stopped to listen for anyone approaching from outside. Nothing.
She flipped the phone open and turned it on, dialed the Colonel’s number, held her breath at the series of beeps, but the servant woman’s snoring remained steady. The phone rang on the other side. What time was it there? Midafternoon, she guessed. Then finally the Colonel came on the line.
Cupping her left hand around the phone and her mouth, she whispered her identifying number for this mission.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The others? We’ve had no contact.”
“No, sir.” She swallowed, and told him about the crash.
“What is your location?”
“I’m not sure, sir. I’m at some kind of a Bedouin camp, three hundred kilometers from Tihrin. The clan leader is someone by the name of Saeed.”
“Sheik Saeed ibn Ahmad?”
Sheik? She swallowed again, pulled an envelope from the briefcase and held it up to the meager light the phone’s LCD provided. The addresses were in Arabic. She picked up another, the same. The third had come from England, bearing careful lettering she finally recognized. Sheik Saeed ibn Ahmad ibn Salim ben Zayed. “Yes, sir,” she said. “He’s the one.”
And the name clicked at once: the man the U.S. sought to support to take over the throne, the man who refused all outside assistance.
“How did you find him? He disappeared three days ago.”
“He found me in the desert, sir. He was under some kind of attack.”
A moment of silence on the other side. “You must stay with him. It is imperative for the region’s stability that he remains alive. As of now, your number-one objective is to ensure that. Your mission just changed, soldier. You’re now assigned to his personal protection.”
Chapter Three
The camel dung would hit the fan when Saeed found out about this.
“Yes, sir,” Dara said, no matter how much she hated the idea. She had the feeling Saeed would have a few words to say about her being his bodyguard. She was a woman, her new role hardly acceptable in his culture. Plus she was an outsider, and he was famous for resisting all cooperation with foreigners.
“I will try to get in touch as soon as I have anything else to report.” She clicked off, put the letters and the phone back and closed the briefcase, then turned to sneak back to her bed. Before she made it two steps, she was enfolded in a viselike grip, one arm around her waist holding her hard, a hand over her mouth.
She jammed her elbows back into her attacker, threw her full weight to the floor, hoping to slip from his grip, trying to get him off her back without killing him. Couldn’t chance that, considering that most likely “he” was Saeed, not recognizing her in the dark and taking her for some kind of an intruder.
Damn. If he let go of her mouth, she could explain. No such luck. And he was strong. Fighting him off without harming him appeared increasingly difficult.
They tumbled to the carpet together. She could not shake him. His elbow came into hard contact with her ribs, sending a bolt of pain up her side. Fine. The gloves were coming off. She kicked, missing him narrowly, her feet getting caught in the tent flap. It opened a few inches, letting in some moonlight.
They rolled. She kicked again, hit flesh this time. The narrow shaft of light fell on the man’s head. His face was wrapped in a black headdress that showed small, vicious brown eyes glinting with predatory hunger.
She stared into the stranger’s gaze, surprised for a split second, then she began to fight in earnest. He was thin but strong. She twisted, kicked with both feet. He rolled back. She jumped up, ready to push her advantage, wishing she was running on full steam. He lurched at her before she could reach him, and sent them both sprawling again.
Damn. This time she landed on her bad shoulder, with his added weight on top of her. Hot pain shot down her arm, and she sucked in her breath, blinked to clear the stars from her eyes. The next second, she felt the blade at her throat.
Then the tent flap flew open and a vision stood outlined in the opening: Saeed, his long white shirt cascading from wide shoulders, the moonlight glinting off the curved dagger in his hand.
The attacker jumped up and charged at him, the two men coming together with a battle cry.
She sprang to her feet. Why was she the only one without a weapon? How the hell was she supposed to protect him?
The men fought, then separated to circle each other, then lunged into a clash again. She watched them, waiting for an opportunity. The attacker staggered back, blood gushing from his arm. He extended his hand as if to drop his knife in capitulation, but in the last split second he threw it instead—with force.
She didn’t have time to think. Instinct pushed her forward. She caught a glimpse of surprise on Saeed’s face before he propelled himself at her to knock her out of the way, taking her to the ground. He had already thrown his own dagger.
It hit its mark.
She stared at the attacker’s limp body not ten feet from them, then noticed that Saeed, on top of her, wasn’t moving either.
