shifted his weight back, his shoulders forward, while his knife’s blade lay balanced between his fingers. He waited. The ache in his head had morphed into a battery of hammers beating a cadence on his temples. Having lived with the pain for many months, Quamar pushed it away, knowing from experience he had limited time before the pounding increased.
But by then, his objective would be completed.
The guard strapped his machine gun over his shoulder and with long, thin fingers reached for a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.
Quamar let loose the blade, heard the familiar thunk as steel impaled skull. He spared no more than a glance when the body crumpled to the ground.
After snagging the guard’s machine gun, he pulled his knife free. He wiped the blade on the dead man and slipped into the darkness. Scanning the courtyard, Quamar noted that the killing had gone unnoticed. Instead, all stood watching the pillar of flames lick at the midnight sky.
“Arimand.” For safety, he covered the older man’s mouth with gentle fingers. The papery skin flexed beneath. “Be silent, and I will cut you down.”
Arimand shook his head, forcing Quamar to release his mouth. “No, leave me. I am well beyond help now,” the old guard rasped, pain etched in all the grooves of his face. “Anna Cambridge, the prince. Find them. Save them.”
“Anna Cambridge?” He pictured her long, blond hair, her depthless blue eyes. It was not hard—for months the woman had haunted his dreams. “If she is here, she is dead,” he said flatly. Another life to avenge.
“No. Hassan leads the Al Asheera.” The dark eyes bore into Quamar. “He ordered them to hunt her down. Go now, find her and the child. Take them to your father.” Arimand inhaled sharply. “Promise me,” he said after a moment, his voice harsh, unyielding.
“I promise you.”
Arimand nodded, then closed his eyes against the gut-wrenching pain. “You and Jarek…you both were…. If I had sons…” Arimand stopped, his eyes blinked, opened, their focus softening. “One more promise…”
Quamar nodded, stopping the words he knew hovered on Arimand’s lips. Agony ripped through Quamar, forcing him to tighten his jaw. He’d spent half his childhood with this man, had grown to love him as a son would.
“Go with Allah.” Quamar leaned forward and kissed the old man’s lined cheek. Without a sound, he slid his own knife between Arimand’s ribs and into his heart.
Arimand gasped, his heartbeat stopped beneath Quamar’s hand—and with it his suffering. Quamar dropped his forehead to Arimand’s. “May he keep you always.”
It took most of his will, but Quamar stepped away, knowing Arimand died a warrior. With honor, dignity. Courage.
Quamar moved back toward the tree, his gaze searching for danger among the shadows. Suddenly, a burst of laughter drew his attention. His eyes narrowed on the trio of men, their interest focused past the jeep to the wall beyond.
Curious, Quamar followed their line of sight, then froze. He swore silently. If he hadn’t been watching so closely, he would have missed the rustle of the bushes, the movement of shadows.
The flash of pale, blond hair.
WITH HER KNIFE IN HER side waistband, Anna hugged Rashid close and lay on her back. Her stomach churned under the baby’s weight, sending the bile back to her throat. She’d come too far to lose her nerve now. Using her heels, she pushed herself headfirst through the hole and into the courtyard.
Blood pounded in her eardrums, its rhythm a fast staccato that matched the beat of her heart. Anna dragged in a long breath, then made it two, fighting off the wave of weakness that seeped into her limbs. “Just a bout of nerves,” she whispered and rose to her feet. I can do this, damn it.
Anna forced herself to take first one step, then another. She had started the third when a hand fisted her hair and yanked her back. Anna screamed and struck out, blindly trying to gouge at the unseen features. When she found bare skin, she dug in her fingers.
A string of curse words spewed from somewhere above her head, but the hands locked tighter around the back of her neck, squeezing until the pain took her breath, forced her to her knees and into the light of the courtyard.
While another laughed, Anna bit back her cry of fear and instead concentrated on the cold steel of the knife hidden in her waistband.
From her position, she saw three of them. Identical, with their masks of red, their swords unsheathed.
War cries sounded in the distance. Soon, she knew, there would be more. She snaked her hand to her side, then gripped her knife.
No warning came. No noise, no scent, not even the ping of a bullet. One moment, a soldier held Anna, the next he froze, his features stiff with disbelief as he fell dead beside her—a knife embedded in the back of his neck.
The other two turned in unison, but neither had time to do much more. Anna saw the flash of a sword, heard the slap of steel against skin, then the screams of pain. Both men fell next to their friend. They, too, were dead.
“Get up.” A large, meaty hand grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet, jarring her knife free. With a thud it hit the ground. Her captor’s eyes strayed to the blade, then back to her.
“Pick up your weapon,” the man ordered, leaving his own in the dead soldier. “Now.” While his hand remained tight on her arm, he allowed her to stoop and grab the knife. For a moment she hesitated, gripping the handle.
“Do not be a fool.” His words were clipped, his tone annoyed. The man was a mountain of gloom towering over her with the crimson scarf draping most of his face. At five-six, her head came midway to his chest. His black robes caught in the wind and flitted against her in a devil’s dance, setting off a shiver of trepidation. By sheer willpower, she forced her fear back and stood her ground.
“I am your only way out, Anna Cambridge.”
The Al Asheera closed in, fanning out in a half circle and forcing the giant to shift his back to the tunnel’s vent.
“For now,” she answered, her chin raised, but the fear grew at his mention of her name. Quickly, she put the blade in her waistband, but left her fingers hovering over its handle.
Her action, while subtle, didn’t go unnoticed. Anna heard the grunt of surprise, then caught the giant’s gaze. His dark irises flickered with something—approval, maybe—before he shuttered the emotion closed.
Anna counted more than a dozen Al Asheera, some with swords raised high, others with guns leveled.
A spray of bullets peppered the ground in front of the rebels, kicking up dirt and forcing them to stop within feet of Anna and the giant. So close she caught the sour scent of their bodies, felt their excitement ripple through the air.
Her skin crawled with revulsion. Anna cradled Rashid with her free arm, for the hundredth time grateful he slept.
“Come any closer and die.” Her captor’s voice was pitched low, while the words he spoke were French. The language second only to Arabic in Taer.
The nearest soldier, older than most, with a scar that reached from his temple
