the loose sand that had been recently blown in by the winds.
The only light came from the moon peeking through many holes in the walls. Tariq had no trouble blending into the shadows. He walked slowly, in a crouch, and stopped frequently. A man who lay on the floor spread-eagle, snoring up a storm. The grating sound stopped just as Tariq passed. He froze. But a glance back showed the man still sleeping, his head turned in the opposite direction.
Crossing the ten yards from the window to the nearest truck took nearly as many minutes. Tariq lifted the corner of the canvas and looked inside. Too dark to see anything. He listened for sounds of breathing. Nothing. Not that he had expected to find anyone. No sense in sleeping in the stifling air of a closed, hard truck bed when one could sleep on the soft sand outside.
He pulled himself up and crawled in, letting the flap close, and complete darkness envelop him. He went by feel, bumping into wooden crates that filled most of the truck, leaving enough room for only a handful of armed men to guard the cargo when they were on the road.
Guns was Tariq’s first thought. He wedged his fingertips under the top of the nearest crate, but had trouble prying it open. Whoever had closed it had nailed it down well. He searched around for a tool, but found nothing. Then he came across a banged-up license plate and used that. Precious minutes ticked by as he eased the top open a millimeter at a time. He froze when someone spoke in Arabic directly outside.
“Ready?”
A groan came in response.
Tariq ducked behind a crate so they wouldn’t immediately see him if anyone checked inside. He felt around for a weapon, but his fingers met only crates and more crates. Fortunately, there was no further conversation, only footsteps walking away.
Probably the changing of the guard.
Tariq didn’t dare move for a good fifteen minutes, until he could be reasonably sure that the guy who’d just come off duty was asleep. Then he lifted the crate’s top and eased it off, reached inside. His fingers brushed against what could have been a bag of flour. He knew better.
Drugs.
On his tribal land. He gritted his teeth at the insult, at the danger that these smugglers were bringing to his people. This would be stopped, and he would be the man to stop it. As soon as he saw Sara Reeves to safety.
He inched back the way he had come and pushed the flap aside an inch, looked out to make sure the new guard wasn’t anywhere nearby. But everything seemed the same as when he’d come in, with no movement among the men. Tariq went over the tailgate and dropped quietly to the sand, then crept to the cab and stepped up. Reaching in through the open window, he was grateful when he felt the satellite phone he’d dared to hope would be there.
He glanced at the men between him and the window hole in the wall, his way out.
He needed weapons, too.
But as he bent to reach for the AK-47 lying next to a bearded man on the sand, a shout came from the other side of the trucks, followed by sounds of people coming awake and jumping to their feet.
Tariq ducked under the vehicle.
Gunfire erupted at the building’s front, and voices shouting and swearing angrily. He could see feet moving that way.
His heart leaped and banged against his rib cage. He tried, but couldn’t see the source of the disturbance amid all the chaos. He only prayed it wasn’t Sara. She wouldn’t have left her safe position for anything, would she?
“YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED out of it.” The shah let his full disapproval sound in his voice.
His son hung his head with respect. “Yes, Father.”
“And for what? A woman?”
“You have not seen her. She—”
“Silence!” he thundered. He’d had his share of foreign whores over the years. They had been a ready source of entertainment. That his son should become bewitched by one defied understanding. “Do you have need of another wife?”
“No, Father.”
The boy had gotten the first at age seventeen, a fifteen-year-old, sweet virgin his mother had arranged for, and his grandfather had negotiated. The lad had been caught pestering the maids one time too many. Not that there was anything wrong with that; that’s what they were there for. But should there be a child … The first son should be born in wedlock.
The shah scowled. He had no intention of letting history repeat itself. He’d acquired his son’s second wife as a college graduation present, when the boy had professed to falling madly in love with one of his friend’s sisters, at age twenty-two. The third wife had come just last year.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Father.”
Good. The three wives the boy had so far were obedient, and had gifted him with many sons. Since the Quran allowed only four, the smart thing to do was to save the last one for when he was older, fifty or sixty or even more. A fourteen-year-old virgin could do miracles for a man’s body and soul at that age, revitalizing him all over again.
“Go prepare yourself for the feast,” he told the boy.
His closest allies would soon be here. He would reveal his secret to them. And then, with his son, his firstborn, his pride, together they would begin to reclaim their family’s legacy.
SARA WAS LOST IN THOUGHT, trying to find some explanation for the out-of-character way she had acted with Tariq, feeling flushed all over again at the thought of his kisses and his hands on her, when the gunfire erupted.
Tariq.
She glanced around, but couldn’t see anything from her perch on the brick pile. The hyena was nowhere in sight. After a split second of evaluating her situation, she slid to the ground. Had Tariq been discovered? He had to have been. Why else would the bandits be shooting?
She gripped the tire iron and peeked in the window. The trucks sat in the middle of the large open area. She could see men near the front of the building, but couldn’t make out what they were doing, other than that they were upset over something.
The gunfire stopped.
Had Tariq been captured?
She waited to see if they would bring him back in, trying to think how she could possibly save him. What could she do against truckloads of bandits?
If he was still alive. She hadn’t counted, but at least two or three dozen shots had been fired.
The thought of possible implications gripped her with icy fingers.
A dark shape separated from the deep shadow between the two trucks—a man hurrying toward her, keeping low.
Fear mingled with hope inside her. It could be that someone had spotted her, but it also could be Tariq. If it was one of the bandits, wouldn’t he have shouted for the others? Hope grew even as she held the tire iron ready to swing.
Then the man reached the swatch of moonlight that came through the window, and she relaxed, stepping back as Tariq vaulted through the hole.
