Loe raamatut: «The Sheik's Safety»
“You should not be here. I shouldn’t have brought you.”
Dara wasn’t in the mood for any chauvinistic garbage. “Because women are weak?” she challenged him.
He looked at her for a long moment. “Women should be cherished.”
She stared back, unsure what to say to that.
Her father used to say women had to be toughened up to be fit for the military. He hadn’t meant it disparagingly. He merely saw the difference between the sexes as a weakness. He was forever frustrated by her mother’s inability to hold up under pressure, suck it up and stick it out.
She glanced at Saeed. Cherished. It fell so far outside the realm of her experience, she couldn’t even picture it. Was he for real?
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
This July, Intrigue brings you six sizzling summer reads. They’re the perfect beach accessory.
* We have three fantastic miniseries for you. Film at Eleven continues THE LANDRY BROTHERS by Kelsey Roberts. Gayle Wilson is back with the PHOENIX BROTHERHOOD in Take No Prisoners. And B.J. Daniels finishes up her MCCALLS’ MONTANA series with Shotgun Surrender.
* Susan Peterson brings you Hard Evidence, the final installment in our LIPSTICK LTD. promotion featuring stealthy sleuths. And, of course, we have a spine-tingling ECLIPSE title. This month’s is Patricia Rosemoor’s Ghost Horse.
* Don’t miss Dana Marton’s sexy stand-alone title, The Sheik’s Safety. When an American soldier is caught behind enemy lines, she’ll fake amnesia to guard her safety, but there’s no stopping the sheik determined on winning her heart.
Enjoy our stellar lineup this month and every month!
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
The Sheikh’s Safety
Dana Marton
To Gail Neeves, a wonderful writer and treasured friend.
With many thanks to Kim Nadelson and Allison Lyons,
the best editors a writer could wish for, and Jenel Looney
for sharing her expertise on Middle Eastern customs
and life, and Anita Staley for her friendship,
help and tireless support.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dana Marton lives near Wilmington, Delaware. She has been an avid reader since childhood and has a master’s degree in writing popular fiction. When not writing, she can be found either in her large garden or her home library. For more information on the author and her other novels, please visit her Web site at www.danamarton.com.
She would love to hear from her readers via e-mail at DanaMarton@yahoo.com.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Dara Alexander—Third-generation military, Dara followed her father’s and grandfather’s footsteps to the air force before joining a top secret antiterrorist unit, the SDDU. But the desert operation she ends up in this time is more dangerous, with stakes much higher than ever before.
Sheik Saeed ibn Ahmad—Once he was in line for the throne. Now the past is haunting him as he survives one assassination attempt after the other.
Nasir ibn Ahmad—Saeed’s brother. He is not happy with Saeed’s desire to preserve peace at any cost. Trouble is brewing in the background. Is he the source of it?
King Majid—He came to the throne under suspicious circumstances and would do anything to retain power. But does he want it badly enough to kill his own cousin, Saeed?
Jumaa—The Prime Minister of the country is supposed to hold the real power in a constitutional monarchy. But does he? Is he the king’s puppet, or an insidious schemer with his own agenda?
SDDU—Special Designation Defense Unit. A top secret military team established to fight terrorism. Its existence is known only by a select few. Members are recruited from the best of the best, SEALs, FBI and CIA agents, elite military groups.
Colonel Wilson—He’s the leader of the SDDU, reporting straight to the Homeland Security Secretary.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Chapter One
They flew below radar, although not as invisible as they would have liked to be.
Dara Alexander took in the starry sky from the cockpit of the MC-130. Not a cloud in sight to cover the moon, no such thing as a pitch-black night here. That was one of the drawbacks of desert missions, and an annoying inconvenience for anyone trying to sneak around.
But the full moon was the least of their worries. They needed only a matter of minutes—fly in low, pop up to safe height for jumping, drop the team, then the plane would go back to base to wait for the pickup signal. Once they were on the ground, being invisible was their specialty.
Dara scanned Beharrain’s alien landscape below them, the expanse of rocky plateau broken up by giant boulders every so often, some a couple of hundred feet high. She might as well have been looking at video transmitted back by the Mars Rover. Except that somewhere ahead, a convoy of arms smugglers was heading south, hoping to cross the border to Yemen.
Not today. She rolled her shoulders. Not if her team had anything to do with it.
The pilot looked up from his display—symbology overlaid with sensor video. “Five minutes to drop zone.”
“See you in a couple of days.” Dara stood and clapped the man on the shoulder to thank him for the ride up front, then smiled at the copilot who was checking the situation data on the instrument panel.
She didn’t exactly miss the air force—her current job in the Special Designation Defense Unit, or SDDU, had more than enough excitement—but there was something about sitting in a cockpit that came as close to feeling “home” as she’d ever gotten. She glanced at the navigators and the electronic warfare officer, all three men busy at their console on the aft portion of the flight deck, then she moved on to the back, to the temporary team to which she now belonged.
Joey Scallio flashed her a grin. “How ’bout a kiss for good luck?”
“In your dreams, Scallio.”
His grin widened. “Babe, in my dreams we do a hell of a lot more than that.”
She shook her head and bit back a smile as she walked on, stretching her legs.
Harrison, their team leader, gave her a thumbs-up and a smile as she walked by him, his perfect white teeth gleaming from his ebony face. He was talking to Miller. “It gets easier after…”
She didn’t catch the rest over the noise of the plane. Judging from the proud fatherly smile that spread on the younger man’s face, they were probably talking about his newborn son.
She was almost at her seat when the cockpit alarm went off. The shrill tone froze her limbs for a split second.
“Incoming. Surface-to-air missile. Brace for impact,” the warning instructed through her headset.
Dara grabbed for one of the belts secured to the wall, twisted it around her arm, and hung on for all she was worth as the plane lurched to the side, the pilot taking evasive action.
Too late.
The plane shook the next second when the SAM hit.
Her right shoulder felt as if it were being ripped out of the socket. More alarms came on, deafening her. She lost hold of the belt and slid across the floor toward the front of the plane. Damn. Fear and adrenaline raced through her veins. She grasped at anything that might hold her, hoping she’d manage before she slammed into the metal crates by the cockpit door and broke a leg. The cargo net. She reached for it and succeeded, coming to a halt at last.
She tried to pull up, ignoring the ache in her shoulder, her gaze focused on her nine-millimeter Beretta that had snagged on something and gotten loose as she’d slid. She sought purchase on the floor with her feet, managed to get some leverage and pushed forward.
The plane straightened. Finally. Dara got on her knees to stand, but then the nose of the aircraft lifted and she lurched backward. Her pistol flew out of sight, disappearing behind the guys’ feet in the back. Thank God, she’d still had her fingers locked around the net.
She held on tight, her insides trembling.
“They got the left wing.” The pilot’s voice echoed in her ringing ears. “I’m going to try to pull up. Prepare to jump.”
Harrison unbuckled and came for her, helped her parachute on as he hauled her to her feet, opened the door and pushed her out just as she got the last fastener secured. Cold wind hit her in the face, but she barely noticed, floating weightless in the air.
She yanked hard on the rip cord, and the next second the harness bit into her shoulders as the canopy opened and broke her fall. The parachute needed five hundred feet at the minimum to properly operate. She looked down, gauging the distance between herself and the ground. Hard to tell in the dark.
She glanced back at the plane and saw someone else jump, Miller perhaps, then Scallio, then another. Under optimal circumstances the MC-130 could drop ten men every five seconds. She hoped that would be fast enough.
The second SAM hit.
She stared, a scream of denial frozen on her lips, as the plane exploded. The impact shook the air, the wind of it pushing her back, tangling her suspension lines for a second. She pulled at them frantically as flaming scraps of metal fell from the sky around her to land on the sand and burn on, lighting up the night. Her fall slowed again as the lines twisted free.
She drew a deep breath into her aching lungs and looked up because she couldn’t bear to look down. Hers was the only parachute in the air. The other jumpers had been too close.
She rode the slight breeze, numb, her mind struggling to catch up with her eyes. They were dead, all dead. The five officers and four enlisted men of the flight crew, and eleven of the twelve-member SDDU team.
Grief hit her hard, robbing the air from her lungs. But she couldn’t afford the luxury of giving in to it, of getting distracted even temporarily.
She was in the middle of hostile territory, alone.
She floated like a lost feather out of the sky, a hundred unrelated thoughts flying through her head. She had no radio contact. Harrison was gone, Miller was gone, and the others…
The ground was coming up to meet her fast. She bent her knees ready for landing, thumped onto the sand, then walked forward to allow her canopy to fold to the ground behind her.
Her gaze hesitated on the faint light on the horizon where the plane was burning. The beacon. Her best chance for rescue was if she stayed as close to her last known location as possible. But the men who had shot down the plane were bound to be there. They had to have seen her jump, which meant they would be looking for her.
Dara glanced at her compass in the moonlight, thought of the map they had studied on the way over.
“Come up with the best plan you can, then give it your best effort. Failure is not an option,” she muttered Harrison’s favorite mantra aloud.
There was a small village fifty to sixty miles north from where she was now, seventy, tops. Once there, she could sneak in at night to get some water and food, get her hands on a phone or radio and call for help.
She buried her parachute, saving a two-by-four strip to shade her head once the sun came up, then, ignoring her throbbing shoulder, she moved forward at a good clip, away from the plane. She pretended she was on an exercise, that food and water would be waiting for her just beyond the horizon, the guys ribbing her about coming in last.
The guys.
Tears of grief and frustration clouded her eyes. Wouldn’t be a problem for long, she thought as she blinked them away. Pretty soon she’d be too dehydrated to cry.
SHEIK SAEED IBN AHMAD IBN Salim ben Zayed scanned his surroundings from the mouth of the cave before he stepped outside into the sunset, careful to note every dune. Two assassination attempts in two weeks had made him cautious.
His sharp whistle brought his black stallion trotting over. “Time to go, Hawk.”
He vaulted himself into the saddle, grabbed his flask, and drank the last of his water. He could refill at the oasis halfway between here and camp. He capped the flask and glanced back at the opening of the cave, anger still at a slow boil in his gut. Whatever it took, he would find the thieves.
The treasure belonged to his tribe, the knowledge of it passed down through the centuries from sheik to sheik—father to son. In times of dire need, when the livelihood of the tribe was threatened, the sheik would take enough to last them until the drought lifted and famine passed.
The cave’s secret had been their thousand-year-old disaster insurance. Allah be thanked, they hadn’t needed it in the last couple of decades, not since oil income from the tribe’s southern territories became dependable. They made it through the twelve-year drought of the eighties and early nineties without having to touch the gold. But it was theirs just the same, their heritage. No one knew what the future might bring.
At least the thieves hadn’t taken everything. The cave, continuing for hundreds of meters underground, had many crevices, the treasure carefully concealed. Only a small cache had been broken into, close to the entrance. Not a significant loss, a million dollars’ worth or so.
But once it was spent, they would be back hoping for more. And that he couldn’t allow. He couldn’t let them find the passageway leading underground. He either had to figure out a way to guard the treasure or move it.
A sudden squall threw sand into his face, and he leaned forward in the saddle as Hawk flew across the distance. He had to come up with a plan, or his enemies would bury him faster than a windstorm. He watched the desert for any sign of danger as he rode. And then he saw it.
A man lying ahead to the right in ambush.
Saeed ducked in the saddle and turned Hawk, urged him faster, but no shots rang out. He rode on until he knew he was out of sight then circled back, sick of the game and ready to bring it to an end.
The previous assassins had been killed by his angry tribesmen before he’d had the chance to question them. He needed one alive. He had a fair idea of who had paid the men, but he needed proof—a confession he could take to the Council of Ministers.
He left Hawk out of sight and bade him to stay, came in on foot, then on his belly over the last dune. The man wasn’t moving. At all. Nobody who knew anything about the desert would have lain down in the sand like that, exposed to the elements, to sleep. And stranger yet, no sign of how he had gotten there, no camel or horse or car.
Saeed crept closer, his gun ready as he made his way over to the prone figure with caution, all the while watching out for more of them, for any sign of ambush. When he came within twenty feet or so, he stood and shouted a greeting. The man, lying face down in the sand, didn’t move. Dead, he thought and went closer yet. The stranger’s back rose and sank, the slight movement barely noticeable.
“Get up.”
The man didn’t move a muscle, made no attempt to even look at him.
With rifle in hand, ready for any surprise, Saeed flipped him over with the tip of his foot. The stranger made no sound, nor did he open his eyes. He was unarmed, save a knife he kept in a holster on his thigh, of which Saeed relieved him at once. He wore a camouflage uniform with no military markings, his face wrapped against the sun. A lone bandit, probably a mercenary. His proximity to the cave was more than suspicious.
Was he one of the thieves who had stolen the gold? Or was he another would-be assassin? He reached down to pull off the frayed headdress, but the knot in the back was too tight. Time enough for that later. Saeed whistled for Hawk, and when the stallion trotted over, he lifted the listless stranger in front of the saddle then mounted the horse. He had to make sure the man lived long enough to answer his questions.
The stallion rode as if sensing the urgency, paying no heed to the extra weight—not that the man was heavy, rather the opposite. Must have been out in the desert without food and water for some time. He was lucky. Weather had been mild and temperate this January so far. Had it been summer, he would have been already dead.
THEY REACHED THE OASIS in two hours or so, a couple of stars already visible in the sky. The place wasn’t much more than a seasonal watering hole with a handful of scraggly date palms and a smattering of grasses.
Saeed slid out of the saddle, caught the stranger when the man nearly fell after him, and lowered the limp body to the sand. He used the man’s knife to slice through the knot of the headdress in the back, wanting to free his mouth to get some water into him.
He turned him with his left hand, the knife in his right. Then stopped in midmotion.
His left palm, having tried to brace the stranger’s chest, was filled with a mound of flesh, soft and round. He was old enough to recognize a female breast, especially one that filled his palm to perfection as this one did.
Allah be merciful…
She was beautiful in the moonlight, despite the grime that had found its way under the fabric. Her hair, the color of rich, spiced coffee, had half escaped from the braid that had once contained it. For a moment the face of another woman appeared before him, her black curls streaming to the ground as she lay dying in his arms.
He blinked away the memory and focused on the foreigner. Her feminine, delicate features stood in puzzling contrast to the uniform she wore.
A female soldier? Israel had women in its army; so did the U.S.A. But what would one be doing here? Judging from her exotic features, she was a westerner. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt and reached inside.
The back of his hand brushed against velvet skin. He hesitated for a moment before continuing.
No dog tags.
His first assessment had been correct. She did not belong to the military. But then who was she? He had a hard time believing her proximity to the cave was a coincidence. She had to be there either for him or for the gold.
He walked over to the well, shook the bucket clean and lowered it, relieved when he heard the unmistakable sound of it hitting water instead of mud. The water was full of sand as expected, but better than nothing at all. He used the woman’s makeshift headdress to strain water into his flask, then went to settle onto the sand by her side.
He dribbled water onto her parched lips, and when she moaned, he sloshed some into her mouth, massaging her graceful neck, helping her to swallow. “Drink.”
His eyes settled on the small triangle of skin between her collarbones revealed by the top two open buttons. Her pale skin shone in the moonlight. If she was a mercenary, a hired assassin, they had picked well this time.
This one could have gotten to him.
He helped her drink some more, folded the wet cloth and placed it on her forehead, then went back to the well to draw water for Hawk and considered whether to unsaddle him while they rested.
“Sorry, friend.” He patted the stallion’s neck, deciding he could not afford to give the animal that comfort. “We might have to leave in a hurry.”
He strained the water for the horse as carefully as he had for the woman, but still when Hawk tasted it, he shook his head a couple of times.
“You’ll get a cleaner drink when we get to camp.”
Hawk bent to the bucket as if understanding, but looked up after a few moments, his ears turning. He picked up his head and neighed.
Saeed listened to the night. Nothing. Then he could hear it too, a low rumbling sound. He stood and searched the desert until he spotted the source: a black SUV coming at them from behind, flying over the sand. Moonlight glinted off the rifle barrels that hung out each window.
Here we go again. By Allah, he was tired of this game. And he had no choice but to play it out to the end.
He pulled the woman under the cover of two palms that grew side by side, their twin trunks offering sufficient protection.
He glanced at Hawk, out in the open, and let out a sharp whistle that sent the stallion galloping off into the desert to safety just as the first series of shots rang out.
He peered from behind the palm 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 and tail swept through the air, his saddle covered with a richly woven blanket—red and white, she could just make out the colors in the moonlight—the tassel fringe bobbing like so many tiny bells. A white mark, in the distinct form of a bird spreading its wings in flight, graced the animal’s forehead.
“Do you have any more knives?” the man asked with a British accent, drawing her attention from the horse, which came to a stop next to him and was now nuzzling his wide shoulders.
The muscle cramps in her legs were strong enough to make her knees buckle, but she bit her lips and thrust out her chin, refusing to fall down. She lifted her hands a little, palms forward. “Fresh out.”
He looked her over then nodded, slid his dagger into its sheath. “Who are you?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” She widened her smile, trying to look innocent.
His eyes narrowed. “You want a million for the answer?”
She laughed. Never let them see you scared. “I meant I’d give a million if anyone could tell me.”
He took a few seconds to digest that. “You don’t remember?” he asked with a hint of incredulity, one ebony eyebrow cocked.
“Nothing before I woke up under this palm to the sound of shooting.”
“Nothing?” The second eyebrow joined the first.
Her lips pressed together in mock consternation, she shook her head. Shouldn’t have done that, she realized as the landscape swam around her. Three days of forced march through the desert without food and water had left her severely dehydrated. She swayed a little, but caught herself. He must not know what an easy prey she was.
He made an unintelligible sound as he looked her over again. “You sound American.”
No sense in denying that, since her unmistakable accent had already given her away. “Yes, I think so.”
“Why were you armed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did you get the second knife from?”
She glanced down and pointed at her boot.
“And you’re sure you don’t have any more?”
“I don’t think I do.”
Tasuta katkend on lõppenud.
