Finding Sheba (Omar Zagouri Thriller Book 1)

by H. B. Moore

  I have to stop him.

  Just as the man released the arrow, she leapt through the air and shoved the man from the side. He cried out, then jumped to his feet again, but Nicaula was ready. Her dagger drawn, she gripped it steady as the marauder landed on top of her.

  His groan was cut short as Nicaula’s dagger plunged into his throat. Blood burst from the wound, spraying onto her face and clothing.

  With great effort, she wriggled out from under the dead man and returned to find Batal nearly unconscious. The chanting had ceased, and the battle cries echoed through the dark. Surely her people had heard the approaching warriors. They needed no warning from her now.

  She smoothed the black curls from Batal’s face. “Forgive me,” she said as she removed her bloodstained headdress and wadded the cloth. In one motion, she shoved it into the soldier’s mouth. Then with a swift jerk, she pulled the first arrow from his back. His cry was muffled, just as she intended it to be. She reached for the second arrow lodged in his side. With the same resolve, she yanked it from his flesh. “Feign death,” she whispered into his ear.

  She rolled onto the ground and covered her legs in sand, quickly burying her entire body. By holding a hand over her nose and mouth, she reserved an air pocket.

  Several moments passed before she heard them. These desert marauders might notice anything out of place, even on the darkest night. The ground vibrated with their pounding footsteps. With each second, Nicaula’s pulse increased in tempo. She had escaped the first onslaught of warriors, but how would her people fare? The cannibals had likely reached her camp by now.

  The cool sand weighed against her limbs, filling in around her. Behind her closed eyes, she could easily imagine the worst of the battle that must be taking place. Her men were strong and well prepared, but the desert had a way of throwing hostility at friend and foe alike.

  Tears wet her eyes temporarily, evaporating as soon as they formed. If Batal died, and her people fled from the marauders, what would be her fate? Her father had taught her many things—how to serve her people and rule as queen—but not how to survive alone in a harsh desert. Her throat ached as she longed for water. The sand had crusted around her mouth, nostrils, and eyes.

  The passage of time meant very little to her, and she relied solely on sound. She prayed to the gods—pleading, making promises. Then she beseeched her dead father. Protect our people. Deliver them from this evil.

  Only when stillness completely surrounded Nicaula did she move her arms. She dug her way through the sand and rose to a sitting position.

  All was quiet and empty.

  Nicaula examined the tracks that ran near her hiding place—they had come so close. She snapped her head up and searched for Batal along the dark desert floor. His body was still there.

  Half crawling, half stumbling, Nicaula made her way to the soldier’s side. She touched Batal’s cheek. Cool. Then she moved her palm to his lips. They were still warm, and she felt the gentle release of air coming from his nostrils.

  Nicaula brushed the sand from his eyelids and lashes. Her gaze trailed to his back, where his tunic was stained dark with blood, but when she touched the soaked linen, her fingers came away dry. The bleeding had stopped. Then she noticed that his dagger had been removed from his belt. The marauders must have stolen it. Instinctively, Nicaula reached for her own dagger and clutched it in both hands, settling next to the soldier.

  The night air was cold, and she shivered against the soft breeze. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms about them. Never had she felt so alone. Not even the sun goddess seemed to be protecting her. But she would remain at Batal’s side until she knew his fate. After all, he had just taken an arrow meant for her.

  As the night deepened, Nicaula carefully curled against his side so as not to disturb him. His body warmed her shivering skin. She held her breath for a moment, curious about the balmy sensation that spread through her body. It was strange to lie next to him, for she had never been close to a man in this manner. If she were not queen . . . She squeezed her eyes shut against Batal’s pleasing features.

  Her father told her that as queen, she’d always have to put the kingdom before her heart. A man could snatch everything from her if she wasn’t careful. The only way to keep her full power was to marry another king or prince. Touching her necklace, she renewed her vow to avenge her father, but as she closed her eyes, she found herself praying for the life of the man beside her, hoping and then dreaming.

  When the pale sunlight peeked over the dunes, casting its silvery reach across the immeasurable grains of sand, a voice called in her dream, “O Queen.”

  Batal! Her eyes opened with a start. She rose to an elbow and turned her head, searching. He crouched only a few paces from where she’d slept, his black eyes watching her. Beneath the courage, she saw pain.

  Nicaula stood and walked to the soldier. With silent understanding, she examined his wounds. “I have some herbs at our camp that will relieve your pain.” If there is anything left now. “Come. The others will think we were carried off by the marauders.”

  The pair began the trek back to their camp. Nicaula exhaled relief, knowing the gods had smiled on them this day—for both she and the soldier were still alive. They remained silent, listening for any sounds, and as they rounded the final dune, Nicaula found she was holding her breath, waiting to see the carnage.

  As she halted, she placed a hand on Batal’s arm, prepared for the worst. But instead of dead bodies strewn about the desert battleground, there was no one.

  “Where are they?” Nicaula dropped her hand and walked into the camp. “Did they fight the battle elsewhere, or did they flee before the marauders?”

  Batal walked next to her, his face scarlet.

  Nicaula expected that even he, a young soldier, understood the disgrace of fleeing before an enemy—especially a personal enemy to the queen.

  “Perhaps they search for us,” he said.

  She gazed at the deserted tents dotting the landscape as her tunic flapped in the warm wind. Her hair, free from its scarf, tangled and spiraled liberally down her back. “Not even a dagger or a bow,” she marveled. On the far side, her tent still remained, its goatskin panels slapping against the poles in the forlorn wind.

  Nicaula pushed through the tent opening and stepped into the shady interior. The rugs, the bedrolls, and the vessels of food and water remained untouched. Nothing made sense. If her army had abandoned camp, the marauders certainly would have ravaged the site. If there had been a battle here, the evidence would be obvious. But there was nothing. It was as if everyone had simply vanished.

  When she exited, she came face-to-face with Batal. “Nothing has been looted. Even my bag of healing plants remains. We should eat.”

  He made a move to enter the tent and prepare the food, but she stayed him. “You need to rest. I will prepare the food and make a poultice for your wound.”

  Although he looked hesitant, she saw the silent gratitude. They entered the tent, and Nicaula spread out a rug for him. She filled a clay drinking cup with stale water and offered it to the soldier. Nicaula located her herbal pouch and extracted dried remram. She pounded the leaves into a powder, then added water, making a poultice.

  She knelt by Batal’s side. “This will burn,” she said, lifting the back of his tunic so the wound was exposed to the open air. Nicaula dabbed the paste on the wound sites, hoping they wouldn’t fester.

  Rising to her feet, she left the tent and walked the perimeter of the camp, looking for signs of a struggle, but she found no evidence of blood or torn clothing. It was as if her men had left in great haste. Had the marauders pursued her men and overtaken them? As the sun topped the dunes, Nicaula returned to the tent. Batal slept, so she settled onto a rug. Soon she allowed herself to sleep through the oppressive afternoon.

  The air in the tent became stifling, and Nicaula wok
e, bathed in perspiration. She rose and pushed her way out of the structure, welcoming the light breeze as it lifted the damp strands from her face and neck. The desert air was quiet—too quiet. Nicaula moved around the side of the tent, watching and waiting.

  Within moments, she spotted a dark figure traveling in the shimmering heat. The man, swathed in indigo clothing, urged his camel forward at a rapid pace. Just as suddenly, he came to a halt, couched the camel, and climbed off. He rushed toward the tent, and Nicaula pressed herself against the panels.

  She gripped the dagger she kept at her waist as she watched the man move inside. Nicaula heard him call out, “Batal?”

  Her body relaxed. She moved along the perimeter of the tent then peeked through the flap. “Rona.”

  Instantly, Rona turned and bowed. “O Queen, the gods be praised that you are alive.”

  Batal stirred. “Where is everyone?”

  Rona lifted his head and looked from the queen to Batal. “They are on their way back.”

  “From where?” Nicaula asked.

  “We pursued the marauders until Saba.” Rona lowered his voice. “We thought you had been killed.”

  “Batal took my arrow,” Nicaula said. “Tell me everything that happened.”

  “Azhara came to me and said that you had left the camp. She thought you had gone to seek the marauders.” Rona cleared his throat. “She thought you had gone mad in your grief. She told us you took Batal, but not long after, we heard the war cries. We thought they were victory cries—we believed the tribesmen had captured you and—” His voice broke.

  “Did you flee before the warriors?” Batal asked.

  “No!” Rona protested, his eyes narrowing. “We were angry, ready to enact the most severe revenge. We gathered in a single line, every man with his weapon drawn. The sight was such as I have never seen before. The marauders looked like savages—death in their eyes—as they screamed their way into our camp.” He wrung his hands. “We thought the queen dead, and we wanted revenge.”

  “Tell us what happened exactly,” Nicaula said.

  “Azhara . . .” He looked at the ground. “The maidservant ran in front of our line. She wore one of your royal robes, and she told them she was the true queen in case they had killed you. Azhara said she would willingly go with them if they would spare her soldiers.” His eyes shifted to Batal.

  “And?” Nicaula said.

  “She made us promise not to follow. They took her with them, like an innocent lamb.” Rona choked on his words. “Arguments broke out among the soldiers. Some believed you were still alive and wanted to search. Others wanted to pursue the marauders.”

  “And you?” Batal asked. “What was your choice?”

  “I thought the queen . . . dead. So I rallied the men, and we set off after the tribesmen. We pursued them until Saba. But they called in reinforcements, numbering at least one thousand.” He hung his head. “It was then we were forced to retreat.”

  Nicaula started to pace, anger and sorrow battling for position within her breast. Her father had warned her that some decisions would be very difficult. She took a deep breath and stopped to face the two men. “From this day, the entire civilization of Saba shoulders the guilt of my father’s murder and now of my maidservant’s abduction. We will form a great army and claim Saba as our own.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  Yemen

  A couple of lucky turns prevented Omar from being pursued, but that didn’t ease his anxiety. Trouble seemed to follow him everywhere, especially since David Levy had become his boss. Was it possible that an actual person could be bad luck? Even with the seat belt firmly attached, his body bounced off the leather seat with each rut along the road. And despite the fact that he had only a vague idea of where he was going, he drove with skillful maneuvering—not something learned in training but during a mandatory two-year stint as a government soldier.

  Omar knew he had to drive northeast past Marib to the campsite where he’d buried his satellite phone. He could only hope there was enough gasoline to get him there. He suspected that Levy knew how dangerous the job would be and wasn’t worried in the least about putting Omar in the direct line of fire. In fact, he doubted Levy had lost any sleep over the fact that an agent had been missing for several days.

  The angled form of a tollbooth took shape on the road ahead. Yellow light spilled from the interior, making the booth look like a lopsided beacon in the night. Omar slowed the jeep. He recognized the booth, a crooked Pepsi sign hanging from the roof and the red on the slogan bleached pink by the desert sun. At least he was on the right road, but he had no cash, so whether or not he was going in the right direction didn’t matter much.

  A man exited the toll station, his ample form clothed in a dingy white tunic—true to a desert dweller. A curved jambiya knife was strapped to his girth, and a rifle was slung casually over his shoulder. “ID?”

  Omar reached into his pant leg and withdrew the faded card from a pocket.

  The man examined it briefly. “Where are you going?”

  “To Marib.”

  The guard studied Omar for a moment, then walked around the jeep, kicking each tire. He stopped next to Omar and leaned toward the dash, peering at the gas gauge. “Do you have room for a passenger? If so, the fee is waived.”

  Omar leaned back as far as possible. The man was inches from his face, and Omar could smell his pungent sweat mixed with qat. “Of course.”

  Another man emerged from the station, much slighter in figure. He moved to the guard, thanked him, and climbed into the back of the jeep.

  “Many thanks,” the guard said.

  The tires spun as Omar accelerated, speeding along the darkened road. His passenger didn’t move or speak. All the better, he thought. No questions, no answers. After several minutes, he asked, “Where do I drop you off?”

  “I’ll let you know when we get there.”

  Omar recognized the voice—her voice. He slowed the jeep to a stop and turned. “Mia?”

  Removing her head scarf, the woman shook her dark curls free. “You’re quick.”

  He stared into familiar brown eyes framed by heavy lashes and carefully tweezed brows. Even though he was still angry at her, his heart started to thump with hope against his wishes. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you,” she said.

  Omar didn’t know if he was elated to see her or annoyed. He knew she wasn’t there to apologize or get back together. He pushed his foolish expectation away. They’d sent someone because he’d screwed up. Of all people, it had to be her. He hadn’t seen her since, well, four months ago on New Year’s—the day she’d moved out of his apartment.

  Now, in the moonlight, he detected her smug expression, and if there had been any remaining affection in his heart, it evaporated just then. “Sorry I troubled you,” he said.

  Mia smoothed a curl from her face and offered a nonchalant shrug. “When your reports ceased, they suspected something was wrong. So I put out my feelers and discovered that someone with your description was being held near Qarn al-Asad.” She met his gaze. “I was on my way to rescue you.”

  “Oh . . .” Omar glanced away, his face growing hot. She had been an agent as long as he had, but already she’d moved up in the ranks. Her dialects were perfect, her disguises flawless, and her methods of reconnaissance unmatched. Yeah, he’d made plenty of mistakes, but he had never failed on a job. “How long have you been in this area?” He couldn’t help staring at her, wondering if seeing him again brought back their good memories—before David Levy came into the picture. Had she ever regretted breaking up, even for a moment?

  “Just long enough to find you. They pulled me from my translator assignment at AWP.”

  Not surprising, Omar thought. Not only could Mia jump into any assignment and blend right in, she didn’t mind telling him she’d been pulled
from an important job to help him out. “So they think I’m dead?”

  “Hardly,” Mia said, a smile lighting her eyes. “They just thought you had some . . . trouble. What happened?”

  “Well . . .” An uncomfortable warmth spread to his neck. “I became dehydrated, was kicked off the crew, lost my passports, ended up with a gash on my head, and then was stuffed into a storage room by bitter, angry men wearing black-and-white-checked kaffiyehs.”

  Mia’s smile broadened. “Sounds interesting. How did you make it out?”

  “Started a fire and stole this jeep.”

  Mia threw back her head and laughed. Omar felt his stomach tighten as her laughter tickled his skin. If there was one thing he’d missed about her . . .

  “Hey,” she said, her voice suddenly urgent. “I see headlights.”

  He turned, hearing the rumble of an engine. “And they’re coming this way,” he muttered, throwing the jeep into gear.

  Just like old times, Omar mused as he gunned the engine. Except there was one significant difference—they were no longer a couple. She’d ended their relationship four months ago. He was getting too intense, she’d told him. Too dependent. No, he thought with irony, I had just fallen in love. That and he couldn’t stand the way Mia let David Levy flirt with her. It was as if she enjoyed it.

  He tried to expel the tangible memories. But the throbbing in his head wouldn’t erase the ugly New Year’s Eve scene—Levy dancing with Mia, his hands all over her, Omar standing on the sidelines, his fingers wrapped around a small ring box, helpless anger consuming him. He’d started drinking . . . a lot. The next thing he knew, a group of men were pulling him off a red-faced Levy, and someone had called the police.

  “They’re gaining,” Mia yelled over the roar of the tires. “They must want their jeep back.” She catapulted into the front seat and sent a look of warning in his direction. Omar pulled his thoughts into the present.

  “The jeep and me. They’re trying to ransom me to get money from a mutual friend,” he shouted. “The camp isn’t far. I just need to ditch these guys so I can get my stuff back. Then you can go back to your real assignment.”