“Well, I’m not going to wait—”
“Damn right you’re not. You’re going to get your ass down to that ocean.”
And he was gone.
She flopped her head back against the sand, her heart beating hard against her ribs. “Damn you, Rafiq,” she whispered angrily up to the stars. “You better get your own ass back here.”
Rafiq belly-crawled along the sand until he was well within a hundred yards of his target.
He brought the mounted rifle scope to his eye, thankful that the weapon in his hands was an AK—designed to function in the worst of crap, including sand. Its drawback was the sound, but the howling wind would mask the direction from which his shot came.
He squinted into the wind, his lashes thick with sand. He waiting until his target came into view, his heart beating steady, his breathing controlled, his finger relaxed on the trigger. The Hamnian rifleman came around the side of the jeep and entered his crosshairs. Rafiq aimed just beyond the man’s shoulder and fired.
The Hamnian froze for a split second as the bullet whizzed past him, and in that time Rafiq targeted a Yemeni guard up in the watchtower on the other side of the border. He squeezed the trigger and the guard reeled as bullets flew past his shoulder. Someone screamed.
Rafiq immediately fired on the Hamnians again, letting loose a shower of bullets that pinged against their armored cars. Then his luck hit—a gas tank exploded in a whoosh of violent flame.
Hamnians were now blindly firing on the Yemenis, and Yemeni soldiers returned the shots. Gunfire peppered the air, and there was yelling as panic and full-scale battle erupted. Flashlights burst from the watch turrets and began to pan the desert. More gunfire sounded over the wind as the border skirmish spread north and engaged the Saudi troops.
Mission accomplished. Rafiq hoped there would be no serious casualties, but this was the only way to get Paige out unnoticed.
He squirmed back over the sand, found Paige huddled against the dune, eyes wide as saucers in the dark.
“Thank God you—”
“Come,” he hissed, grabbing her hand.
They hunkered down and ran low, parallel to the razor wire, two black ghosts making for the tidal estuary as all military power was focused on the chaos to the north.
The estuary was only about three miles from their dune hideout, but sand had piled into soft drifts. Paige stumbled under the weight of her heavy cloth. She was tired, breathing hard. Rafiq slowed a little, giving her time. They could afford the luxury—they were in the clear, and they were going to make it.
They reached a mangrove swamp and immediately Rafiq could feel the increase in humidity. And once in the protection of dense vegetation, there was no wind. The combination of moisture and hot hair produced a low swirling fog over the black surface of the water, and a strange, sudden silence. The thin light of the moon made the fog glow eerily.
He pulled Paige down to his side. “Give me the phone,” he whispered.
She handed it to him and he punched in the code. Two seconds later, a light flashed once out at sea.
“They’re out there,” he whispered, giving her hand a squeeze.
He drew her into the silty water, warm and soft as velvet. They crouched down into the reeds and mangrove shrubs, shrouded in the fog. The tide was low and the moonlight made strange shadows of open root systems. But it was too quiet, the stillness too dense, and somehow ominous. There should be night noise in a swamp like this. He didn’t like it.
Paige was uneasy, too, he could sense it. She glanced sideways at him, her eyes glinting. “I feel like we’re being watched,” she whispered very softly.
He did, too. But he didn’t say so. “Can you swim?” he kept his voice real low.
“Yes,” she whispered. “But not in these clothes. They’ll weigh me down like a rock.”
Something scuttled suddenly in the branches. Paige gasped, turned slightly, making a soft splash; a startled bird took flight. Then all was deathly still again, as if the mangrove trees were closing in on them, strangling out sound.
He had a real bad feeling about this. He took her hand. “We’re going to wade out to meet the inflatable. Right now those black clothes are cover, but if we need to swim, shed the gear, okay? And swim in the direction of that flash of light you just saw. Hold the orientation in your mind.”
Water sloshed softly around them as they moved deeper. Then he saw it, a tiny pinprick of light, followed the gentle slap and swish of oars. A dark silhouette took shape on the water.
December. His pulse kicked into gear.
They waited, thigh deep in the water, as the small dinghy came closer. December was as black as night. All Rafiq could see was the massiveness of his silhouette, the whites of his eyes, and the glint of his teeth.
The inflatable drew up to them. “Hey, Zayed.”
“December, good to see you.” He handed Paige over to him. But just as he did, a single shot cracked through the fog.
They froze.
Another shot slammed into the water, splashing it up into Rafiq’s face.
He cursed and shoved Paige into the dinghy. “Get her to the boat,” he hissed. “Now!”
He turned, fired into the blackness, sunk down into the water, watching the darkness. That was no Hamnian soldier firing on them. This appeared to be a lone sniper—a sharpshooter who’d kept his eye on them, tracked them all the way down to the swamp. Or worse, anticipated their coming here.
The hair on the back of his neck rose; the hunter was being hunted.
Who, goddammit? Who could have been tracking them?
Rafiq fired blindly into the dark, trying to buy December time to get Paige behind the line of trees and out into open water.
The sniper fired again. Rafiq heard December grunt sharply in the distance.
He’d been hit.
Rage mushroomed inside him, and fear for Paige. But the splash of paddles continued. December was still moving. He forced calm on himself. He had a direction for the shooter now. He aimed and fired—again and again and again—until the little inflatable disappeared from view behind the low dense trees and out into the open waters of the Gulf of Aden.
Relief ebbed through him, and his heart grew hard and steady. He was going to find this bastard. But he had to take him alive, find out who the hell he was, who he was working for. Because if this sniper was linked to the Cabal…
Rafiq edged farther into the reeds, beginning to work his way around back in the direction he believed the shots had come from. And he prayed December was okay, that he’d get Paige onto the fishing boat, that he’d make it back to help him capture this stalker.
He edged out of the water, clothes dripping, the small plops on the surface giving away his location. It made him nervous. And that ate at him. He didn’t do nervous. This was something new to him.
He circled round, uneasily aware that someone out there might be circling back on him.
Then he saw him.
A hulking shadow of a figure, covered in black with a black headcloth wound around his head. He had his back to Rafiq, his rifle resting in the crook of two twisted mangrove branches. The man was panning the estuary, looking for him.
Then the man moved sharply to his left. He’d spotted December in the inflatable, heading back for him.
The man slowly lowered his eye to his rifle.
Rafiq’s chest went tight. He quietly reached for his jambiya, unsheathed it as he crept toward the figure.
The man now had his sights trained on December’s silhouette and was following him as he moved between the trees, through the swirling fog. He was going for a kill shot. Rafiq raised his arm and flung the dagger with a sharp flick of his wrist.
The man seemed to sense it coming. He bolted up, spun round, his rifle aimed out from his stomach. But before he could jerk back on the trigger, the jambiya sank into his neck at the shoulder.
He squeezed the trigger as his knees gave out under him, the shots going wild. The man dropped the
gun and his hands came up to grab the dagger sticking out of his neck. Rafiq drew his scimitar, decades of anger and the ferocity of his ancestors suddenly surging through his blood. He lunged with his sword.
But the man had the reactions and sixth sense of a trained warrior. He moved sideways and Rafiq’s sword met air, throwing him off balance.
The man came back at him, lurching with his full weight, dagger still protruding from his neck, and the sheer force of his momentum and mass took Rafiq down to the ground with a thud. They grappled in the roots and swamp muck. The man’s strength was inhuman, even with a knife in his neck and blood pumping from his wound, he managed to wrestle Rafiq into the ground, but Rafiq reached up, clasped his hands behind the man’s neck, closed his eyes tight, and yanked the man down into a smashing head butt. It temporarily disoriented him and Rafiq pulled him down again, slamming his shoulder against the hilt of the dagger.
The man screamed in pain as the blade was forced deeper, but he came right back up as Rafiq tried to roll away, catching himself in a mangrove root. The man raised a boot over his head and Rafiq noted in some distant part of his brain that the man was wearing gloves.
But just before he brought the boot down, a shot cracked the air. December!
The man’s body shuddered, and his eyes went wide, glowing strangely surreal in the moonlight. Then he crumpled into a heap, groaning in pain, clutching his chest as blood glistened over his black gloves.
Rafiq glanced at December coming toward him, doubled over in pain, holding his gun in one hand, clutching the side of his belly with the other. He’d been shot in the gut. This was not good.
Rafiq scrambled to his feet, groped for his scimitar, pushed the man onto his back and pinned him there with his knees. “Move and I kill you, jackass.”
He reached down, and ripped off the man’s turban. Shock rippled through him. The man was as pale as a ghost in the moonlight, his hair a close-cropped shock of luminous white. December came to his side, still doubled over. He shone a small flashlight into the man’s face. The sniper’s eyes glowed red. Rafiq jerked back in surprise. “Who the hell are you?” he growled.
Silence. Just the glow of red eyes. It was damned unnerving.
Rafiq shot a look at December, who was hunched over in pain. Blood, or water, or both, saturated his shirt. “Can you make it back?”
“I’ll live…let’s…get this bastard out of here. We’ll need to squeeze him. Is he alone?”
Rafiq could hear an uncharacteristic catch in his buddy’s bass voice. Doubt and urgency spurted through him. “As far as I can see.” Rafiq quickly patted the guy down, could find no communication device. Unusual. But at least it meant no external contact with anyone who could alert the Cabal, which in turn could set off the bombs. That was a good thing. But if he was somehow linked to the Cabal, how the hell had Snow White here gotten into Hamn? What was he doing down at the estuary while the place was swarming with military? This man had to have connections, high up. To the palace. To Sadiq.
They had to get him out and fast, before news of this could travel.
23:14 Charlie, Gulf of Aden, Sunday, October 5
Paige stood at the prow of the old fishing boat, waves slapping softly at the hull. December had been rushed into the cabin and was being treated by one of the FDS soldiers on board, a big guy with an Irish accent named Hunter McBride. He appeared to be some kind of doctor. The albino was bound and bleeding down in the hold.
She felt sick.
Rafiq came up behind her, touched her shoulders, turned her around to face him. Light from a lantern in the cabin threw his face into a blend of warm and stark shadow.
She touched his forehead with her fingertips. “Your skin is cut, you’re bleeding.”
His eyes lanced hers, and he said nothing.
Tension wound her stomach tight. “You’re…going back now, aren’t you.”
He nodded.
And for the first time, she honestly didn’t want him to. She felt selfish enough to want him all to herself. She wanted to run off with him—away from all this responsibility.
She hugged herself. She knew what she was up against, knew she’d probably never see him again. “I don’t want you to go,” she whispered, her eyes growing hot with emotion.
He pulled her hard up against his body, pressed his mouth over hers in a kiss as passionate and powerful as life itself. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she melted into him, held him, kissed him. And she knew she was done for. Because despite her fears, she was going to wait…for someone she loved to come back.
He pulled back, cupped her face, looked into her eyes. And she realized his own were filled with emotion. “Go do your thing in that lab, Doctor,” he said in a cracked, thick voice. “They need you.”
And his people needed him.
He swallowed. “Paige, I’ll be back. I—”
She shook her head, pressed her fingers over his lips. “Don’t say it, please.”
He nodded.
And Paige tried to hold down the most sharp and painful ball of emotion she’d ever felt in her life. “Go,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Now.”
Paige stood at the stern as engines began to rumble in the bowels of the boat and white water churned in the moonlight.
She watched his dinghy disappear into the shadow and mist of the mangrove swamp, taking her heart and soul with him.
“Be safe, Rafiq bin Zafir bin Omar al-Qaadr,” she whispered. “Come back to me someday.”
But she knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t.
She wiped her eyes, the salty tears burning her skin.
Why, Paige, why a bloody sultan? Why fall for a man you can never have?
“Dr. Sterling?” She jumped at the voice and spun around. It was Hunter McBride.
He touched her shoulder. “You okay?”
His touch was so firm and yet so gentle, a healer’s hands. This was one of the guys Rafiq had said he trusted with his life. One of his mates. Tears blurred her vision.
Hunter held out a tissue. “Chopper’s on its way, Doctor.”
She took the tissue, wiped her face, sniffed. “Thank you. I’m fine, really.” She cleared her throat, pulling herself together.
She, too, had a job to do.
Chapter 16
06:00 Charlie, Hamn, Monday, October 6
Rafiq galloped over the plains toward Na’jif as the rising sun turned the dust-laden sky brilliant red. His black stallion snorted heavily, its coat glistening from exertion. Rafiq, too, was drenched beneath his robes, his throat dry with thirst.
He’d taken the horse and supplies from Hamnian troops at the Yemeni border, the skirmish providing cover. He’d ridden hard and fast through the night, making short work of the pass.
Within a few hours he and the carpet dealer would be coordinating the troops of the Silent Revolution. If luck and destiny prevailed, Al Qatar could fall by midnight.
And he would be king.
23:21 Alpha, São Diogo Island, Tuesday, October 7
Paige hadn’t slept at all since she’d arrived on São Diogo two days ago. She’d been working round the clock in the Level 4 lab with Meyer and the medical team, analyzing the research data from the Nexus system and directing the manufacture of the antidote.
Meanwhile, the techs had managed to locate information in the Nexus system that showed where the Cabal had hidden its own antidote stockpiles, and FDS troops were ready to move on the offshore locations if the biological bombs were released. But they couldn’t act a minute sooner—it would tip the Cabal and trigger the bombs. They had to manufacture what they could on São Diogo.
Jacques Sauvage himself had departed earlier in the day for New York to hunt down Samuel Killinger on his home ground. Killinger, Paige had been told, was head of the Venturion Corporation board, and leader of the Cabal. But the FDS couldn’t just move in and take him down overtly, because that too would trigger the release of the pathogen.
Killinger had to be taken by stealth and he ha
d to be forced to pull the plug on the bombs himself. Paige had been told that Sauvage alone knew how to make him do that.
She checked her watch as she walked along the deserted corridor toward the cafeteria, mentally calculating the time difference in New York. Sauvage had seven days to stop the Cabal and save the United States government. She pushed open the door to the empty cafeteria, flicked on the neon lights, wondering if he’d manage to do it in time.
She prayed he had a better shot at succeeding than she’d had of saving the president.
She’d learned from the Q3 systems what variation of the pathogen had been given to President Elliot and how it worked. And she’d developed an antidote. It was deceptively simple, but it was too late. Even if it were possible to administer the antidote immediately, Elliot still wouldn’t make it. His brain was already too damaged.
The harsh neon lights flickered overhead as Paige made for the pot of coffee. She poured a cup of the thick brew and seated herself at a table near the window. It was dark outside and her reflection was stark against the black window. She turned her chair away from it not wanting to look at herself in this exhausted condition.
She was still wearing scrubs. Her hair was scraped back into a tight ponytail and her complexion was wan. She’d lost a little weight since she’d been kidnapped almost a week ago. But she didn’t want to think about food.
She cupped her mug in both hands, sipped slowly. All of this had happened because of her parents and their discovery. Paige wondered how different things might have been if her dad had not chickened out that day in Brussels, if he had told Meyer all those years ago that he believed the rare prion disease in the bonobo troop was caused by spiroplasma and not prions themselves.
She’d gone on to prove it, and that in turn meant it was curable. Because spiroplasma—small bacteria without cell walls that were present in the hemolymph of almost all insects—were sensitive to broad-spectrum antibiotics.
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