Revenge River: Men of Mercy, Book 9

by Lindsay Cross

  Merc could have taken one step and got to the bastard if only he hadn’t had Caroline by the throat. A true and honorable soldier would have easily put his own wants behind him and saved his target, but around J, Merc’s honor was as solid as the fog in his mind. His hesitation, even with Caroline shot and bleeding in his arms, had put them within the circumference of the blast zone.

  His gut tightened, the small movement tearing open the fresh wounds on his stomach. New blood leaked out, blood he didn’t have to spare, and absorbed into the already soaked material of his tactical pants. He deserved it. As a result of his own agenda, Merc hung strung from the ceiling, oppressive heat and hunger eating him alive.

  “You’re awake. Good. I was worried I’d gone too hard on you.” Salaam, his captor, strode into the tent. In his hand, his favorite razor tipped flogger.

  Merc forced a grin, ignoring the salty taste of his own blood dripping down his lips. “You call that hard?”

  Fuck, he’d had worse, at least he told himself that lie as Salaam edged closer, flicking his whip as he came. “Your woman has finally woken. My master is overjoyed. He plans to keep her, at least until she no longer holds his interest.” Salaam cracked the flogger, its metal tips clinging together. “Then he’ll gift her to me. After I break you.”

  Merc ground his teeth together, refusing to rise to Salaam’s bait. If he could keep him occupied long enough to distract him, Merc stood a chance of escaping and saving her. A slim chance, but it was there, and it was all he had at the moment.

  He could take whatever Salaam dished out if it meant saving Caroline, even for another hour. “Bring it.”

  5

  Later that evening, Nightshade braced herself, standing with her feet splayed shoulder width apart and arms hanging loose at her sides. She’d hidden a dagger in the bed, another beneath the rug right next to it, and yet another next to the washing stand. The rest of the weapons lay in the trunk, ready and waiting.

  Mary and Rose walked into the tent, avoiding her entirely. Rose swept a bowl and pitcher off the table and Mary replaced it with a heaping platter of food and a carafe of drink. They exited just as silently, not bothering to acknowledge her presence. And why should they? They’d gotten their wish as far as they were concerned. Amir would no longer bother them after tonight, but not for the reason they assumed, Nightshade thought maliciously.

  She heard a commotion outside, small at first but growing louder by the second. The Sheik was about to make his grand entrance. Showtime.

  “Is my treasure ready for my blessing?”

  She heard no reply, but watched in tense anticipation as a dark hand parted the thick folds of the tent flap. Sheik Amir glided inside, his sheer size seeming to fill up the front half of the tent. With each step, his triple-jowl chin wobbled like a prize turkey, and from his posture, she wouldn’t be surprised if he fanned out tail feathers and crowed. But the way he looked at her with enough lust to make her want to scrub herself for a lifetime, was more like that of a buzzard spotting its prey, and just as ugly.

  A very small tinge of sympathy for Amir’s wives wriggled its way into her heart. No matter how much their plotting angered her, the thought of Amir’s huge form rutting on top of any woman was enough to make anyone gag.

  “Master, will you require my services?” A thick-necked Arab man with a long beard peered inside, locking onto Nightshade’s practically translucent outfit as he addressed the Sheik.

  I’ll cut you into little pieces…

  “No, Abdul, not now. But stay nearby in case she proves resistant.”

  Abdul bowed, his hairy hand sweeping around his waist. “As you wish, my Sheik.”

  A civilian would be going into a full-blown panic attack, or at least the beginnings of one, and Nightshade knew she should be feigning alarm, but something about the predatory claim on Amir’s face made that impossible.

  His presence sealed the finality of her situation. Merc was either too injured or too dead to help. Nightshade would have to figure her own way out. Her unit’s lives depended on it.

  She assessed his weak points with a practiced eye. Thick trunk of a chest and layers upon layers of fat would make stabbing him useless. She’d have to go for his neck,that was the only solution that guaranteed the man would be rendered unconscious. Or dead.

  He took another massive step forward and she dropped her shoulders and chin, peering up from beneath her lashes, knowing the stance made her appear submissive.

  Lesson number one her father taught: never let the enemy know your full capabilities.

  That had been one of the main reasons he’d formed Mayhem, a team of female only operatives. The CIA relied too heavily on a mostly male dominated field and overlooked the simplest and oldest form of attack. Surprise.

  Her father hand-selected girls offered up by their CIA operative parents based on their size and genetic traits. He selected the smallest. The ones with natural speed and intellect. And he, along with others approved by the government, trained them to use their size and speed as assets to take out unsuspecting targets.

  Until her father found out there was a mole in the CIA and took the team off radar. Now their orders came directly from the General in charge of the Other Government Agencies - OGA - division in the CIA. They couldn’t risk a leak by following their previous chain of command.

  “Come now, my flower, do not be afraid.” Amir lumbered forward and Nightshade countered, taking a step back. She needed him near the bed and the heavy handled jeweled dagger.

  She sensed his irritation and forced a shiver, peeking up again. The vulnerable act worked and his irritation vanished under a look of utter control. He extended a pudgy hand and she forced herself to take it, allowing him to pat her as if she were a favored pet.

  He switched to a heavily accented English. “Now, now. My wives tell me you speak no Farsi, but in time, you will. For now, I will speak your native tongue, until you can learn mine.”

  She ducked her head. “Thank you.”

  “My desert rose, so perfect. Be at ease. If only you could speak to my wives, they would tell you of the great honor I bestow upon you tonight.” His voice boomed with utter confidence and Nightshade kept her head lowered, knowing there was no way she could hide her eye roll. His precious wives craved his touch as much as they craved the plague.

  “Amir…”

  He crushed her hand. “Only my sons call me Amir. I will allow this sin to pass, since you are ignorant of our ways, but from now on you will only call me master.”

  Her tongue grew thick, her lips unresponsive. She’d rather eat the vomit fighting its way up her throat than call him master. But she needed the element of surprise so she gritted her teeth and forced out the words. “Master, forgive me. I am scared.”

  “Of course you are.” He patted her hand again, only this time his touch lingered and slid up her arm to rest at her elbow. “I will soon ease your fears. You are but an ignorant woman, in need of a man to guide you. If you listen to your master, your life will be blessed with a pleasure so great you can’t imagine and jewels such as you’ve never dreamed.” He released her and collapsed onto her bed nearby, reclining on his elbow as if he owned the entire world. “Come here.”

  He gestured her over but she stayed rooted to her spot, chancing another frown. “Master, may I serve you? I have plates of food and wine. It would ease my fear and allow me time to… accustom myself to your great presence.”

  Amir’s nearly non-visible eyes flashed with pleasure. “Of course, my flower.”

  Nightshade went to her table, and the large tray of various meats and cheeses and fruits. A large pitcher of dark red wine stood beside it. She took her time, as if making sure to choose the most select foods.

  “Come sit next to me. I will let you feed me.”

  She nearly spilled the wine. Pompous ass.

  Nightshade clamped her jaw shut and perched on the corner of the low mattress as far from him as possible. She extended the goblet of wine to
him, but he didn’t lift a hand. “You shall serve me, flower. Hold the goblet to my lips.”

  Nightshade forced herself to edge up the bed, even as her skin crawled with disgust as he licked his pudgy lips.

  “Come now, I’m thirsty.”

  Reminding herself of her endgame, she carefully lifted the gold cup to his mouth, barely keeping her lips from curling as he slurped down a generous helping of the wine.

  She waited patiently until he finished and placed the goblet at her feet, awaiting his next order. She’d seen enough of the Middle Eastern lifestyle, at least those more extreme, to know he’d be pleased if she acted as though he were in complete command of her every single move.

  Amir placed his hand just above her knee and Nightshade forced herself to ignore the unwelcome touch, all the while silently promising to break every single finger on that fat extremity.

  “It’s all right. I’m simply allowing you to become comfortable with my touch. Trust me, flower, you will appreciate my patience when I claim you. Now, feed me the grapes.”

  She gingerly plucked a juicy red grape and held it to his lips, careful to keep her fingers as far from his wet lips as possible. He chewed slowly, his heavy jowls sloshing with the movement and her stomach rolling right along with them. His abject rejection of personal hygiene and obvious embrace of slovenly laziness was a stark and disgusting contrast to her life of discipline and training.

  “Tell me about yourself.” This time the Sheik plucked a grape and held it up to her lips, forcing Nightshade to take the fruit or end the charade. His thumb lingered on her lower lip and then trailed down her neck and to the top of her blouse.

  Nightshade choked. No man had ever touched her. She quickly grabbed a piece of cheese and shoved it in his face, forcing his hand away from her skin. “I am nothing. No one.”

  “Come, you are a young beautiful woman. I would like to know more about my soon-to-be wife.” He cast a sly glance her way. “Tell me about the palace that was destroyed. Rumor has it a very wealthy merchant with a beautiful daughter lived there.”

  Nightshade tilted her chin down, longing to be back at that palace with her father. “There are many rumors.”

  “You do not seek to find favor with me, then? Ask me to ransom you?”

  “I am no one, just a lowly servant.”

  “You lie. A beauty such as yourself would never be a lowly servant. Perhaps you’re the daughter. Or perhaps his wife.” The hand on her knee shifted up to her thigh. “Perhaps you would tell me the truth if I promise to spare the soldier’s life?”

  “Who?” Nightshade feigned ignorance though her heart rate sped up.

  “I have a feeling he is your bodyguard. He was very insistent of protecting you when I told him my plans for you.”

  She licked her lips. Maybe if she could find out exactly where he held Merc, she could save him. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

  Amir’s grip tightened painfully digging into her thigh. “I have done nothing, but my servant, Salaam has been…questioning him. Why are you so worried?”

  She tried to pry his fingers away, but his grip held firm. “He is a loyal guard. I wouldn’t see him harmed.”

  Amir’s grip eased a fraction. “Ah, yes, he is very strong. No man has held his silence under Salaam’s interrogation as long as he has. Perhaps I should order Salaam to start chopping off body parts, since you are so unwilling to share information. How would you like that?”

  Not before I start chopping you up. Nightshade held that thought to herself. “No, please don’t do that.”

  “What will you give me in return for sparing his life?”

  A blade to your heart. “Whatever you desire,” Nightshade swallowed the acidic bile burning up her throat, “master.”

  Practically preening over her submission, Amir grew bolder, shoving his hand up her leg and cupping her sex.

  Nightshade dove backwards. Amir’s hand fell to the mattress and she grabbed the goblet and shoved it to his lips, forcing him to take a sip and putting some distance between her body and Amir.

  He pushed the wine away. “I desire you.”

  She jumped to her feet with a surge of violent energy. His wives might have had no choice but to obey him or be held down by a guard while Amir raped them, but not Nightshade.

  “Tell me, did you have to force your other wives as well?”

  He waved a hand in the air, as if knocking away an annoying fly. “Just ask them how much pleasure I bring them. They cry out my name.”

  “I’ve never lain with a man before.” She peered at him from beneath her lashes, pretending to contemplate the idea.

  Unrestrained desire filled Amir’s expression. “Let me teach you the wonders of the body.”

  Nightshade slinked closer, gracefully easing to her knees on the edge of the mattress. She brushed her hand across his cheek and threaded her fingers into his coarse black hair. “I am curious.”

  She leaned forward as if to kiss him and reached under the pillow only to find her dagger missing. In a surprisingly fast move, the Sheik’s hands shackled her wrist in a crushing grip. “You don’t think each of my wives hasn’t tried that before?”

  “Let me go now.” She yanked, attempting to free herself, but he held strong.

  “I tried to give you time and ease you into this, but my patience has run out. You would do well to resign yourself and learn the honor I bestow upon you.”

  He yanked her across his chest, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, grabbing her, touching her, crushing her against his grotesque body. When she felt his wet lips brush against her neck, her stomach revolted.

  This wasn’t part of the plan at all.

  Blood pumping, Nightshade fought off the natural response to panic and forced herself to remain still, allowing him free rein of her body. As soon as he relaxed his grip, she inched toward the knife under the rug, near the head of the bed, unfortunately putting her chest in alignment with his face. The Sheik groaned and a great shudder shook him as he buried his face in her cleavage. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt.

  In a frenzy, the Sheik ripped her top down. She felt the cool air on her breast a second before his lips closed on her nipple, drawing painfully.

  Nightshade, flushed hot with rage, screamed at the violation. Reflexes in full throttle, she plunged the knife into his neck. Amir’s grip went slack and he dropped to the bed, his hand clutching his throat with a gurgled moan.

  Shaking, she ran to the washbowl in the corner of the tent and scrubbed her skin, trying to remove the remnants of his disgusting touch. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the forced vulnerability. She’d never desired a man’s touch. Never allowed any one to touch her.

  Amir gurgled and groaned again. Nightshade turned in time to see him heave off the bed and slam to the ground, his face frozen with shock. She knelt at his side and yanked the knife out, savoring the rush of power as she slowly wiped the blood from her blade on Amir’s robes. “You’ll never bestow your honor on another woman.”

  What if she had really been her sister, someone incapable of defending herself? Would he be raping her now?

  The thought sent a new wave of fury pounding through her veins. She should have let him live longer so she could make him suffer.

  “Master?” Abdul called from outside the tent.

  Crap. Disguising Amir’s murder would be as easy as covering up a nuclear explosion.

  Nightshade dove to the side of the door and pressed her back to the taut material, her knife still wet from Amir’s blood clutched in her hand.

  “Master?” Abdul called again.

  He wouldn’t be as easy to kill as Amir. She would need to pounce as soon as he came in. Use the element of surprise.

  Abdul burst inside, his knife drawn. The tent flap fell shut behind him. Abdul spotted Amir on the ground and gasped.

  Nightshade jumped, wrapping herself around his back and pressing her blade to his throat. Abdul jerked, his head cra
cking into her nose. She weakened for one second and Abdul ducked and flung her across the tent.

  “Whore!” He’d have the whole village in here if she didn’t shut him up soon.

  She shook off the dull pain and leapt to her feet. Knife still clutched in her hand, she sprang forward, leaving Abdul to leap back or get sliced. He countered, slid sideways and brought his own knife down in a power move that would have sliced her arm off if she hadn’t read him and jerked out of the way. He rounded in a spin and caught her side. Pain sliced her flesh and she grabbed the wound, backing up to gather her wits.

  Abdul’s overpowering height and weight slowed him. Nightshade flitted in and out of his reach, slicing him each time, until Abdul stood, dripping blood. In a low tone, she taunted him in his language, “Your precious master will never rape another woman again.”

  Abdul roared, knife raised exploding with rage. Exactly like she’d hoped. She ducked under his arms, stabbed her knife upward and danced out of the way. Abdul hit his knees and then plopped face down on the floor, his blood covering the expensive rugs.

  Shaking from the rush of adrenaline and the damn persistent weakness that still haunted her from the explosion, Nightshade tied her ripped blouse together and slipped on a black robe, pulling the hood over her head. She strapped the knife to her hip and stepped over Abdul’s dead body to peer out the tent. There was only one other guarded tent. Merc’s.

  Looks like I’ll be doing the rescuing after all.

  6

  Tingles of darkness trickled across his periphery, his body prickling with the first stages of losing consciousness.

  “Merc.”

  He jerked his head up, banging it on the log. The tent blurred in his vision.

  “Merc. Wake up.”

  Merc blinked rapidly trying to bring his surroundings into focus, the sand and tent a blur of tan. A shadowy figure swam before his eyes.

  “You’ve had worse than this. You gonna let a few little cuts stop you?” The voice floated to him, distorted at first but becoming clearer with every word.

  “Who are you?” Merc asked, using his remaining strength to speak.