Under the Sheik's Protection

by C. J. Miller

Adham looked around to see if anyone had overheard him.

  The word “brother” conveyed what Saafir wanted Adham to know: I trust you. We are stronger as a team. Take care.

  “Let’s do this,” Adham said.

  Saafir took the stairs to the lobby. Talking down the hostage taker to get Sarah out alive was his primary concern. He couldn’t live with himself if she were hurt. He should have insisted she quit or maybe he should have had her fired. If the money had been important, he could have hired her for another event.

  But he’d known Sarah would not have stood for the interference in her life. She was a strong woman and Saafir wouldn’t forget it.

  In his peripheral thoughts, he was aware he was the leader of a nation and putting himself at risk. With Sarah in harm’s way, he couldn’t turn away and he couldn’t delegate to someone else. He’d had military training and he trained with Adham on a regular basis to keep his skills sharp. It wasn’t his first time negotiating with a hostage taker, but it was the first time he was negotiating for the release of a woman he cared about.

  The shooter was agitated and twitchy. He had to be getting tired or running on adrenaline, which would drop and leave him exhausted. He could have had a picture in his mind of what would happen when he took a hostage. When it didn’t play out how he expected, he would react badly. They weren’t dealing with a mentally stable person. Mentally stable people didn’t storm into a building, shoot someone, take a hostage and demand to speak to a visiting leader of a nation.

  Adham had taken the stairs to the second floor to look for a perch to set up his equipment. He’d get into position, remain hidden and when the time was right, take one clean shot.

  Saafir announced his approach to the hostage taker with the heavy thud of his shoes against the floor. Sneaking up on a man holding a gun was a mistake. “I’m here. Your demands are being met,” he said. The bulletproof vest he was wearing rubbed against him. Though he’d never been shot in the chest while wearing it, he wasn’t anxious to test it.

  The hostage taker swung in his direction, holding Sarah in front of him. His goddess, Sarah. She had been through hardships and pain in her life, and even now she wasn’t crying or begging. She appeared afraid, but her eyes gleamed with concentration. She was thinking of a way out. The slightest opening and she’d take it.

  Jeff was lying motionless on the ground. Anger speared through Saafir, but he quelled it. He had to be calm and reasonable and give Adham a chance to get into position and get the right angle to make his shot.

  When Sarah saw him, her eyes widened. She mouthed the word “no,” warning him off. It was too late to change his course. He and Sarah were in this until the end.

  “Sarah, are you hurt?” Saafir asked, holding up his hands.

  Sarah shook her head. Saafir wanted the man to believe he had a way out. Given that he’d already shot Jeff, the die had been cast, but Saafir hoped to distract him.

  “What is your name?” Saafir asked the hostage taker.

  “You may call me Khoury,” the man said, rage stamped on his face.

  His name meant priest. Was that a message? Was this a religiously motivated attack? Saafir had believed this to be motivated by the protest in Qamsar led by the Conservatives and Rabah Wasam. He was open to the possibility he’d been wrong in making that assumption.

  Saafir thought of his brother Mikhail and his problems with his former fiancée. Her culturally extremist beliefs had led to a terrible ending to her and Mikhail’s engagement. Saafir didn’t want to draw a parallel, but he was curious if this man had ties to the same group. “Khoury, tell me what you need to speak with me about.” Saafir mentally urged his brother to move faster.

  “You know what I want. I want the world to know about your dirty, underhanded tricks. I want the world to know about your plans to turn Qamsar into an American colony. We’ll be a little America. You will rape the land of oil, sell it to the highest bidder and leave us with nothing.” Khoury spat on the ground. He had started speaking in English and had switched to Arabic. Saafir recognized the accent as Qamsarian.

  His accusations were ridiculous. Saafir was a proud citizen of Qamsar. He had no plans to turn Qamsar into America or forget the traditions and culture that made Qamsar unique and amazing. He only wished for greater prosperity and happiness for Qamsarians. Moving forward with economic and social progress wasn’t akin to becoming “a little America.” Saafir hid his emotion from his face. He was grateful for the practice he’d had feigning calm over the last several months. He needed it now.

  Knowing Sarah was on the other end of that gun, a gun that might have delivered a bullet into Jeff, was making him desperate. Fear for her life had taken center stage.

  “I understand how you’d feel this way. I’m not thrilled with how the negotiations have been,” Saafir said. He had wanted the talks to go faster and be less tangled up in red tape. His dislike of the process was an honest admission. He needed to connect with Khoury and establish some ties to him.

  He dared not look up to see if Adham was in place and call Khoury’s attention to the area. Adham would alert him when he was ready.

  “What will you do about it?” Khoury asked. He lowered the gun a few inches, but the muzzle was still pointed at Sarah.

  “What do you want me to do about it?” Saafir asked.

  Khoury paused, thought and then responded. “Tell the Americans you don’t want their interference. Tell them you are from a great country that doesn’t need their form of progress.”

  He hadn’t asked Saafir to step down. If Khoury was with the Conservatives, at least the message had changed somewhat.

  “Captain, I can’t get an angle on him without going through Sarah. Get him to walk toward you.” Adham’s voice in his earpiece.

  Saafir shifted. He would back away and hope Khoury moved toward him as they talked.

  “Why don’t you let Sarah go and we’ll talk about this? You don’t need her. You have me.” One step back. He waited for Khoury to follow.

  Khoury laughed. “Will it kill you to see her dead? If I shoot your American lover and cover you in her blood would you beg me for death?”

  Saafir didn’t like the direction this was leading. Khoury was emotionally escalating and making dramatic threats. Khoury looked over his shoulder and stood straighter when he saw the gathering media and police outside the building.

  Saafir took another step to the left and Khoury shifted. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Not going anywhere. There’s a lot of media following this story,” Saafir said. He kept Khoury focused on his intention in taking a hostage.

  “Now there’s a pole in my line of sight. I’m moving to an alternate position,” Adham said.

  The expression on Sarah’s face was killing him. He tried not to fixate on her and give away just how much she meant to him.

  “Are there no Qamsarian women who are good enough for you? Why an American? Do you hate all things from your country?” Khoury asked.

  Saafir looked for a response that was insulting toward neither Sarah nor Qamsarian women. “I am planning to marry a Qamsarian woman.”

  Sarah flinched slightly.

  Khoury shook Sarah in his arms and she winced. Hot anger sliced through Saafir. “You don’t need to do anything violent,” Saafir said. He would kill Khoury with his bare hands if he hurt Sarah.

  Khoury jerked his head in Jeff’s direction. “I killed one American. What difference does it make if I kill others?”

  Khoury turned and posed for the crowd gathering outside the building.

  Saafir had to stall. Khoury’s reaction to the crowd outside told Saafir he was enjoying the attention. However, Khoury had to know this couldn’t end with Saafir walking away from the trade agreement with America or with Saafir changing how he ruled Qamsar. Walking into a hostage
situation, it was understood that someone would die.

  “No one needs to be hurt,” Saafir said. “Why don’t you put the gun down and we’ll talk?”

  “This is the police!” A shout from the American police outside the glass doors from what sounded like a bullhorn. The noise was grating and Khoury tensed.

  Khoury tightened his grip around Sarah and Saafir stifled the urge to lunge for her. The police were interfering at the worst possible time. He was establishing a rapport with Khoury and keeping him calm and from putting a bullet in Sarah.

  “We’d like to talk with you. We’re calling the phone in the lobby. Please pick it up,” the police negotiator said.

  The phone rang in the lobby. Khoury didn’t make a move to answer it, though he twitched with every ring. When it finally stopped, Khoury relaxed slightly and Saafir was grateful. They didn’t need to add to Khoury’s jumpiness.

  Then the phone rang again.

  “Please answer the phone,” the police negotiator said. The bullhorn let out a shrill feedback sound.

  The police could enter the building through other means and Saafir guessed if a SWAT team had arrived, they were already inside and getting into position for a takedown. Perhaps the policeman calling out was a distraction.

  “If you continue to ignore the phone, we will resort to other methods to get your attention,” the negotiator said.

  Khoury gestured to the large television in the lobby with scrolling news stories. “I’m there. My cause is there. The world will know why I needed to do this. Rabah will know I was a champion for our cause.”

  The television headline read “Muslim extremist holding hostages in D.C.” That wasn’t glowing support for Khoury’s cause. It didn’t mention it or his name. But Khoury had given away that Rabah Wasam was involved, however indirectly, with this incident. Had he called for his followers to take action? Had he planned this drama?

  “That’s a national news story,” Saafir said, pretending to be impressed.

  Khoury had shifted his attention to the television screen. The phone rang again.

  “Why don’t you let me answer the phone? The reporters might have questions for you,” Saafir said.

  Khoury looked out at the crowd and then back to Saafir. “Yes. Answer the phone.”

  Saafir walked to the phone, keeping Khoury in front of him and his eyes on Sarah. Saafir identified himself to the caller.

  “We have limited visibility. Can you tell me how many hostages are inside?” the man asked.

  “He is a Qamsarian nationalist,” Saafir said, keeping his voice neutral. Sarah was the most at risk, but others remained in the lobby, hunkered down on the floor.

  “A dozen?”

  “Just about,” Saafir said. By his count, they had about ten people in sight in the lobby.

  “What are his demands?” the police asked.

  “Let me ask him,” Saafir said. “Khoury, the police and media are asking your demands.” He’d given them a first name. It might help.

  Khoury’s mouth gaped open. “I want everyone to know that America is exploiting us.”

  “I’ll tell them,” Saafir said.

  “Tell them that Qamsar will be an example of true values to the rest of the world,” Khoury said.

  Saafir repeated the message into the phone. Khoury had walked closer to him, dragging Sarah with him.

  “I’ve got a clear line of sight,” Adham said into his earpiece.

  Saafir didn’t move, not sure what angle Adham was shooting.

  Sarah bucked and Khoury struggled to hold her.

  Adham swore. “Tell her to stay still.”

  “Sarah, stay calm,” Saafir said, terrified Adham would hit her if she moved.

  Sarah scratched at Khoury’s face and she twisted to the ground. Khoury held his gun over her. “You’ll pay for that, b—”

  Khoury dropped to the ground.

  “Done,” Adham said.

  Saafir rushed for Sarah and gathered her into his arms, pulling her away from Khoury. He was aware of police flooding the room, but he had Sarah safely in his arms and that was the best place for her to be.

  * * *

  In death, Khoury had succeeded in drawing international attention to the open opposition to the trade agreement by the Conservative party in Qamsar. Members of the media swarmed outside the building as police collected evidence at the scene for their reports and spoke to witnesses who had been in the lobby.

  The media had snapped pictures of Saafir holding Sarah against him. Though it was the reaction of almost any two people in response to an emotional ordeal, some reporters were using it as evidence of the emir’s affair with an American woman. Thinking about Sarah being identified and harassed filled Saafir with dread. Negative publicity about their relationship would impact the trade agreement and Sarah personally, possibly even professionally.

  Sarah had given her account of the incident to the police and they were waiting in the building’s security office, away from the eyes of the media.

  “Thank you for coming to help me,” Sarah said.

  “You couldn’t think I would have left you inside with him. I promised I would protect you. I will make good on that promise,” Saafir said.

  “Are you going to give up?” Sarah asked.

  “Give up what?” Saafir asked. On them? Not while he had time.

  “On the trade agreement. To deal with the problems at home,” Sarah said. “To make sure this doesn’t get worse and that more people don’t get hurt.”

  He had never caved to the demands of bullies or terrorists. “Is that what you think I should do?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I have no idea what you should do. Jeff is dead. The Conservatives are bent on getting you out of power.”

  “I can’t back down. The trade agreement is good for our country,” Saafir said.

  “What about what is good for you? They’ll assassinate you,” Sarah said. “Khoury could have turned the gun on you today.”

  “What’s good for Qamsar is what is good for me. If I let people like Khoury and Wasam dictate how the government should run, we’d have violence every day. To make a point, people would take hostages or shoot at each other. I refuse to let Qamsar be a country of politics through brutality.”

  “Jeff is dead and it’s my fault,” Sarah said, sadness clinging to every word.

  “You are not responsible. No one blames you,” Saafir said and handed her a handkerchief from his breast pocket.

  Sarah dabbed at her eyes. “I blame myself. I was rushing around and I wasn’t paying attention. Could I have said something to defuse the situation sooner?”

  She was trying to make sense of it. Saafir couldn’t provide rationalizations because it hadn’t been a rational action. “Khoury knew he was putting his life and others at risk when he chose to take you hostage. He couldn’t have gotten out of the building without being apprehended or killed. He alone is responsible for Jeff’s death.”

  Sarah shook her head. “I could have done something. Said something. Behaved differently.”

  “You did the best you could. You’re alive. That’s what’s important,” Saafir said.

  Adham and the SWAT team involved in the shooting were in a debriefing. Three marksmen and Adham had fired shots at Khoury at near the same moment. The police would determine which bullet delivered the fatal shot.

  Owen appeared in the doorway.

  “Are you okay?” Owen asked, coming to Sarah and kneeling next to her.

  Sarah’s tears started anew. “I was scared. Helpless.”

  Owen hugged her and patted her back consolingly. Saafir felt a jolt of possessiveness. Owen was a married man and her former brother-in-law, and Sarah had a close connection to both Owen and Evelyn. Owen had been in her life longer than
Saafir had. He shouldn’t feel threatened by the other man. Her affection toward Owen had nothing to do with her feelings for him.

  “I have some disturbing news,” Owen said, taking Sarah’s hands.

  Sarah went stock-still. “About this? Or Alec?”

  Owen appeared surprised and glanced at Saafir, a question on his face. Did he think Sarah wouldn’t have told Saafir about Alec?

  Though Sarah had told Saafir she wanted nothing to do with her ex-husband, her concerns about him were pervasive. Saafir wondered if her ongoing relationship with Owen and Evelyn was how she kept Alec in her life or if she secretly wanted Alec to get better and then have a happy reunion with him.

  Owen and Evelyn could want that for their brother, too.

  His jealousy was misplaced, especially considering Saafir’s family was in the process of arranging his marriage to another woman. He had no right to make a claim on Sarah’s heart.

  “News about this situation,” Owen said. “Thomas Nelson is dead. A self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.”

  Sarah clapped her hands over her mouth.

  “Thomas was sending information to the Conservative extremists about our location and our meetings.”

  The trade summit’s economics expert had been a spy.

  “Why would he do that?” Sarah asked.

  “He had some serious gambling debts and the Conservatives were paying them,” Owen said. “He heard that someone died today. He returned home, wrote a suicide note and shot himself. He couldn’t handle the guilt.” Owen paused. “He called me before he shot himself. He asked me to come over and review some ideas he had. He wanted me to find him.”

  “Oh, Owen,” Sarah said, and hugged him.

  “Maybe some things will return to normal now,” Owen said.

  Saafir didn’t agree. The Conservatives would not be quick to give up. They may have lost their mole when Nelson died, but they wouldn’t back away.

  Owen stroked a hand down Sarah’s hair and Saafir ignored the gesture. Owen was being a friend.

  “The police want to look into everyone involved with the trade agreement committee again and search for ties to the extremists,” Owen said.