Mia could have told them the kitchen door was unlocked twice a day to remove waste and replenish supplies. The door had two massive metal bars with locks that were as big as her head, one on the inside and one on the outside. Only by a concerted effort could it be opened. The palace had been specifically constructed by the sultan’s ancestors to keep family in and intruders out.
Besides, if Adam and Jibril had gotten out, they would have come to the beach. They were either still in the palace or they had been captured before they could reach the boat.
“How bad was the cave-in, Jacques?” Bouchard was asking. “Could we move enough debris to get into the tunnel?”
“It looked bad from the outside.”
Bouchard cursed. “We don’t have time for this. Ramsay and Exley wanted the woman gone from here if they were not at the meeting place. We need to leave—soon.”
“Yes, that was the last thing Ramsay said. He said you were to do as planned and go west and wait.”
Mia had heard enough. Jibril knew both the area and the palace like the back of his hand. She’d told him of the passage that led from the harem—the way she had escaped Assad during the purge.
Unfortunately, he would need help from the outside to unlock the door. Mia had bribed one of the eunuchs to open the door when she’d escaped. Even if Jibril could find his way into the passage, there would be nobody to let them out.
She backed to where the ladder was tied and peered over the side. She could not carry the heavy bag containing the ransom and climb down at the same time. Mia glanced at the arguing men. They would hear it if she dropped the bag, but what choice did she have? Besides, by the time they lowered another boat, she would be halfway to shore. She slid her legs over the side, stepped down a rung, and dropped the bag into the boat below. It hit with a loud thump.
“What was that?” Bouchard yelled.
Mia had almost reached the bottom when the men looked over the side.
Precious seconds ticked past as she fumbled with the knot that kept the boat secured. The rope ladder jerked, telling her a man was on his way down. She finally managed to free the boat and shoved away from the ship as hard as she could before grabbing the oars.
A light flared briefly above her and then disappeared. Mia rowed with all the strength she could muster. She almost wept with relief as the small boat shot away from the ship. She pulled and pulled, ignoring the muffled shouts and splashing sounds that told her another boat had been lowered into the water. She pulled on the oars and glanced over her shoulder.
No matter how fast she rowed, the shore seemed to get farther away with every stroke.
* * *
Adam couldn’t have dozed for more than a few minutes before he heard men’s voices. He knew there was no place to hide—he’d seen as much before Jibril left. He felt his way in the darkness along the wall, until he reached the opening that led to the smaller, outside cell.
The voices came closer: Arabic. He held his sword lightly in his left hand, the pistol in the right. He would take at least a few with him.
The footsteps stopped just outside the small outer cell.
“We know you are in there. Give us Jibril and we will let you go.” The French accent was so atrocious it took Adam a minute to translate.
“Come in here and take him if you want him,” he yelled back in the same language.
His words detonated an explosion of Arabic. Adam supposed nobody wanted to be the first to step inside. He waited, straining his ears, in case they decided to come without light. His eyes were probably more acclimated to the darkness, so he’d have a minor edge. How long that would last depended on how many of them there were.
The bickering stopped and a burning torch flew through the doorway. It bounced off the stone floor and sent sparks flying in all directions before rolling to a halt beside the opposite wall, still burning.
So much for the advantage of darkness.
The first man came stumbling in right after the torch, as if somebody had catapulted him.
Adam discharged the pistol and the ball hit his assailant dead center. The impact and surprise knocked him back, right into the man behind him. Their bodies tangled and Adam lunged forward and pierced the second attacker through the left side of his chest. The man tripped over the first man’s body and fell hard onto the sword, dragging Adam down as he went.
Adam barely kept his feet, dropping into a crouch while trying to yank the sword free from the other man’s chest.
Yet another aggressor flew through the door, hurtling over Adam and the two bodies. Adam yanked on the sword and wrenched it free, but not before a trail of fire swept across his back, from shoulder to hip. He rolled to the side just as his opponent swung again, moving his arm in a wildly sweeping arc, his scimitar flashing through the flickering light.
Adam jumped to his feet and raised his blood-slicked blade in time to stop the killing blow but the impact knocked him back against the wall. The man had no particular skill, but he was built like an ox. Adam led him in a dance across the floor, his arm almost numb from repelling the repeated blows from the much heavier sword. He needed to strike now or soon he would not be able.
He ignored the searing pain down his back and launched an attack that would have made Beauleaux proud. His sudden aggression surprised the man, who’d assumed—correctly—that Adam was exhausted, and had drawn back his arm in yet another huge, lazy arc, preparing for the kill. But he’d forgotten about the bodies behind him and stumbled.
Adam’s blade made a squelching noise as it swept across the man’s throat.
The man’s scimitar clattered to the stone floor and he gave a gurgling wail and took yet another step onto the fallen body before crashing to the ground. Adam backed away, his lungs heaving like a bellows as he wiped the blood-slicked pommel of his sword.
He looked around in the dying torchlight. He was the last man standing. Outside, in the smaller cell and hallway, there was the sound of fighting.
An English voice came from the direction of the corridor. “I brought you some help, Stepfather!”
“It’s about bloody time,” Adam called back, sagging against the cool stone wall and listening to the sound of fighting.
Once he’d caught his breath, he inhaled deeply and then picked his way over fallen bodies and inched closer to see what was happening. It looked as though Jibril had brought at least a dozen men with him. The corridor was too crowded for anything other than hacking and slashing and there was no need for Adam to join them as Jibril’s men made short work of the remaining guards.
He massaged his sword arm as he watched. The last guard had hardly hit the floor when the victors began to slap one another on the back in the self-congratulatory manner of very young men. It was a moment before Jibril recalled Adam’s existence and came toward him, swathed in a gray wool djellaba with a red-and-black-checked turban on his head. He carried a large leather bag at his side.
“My men came down the main road from town, with a big group of Assad’s men right behind them. They are fighting as we speak, at the main entrance.”
“Is your half brother with them?” Adam asked, wincing as he pushed off from the wall.
“Are you injured?” The boy looked around at the three corpses and his auburn eyebrows rose. “You fought well, Stepfather.”
“Assad, where is he?” Adam repeated. God forbid the lunatic somehow found the Scythe before Bouchard took Mia to a safe distance.
“Still down at the port. My men say it is a madhouse there and several other ships and crews are now involved. Ramsay’s ship is blowing holes in any vessel Assad was stupid enough to leave in the harbor.” Jibril’s eyes widened when he saw the bloody smear on the wall behind him. He went behind Adam. “A very nasty cut. You are more than a little lucky, eh, Stepfather?”
“I wouldn’t mind being luckier.”
Jibril lifted the lantern and looked closer. “One half is deep. I think we must give you a few stitches to stop it bleeding. Here
—” He thrust a leather sack forward. “I found this food near the dead man who used to own this uniform. You can eat while I clean the cut and close it.”
“Close it with what?”
“My men always have a small kit with them for such matters.”
“I don’t suppose they keep any brandy in that kit?” Adam asked as he pulled his shirt over his head. “Bloody hell,” he hissed.
Jibril laughed. “No brandy. No tea and crumpets, either. There is water in the skin—give it to me first. I will cleanse the wound and you can fortify yourself with the rest.”
The following quarter hour was one Adam would not care to repeat. By the time Jibril had finished the stitching Adam didn’t think he’d be able to move.
“Here, chew on this.” The boy shoved something into his hand.
“What is it?” Adam studied the small gray pellet in his palm.
“It will make you feel better.”
“Yes, but what will it do for my sword arm?”
“Forget your sword arm. You have me to protect you now, Stepfather.”
Adam snorted and dropped the pellet into his pocket. He might need it later.
After a quick exchange with Jibril, the rebels hurried off down the corridor, leaving only one man behind.
“This is Muhammed. The others have gone to join the fighting at the slave gate,” Jibril said before turning back to the other man and asking him in French, “What did you find, my friend?”
“You are in no shape to fight,” Muhammed said in heavily accented French, his mouth tight as he took in his leader’s skeletal features. “Either are you,” he said to Adam. “We will take care of Assad’s men; you must find someplace to wait. I’m sure you have many hiding places in the family apartments?”
Jibril nodded.
“I will go with you in case you find trouble. I already told the men that any guards they didn’t kill they should send on a mad camel hunt to Al Mahbes.”
The two young men laughed heartily at some private joke.
“Gentlemen?” Adam reminded them.
Jibril nodded. “Are you ready?”
“Tell me again why we’re going into the heart of the palace?”
“To find the escape route my mother used.”
“Why don’t we just follow your friends?”
“Muhammed is right. Neither of us is in any shape for fighting.”
Adam sighed. “And you know where your mother’s escape tunnel is?”
Jibril grimaced. “I believe I can find it.” Adam stared and the younger man shrugged. “I’m pretty sure I can find it.”
“What happens if you can’t?” he asked icily.
“We fight our way out?”
Christ.
“I am jesting, Stepfather. If we can’t find it, we will go and find the others and take our chances. Does that suit you?”
Adam rotated his arm and winced at the stinging pain. He could fight, but he didn’t know how well. He might be wounded, but Mia’s son was weak and thin from weeks of harsh treatment and in no condition to fight.
“Very well.”
Jibril thrust a wad of cloth toward him. “Put on this guard uniform.”
Adam took a gray robe that had a large bloody hole in the front. He cocked an eyebrow at Jibril, who shrugged.
Once he was dressed with a turban wrapped around his head, Muhammed took the lead, followed by Jibril, and Adam at the rear.
They found the guard quarters empty of everyone other than a few frightened women and children.
“Won’t they tell?” Adam whispered.
Jibril shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. What other choice do we have? Besides, all they are seeing are three men in guard uniforms.”
Once they’d left the series of connected barracks, Muhammed led them down a long dark hall without doors. There would be nowhere to hide if anyone came from the other direction.
“Just how far is this bloody bolt-hole of yours?” Adam hissed.
“Not far. We just need to get into the main storage room in the kitchens. Those connect to the women’s side of the palace.”
“The harem?” Adam tried to keep his voice expressionless but he must have missed the mark.
Jibril snorted. “You English are all the same.”
“What the devil is that supposed to mean?”
“You think we are savages because of our way of life, our customs.”
Adam opened his mouth to deny it and then paused. He did think it savage to have more than one spouse. At least at the same time. Even so, he had been perfectly willing to entertain the notion of keeping a mistress when he married Mia. Did that make him a hypocrite? Not that keeping a mistress was anything like keeping dozens—even hundreds—of women for one man’s pleasure. Before he could come up with an answer Muhammed turned around.
“There is a small hole from which to watch. They are bringing through barrels right now. We will wait.” He turned back to the spy hole.
The moments ticked past and the only thing he could hear was the sound of men breathing.
“You left my mother on a ship with Bouchard?”
“What the devil are you getting at, boy?”
“The man is a dog. What do you suppose I mean?”
Muhammed said something in Arabic and Jibril translated. “There is no time to argue. We are going in.”
Adam bit back several choice responses. “We can continue this conversation later, Stepson.”
“I look forward to it, Stepfather.”
Adam gritted his teeth. Now was not the time to take the younger man to task for his insolent chiding. There would be plenty of time on board Bouchard’s ship—or, God forbid—once the boy was living under his damned roof.
The door opened onto an even narrower corridor and they turned to the left. At the end was a scarred wooden door.
“This is it,” Jibril whispered over his shoulder, opening the door. The room beyond was dark and smelled of exotic spices that made Adam’s mouth water. The only light streamed through the cracks beneath another door at the far end of the pantry. A door that must connect to the kitchen beyond.
Muhammed stopped and turned. “You must take it from here, my brother.”
Jibril nodded and pushed past him. “Follow me, Stepfather.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mia thought her heart would explode. Who would have believed rowing such a small boat would be so agonizing? Even more agonizing was the sound of men gaining on her.
She was almost jolted off the seat when the boat struck the sandy bottom. She staggered over the side, dropping into knee-deep water and clutching her bag in one hand and shoes in the other.
Bouchard’s boat was no more than twenty feet away.
Mia found a burst of energy and ran through the shallow water, not bothering to secure the boat. She made it almost to the stunted trees clustered at the cliff base before an arm snaked around her waist and pulled her to a sudden stop.
“What the hell do you think you are you doing?” Bouchard gasped, releasing her just long enough to grab her wrist and then doubling over and struggling to catch his breath.
Mia tried to shake off his hand but it was like trying to shake off her own arm.
“I’m saving my husband and son.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“I know the palace—better than any of them. I escaped from the harem, the most highly guarded part of the palace. If my son and husband are trapped inside, I am their best hope for freedom.”
Bouchard’s yellow-gold eyes were narrow and hostile. He didn’t say a word before pulling her back toward the shore, where two of his men had caught the other rowboat and secured it.
Mia fished the knife from her bag and poked him in the hand, hard enough to draw blood.
“Merde!” he swore, snatching his hand away. He gave her a reproachful glare, shaking his hand. “Do you think you will stop me by threatening me with that knife?”
Mia positioned t
he knife over her stomach. “No, but I think you will not want to face either my husband or Ramsay if I am dead.”
His jaw dropped in a way that would have made her laugh if she were not so desperate.
“You wouldn’t.”
He was right, she wouldn’t. But she couldn’t let him see that.
“How badly do you want to find out?” she asked grimly.
His eyes stared blankly through her, as though he were imagining the aftermath of her act. As if he were imagining explaining things to Ramsay. His face hardened and his full lips thinned until they were as narrow as the blade of her knife.
“I hope to God you know what you are doing.”
So do I, she thought.
* * *
The journey from the beach to the palace had been almost suspiciously easy. Nowhere along the way did they encounter any sign of fighting or men—either Assad’s or any others.
Bouchard said they must be all engaged in the fight by the wharf. Even from this far away, the sound of cannon fire had been audible. It was clear the French captain was more than a little agitated by the sound and nervous for his mentor, Ramsay.
They were at the back garden wall. Mia was glad Bouchard had listened to her and sent Beauville back to the ship, leaving Jacques with their boat. The passageway was narrow and they would need to move fast once they were inside. If Jibril was trapped in the palace, she was pretty sure of where he would go.
Mia turned to Bouchard. “The stone we are looking for has five ankhs carved in it. We must push the stone to release the latch.” They were outside the part of the palace where each of the sultan’s wives had her private quarters.
Mia pressed hard on a series of stones and a gritty noise interrupted her thoughts.
“I think this might be it.” The sound of stone grinding on stone disturbed the near darkness until she saw the gap.
“Don’t open it all the way. We will need to get past the door.”
He grunted and pushed. The gap grew wider.
“I will go first.” She pushed past him before he could argue.
The passage was tight and dusty and her nose twitched. Behind her, Bouchard sneezed.
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