by Gail Barrett
“I thought they’d moved out of the area.”
“That’s what they said. Obviously, they were wrong.”
Henry slumped back against the rock and closed his eyes. “So what are we going to do?”
“Get you to a hospital, for one thing.” He needed medical attention at once—an oxygen tank, a CT scan and several days of bed rest, preferably at a lower altitude.
But how could they escape? Henry wouldn’t last on foot. A jolting race down the mountain on horseback would make his concussion worse. And even if they could slip past their captors, where would they go? She had no idea where they were. She couldn’t roam aimlessly around the Andes in the darkness with an injured man in tow.
But neither could she leave him behind.
Her gaze gravitated back to the men. She didn’t want to bargain with their kidnappers. But what other choice did she have? And maybe they’d made a mistake. Maybe they’d captured the wrong people—and she could convince them to let them go.
“Stay here,” she murmured to Henry. “Let me deal with this.” Inhaling to gather her courage, she rose and walked to the entrance of the cave.
The captor with the turban stopped sharpening his knife at her approach. His gaze pinned hers, and she abruptly stopped, a stark chill scuttling through her nerves. His eyes looked cruel and utterly ruthless, as if every trace of humanity had disappeared from his soul. And she knew instinctively that this thug would kill her in a heartbeat without a qualm.
He muttered something she couldn’t hear to the dozing man. That man roused himself and sat upright, and her disquiet edged up a notch. He had the same full beard and swarthy skin, but he was heavier, with a coarse, flat nose and fleshy lips. He also wore a scarf, the black-and-white-checkered kaffiyeh that the Arabs wore. His silver tooth winked in the light.
Shuddering, she crossed her arms, the impression that they were Middle Eastern growing stronger now. But even with their head coverings it didn’t make sense. They had to belong to a drug cartel. She was in the mountains of Peru, not the Middle East.
But the way they continued to stare at her with something akin to hatred in their eyes...
Memories bubbled up, fragments from news reports she’d read—how Middle Eastern terrorists had formed partnerships with South American drug cartels who smuggled them into the United States.
Nonsense. She couldn’t go off the deep end and let paranoia skew her thoughts. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “Oiga,” she said in Spanish. “Excuse me.”
Neither man answered, and her belly made a little clutch. They had to understand Spanish. Unless they spoke an indigenous language, like Quechua or Aymara...
She racked her brains, scrambling to remember the handful of phrases she’d learned. “Imainalla-kashanki. Hello. Do you speak Spanish?”
The third man lumbered to his feet. He turned, and his gaze slammed into hers. And for a moment, she couldn’t move. The intensity in his eyes held her riveted, cementing her in place. Startled, she took in his dark, slashing brows, his collar-length coal-black hair, his high, bold nose in his chiseled face. He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders tapering to a flat belly and muscled thighs. His mouth was hard, his onyx eyes unreadable, not providing any hints of his thoughts. But his hot black eyes simmered with intelligence, prompting another flurry of nerves.
This was the man who’d attacked her. She couldn’t mistake him. The scratches she’d carved on his cheeks gave him away.
He wasn’t exactly handsome. Taken individually, his features were too rough-hewn for that. But he was striking, incredibly so, from the sharp perception in his unwavering eyes to the day’s growth of beard stubble darkening his jaw. He reminded her of a primitive warrior, an ancient desert sheikh.
A man she’d do well not to underestimate.
He skirted the fire and headed toward her, then stopped a few feet away. This close, she could see the straight, inky lashes fringing his eyes, the stark grooves bracketing his grim mouth, the sensual shape of his bottom lip. Her nails had barely missed his left eye, and one long scrape ran from the upper edge of his cheekbone into his beard stubble, adding to his ruthless look. He was half a head taller than she was, putting her at eye level with the hollow of his muscled throat. She tilted her head back to meet his eyes.
For several seconds, he didn’t speak. Instead, he continued to study her, spurring her heart to an off-kilter beat. Then he lowered his gaze, letting it travel slowly over the length of her, causing her heart to race. His gaze flicked back to hers, the impact no less powerful this time. And she couldn’t mistake the sexual awareness flitting through his eyes.
The answering warmth in her body shocked her. Appalled, she hugged her arms.
“What do you want?” he asked in English. Flawless, American English.
“You’re American?”
“No.” He didn’t elaborate, but she angled her head, studying him with even more interest now. Few nonnative speakers had an accent that perfect. He must have spent time in the States—which might make him sympathize with them.
“Listen,” she began. “I don’t know who you were after, but you must have made a mistake. I’m a doctor. So is Henry, the man I’m with. You must have confused us with someone else.”
He folded his arms, the motion emphasizing the breadth of his muscled chest. “We didn’t make a mistake.”
Taken aback, she tried to recoup. “If you’re after a ransom—”
“We’re not.”
Her heart skipped. They had to be. Ignoring his answer, she tried again. “I can get the money. I have a friend, a photographer. She can come up with whatever you want. Just take us to a town where I can contact her.”
His black eyes continued to hold her. Firelight danced on his swarthy skin, emphasizing the harsh hollows of his granite face. “I told you. We don’t want your money.”
“But then...” She glanced at the other men. Their fixed stares further unnerved her, and she tightened her grip on her arms. And suddenly, visions spun through her mind of terrified captives paraded across the television screen, pleading desperately for their lives—and then slain. Did these men intend to kill them?
No. She quashed a burst of dread. She couldn’t start imagining the worst. They probably planned to negotiate a prisoner swap, to force the Peruvian or American government to free a jailed criminal in exchange for them. FARC had used that tactic in Colombia for years. Maybe these men were doing the same.
But that brought dangers of its own. She couldn’t risk the public exposure, no matter how much she wanted to get free. She’d spent too many years on the run, always moving, always changing her identity, carefully staying out of the limelight to evade the enemies dogging her. Not only was her powerful family hunting her down, but she had a gang executioner on her trail, a man who needed to ensure her silence after she’d chanced upon his crime. And if he ever figured out who she was, he wouldn’t just go after her. He’d pursue the other two witnesses, her closest friends.
But as much as she wanted to bolt she couldn’t worry about herself right now. She had to think of Henry, and get him to a hospital fast. She’d plot her own escape later, once she made sure he was safe.
She lifted her gaze to her kidnapper’s, wishing she could read the thoughts behind those impenetrable black eyes. “Is there a reason you need two doctors? Does someone need medical help?”
“No.”
“Because Henry’s hurt. He has a concussion. Altitude sickness, too. He needs urgent medical care. We need to get him down the mountain to a hospital before his condition gets any worse.”
His brows snapped into a frown. He glanced toward the cave behind her, a hint of uncertainty flitting through his eyes. Or had she imagined that? Just because he spoke English like a native didn’t mean he had a heart.
But whether
he sympathized with them or not didn’t matter. She had to convince him to let Henry go.
“Henry has HACE,” she continued. “High altitude cerebral edema. His brain is swelling, and the concussion is making it worse. If we don’t get him to a lower altitude immediately, he could die.”
The white-turbaned man by the campfire rose. Her kidnapper glanced his way, and suddenly, a shutter fell over his face, every trace of sympathy vanishing from his eyes. “Get back in the cave,” he told her and turned away.
But she leaped out and grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
He stopped. He slowly turned to face her, his gaze trained on hers. An electric jolt sizzled through her, the iron feel of his bulging biceps scorching her palm like a red-hot brand. Startled, she released her grip. What was that? Shaken at her odd reaction, she stepped back.
“Please.” She inhaled to steady her nerves. “Henry and I... We’re not important. No one cares if we disappear or not. And the organization we’re with, Medical Help International, won’t negotiate with you. We signed an agreement. They’re not responsible for rescuing us if anything goes wrong.”
“I told you, we don’t want your money.”
“Then what do you want?”
He didn’t answer, and she tried again. “There’s no point in keeping Henry. You can’t possibly need him. He’s too sick. You have to let him go.”
The white-turbaned man approached, fingering his gun. Nadine sucked in a breath, determined not to show any fear. But this man’s dead eyes made her insides crawl.
“What’s wrong?” he asked her kidnapper in Arabic, and her heart stopped cold. Oh, God. These men were Middle Eastern.
What were they doing here?
Her kidnapper turned to the turbaned man. “The man in the cave is hurt. She wants us to let him go.”
Her lungs seized up. Dizziness barreled through her, and she feared she was going to heave. They weren’t only speaking Arabic, but Jaziirastani, a dialect spoken only in her father’s country.
The father who wanted her dead.
The man’s hate-filled eyes burned into hers. “He’s staying with us. Now shut up and get back in the cave.”
Nausea roiled inside her. She couldn’t seem to draw a breath. But she had to stay calm, think and get Henry out of this mess—before he ended up dead.
“I’m sorry,” she said in English, trying her best to look confused. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t speak your language.”
“The hell you don’t, Nadira al Kahtani. Now get back in the cave or I’ll shoot your friend.”
Her knees went weak. Shocked speechless, she staggered backward, then stumbled into the cave. She wobbled over to Henry and collapsed on the ground beside him, her carefully built world crashing apart.
“What happened?” he asked.
Too overwhelmed to answer, she pulled her legs to her chest, her entire body starting to shake.
They knew her name. They knew who she really was.
“Did you find out what they want?” he asked again.
She’d found out, all right. They wanted her.
After fifteen years on the run, her past had caught up with her. And this time it looked as if there was no way out.
Chapter 3
Rasheed couldn’t believe it. Their captive was Nadira al Kahtani, the daughter of his prime suspect. The daughter of the man who’d murdered his wife.
Still struggling to process that bombshell, he adjusted the cinch on his gelding’s saddle as the terrorists prepared to ride out. He’d known she was Middle Eastern. And he could see her as a member of the Jaziirastani royal family with her regal, spirited air. But Nadira al Kahtani? The daughter of the banker financing this terrorist mission? It didn’t make any sense.
Incredulous at the revelation, he shuffled through his memories, trying to reconcile this stunning development with what he knew of the secretive clan. Yousef al Kahtani was a wealthy Jaziirastani banker who resided in Washington, D.C. The intelligence community had long suspected him of funneling money to the Rising Light terrorists and funding jihadist activity worldwide. But thanks to his generous campaign contributions, he also had power. And every time they got close to unraveling his murky activities, some high-level politician ran interference, stopping the investigation in its tracks.
Al Kahtani’s wife had died over a decade ago. Aside from a son, Sultan, he had a daughter, Nadira, rumored to be both brilliant and beautiful, who’d disappeared shortly after her mother’s death. In fact, she’d dropped off the grid so completely the CIA assumed she’d returned to her father’s native country, where she’d either married or died.
Rasheed shot a glance at the woman sitting near the entrance to the cave. He skimmed the elegant lines of her profile, the feminine arch of her brows, and his pulse took another skip. Intel had definitely gotten the beautiful part right, especially with her startling green eyes. But where had she been for all these years? How had these terrorists found her when the CIA couldn’t track her down? And if her father was financing this jihadist expedition, why would they capture her?
Growing even more confused now, he turned his attention to their extra supply horse and inspected the tack for frays. No matter what the explanation for the kidnapping, their cell leader, Manzoor, couldn’t have plotted it on his own. He might be in charge of their crack contingent, but he didn’t have the power to shape their agenda, only to carry out their attacks.
So who had authorized the woman’s abduction? Why would they kidnap her now, en route to an important mission—a mission rumored to be so catastrophic it had the intelligence community running scared? And if al Kahtani wasn’t funding the upcoming attack, who was?
Unable to come up with an answer, Rasheed grabbed the horses’ reins and led them to the cave. But there was one thing he did know—everything about this kidnapping felt off. His instincts were clamoring hard. And he had to watch his back. Yousef al Kahtani was no fool. He’d evaded prosecution for years, running a financial operation so labyrinthine even the CIA couldn’t sort it out. And this could all be an elaborate ruse. Al Kahtani could have sent his daughter here to investigate him. He’d penetrated Rasheed’s cover once before—and killed his wife to warn him off.
Now he might be using his daughter to strike again.
The woman rose at his approach. She straightened her spine and faced him—her chin canted high, her hands balled into fists, her gorgeous eyes challenging his—a show of feistiness he’d come to expect after the way she’d fought him off. But as he drew to a stop beside her, he caught a myriad of other emotions crowding her eyes—worry, uncertainty, fear.
He frowned. The fear could be an act, a way to gain his sympathy and test where his loyalty lay. But could she actually make her face go pale on command?
And if she wasn’t pretending, if she wasn’t in cahoots with her father, and she really was an innocent victim in this attack, then why had they kidnapped her? What did she know about their plans?
He came to a stop, resolved. Whatever the answer, he had to find out. Thousands of American lives hung in the balance, depending on his success.
“Henry’s getting worse,” she announced. “We need to get him to a hospital right now.”
Rasheed shifted his attention to the injured doctor and inwardly groaned. She was right. The poor guy looked like the epitome of misery with his thin shoulders bowed, his hair sticking up in snowy clumps, his hands cradling his bloody head.
But what could he do to help? He didn’t have the authority to let him go. And showing even a hint of sympathy would invite the terrorists’ attention, increasing their suspicions of him.
Cursing this complication, he reached into his saddlebag and handed her a pouch of leaves. “Here. Try these.”
Her jaw sagged. “Coca leaves? Are you kidding? He doe
sn’t have a tension headache. He has a concussion. I told you. This is serious, life threatening. He needs oxygen and a CT scan.”
And he had a cover to maintain. He couldn’t afford to act out of character with so many lives on the line. Keeping his expression blank, he shrugged. “If you find an oxygen tank lying around, help yourself. In the meantime, you’ll have to make do with that.”
Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes darkened to forest-green, her indignation clear. And without warning that attraction leaped between them, that deep, sensual awareness he’d felt toward her from the start. And he had the damnedest urge to haul her against him, to turn that passion toward something more pleasurable—a kiss that would make them burn.
Stunned, he turned back to the horse. What the hell? Talk about the wrong woman! She was the daughter of a terrorist, his prime suspect, the man who’d ordered his wife’s death. She couldn’t get more off-limits than that.
Not that there was a right woman. He didn’t have relationships anymore, not since his wife had died. He’d spent too many years in the terror training camps, too many years living amid the dregs of society to ever lead a normal life. That part of him was gone. And even if he could turn back time and be the man that he once was, he wouldn’t do it. He refused to put a woman in jeopardy again.
Dragging his mind back to his mission—the only thing that mattered—he glanced at Henry again. “You know how to ride?”
The doctor looked up, confusion in his dazed eyes. “I went on a pony ride once as a kid.”
Great. A regular Buffalo Bill. “How about you?” he asked Nadira.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why? Where are we going?”
Not bothering to answer, he motioned toward the extra horse. “You can ride the mare. Henry will ride with me.”
“He can’t ride. I told you, he has a concussion.”
“Would he be better off on foot?”
“He’d be better off if you hadn’t kidnapped him.”
No kidding. And as soon as they reached a village, he’d try to convince the terrorists to leave him behind. But in the meantime...
