by Gail Barrett
He glanced at the men sitting astride their horses—their sharp gazes taking in every detail of the exchange—and hardened his voice. “Look. We’re heading out. You can ride or walk—your choice. But either way, you’re going to move. Both of you. Now.”
Nadira crossed her arms. Her full lips flattened into a mulish line. Rasheed held her gaze, knowing he couldn’t afford to relent—not with the terrorists watching their moves. She’d pay too high a price if he did.
But Henry lurched to his feet, interrupting the standoff, and staggered his way. “Don’t worry. I can ride.”
Sure he could. The man could barely stand upright, let alone trot down a mountain trail. But without a helicopter to airlift him to a hospital, what other choice did he have?
With a sigh, he mounted his horse. He held out a hand to Henry, but his gaze went to Nadira again. “Help him up.”
For a minute, he thought she’d refuse. She glanced at the steep rocks hemming them in, the two men waiting on the trail ahead, as if weighing her chance of escape. But then she moved to Henry’s side.
“Put your foot in the stirrup,” he told Henry.
The doctor grabbed his hand and complied. With Nadira’s help, Rasheed pulled him into place behind him, wincing at his feeble moan. He just hoped the old man could hold on.
Nadira walked around the gelding to the supply horse, then vaulted into the saddle with practiced ease. He let go of the reins, and the mare pranced back. She expertly wheeled the horse around.
Then she paused, and her gaze collided with his. And for a moment time seemed suspended, her green eyes pinning him in place. A flush darkened her cheeks. Her black hair had escaped its braid, tumbling like silk across her slender back. She sat with a regal air astride the horse, the dawn-tinged mountains rising around her, her brilliant eyes defiant, pride etched in her royal lines.
She was mesmerizing. Gorgeous.
And she was the daughter of his enemy, the key to stopping this terror attack.
He hardened his resolve. “Let’s go.”
She shot him a glare, then nudged the mare into action and started down the rocky trail. Rasheed fell in behind her, his eyes on her swaying back. She was the key, all right. She just might have the answers he needed to unravel this case. And if so, he intended to get them.
Starting now.
* * *
By the time they finally stopped to rest five hours later, Nadine knew one thing. Henry wasn’t going to make it, and it was all her fault.
She climbed down from her horse with a groan, muscles she hadn’t used since childhood protesting with a vengeance now. They’d been working their way down the mountain for hours, the sun frying her scalp as it inched toward its midday pinnacle, the parched brown landscape gradually giving way to a vibrant green. Every time she’d glanced back, she’d glimpsed Henry barely clinging to their kidnapper, his face chalk-white, his eyes lolling back in his head. It was a miracle he hadn’t passed out.
The gelding came to a stop beside her, and the kidnapper called Rasheed leaped off. Shaking aside her discomfort, Nadine hurried over to help Henry dismount.
But the kidnapper beat her to it, catching the injured doctor before he fell. “I’ve got him.”
Henry tottered and leaned against him, the deathly pallor of his skin making her even more alarmed. She hugged Rasheed’s heels as he half carried, half dragged Henry into the shade of a sprawling tree and settled him against the trunk. Henry slumped back and closed his eyes.
Worried, she knelt on the ground beside him and checked his pulse. His forehead was clammy, his breathing too shallow and fast. The gash on his head had stopped bleeding, thank goodness, but he still sported that ugly knot.
Rasheed dropped the saddlebag at her feet. “How is he? Any improvement?”
“Improvement?” She tipped back her head and glared. “Look at him! I told you he couldn’t ride.”
His gaze shifted to the wounded man. He rubbed his scruffy jaw, an emotion that resembled sympathy ghosting through his dark eyes. And for a moment, she was tempted to believe that he was a good guy, that he cared about their safety and was actually on their side.
Shocked, she gave herself a mental shake. What was this? Stockholm syndrome? This man wasn’t her friend. He was an outlaw, a criminal, the man who’d kidnapped her. Was she so desperate for an ally that she’d started imagining kindness where it didn’t exist?
So what if he spoke English like an American? So what if he was gentle with Henry, and seemed sensitive to his plight? It was probably a ploy, a trick to make her more pliable, to convince her to cooperate. She had to stay on guard.
“He can rest while we eat.” Rasheed motioned to the saddlebag he’d dropped. “There’s water in there. Some dried food, too. There should be enough for all of us. Go ahead and get it out.”
“What? You expect me to wait on you after all you’ve done?”
He shot her a level gaze. “Get out the food, Nadira.”
“Nadine.”
“What?”
“I’m Nadine, not Nadira.” She hadn’t gone by that name in years. And she had no intention of starting again now.
His eyes held hers for a heartbeat. The silence between them stretched. “Fine. Then, get out the food, Nadine. And don’t leave this spot.” Not waiting for an answer, he strode off.
Indignant, she scowled as he watered the horses, then joined the other men. He was delusional if he thought she’d cooperate with him. She was a prisoner, not his servant, and he could get his own damned food.
Still fuming, she turned her attention back to Henry. But one glance at the older doctor, and her anger instantly deflated, giving way to a rush of concern. His eyes were closed, his skin waxy in the midday light—definitely not a good sign. She removed her jacket, balled it up and wedged it behind his head.
Then she settled on the ground beside him, pulled her knees to her chest and tried to think. Her head ached. She was so thoroughly exhausted she wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep. And icy frissons of panic kept creeping through her nerves, the extent of her predicament impossible to ignore.
Her father had found her. How he’d done it in this remote location she didn’t know. But he had to be behind her kidnapping. Nothing else made sense. And unless she escaped, he was going to make good on his promise to see her dead.
Even worse, she’d dragged Henry into this mess. Now his life was in danger because of her.
What was she going to do?
She rubbed her gritty eyes, sighing as the warm breeze tousled her loose hair. The temperatures had risen as they’d headed downhill, riding northeast toward the coca fields. She glanced at the sheer mountains jutting into the sky, the river wending through the valley miles below. In the distance, coca fields filled the ancient terraces, forming a multihued patchwork of green.
Knowing she had to come up with a solution, she looked at her captors again. They knelt in the shade beside the creek, going through the ritual of their midday prayers. A cold feeling took hold in her gut. They were the same type of men she’d grown up with, the men she’d fled her home to escape—zealots who preached a doctrine of hatred, bullies who used brutality to get their way. Men like her father, her brother. Men who treated women like property, who thought they had a divine right to control her destiny and would kill her if she didn’t comply.
Her gaze narrowed on the white-turbaned man with the creepy eyes, the one they called Manzoor. He appeared to be their leader, given how the other men deferred to him. She could envision him consorting with her father. He had the same inhuman eyes.
The man with the silver tooth and checkered scarf was named Amir. He struck her as less intelligent, as more of an enforcer than a thinker, but she knew better than to sell him short. He had a sadistic look about him, as if he delighted in inflicting pain—like
her heinous brother, Sultan.
She was less certain about Rasheed, the man who’d captured her. Her gaze lingered on him as he went through the prescribed motions of the midday prayer. He intrigued her; she’d give him that much. Every time she looked his way, her nerves went on full alert. But he was too earthy, too masculine with that beard stubble and muscled build—exactly the kind of man she took pains to avoid.
As if sensing her appraisal, he turned his head, his dark gaze fastening on hers. And for an instant she couldn’t breathe, her heart embarking on a crazy sprint. She took in his shaggy, jet-black hair, the intelligence in his midnight eyes, the banked power in the way he moved. He’d removed his jacket when the weather warmed and pushed his sleeves to his elbows, exposing the dark hair sprinkling his corded arms.
The men all stood, and he looked away. She dragged in a breath, trying to figure out her baffling reaction to this man. He was obviously a criminal. Why else would he kidnap her? But she couldn’t escape the impression that he was different somehow. She kept imagining those glimmers of sympathy, making her wonder if he might care.
She rolled her eyes in disgust. Talk about wishful thinking! She was grasping at straws, letting his undeniably virile looks influence her thinking and indulging in fantasies that could get her killed.
Besides, she didn’t need his help. She’d relied on herself for years, surviving far worse dangers than this. And she was going to escape these men.
But she had to help Henry recover first. Her own stomach growling, she opened the flap on the saddlebag and rooted inside for food. She unearthed a container filled with some kind of jerky, several bags of dried fruit and nuts and a cache of coca leaves. She set the food on a towel with a bottle of water, then gently nudged Henry’s arm. “Henry, wake up. You need to eat.”
He opened his eyes with a groan. “What?”
“Come on. You haven’t eaten in hours.”
Grimacing, he sat up straighter and glanced around. “Where are we?”
“I don’t know. We’ve been heading north toward the border with Colombia.” She handed him the water bottle. “We’ve descended quite a bit, though, so you should start feeling better before too long.”
“I hope so. My head...”
Nadine peered into his bloodshot eyes. “Your pupils look normal. How’s your vision?”
“Better. Clear. And the ringing in my ears has stopped. But I’m tired. And this blasted headache...”
“Try to eat something, and then you can take a nap.” She pulled the towel closer, making it easier for him to reach.
“I don’t suppose you have any painkillers?”
“No, just the coca leaves.”
Henry grunted. “Looks like I’ll get some firsthand experience with folk medicine this trip.”
“I’d rather get you to a hospital.” Not that she discounted the coca leaves. A natural analgesic, the locals had used them for centuries to treat everything from broken bones and malaria to asthma and fatigue. But Henry needed more medical care than that.
Nibbling a slice of jerky, she turned her mind back to their main problem: how to escape. Their medical team would alert the authorities, of course. But they’d been too high in the mountains to reach civilization for at least another day. And until they did, until the government could mobilize their forces and send out someone to search for them, she and Henry were on their own.
But Henry couldn’t hike. He’d never survive a flight on horseback with the kidnappers in full pursuit. And even if they had the supplies, even if they wanted to hide out in the mountains until their kidnappers gave up and left, Henry didn’t have the luxury of time. So unless a miracle occurred, they were out of luck. She’d have to wait until they reached a town where they could find a car.
She glanced at Henry again. He’d collapsed against the tree trunk, already asleep, a half-eaten slice of jerky in his hand. Hoping the nap would do him good, she returned her attention to the three men concluding their prayers. A minute later Rasheed broke away from the group and headed her way.
Her heart began to drum. She dropped her gaze, feigning fascination with her jerky as he joined her at the tree. He lowered himself to the ground beside Henry and reached for the bags of food, and she struggled to stay aloof—but he was too blatantly male to ignore. She took in the impressive breadth of his shoulders, the thick tendons roping his tanned arms, and her pulse beat faster yet.
Rasheed’s gaze tangled with hers. Her nerves made a little hum. He studied her with the clear sexual interest she’d come to expect from men. But his expression seemed more thoughtful, more assessing, as if she were a mystery he was trying to solve.
“So what kind of doctor are you?” he asked, his deep voice rumbling in the quiet air.
“A good enough one to know that Henry needs help.”
He glanced at the sleeping doctor, then back to her. “I meant, do you have a specialty?”
“Why? What difference does it make?”
“None at all.”
Averting her gaze, she hugged her knees. She didn’t want to talk to her captor. She didn’t trust this attempt at civility, this sudden desire to act nice. It was probably a good cop, bad cop routine he’d worked out with the other men, a way to make her malleable.
But if there was any chance he’d intercede on Henry’s behalf, it wouldn’t hurt to cooperate—up to a point. “I’m a plastic surgeon.”
His dark brows rose. “Is there a need for that out here?”
“There’s a need for it everywhere people suffer abuse.” She shot him a pointed look. “Men like to inflict pain. Women and children pay the price.”
Rasheed looked away—but not before she caught an emotion stealing through his eyes, a hint of something bleak.
His reaction threw her for a loop. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—a snarky remark about BOTOX or maybe a shrugged dismissal, reactions she’d experienced often enough. But for a second, Rasheed had looked...haunted, as if she’d triggered a memory that caused him pain.
Was that why he’d become a terrorist? Had he suffered a personal loss, experiencing a pain so devastating that he’d gone rogue, and lashed back at society? He didn’t seem the terrorist type—he treated Henry with a basic kindness that seemed at odds with his violent life. And she should know. She’d seen the real deal—men like her brother with his ingrained cruelty. And try as she might, she couldn’t quite see Rasheed that way.
So maybe he’d started out as a good guy and then gone off the rails. Or maybe he’d been brainwashed into extremism, an idealistic young man searching for meaning who’d fallen victim to a radical ideology.
She didn’t care. She couldn’t. This man was a criminal. His life, his past, whatever private suffering he’d endured didn’t matter to her. She had to keep her focus on where it belonged—getting Henry free.
He downed a handful of nuts, then packed up the remaining food. “We’re leaving in a few minutes.”
“Already? We just got here.” She glanced at Henry in alarm. “Can’t we let him rest for a while? He needs to sleep.”
“Sorry.”
“But—”
“We can’t.” His voice rang with finality. He took out a couple of empty water bottles and a packet of purification tablets, and set them on the grass. “Go fill these up in the stream.”
“What? You think I’m your servant now?”
“No, I think you need the water. I’ve got enough for myself. But if you and Henry want to go without...” He got to his feet with a shrug. Then he picked up the saddlebag and strode off.
She opened her mouth to protest. But damned if he wasn’t right. She had to take care of Henry, even if it meant following this man’s orders—for now. Still scowling, she gathered the bottles and rose.
But as she worked her way through the bush
es and undergrowth toward the mountain stream, more doubts spun through her mind. She wasn’t prone to illusions. She didn’t indulge in useless fantasies. She was good at reading people—she’d had to be to survive the years she’d spent on the streets. So why did Rasheed seem so different to her? Was it merely wishful thinking? Was it an aftereffect of the kidnapping, a result of the trauma she’d been through? Or was there a chance that she was right, and he actually cared about them?
She didn’t know. And until she was sure, she had to watch her step. Rasheed was smart. She hadn’t misjudged the intelligence in his penetrating black eyes. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake with Henry’s life at stake—not to mention her own.
When she reached the creek, she headed upstream to a spot where the water ran clear and fast. She knelt and filled the bottles, adding the purification tablets to make it safe. That done, she took a minute to wash her hands and face, letting the cold, clean water soothe her nerves.
Behind her, a chinchilla scurried through the grass. Birds twittered in a nearby shrub. The warm breeze rustled the trees, the tranquil scene at odds with the nightmare her life had become. With effort, she shook off a wave of longing—for her team, for the inner peace she’d taken for granted only a day ago. Trying to keep her focus on the present, she collected the bottles and headed back along the path through the trees.
But a man blocked her way.
Amir.
She abruptly came to a stop. Every muscle in her body tensed. She took in his big, beefy hands, the power in his massive arms, the hatred simmering in his narrowed eyes. And she knew with an absolute certainty that he intended to do her harm.
He tossed a saddlebag in the path. “Fill up my water bottles now,” he ordered in Jaziirastani.
A swarm of uneasiness seized her. She did not want to deal with this man. He looked as cruel as her brother, Sultan, a monster who delighted in inflicting pain. And captive or not, she had no intention of being this sadist’s slave. “Forget it.”
