“Anything else you want to say?” Now Hunter’s up in the kidnapper’s face.
Germaine stutters, pain and fear creasing his face, and raises his hands. “I’ve told you everything I know.”
“Amir al-Fahri. Where is he? How do you get in touch with him?” Hunter’s stance is also admirable, like a wild animal holding on to his rage by a thin thread. If I was Germaine I’d be trembling too.
Germaine spits the words out, one after another, his voice as shrill as a woman’s. “He contacts me, not the other way around. Money’s transferred between Swiss bank accounts.”
As my eyes to go Jasim’s and then Nijad’s, I see an almost imperceptible rise of their chins, then Hunter walks behind him, raises his gun and a shot is fired. Germaine falls to the floor, a large hole in the back of his head.
Ben Carter looks on impassively. “I’ll get a team here for cleanup. Good job, Hunter, saved the country money taking this piece of shit through the courts.”
Even though he’s just killed a man, Hunter’s face is calm. Me? I can’t tear my gaze away from the man who a second ago was talking, and now his blood is seeping into the expensive carpet. He deserved what he got. He’s stolen my woman away. In that moment I envy Hunter for being the one to pull the trigger.
“Got news from the coastguard.” Ryan comes into the room, not even sparing a glance at the dead man on the floor. “They’ve found the yacht. It’s heading out into the Atlantic. Coastguard are tracking it on radar.”
“Have they got a reason to stop it?”
Ryan shakes his head. “It’s already in international waters. But they’re monitoring it.”
Ben looks around the room. “We need somewhere to thrash this out.”
“There’s a dining room next door.”
“That will do, thanks, Seth.”
Noticing how the Grade A men work as a team, I find myself following them into a room where a dining table is laid for about twenty people. In a moment, all cutlery, plates, flower arrangements are brushed onto the floor as Hunter, Ryan, Seth, Ben and Jon get laptops out and plug them into an extension lead that’s appeared from somewhere.
Jasim and Nijad’s faces are drawn, and it’s not hard to miss the worried glances they keep exchanging. Rais sits opposite Ben, his features tight, his hands, resting on the table, are fisted. Suddenly feeling alone and out of the loop, I sit beside Zaram, and his men take up the rest of the places around the table.
“Can we call on the British Navy to help?” Nijad asks.
“Not without valid reason. Sheikh Twafiq is a distant member of the Saudi Royal Family. It could cause an international incident if we’re wrong. If we’re right, and he sees the Navy on his horizon, he could kill her and dump her body overboard. Christ, in this weather he doesn’t even have to kill her first. She’d last no time before dying of hypothermia. No, the life of one slave wouldn’t be worth his reputation or freedom.” Jon pinches the bridge of his nose.
“We need to make a surprise attack. That’s the only way we’ll find her alive.” My eyes flick to Ben Carter in horror. It hadn’t occurred to me he could get rid of her, the evidence, like that. I go cold just thinking about it.
“Suggestions?” Rais wants to get down to practicalities.
“What do we know of the crew, Jon?”
Jon calls up something on his screen. “Cara’s managed to get hold of the crew list, she’s cross-matching it now. There’s the captain and sailors, of course. They’re paid well. Just how far their loyalty extends beyond working for a rich employer, there’s no way we can tell, but I think we’ll need to assume some, at least, are armed. Six trained bodyguards are definitely on board.
“Damn it.” Jasim’s hand thumps down. “We need more information.”
“We need,” Zaram sits forward, “to get on that yacht. Now let’s work out how the fuck we’re going to do it.”
“I want Twafiq dead,” is my contribution. He’s laid hands on the woman I already consider mine.
“Goes without saying that’s what we all want.” Nijad surveys the faces of every man at the table. “We’ve got to be smart about this. In my view, every man or woman who gives their loyalty to such a man doesn’t deserve to live.” He pauses, then emphasises his point. “Amahad can’t afford a war, nor can we at this point in the oil negotiations. We can’t do anything which would harm diplomatic relations between us and the Saudis. Twafiq is a dead man. However, who kills him must be kept quiet. We can’t publicly take responsibility.”
“We need to scupper the yacht. Sink it with all hands on board once we’ve rescued the princess.” No one disagrees with Zaram, but first we’ve got to get on that boat.
Jon’s nodding at Ben and raises his chin at Ryan sitting opposite. “We go in at night. A stealth operation by parachute.”
“Where are we going to get the paratroopers?”
Mumbling something under his voice that sounds suspiciously like, “Mia’s going to kill me for this,” Jon raises his voice to an audible level. “You’ve got them right here. Me, Ben, Seth and Ryan.”
Zaram raises his hand. “Two of my men are trained.” I presume he brought his most experienced soldiers with him, ready for any eventuality. The two he points to nod and seem quite happy at the thought of being dropped onto a ship in the middle of the ocean in the dead of night. In fact, one is actually grinning.
“Won’t they hear a helicopter or plane?” I’ve no experience with such matters.
“They would. Though not if we free fall from altitude, deploying the parachutes only when we need to.” My stomach rolls at just the thought.
“Hunter, get Nafisa to contact Major Salter.” Hunter purloins Ryan’s laptop and starts tapping, presumably sending an email. Ben explains, “We might not get official help, but Salter’s a good man. He’ll get us a plane and have his most experienced navigators and analysts on it.”
“You can do this?”
Ben shrugs. “A night time drop? Sure, piece of cake in a ground location. On a moving ship? Fuck knows. But we’ll give it a damn good try.”
“What if you miss?” To me it sounds like they’ll be trying to land in the eye of a needle. And one that’s hidden in a haystack.
“We’ll be kitted up for survival. We’ll have a chopper come by to pick us up.”
“What are you thinking of using?” Nijad queries.
Jon answers. “BT80 multi-mission parachutes.”
Nijad and Jasim again look at each other. “We’re going with you. You can buddy up with those.”
“Sure can.” Jon grins. “The tandem master can have a passenger strapped in front of him.”
“I protest. No.” Zaram looks apoplectic. “I can’t allow you…”
“With respect. You’ve got fuck all say in this. We’re not in Amahad now.”
“I want in.” Rais, though not looking particularly happy with the prospect, offers to go.
Not wanting to look like a wimp, I raise my hand. “You’re not leaving me out of this.” My offer isn’t made easily. The thought of free falling out of the sky is not even on the list of things that appeal to me. But I’m not going to be left behind. If there’s a chance to save Aiza I’ll willingly put my life in someone else’s hands.
“It’s best if my men go,” Zaram says with determination.
Sensing the debate is going to override our objective, Ben bangs his hand on the table. “Who’s going depends on the next stage of the plan and what expertise we’re going to need once we’re on board.”
Seth’s nibbling at the end of his pen. “You don’t want any survivors?”
Ryan’s nodding at his colleague as if he understands. “From what you’re saying, we get on the yacht, rescue Aiza, then get her clear. Whatever happens to the boat after that no one really cares. As Zaram says, we’ll scupper it.”
“Except, Twafiq must be dead.” I make that clear. Rais growls and jerks his chin in agreement. Like me, he wants no chance of that animal making it out a
live.
“What you thinking, Seth?”
“Underwater explosives. We punch a large hole in the hull. When the boat starts to sink, all focus will be on saving it.”
“And raising a distress signal and getting into lifeboats…” It’s clear from the flicker of excitement in Jon’s eyes that he’s playing devil’s advocate.
“We use a jammer.” Hunter shrugs. “Block radio communications. Sabotage the lifeboats too.”
“Except for what we need to get us off.”
Ben grins. “Sounds like a plan. Get the captain to think a fucking engine’s exploded. They’ll start running around like headless chickens trying to fix it before realising they’ve got visitors.”
“Anyone going into the water, I can deal with.” Seth, who I’d thought was a mild mannered and quiet man, seems to have turned on a different personality—one which leaves me to be grateful it won’t be me facing him underwater. No, I’ll be dropping through the sky.
“I think Nijad’s buddy system is the right one. There’s six of us who can parachute in, which means there’ll be a dozen of us if most double up.” Jon’s brow is creased. “Nijad and Jasim, I don’t want you along. Zaram’s got a good point.” As Nijad stands, his chair falling back, Jon holds up his hand. “You disappear at the same time Twafiq does? That’s too much of a coincidence. What you both need to do is to return to Amahad, tonight. Take Cara, go cuddle your babies, act as if nothing’s wrong. Leave it to us to get Aiza while you protect your country.”
Nijad doesn’t like it. Jasim, however, more of a diplomat, puts out his hand and encourages Nijad to sit again. Once he does, he turns to him. “Jon’s right, Ni. We’ve trusted our lives to these men before, now we must trust them to rescue Aiza.”
Jon lifts his chin, and I hear the sigh of relief from Zaram. “I will be one of those going.”
Nijad rounds on him. “Same applies to you, General. We cannot risk losing someone with such international visibility. If we’re going home, you do too.”
“I can go.” I’ve already made my decision.
“Rami…”
“No, Nijad, listen. You’re not going to stop me on this. You know my intention toward your sister. My feelings towards her are too strong to just stay on the sidelines. I need to be part of her rescue.” My eyes, full of determination, meet his.
“Your father?”
“Would understand. There’s nothing to link me to Aiza.” Not yet, I add under my breath. “My disappearance wouldn’t be linked to Amahad. No one apart from the people in this room know I’m connected to the rescue mission. I can disappear, and no one would connect me to Twafiq’s death.” What better way to give up my life if it means saving Aiza?
“And I.” Rais sounds determined. “I don’t have a reputation outside of Amahad either to protect or to lose. I’m a desert sheikh. Unknown internationally.”
Ben looks around the table and sums up. “So, we’ve got me, Jon, Ryan, Seth and…?”
“Alaa and Yarub.” Zaram indicates the two paratroopers on his team.
Ben continues. “Hunter, Rami and Rais will buddy up.”
“Faiza, Hafeez and Latif will go too.” Three more of his men seem pleased they’re not going to be left behind.
Am I the only person nervous of jumping from thousands of feet in the air in the dark?
“Seth and Ryan will drop first with Hunter and Latif.” He gets a chin lift from the man so named and continues, “Seth will set the explosives, Hunter will be prepared with the jammer, and our radios will operate outside the jamming range. After Seth’s ready, we’ll descend before pandemonium breaks out. Jon, I and Ryan will disarm the crew. Alaa and Yarub will scubber the lifeboats. Rais and Rami, your job is to locate Aiza and get her to the deck safely. Faiza, Hafeez and Latif will go with you.”
Ben’s phone rings. He answers right there at the table, and from his side of the conversation it’s clear to see he’s talking to his friend in the SAS, Major Salter, who’s received permission for a nighttime training session, hastily arranged to keep his troops in a state of readiness. The logistics are discussed—where to meet, and the equipment to be provided.
It appears our rescue mission is a go.
Chapter 15
Aiza
After a humiliating tour around the yacht, luckily inside only as I’d freeze on the exposed decks, I’m led back down to my prison in the depths of the boat. Already I wish death on everyone I’ve met. It wasn’t, as Twafiq had made it sound, to allow me to stretch my legs. Instead it was an exercise in degradation. And to impress on me again that no one would lift a finger to help me.
I was unable to appropriate any weapon or anything that might help me escape. Of course I couldn’t. I was led around naked. I’d tried to walk around with my head held high, to project an image of a strong woman not fazed in the least she wasn’t wearing any clothes. It hadn’t been easy forcing my hands to stay by their sides, feeling the lecherous glances from the male crew members burn into my skin and the assessing looks from the opposite sex. I refused to think that my hips are too large, my breasts, unsupported by a bra not as firm as perhaps they might be. That’s not even counting the embarrassing stripes on my backside and thighs. Every critical look was a blow to my pride.
I was glad to have that leash, if not the collar, removed and at last be left to some semblance of privacy in my room.
Now sitting on the mattress, eyeing that window in the door, I know it’s just an illusion. Anyone could walk past and look at me all they want, just like an animal in a zoo. I finger the too tight leather around my neck, which seems to have no way of unfastening it. It’s designed to make me feel owned. I belong to no man. And never will.
Time passes slowly. I don’t have to try hard to convince myself that being ignored and abandoned is better than being taken in Twafiq’s presence again. After what seems like a lifetime I hear something outside, and Scarface opens the door, allowing a woman whose head is concealed by a hijab to come in. She hands a tray to Scarface, then places two plastic dog bowls on the floor. One has water, the other same sort of unappetising-smelling food.
As she turns to go I take my chance, gambling that the uneducated looking Scarface speaks no language other than his own, and ask in quickfire Arabic, “Sawf tusaeiduni alhuruba?”
As she shakes her head I realise she’s not going to help me escape. Shaking off my disappointment, I stand and snap in my best Domme voice. “Limadha tusaeid hula' alrajal?” Her eyes fall to the floor, giving no answer why she’s helping these men. I draw back my shoulders and continue to ask questions. When I imperiously demand that she replies, she tells me at last that Twafiq is a good man. That he treats them well. If I behave, he’ll treat me right too.
“You’re his submissive.” I switch to English at last.
She smiles, and a glow comes to her face. “We all are,” she replies.
“Enough!”
I’m surprised Scarface hasn’t interrupted our conversation before. He must be confident she’s not going to help me at all. Twafiq’s obviously got her so brainwashed she sees nothing wrong in his treatment of me.
The girl’s ushered out, the door closing behind her. I eye the offerings she’d left. Sinking to my haunches, I pick up the water and hastily drink, then put my hand into the bowl of food, picking up something that doesn’t look as bad as the rest. Then throwing it back down as my stomach revolts.
I’d rather starve. At least that would be a way to get out of his clutches. Starvation is one choice I can make.
I sit back and wait for a summons, relieved as it doesn’t come, and in such a state of anxiety I wonder whether lack of food or a heart attack will kill me first. My heart’s constantly thumping in my chest, my senses hyperaware. I don’t want to be taken in front of the cruel sheikh again. Nor to start the depravities he must have planned for me.
Soon all I can hear are the rhythmic sounds of the engines as other noises from the yacht quieten. Footsteps cease walkin
g so often overhead. While the light coming into my room is the same, I’ve a feeling that night has arrived and everyone else is winding down to sleep.
I lay on the mattress, not allowing my mind to switch off, just resting, trying to regather my physical energy. Next time I see him, somehow I’ll kill him. There must be a way, I just need to find it. If I can get my leash wrapped around his neck, maybe I can strangle him.
Despite my best intentions, the past hours of wakefulness and tension, together with the motion of the ship, make me drift off to sleep. I’m woken by a loud bang, and quickly become conscious that the thumping sound is missing, the engines have stopped. Adrift in the ocean, the yacht starts to rock, and I dry heave at the protests from my empty stomach, expelling the water I’d drunk into the toilet. I get to my feet and find it hard to balance, certain the floor has started to tilt.
Oh shit! Are we sinking?
I peer through the window, straining to see or hear what’s going on. Shouts are sounding from the upper decks, and it can’t be more than a handful of minutes before men dressed in overalls—engineers?—are rushing past. The yacht’s got a decided list now, and they’re running up hill. I’m shocked to discover my feet are in icy cold water.
I bang on the door, no one stops to open it. Clearly too worried about their own safety, dismissing me as not a person to be rescued, considering me only an animal they can leave to die in a trap. My ear to the wood, I hear someone shouting and I’m able to make out they’re yelling something about lifeboats.
They’re abandoning the yacht? Are they leaving me here to drown?
The water’s now up to my ankles, and rapidly moving towards my knees. Whatever has happened, the yacht appears to be going down fast.
I start praying—not that I’m a practicing Muslim—but now I’m begging for rescue, and then, as the water reaches my thighs, for all my past sins to be forgiven.
Hard Choices (Blood Brothers #6) Page 13
