Escape from Cabriz

by Linda Lael Miller

  With a sigh, Zachary shoved splayed fingers through his dust-encrusted hair and turned his thoughts to his beach house in faraway Silver Shores, his quiet job at the college, his tomato plants. “I’m getting too old for this stuff,” he muttered just as a distant clanking sound came to his ears.

  Two of Jascha’s men appeared in front of the cell, their faces grim. One carried a tray of food, the other pointed a rifle at Zachary, to make sure he didn’t try to escape when the door was opened.

  “Do I get a last wish?” he asked in leisurely Cabrizian.

  The guard set his tray on the bed and backed out of the cell again, never once taking his eyes off Zachary. He didn’t answer until the door was safely shut and locked.

  “What do you want?”

  “A bath,” Zachary replied idly, sitting down on the bed and resting the tray across his knees. The conditions in the dungeon were horrific, but the food looked good. “And clean clothes. Jascha’s stuff would probably fit.”

  The guards looked at him in amazement. “You ask to wear the prince’s clothes?” one of them marveled.

  Zachary shrugged, chewing on a piece of fresh, doughy bread. “Just an idea,” he said.

  The sentinels went away, muttering between themselves, and Zachary grinned. It never hurt to ask.

  He finished the food and shoved the tray through a three-inch gap under the cell door. A rat the size of a full-grown Pekinese immediately appeared to nibble at the leftovers. Zachary wondered if anyone had ever taught a rodent to fetch sticks or roll over and play dead.

  He stretched out on the skimpy mattress, his hands cupped behind his head, and watched as the rat finished his meal, gave Zachary a curious inspection and disappeared into the darkness that loomed around the cell like fog.

  “So long, Rover,” Zachary said with a sigh, closing his eyes.

  Immediately he saw a collage of bittersweet portraits—Kristin standing by their bed long ago, wearing one of his shirts and nothing else, holding out her arms to him. Serving him a dinner she’d botched with a sort of forlorn hope in her eyes. Bucking beneath him as they lay in the double sleeping bag on the mountain, their bodies fused.

  Pure anguish twisted in his gut. She was going to suffer, unless Hakan came through, and there was nothing he could do to help her. That knowledge was the worst torture of all.

  He got up, tried the bars in the window again, found them as immovable as ever. Even if he could have pulled them out, however, he wouldn’t have been able to squeeze through the opening.

  Hours had passed, the sun had gone down and come up again, before Jascha appeared outside his cell.

  “Did you have her?” the prince asked bluntly.

  A new energy surged inside Zachary. Even sparring with this bastard was better than pacing or lying on the cot staring up at the ceiling. At least it was something to do. “Yes,” he replied.

  Although Jascha tried to hide the fact, that single word quivered in its mark like an arrow still vibrating in a bull’s-eye. “And she responded to you?”

  Zachary shrugged and shoved his hands palms out into the hip pockets of his jeans. “I didn’t give her a choice.”

  Again, Jascha’s confidence seemed to waver. “You mean you forced her?”

  “Yes.” Zachary prayed the prince would believe the lie and grant Kristin some kind of clemency.

  Jascha’s expression was skeptical, but he gave away nothing more of his private emotions. “I understand that you have had the audacity to ask for a bath and a set of clean clothes.”

  Zachary’s gaze was steady, even though inside he was fighting an urge to beg Jascha not to hurt Kristin. The cool, rational side of his mind knew that would be a mistake. He managed to grin. “You know what they say about Yankees. No manners.”

  A raw chuckle burst from Jascha’s throat, and he shook his head in amused incredulity. “You shall have your bath, Mr. Harmon, and the clothes, too. Never let it be said that I forced you to die in a state of such disarray.”

  Zachary inclined his head slightly but said nothing. Jascha walked away after giving him a look of undisguised hatred, and two sentries came to fetch him before he had time to lapse into boredom again.

  He was manacled between them and led out of the cell and up slippery stone steps into a dusty storage area. From there they entered the kitchen—no one so much as glanced in their direction—and stepped into a service elevator that took them to the upper floor.

  Zachary was sure Kristin was behind one of the doors they passed, and he ached to find out which one, but he didn’t bother to ask. His escorts probably didn’t know, anyway.

  They took him into a sumptuous guest suite graced with an enormous marble tub. Three soldiers stood at various points around the room, armed with automatic machine guns.

  Zachary grinned to think they considered him so dangerous. In a way it was a compliment.

  The guards unmanacled themselves from him and left the room, and Zachary started the taps running to fill the tub, then began taking off his clothes.

  “Excuse my impatience, fellas,” he said to the soldiers, who looked at him with suspicion. It was obvious they didn’t understand English.

  He climbed naked into the tub and reached for the fresh bar of soap that had been set out, he suspected, for more esteemed guests. “How about this weather, huh?” he went on, lathering one armpit as he spoke. His prattle unnerved the men, and there was no telling what unexpected advantage that might present.

  Zachary scrubbed himself clean, taking his sweet time and talking constantly. He covered politics, professional football, and carried on a one-man debate as to whether the queen liked Diana or Fergie better.

  He emptied the tub, rinsed it out and refilled it. Then, lounging, with a mirror in one hand and an old-fashioned razor in the other, he shaved away the stubble of a week’s beard.

  Not once during any of these processes did he allow himself to reflect on the fact that this might well be the last bath he ever took, but the pillar out in the courtyard was lodged in a dark corner of his awareness like a sliver.

  He was given clothes to wear—underwear and socks, comfortably worn jeans and a beige Irish cableknit sweater. He whistled softly as he dressed, put on his own scuffed, dusty boots and carefully combed his hair. There was even a toothbrush and paste, which he used with aplomb, humming through the foam.

  At last the ritual could be extended no longer. One of the guards barked an order and gestured with his gun, and Zachary sighed. He waited for the manacles to be put back on, but no one made a move to confine him.

  He left the guest chamber with one soldier walking ahead and two behind, but his hands and feet were free, and that filled him with a singular, tremulous sort of hope. He and Kristin might just get their chance after all.

  Kristin was too distracted to think about clothes that morning when Jascha sent word that he wished to see her in his study. She put on tan corduroy pants, sneakers and a blue sweatshirt with large, white letters on the front that said God Bless the U.S.A. Her hair was brushed back into the customary French braid and she hadn’t bothered with makeup, except for a little mascara and some blusher to give her ashen cheeks color.

  Her palms were sweating when she was brought before Jascha’s desk, and she rubbed them against her thighs. She tried to smile, out of old habit, but her lips wouldn’t make the gesture.

  Jascha sat back—at one time he would have risen to greet her—and once again Kristin was struck by the fact that he was a stranger. “I can see that you are thoroughly frightened,” he remarked cordially, his hands resting on the tufted arms of his chair. If he had any compunction at all about what he was about to do, she could see no sign of it.

  Kristin folded her arms, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Does it make you feel better to know I’m afraid?”

  At that, Jascha shot out of his chair. “Silence!” he shouted, bending toward her and resting the palms of his hands flat on the surface of
the desk.

  Terrified, but still too proud to fold, Kristin retreated a step.

  Jascha drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Harmon tells me that he forced you to submit to him. Is that true?”

  Kristin’s cheeks ached with color. “No,” she whispered hoarsely after a long pause.

  “You willingly submitted to his—attentions?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Why did he lie to me?” Jascha asked, and his tone was a mockery of bewilderment. “What did he hope to accomplish?”

  Kristin swallowed. “He wanted to spare me punishment,” she said quietly. “But I won’t allow him to take the whole brunt of your anger.”

  The prince laid a hand to his heart. “This is all so touchingly romantic. Tell me, would you also suffer in his place, as he apparently would in yours?”

  “Yes,” Kristin answered without a moment’s hesitation.

  “And he did not kidnap you?”

  “I left willingly.”

  The muscles in Jascha’s handsome face contorted briefly, twisting it into a frightening mask. He cried out the Cabrizian word for guard, and Kristin’s jailers reappeared.

  She was taken from the room with one gripping each arm, and her heart rose into her throat and hammered there. The inevitable, she knew, could be avoided no longer.

  The sunshine was hot and dazzlingly bright, glaring on the brick surface of the courtyard. Jascha’s helicopter sat nearby, unmanned, and the wives, dressed in their colorful gowns, stood like a human rainbow behind a first-floor window, looking on.

  Kristin assumed they were present in order to learn firsthand the fate of a disobedient bride. Doubtless, the morning’s spectacle would nip any thoughts of unwifely rebellion in the proverbial bud.

  She stood between her guards, watching in silence as Zachary was brought from the palace. He was clean, and dressed in jeans and a sweater, and he favored her with a brazen grin. For just a merest moment, Kristin’s spirits rose.

  Then she remembered that she and Zachary were about to become examples.

  She looked around again. Besides Jascha, there were just three soldiers present. No doubt many others were watching from the palace windows.

  Jascha gave an order Kristin was too dazed to decipher, and Zachary was thrust forward, toward the ominous pillar. He went right on grinning and tossed the prince a cocky salute.

  Fool, Kristin thought miserably. Don’t you know he’s about to kill you? Only then did she notice that Jascha was holding a cruel-looking black whip coiled in one hand.

  “You will see now,” he said close to Kristin’s ear, “what becomes of those who tamper with what belongs to me.”

  Zachary’s arms were taken, and he was hurled against the pillar. Kristin’s heartbeat pounded in her ears, and everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, as in a bad dream. Just as the guards were about to bind Zachary’s hands together so that he could not step away from the pole, the sky seemed to explode with noise.

  A huge, battered helicopter loomed overhead, shadowing the sun. There were shrieks of angry terror as a barrage of machine-gun fire peppered the ground.

  Kristin saw Jascha dive for shelter while the guards scrambled for their rifles, neatly stacked against the courtyard wall. Zachary made a sound that was half laughter and half a whoop of triumph and ran toward her.

  “Come on, princess!” he shouted, grabbing her hand. “Hakan came through—let’s get out of here!”

  He grabbed a pistol from a wounded guard and held it on the others as he dragged Kristin toward Jascha’s grounded helicopter on a dead run. Kristin looked back, saw troops pouring from the palace doors, but their attention was on the air attack, not the escaping prisoners.

  The courtyard was alive with gunfire, but all of it seemed to be coming from the sky.

  Swallowing a throatful of bile, Kristin followed Zachary’s shouted order and jumped into Jascha’s aircraft. The very air seemed to vibrate with the exchange going on outside.

  Zachary’s hands worked the controls with hasty deftness, and Kristin closed her eyes for a moment and held on.

  Overhead, the blades caught, then whirled, deafening Kristin. She put her hands over her ears and looked back once more, just in time to see Jascha pointing at them and yelling orders to the soldiers.

  “I hope you know how to fly this thing!” she cried, just as the ’copter lifted off the ground and lurched dizzily away. Bullets pinged against the runners and the aircraft shuddered wildly, but it didn’t go down.

  Zachary grinned, cocky as hell. “Don’t worry, princess,” he called back. “I’m a quick study when it comes to things like this!”

  Realizing that they were clear of the palace and out of range of the guns, Kristin sagged back against the seat and fought down an urge to be violently sick. “Stop showing off, Zachary,” she retorted. “I know you flew a helicopter in the air force.”

  The city of Kiri fell away rapidly beneath them as they streaked north, toward the border. Below was the timbered mountainside where they had lived out an adventure Kristin would never forget.

  “Would you mind explaining how that helicopter happened to show up just when we needed it most?”

  Zachary’s teeth flashed in an obnoxiously confident grin. “While we were being held at the rebel camp, I made a little suggestion to Hakan.”

  Kristin remembered the guerrilla leader; he hadn’t seemed to her like the sort to take unsolicited advice. “Such as what?”

  He shrugged. “I just told him how bent out of shape Jascha would be if the rebels not only collected guns and money for us humble prisoners, but stole us back at the last minute, before the prince could save face.”

  Kristin was nodding, her brow crumpled in a frown. “But how did Hakan know when to strike?”

  Zachary was concentrating on the helicopter controls. “He had people on the inside of the palace, Kristin,” he said impatiently. “Haven’t you ever seen a James Bond movie?”

  Rolling her eyes, Kristin pulled her journal out from under her T-shirt, retrieved a pen from the top of the instrument panel and flipped to a fresh page.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Zachary yelled conversationally.

  “Writing down how we got away, that we’re safe, all that.”

  Zachary looked regretful. “There is one problem we still have to deal with, princess.”

  Kristin smiled. Their relationship, of course. Well, with love and work, they could make that fly just like a helicopter. “What?” she asked, only because she wanted Zachary to be the one to say they belonged together.

  “We don’t have enough fuel to make the border.”

  Kristin’s disappointment was profound. “What?”

  Zachary was surveying the rugged country below. “The best we can hope for is a chance to steal a Jeep or a couple of horses. We’re running on fumes as it is.”

  Horror welled up in Kristin at the reality of the situation. “Fumes? Oh, great! Now we’re probably going to crash fifty yards from the rebel camp or something! Imagine what Jascha would pay for us now!”

  “Well, excuse me!” Zachary bellowed, glaring at her. “Next time we’re about to be whipped to death in a palace courtyard, I’ll be sure to steal a ’copter with a full tank!”

  Kristin’s arms were folded tightly across her chest; her journal had slipped, forgotten, to the floor. “Just keep your snide comments to yourself,” she snapped.

  The aircraft’s engine began making an alarming sound midway between a sputter and a pop. Kristin sat bolt upright and screamed as the machine zigzagged drunkenly toward the ground, while Zachary concentrated on grappling with the controls.

  They came down in a meadow, and the blades hadn’t even stopped whirling when Zachary shoved Kristin out the door and scrambled after her. She went back long enough to grab her journal and the pen, and then Zachary caught hold of her hand and dragged her into the woods at a full run.

  “What’s the big hurry?” she demanded
breathlessly when they were well into the timber.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Zachary retorted. “By now the attack is over and Jascha’s called for another ’copter. He’ll be on our trail like a hound dog chasing a fat rabbit!”

  Kristin wrenched her hand from Zachary’s and walked at a slower pace, struggling to keep her respiratory system from overloading. “If Jascha catches us, we’ll wish we’d never been born.”

  “You always were insightful,” Zachary breathed.

  “Zachary, this is serious!”

  “You’re right,” Zachary answered, still moving so rapidly that Kristin could barely keep up. “But we’re overdue for some good luck.”

  Kristin hadn’t caught her breath. “Where are we going?” she asked impatiently.

  Zachary looked back at her, and she saw his jaw tighten. “I spotted a village just before we went down. We’re going to try talking them out of a couple of horses.”

  “Suppose they’re bandits—or rebels?” Kristin cried, panicking. “Suppose they sell us to Jascha again?”

  He stopped and grasped her by the shoulders, breathing hard himself. “Get a grip on yourself,” he ordered, and while his voice and his grasp were hard, Kristin saw concern in his eyes. “We’ve got to keep moving. Jascha’s goons are going to spot that ’copter sooner or later, and we’d better not be in the area when they do. Now, have you got anything we can swap with the villagers, like jewelry or something?”

  Kristin attributed her involuntary smile to hysteria and reached under the neck of her sweatshirt to pull out a gold chain with two rings dangling from it. One was a four-carat diamond Jascha had given her when they became engaged, and the other sported a gold lion’s head with perfect rubies for eyes. “How about these?”

  Zachary cupped the rings in his hand and whistled as he inspected their design, but when his eyes lifted to meet Kristin’s she was unsettled by the shadow of pain she saw move briefly in their depths. “Where did you get these? I mean, I know the prince gave them to you, but you didn’t have them when we were trying to get out of the country before.”