Donna Young - Captive of the Desert King

Instead, he scrambled down the slope, cursing fate with each step.

It was time to run. Again.

The man woke. Tense. Alert. Ready for an attack.

He laid quietly for a moment, listening for the rustle of the tent, the footsteps on the ground outside. A habit he’d developed from childhood. A habit that had saved his life more than once over the years.

“Master Baize. Your guest is here.” The voice pierced through the curtain, its tone deep and heavily accented.

Oruk Baize forced his muscles to relax. “Give me a minute, Roldo, then send him in.”

A quiet sigh caught Oruk’s attention. Slowly, he slid the silk sheet from the warm body beside him. The material hissed over a supple white shoulder, down the slender curves and smooth back to round, naked buttocks.

For a moment, he thought about opening the window flap, allowing the sunlight to pierce the darkness—maybe burn off the stale scent of sex and sweat that still hung heavy in the air. It’d be worth the tongue lashing he’d receive, to see her pale skin heat in temper.

Besides, he might be up for a good fight, he mused, silently. Something he’d grown accustom to over the months, and now actually anticipated.

He threw the sheets back over the woman and stepped from the bed. Seduction, domination. A little of both. The thought made him hard, then annoyed.

Business before pleasure.

Oruk pulled on a pair of dark, silk trousers and zipped them enough to cover his hips. No need to exert too much energy.

After all, this associate would be dead soon.

He stepped through the curtain opening and into the main part of the tent.

Oruk was a big man, with wide shoulders and a deep, barreled chest. His features were that of a soldier—broad, flat and unyielding. But attractive enough to have his bed warmed most nights.

He was the son of a camp follower. Most were, in the Al Asheera. He’d never known his father and barely remembered his mother—a whore who had deserted him when he was nine.

He’d survived like most of his kind. At ten, he’d learned to shoot a gun, throw a knife. By eleven, he’d killed with them.

Oruk walked to the opposite side of the tent and stopped by his teakwood coffee table. Some comforts he refused to give up, even when he was forced to act as a nomad.

That included good whiskey. And even better, a smoke.

He opened a nearby humidor and selected a cigar. Cuban. Expensive. And the only brand he smoked.

The tent rustled. He felt a short gust of wind, heard the hard step of man in a hurry. “Hello, Murad.” He clipped off the end of the cigar and lit it with a match.

“We had a deal, Baize.”

Oruk ignored the slight tone of contempt in the other man’s voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the office?”

He took several deep puffs, but didn’t offer the businessman a cigar. Why waste a good cigar? Oruk thought with derision.

“They escaped from the plane wreckage.”

Murad Al Qassar was a businessman by trade, an accountant by looks. With short trimmed hair and long, thin features, he was the only man Oruk knew who wore a pinstriped suit and a tie to an Al Asheera camp.

“I know,” Oruk finally answered. “Roldo told me.”

Roldo Costo threw himself onto the pile of pillows in the corner of the tent and shrugged. “Things happen.”

Roldo was a little man with greasy hair and rotted teeth. Still, Oruk did not keep him employed for his looks, only for his talents.

“The king decided at the last minute not to meet the reporter in Morocco. There is little we can do about that,” Oruk pointed out.

“I disagree,” Murad snapped.

“The king won’t get away from my men again, Murad.” Roldo took out his knife and began cleaning his fingernails, a habit Oruk knew Murad found disgusting. It was the exact reason why Roldo did it whenever the businessman came around.

“Luckily for us, he was there in the desert,” Roldo added. “He watched Ramon’s plane go down. We’re tracking them to the caves.”

“Who?” Murad demanded. “Ramon and Jarek?”

“The reporter, the king and his son,” Oruk inserted. “So you see, Murad, things are working out in our favor.”

“The prince?” Murad took a moment to digest that bit of information. “What about Ramon?”

“He’s dead,” Oruk explained. “Roldo found him in the cockpit. Or what was left of him.”

“That’s not good enough, Oruk.” Murad eyes narrowed. “We had a deal. One that’s cost me a tremendous amount of money.”

Oruk studied the red tip of his cigar. “There is nothing to worry about. Instead of being on the plane, the king was in the desert with his son. An outing of sorts. Fate placed him and the boy in the vicinity of the crash site.”

“I don’t believe in fate.”

“Destiny, then.” Oruk smiled at his own joke. “Either way, it is good luck for us.”

Murad swore. “And yet the king is still alive.”

“Like I said.” Roldo shoved his knife back in his boot and stood. “My men have staked out the caves and are waiting to move in at daylight. The cliffs are too risky in the dark. I’ll lose good men.”

“Take the risk,” Murad snapped, his lips curling back on his teeth in anger. He stepped up to Roldo, going toe-to-toe with the mercenary. “We had an agreement. The king and his son dead. They’ve accommodated you by being together, don’t mess it up. We haven’t been able to get this close to him or his son in a long time. Understand me?”

“I understand that you will take care of the buyers and the shipments,” Oruk answered for Roldo. He walked to the bar cart to pour himself a shot of whiskey. “And I will take care of the Royals and your gambling debts once we have control of Taer.”

“I also provided the weapons,” Murad reminded him.

“And I provided the Al Asheera,” Oruk countered, then signaled Roldo to step away from Murad. When the little man moved, Oruk continued. “We are all doing our part.”

“I’ll believe that, Oruk, when Roldo takes care of the king and his son.”

“In my time, Murad.” Oruk’s tone hardened. “Not yours.”

“Time is running out,” Murad warned. “Soon Jarek will sign the agreement with the Americans.”

“Agreed.” Oruk flicked his ashes, let them fall to the rug. “But once we control the throne, it will not matter. The death of the reporter will only widen the rift with the Americans.”

“What about his cousin, Quamar? And Sheik Bari?”

“I imagine Quamar will be searching soon,” Oruk reasoned. “It will take time for him to notify Bari. By then, we’ll have the king and his son.”

“You had better.” Murad pulled back the tent opening. “I have a meeting in the city. Notify me when you have them.”

Roldo spat on the ground after Murad left. “He whines too much.”

“And you screwed up.” Irritation scraped at Oruk’s nerves, but he forced the emotion back. Understanding the mentality of the mercenary, made it easier to control him. “Bring me the Royals and you will have the pleasure of killing Murad when its time.”

“I would like that.”