Dana Marton - Undercover Sheik

She’d gone only a few yards from Nasir’s tent, dodging the men who were going about their business, when Ahmed spotted her and strode over, his fat mouth set into a thin line of displeasure. He marched his pudgy body through the sand with jerky steps, keeping his small, dark eyes on her, yelling from afar. “Woman! Whore!”

She stopped, hoping he wanted nothing more than to give her some small, humiliating task as usual, like scraping goat dung from his sandals. She would quickly do whatever he required. Tonight she’d be free. She couldn’t allow anything to get to her.

“You feed camels. Water camels,” he said.

Taking care of the animals was his responsibility—every man had his own task to keep the camp running. He was probably angry that Nasir had stopped her execution. He was probably looking to reassert his authority over her, to show her that as long as she was in camp, she would remain their slave.

Sadie nodded, the very picture of obedience, and cast a worried glance toward the camels, making sure she looked fearful, hoping that would be sufficient. Ahmed usually left her alone once he figured he had tortured her enough for one day. If he thought the task left her trembling, he might be satisfied with that and not think up any further ways to distress her.

The animals were twice the size of camels she’d seen in Yemen at the market where the local Doctors Without Borders liaison had taken the group of international physicians she was a part of the day after their arrival at the small field hospital.

The trip to the market had been the first and last that she’d been able to participate in. Three days later, the hospital was raided, the supply room robbed. She had the misfortune of being inside it when the bandits had come.

“Work,” Ahmed shouted at her and shoved her forward.

She moved obediently, semisecure in the knowledge that now that Nasir had claimed her, Ahmed could only demand work from her and nothing more. He had come to her during the night once before, insisting on another kind of service. By putting her body weight against the door of tightly tied branches, she’d been able to keep him out. Her prison, devised to prevent her from escaping during the night, had saved her.

He was yelling at her in Arabic, and she picked up the pace, walking toward the tent Ahmed shared with three others and the large bags of camel feed. She hadn’t seen Nasir’s shorter, leaner camel among the rest of the beasts. He’d probably ridden out of camp.

Her instincts prickled when instead of going off to enjoy having passed on his morning chores, Ahmed seemed intent on following her inside the tent.

“I feed the camels,” she said as she stepped through the flap, keeping her head down in an attempt not to anger any of the other men she’d expected to find inside.

The tent was empty.

She couldn’t step back. Ahmed was right behind her.

Get the work done, get out. Fast.

She went to the sacks, filled the bucket, moving purposefully, ignoring the bad feeling she was getting from the man who watched her.

He made his move as she was about to head back outside, blocking her way, looking at her with so much heat, so much hate.

“I’ll feed the camels,” she said and stepped forward to pass by him.

He wouldn’t have it.

She was close enough now to smell his breath, the sour sweat of his body. Several weeks’ worth of dirt was ground into his patched-up, faded camouflage uniform. She stole a glance at the look of determination in his face.

He was not going to let her go.

The dagger. Since she had the bucket in her right hand, she bent to set it down slowly, as if giving in to his will. But in a sudden move, he knocked the camel feed from her and had both of her hands pinned to her side. She struggled against him. He was strong, stronger than she’d thought.

“Stop.” She fought back with everything she had, kicking, trying to smack her forehead into his face, doing anything and everything to make up for not being able to use her hands. “Let me go!” Desperation gave strength to her voice.

The carpets tangled under their feet, making it harder for her to find her balance. She twisted and kicked backward, got him in the knee by pure chance. His hold loosened at last. Almost clear. Then she tripped on her robe just as he grabbed for her, and they went down together with a solid thud that stole the air from her lungs.

“Civilian casualties will be significant.”

Majid glared at the man who dared to voice his ridiculous concern. When a sculptor created a beautiful piece of art, was he criticized for the marble chippings he left on the floor? “If anyone dies, it’s the usurper’s fault. The people will understand that.”

And once he was king again and the media was under his thumb, he would make sure everyone would see it his way. Casualties. Of course there’d be casualties. Bismillah! He was reshaping his country.

Those who committed treason should suffer. How quickly they had jumped to the usurper’s side, forgetting their lawful king. They should be punished. The leaders of the traitors would be rounded up and taken care of—certainly his cousin’s family. The others he would let live. He needed people if he wanted to collect taxes. He needed workers for the country he was even now preparing to birth.

“How many men do we have?” he asked his temporary council.

His secret advisors consisted of a few sheiks whose tribes were involved in weapons smuggling and as such benefited from his venture. Also those to whom he had promised land, and two semiinfluential industrialists who hoped for sizable oil contracts from his government once he was restored to the Beharrainian throne. All were enemies of the current false king, people he had angered by interfering with their business and limiting their income.

Today they all gathered to talk war in the large cave Majid was using as his headquarters at the moment.

“We have ten thousand men,” the oldest of the sheiks said.

“That’s enough.” Saeed had less than that when he’d stolen the throne four years ago from Majid. He would pay for that. “Once that devil’s spawn of a cousin of mine is dead and the palace is ours, the army will switch sides and follow their rightful king.”

That’s how it had been before—a lesson he had learned well. His entire army had deserted in a single day, seeing Saeed’s rising power, fearing for their worthless hides. They were disloyal to Majid before. They would be disloyal now to Saeed.

“The time is here, my friends,” he said as a calm settled over him. To rule was his destiny. “We will cut off the head of the snake and stomp out his nest.”

Saeed, the false king, would soon be executed and so would his whore, his American wife.

He would spare only Salah, Saeed’s son, eight years old now and fancied to be heir. For him, he had other plans.

His three-year-old twin daughters couldn’t be allowed to live, either—they might have sons when grown. Nobody who could ever claim any connection to the throne and come back to haunt him would be left alive. That included Nasir, the king’s brother. He was the more dangerous of the two. Had he taken any wives yet? Had he sired any children? He would have to be looked at carefully.

Majid took a sip of spiced coffee, then set the cup onto the stone ledge by his side. The first time he took the throne, he’d been lenient with his cousins. He would not make that mistake twice. This time when he was finished, they and everyone they held dear would be dead.

WHERE WAS SHE?

Nasir scanned the small camp. Her prison cell was empty. So was his tent. Of all the other tents, only one had its flap down. He strode toward that, fairly certain that he would find her inside.