Chapter 21 #2
Had he been playing a role—Jack Darby, American maverick, independently wealthy thanks to a treasure horde he’d found in his youth, answering to no one and free of attachments?
But, then again, he’d made attachments. They’d just detonated and left his heart in pieces too far flung and broken to gather.
The sight of a fortress in the hazy distance made him focus.
The sun hung low in the sky, bleeding gold and rust across the desert.
On the horizon, Azraq Castle rose from the earth like a bruise against the pale sandstone—its basalt walls stark and dark, hunched like a waiting predator at the edge of the oasis.
Square and low-slung, it looked ancient and immovable, a fortress carved from shadow and stone.
Even from atop the lorry’s roof, Jack could make out the worn battlements and the empty, watching slits of windows.
Who knew who might await these bandits there? Or—worse still—if they bypassed it, Jack and Ruby would need to find a way back there, or they’d lose the last oasis and opportunity for water before crossing the desert. His dry lips reminded him of just how thirsty he already was.
He moved, creeping toward the passenger-side window.
He couldn’t know for certain how many men were inside the cabin, but there had to be at least a couple.
And the instant he was inside, all bets were off—he might not last two seconds.
But he needed to get control of this car unless he wanted to end up at the mercy of desert bandits—and any other friends they might join up with.
He turned, hooking his fingers on the top of the window frame but careful not to reach too far.
A gust of wind kicked up the grit around him, stinging his eyes as the lorry jostled beneath his boots.
The cabin window loomed below him—his only way in, his only chance.
Below, one of the bandits barked something over the engine’s growl.
Jack didn’t wait. He braced himself, muscles coiled, and swung feetfirst into the open window.
His boots crashed down on the bandit in the passenger seat as a shout split the air—only two men, after all.
The driver swerved hard, gravel spraying from the tires as the lorry bucked beneath them.
Jack barely kept his footing, one hand gripping the door frame to steady himself.
The passenger twisted beneath him, shouting in Arabic, reaching for something—maybe a knife.
Jack didn’t wait to find out. He rammed his elbow backward, felt the sharp crunch of cartilage, and the man let out a strangled grunt, curling sideways in pain.
Jack shifted his weight and dropped fully into the cab, one knee jabbing into the passenger’s thigh to pin him.
The driver barked a curse and fumbled beneath the steering wheel, his fingers closing around the butt of a pistol wedged between the brake lever and the seat.
The gun scraped free, but Jack was already moving.
He slammed his shoulder into the man’s arm, knocking it askew just as the weapon cleared the holster. The gun clattered to the floorboards. The lorry jolted again—wheels catching in a rut—and Jack was thrown against the door.
The driver reached again, snarling, but Jack drove a fist into his side—once, twice—then another into his jaw.
The man reeled, dazed, one hand slapping blindly at the door handle for leverage, still attempting to drive despite the chaos.
Jack grabbed a fistful of his robe and twisted, shoving the door open with his elbow.
Desert wind roared through the cab, hot and sharp with grit.
For a breathless moment, the driver clung there, half in, half out—then Jack wrenched him sideways and kicked with all the force he could muster.
The man’s body tumbled from the cab, bouncing once in the sand before disappearing in the rising plume of dust.
Jack quickly slid into the driver’s seat, boots braced, hands tight on the wheel. The windshield was cracked with a spidery web, a bullet hole in the center. The metallic tang of blood hung in the air—maybe from the passenger—but possibly from the smugglers the bandits had killed.
The lorry drifted again—veering toward a shallow ditch that could flip them if he wasn’t careful. Jack yanked the wheel hard to the left. The tires skidded, caught, then held. The engine howled in protest.
Beside him, the passenger groaned, one arm dragging across the dash, smearing blood from his nose.
Jack shot a glance his way. Still breathing. Still dangerous.
“Don’t,” Jack warned in Arabic, voice low, flat.
But the man pushed upright anyway, eyes glassy, reaching clumsily toward his belt.
“Damn fool,” Jack spat and lashed out again, grabbing the man by the back of the head and slamming it once against the side window. The man slumped with a groan, limbs going limp.
Jack exhaled slowly, just once, then tightened his grip on the wheel and pressed forward. Only then did he notice a three-inch-long piece of glass protruding from his forearm. Blood dripped from the wound down to his elbow, sticky and warm. The pain hadn’t caught up with him yet.
His heart rate slowing, Jack eased off the gas and shifted out of gear, then brought the lorry to a crawl. Reaching across the unconscious passenger, Jack pushed open the passenger door, then shoved the man out onto the ground. He’d be bruised and battered, but he’d live.
With a wince, Jack tugged the glass from his forearm, then tossed it out the door before pulling it shut again. The cut on his arm gave another gush of blood, but he didn’t have time to deal with it now—better to put some more distance between themselves and the bandits.
He threw the lorry into gear and lurched forward again.
The road ahead was long and empty, the sky streaked violet and bronze as sunset crept over the eastern desert. And in the distance, Azraq Castle loomed—dark and weathered, its stones catching the last light like a fortress carved from obsidian.
The British kept a small presence there—one that Jack would have to avoid—but so did the Bedouin, from whom they could get food before continuing on their way.
Sleep wouldn’t be in the cards tonight. Not without the smugglers. The smugglers had planned to let them move freely in the back of the lorry once they’d cleared Azraq. Now Jack would have to drive.
As he drew closer to the town, he slowed, the pain from his encounter with the bandits edging in at last. His wound was still bleeding, and he needed to bandage it with something—and he needed to check on Ruby.
Jack stopped. Leaving the engine idling, he climbed down from the cabin and went around to the back of the lorry.
“Ruby?” he called out, peering into the dark shadows between the crates.
Silence.
He frowned, then furrowed his brows and dragged one leg into the back.
He didn’t get far. A soft footstep sounded, then Ruby emerged from the shadows, still clutching the gun he’d given her, stepping toward him.
He gave her a tired smile, then stood straight. “There you are. I was beginning to think—”
The sound of her slap across his cheek jolted him before the actual impact of it. He blinked in surprise, then frowned.
Ruby stepped away, her eyes unusually bright.
“Do you have any idea what I’ve been through back here, Jack?
I heard a shot. And then the lorry tossed and turned and stopped.
I thought I saw you fall—God, I thought it was you in the sand!
And this whole time, you’ve kept me back here, thinking something had happened to you!
How dare you? I had no idea whether I was driving to my death—or worse—and I was—”
This time, he was the one to silence her. His hand tugged at her waist, the relief of her presence and her concern overwhelming him in a way he couldn’t verbalize. Pulling her into his arms, he dropped his lips to her mouth, silencing her protests with a fierce kiss.
She stiffened, then sank against him, her arms sliding around his neck as her lips softened and returned his kiss. Her lips tasted of her tears, and her breath collided with his, warm and sweet, thawing something deep inside him that he hadn’t known even existed anymore.
Pulling away, Jack set his forehead against hers. “I told you not to miss me.”
She closed her eyes, her long lashes rimmed with moisture, then she nodded and stepped back. “Apology not accepted.”
“You’d be amazed how often that’s the thanks I get for my heroics.” He grinned and offered her a hand to dismount from the back. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Ruby Whoever-you-are.”
She glared at him, then ignored his hand and hopped off the back gate, alighting with an unexpected grace.
She surprises me.
And that was something he hadn’t felt in a long time.