Chapter 6
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
Cold, stinging water peppered his body.
“Augh!” Owen flinched away from the thin, piercing stream of the hose, then drove around, fists balled. “Hey—”
A guard slammed a right hook into his gut.
Air exploding from his lungs, Owen wheezed. Recovered and responded with an uppercut. Caught the guy in the chin. Drove forward with a hard right.
A blow from behind—another guard—impacted him. Pitched him forward. On the wet concrete, Owen slipped. Went down. Knee cracked against the hard surface.
The needling water became the blast of a fire hydrant, forcing him to stay down. Curl in to protect himself from the pounding onslaught.
While niceties and propriety had been par for the course in the private throne room, let there be no doubt—they were insanely well-versed in subtle and not-so-subtle forms of torture.
Like stripping a guy to his skivvies and hosing him down with ice-cold water.
All in the name of cleanliness and humiliation.
When the water stopped, he heard boots retreat.
“You are nothing here, American. Nothing!” Mahid barked. “Get dressed!”
Knowing better than to trust that the guards’ playtime was over, Owen hesitated.
Glanced over his shoulder and found the cell door closing.
A shiver lanced his composure as he searched for a towel to dry off.
Spotted a crumpled pile near the door the guards had exited.
He rifled through them. Tunic…pants…no towel.
“Figures.” But the chill in the air warned him not to stay stripped, so he fought his way into the provided clothes.
The mission required he endured whatever these people dished out—all to earn his way into becoming her guard, a position vacant after the handiwork of Omen.
The whole gig was one massive long shot—and hours into this palace, him being stuffed into a cold, concrete ten-by-ten with no window or bed, a lone drain in the center for a toilet, proved his warning to Pike.
Sitting against the wall, forearms on his upraised knees, Owen tilted his head back and tried to ignore the dull throb in his side.
The guard might’ve bruised a rib. One small step for Owenkind, especially if it got him assigned to Leighton.
He closed his eyes. Hoped this was a time of testing while they checked and double-checked his legend and history.
He completely trusted Omen to backfill it, since they were doing so with the help of high-level government assets who had experience in prepping legends for operatives in three-letter organizations.
His mind flicked back to those bruises on Leighton. The way she’d cowered in subservience. No doubt beaten into her. Nine months had done a number on the girl he’d first encountered two years ago. Back then, she was guarded, wary. Now, she was downright oppressed.
Please let this work, God… Help me get her out of here.
Those caramel eyes had telegraphed her worry. It wasn’t so much in her expression or the furrowing of the brows. It was something deeper, something…soul-born.
You are out of your skull.
No idea how long the king would hold him in the dungeon, but since he didn’t have an extra hole in his head, he’d count that as a win and a sign they wouldn’t kill him.
Unless they unearthed a different hole—one in his legend as Owen Apollo. Lame concoction, but Pike swore keeping his original name would make it easier for him to avoid mistakes.
Owen sat for what felt like hours. Never knew a monochromatic environment could make time seem like a decrepit old man with a walker, taking slow, agonizing steps. Gradually, time lost its power and meaning. It could’ve been hours or a whole day.
A low tone sounded in his right ear, and Owen’s eyes flew open. He stilled, despite the instinct to lift his head off the wall as the internal comms activated.
“OTG to Apollo,” Pike spoke quietly. “You read me?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“We have a thirty-second clock. Are you being monitored?”
Owen eyed the bars’ metal door and once again visually traced the room for surveillance devices. Using his fist, he covered his mouth. “Unknown.”
“Play it safe. Reception’s bad. Where are you?”
“Dungeon.”
Silence gaped for a long second. “You in trouble? Wounded?”
Knees up, elbows atop them, he steepled his fingers. “Alive. Bruised rib.”
“The history we built is getting pinged hard.”
He grunted.
“What’re you feeling? Want us to pull you?”
Wide caramel eyes ignited in his thoughts. He felt that jolt again. Recalled her desperation, fear. “No.”
“If they suspect you, they’ll kill you.”
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he quickly replied, “They beat her. Often. She needs to get out. I’m here. I can do this.” Desperation coiled through his veins. Did not want another half-cocked effort preventing mission success. “Hitting my history means they’re going to let me take the job.”
“Or trying to decide if they can get away with killing you.”
He stretched his shoulders, covering his words with his arm. “You need to work on your pep talks.” The groan of metal on metal in the passage stilled him. “Incoming.”
“Omen out.”
Climbing to his feet, Owen braced his side and let out a small grunt. He moved to the center of the room, lowering his hands to his sides as the door swung open. He shifted his right foot back, ready for a fight.
The guard jabbed his M4 at him. “Back! Make room for the prince!”
Steeling his spine, Owen remained in place. Prince, huh?
“It is okay, Jamil.” A second man stepped into view.
Tall and dressed in tan slacks with a black shirt, he wasn’t wearing the standard ghutra and thobe like everyone else in this place.
He splayed his hand over his chest. “My name is Rayan.” His eyes smiled as he considered him.
“Come, I will take you to your charge.” He stepped back and indicated to the right.
A prince escorting him to Leighton? Yeah, not buying it. Hesitant, half expecting an ambush so they could torture him more, Owen knew there was nothing for it. He walked forward, letting his gaze roll to the guard. Daring him to sucker punch him again.
Rayan caught his shoulder, and it wasn’t a move designed to control, but one that seemed to tell the guards that Owen was under his protection.
“I do apologize that you were forced to spend the night in there. Due to Princess Daria’s wedding preparations, guest wings are being utilized for her staff and her guests. ”
With causal confidence, Rayan strode to the end of the passage and accessed a security panel that opened a door. They climbed the stairs on the other side. “Tell me,” he said with a small laugh, “did you imagine you would be coming to a palace to protect someone when you left Virginia?”
Was he trying to unsettle him that he knew that tidbit?
Pike had been wise to layer in real facts with the fake persona.
“No,” Owen said in a huffed laugh, feeling that sweet relief that Pike’s plan was working.
That the royals were tasking him. “Guessing this is about the chick from Paris? The king’s daughter? ”
“Nouri,” the prince affirmed, arching an eyebrow at him. “It is quite the coincidence that you are from Virginia like her. Did you not know her?”
Owen balked. “Dude. It takes five hours to drive from the bottom to the northern tip of Virginia. And the closer to you get to DC, the more heavily populated.”
“Of course. And were you close to DC? Did you see the president?” Rayan asked with a chuckle.
“No, not really into politics.” Guess it was this guy’s job to ask all the questions that had arisen while probing his legend. “What about you—have you always lived here?”
Dark eyes smiled. “My whole life, save a short time in the US for university,” he said as he stepped from the stairwell back onto marble floors and opulence.
Owen grunted. “Can’t imagine growing up in a place like this.”
“Most cannot, and I try to remember that.”
They entered an elevator. “King Faruq said you were in the Army,” Rayan began as the doors closed. “Did you not like it? Is that why you are not a soldier now?”
Man, that failure-dagger still dug deep, didn’t it? “The Army didn’t like me,” he said as the box rose.
“You are quite curious, Mr. Apollo.”
“Not the first time I’ve been told that.”
The prince laughed and the elevator dinged. “A few ground rules about protecting Nouri, and I ask that you bear with us because of their strict nature, but it is for everyone’s safety.”
This would be interesting.
“First, neither you nor Nouri are to leave her chambers without permission of the king, Crown Prince Maaz, or myself. She is allowed in the south gardens from ten to eleven each morning, and only then. Meals are served at eight, twelve, and eight.” Then he seemed chagrined.
“I do apologize, but there is no separate room for you.”
Owen faltered. “Come again?”
“As I said, with the wedding, all spare apartments are in use.”
All 250 rooms? Was he kidding?
“So, you will be confined to her chambers. It will be no different when you are on safari with her—you remain with her at all times.”
“Wait.” Owen stopped short. “Are you saying I’m to eat and sleep in her room? With her in there?”
Rayan angled back and considered him, dark features not missing a single blemish.
Am I being punked? “Are—are there two beds?”
“No,” Rayan said, mirth lifting his lips to the side. “You looked distressed.”
That’s a word for it.
“If you find this is unacceptable, I can return you to the cellars and notify the king.”