Chapter 17
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
Two days. It had been two days since they’d sandbagged his head and rushed him into this dungeon-of-a-cell.
Two days and nobody had come. No food, no water.
Only light came from the barred window in the steel door.
When they’d locked him in, he’d anticipated either being dragged before the king or having the king appear and pronounce sentence—death.
But nothing had happened. Nobody visited.
Growling, he paced. How? How was he in the exact same position as every other pivotal moment in his life—enmeshed in failure?
It was like some cosmic joke.
Only, he didn’t believe in that. He believed in God, Who wasn’t one to play with the affections of His faithful. To torment them, though at times His discipline felt that way. Was that what this was—discipline? But for what?
The kiss he’d shared with Leighton leapt to mind.
With a groan, he ran his hand over his head. Was the kiss wrong?
No. It was the only right thing in his life—she was the only right thing.
Please. God. Let me help her.
Distant voices carried down the passage, and the thrum of the air-conditioning rattled high in the wall vent.
Jaw tight, he felt the throb of infection. It had grown into a constant, angry thrum. Much like his raw nerves. How? How was he going to escape? Dad’s stiff demand to know if Owen knew how to get out of a foreign country taunted him now.
The distant voices grew closer. There was some discordance, some…tension to the way they spoke. The chatter became clearer as two men strode down the darkened passage. It registered then what was odd—they weren’t speaking Arabic. Or some other language he didn’t know. This was…Spanish.
The wedding was tomorrow, if he’d calculated the days right.
But he heard the din of celebrations and knew Saudi wedding traditions spanned days, not one day.
There were guests from all over the world here to celebrate the marriage of King Faruq’s daughter.
But what were guests doing down here in the dungeons?
“?Encontraste su favorito?” a deep voice asked.
“Sí, Tamarind,” came a nasally reply.
“Bueno, bueno,” the first said with a chuckle. “Demasiado cerca.”
“En efecto.”
From his limited skill with the language, Owen could tell the one in a deeper voice asked about a favorite…something. The other said it was “tamarind.” Deeper then said it had been too close, and Nasally agreed.
Owen stood, aware he was wholly in shadow, and watched as they moved past his cell, pausing at the far end of a juncture, where Nasally handed something to the other.
“Gracias.” Deeper slapped the guy on the shoulder, then turned back the direction he’d come.
Ducking out of sight, Owen felt his heart climb into his throat—Oskar Bruzon! He’s here. Bruzon was here.
That meant… “Leighton!”
Bruzon was here to kill Leighton and get back at Navas, her biological dad.
No. No, no, no! This was bad. Beyond bad!
He balled his fists that the threat to Leighton was walking the halls of the palace and Owen was locked behind a steel door, unable to do a single, stinking thing.
I have to get out of here. But how?
Son of a freak-fried biscuit. What could he do?
Pray.
“God,” he muttered, shaking his head as he paced before the door. “I have to get out of here.”
How?!
The king…the king would want to know of a threat against his daughter. Correction: his believed-to-be daughter. If he could get the king to come down here…
Owen angled around. Tiptoed up and strained to see down both directions of the passage. “Guard!” he shouted. “Guard!” With his limited view, he had no idea if anyone was anywhere near close. But he wouldn’t miss the chance to get help because he didn’t shout loud enough. “Guard!”
Silence met his bellow, though the bars rattled in response.
“GUARD! GUARD!” The image of Leighton being killed at the festivities demanded he keep raising cane to get the guard here. He kicked the door, ignoring the pain spiking up his foot. Punched it.
“Askut!” came a terse voice seconds before a guard in the standard thobe and ghutra appeared. “Askut!”
No idea what that meant, but it probably wasn’t the guard asking how he could help.
“The king,” Owen snapped. “I need to speak to the king!”
“No king!” the guard barked. “No king!”
“Get me the king! His daughter is in danger!”
The guard looked at him, confused. Clearly not understanding. Or choosing not to. With a shrug he started away.
Owen bucked. Shouted, “GET. ME. THE. KING!”
The guard shuffled back and lifted a rifle at the window.
Scrambling back, Owen stumbled and went down even as the report of the rifle clapped through the cell. He felt more than saw the track of the bullet whiz past his ear. Shock ripped through him at how close he’d come to eating lead.
But Leighton.
His vow to give every drop of his blood if it saved her rang in his head. He leapt at the door. “Please! Call the king. I need the king!”
The guard was gone.
Holding the ledge of the small window, he hung his head. Fought the intense frustration that made his chest feel like an elephant sat on it.
Elephant… Leighton…
Thud. Oof!
Owen stilled at the very distinct sounds. That…that sounded like a fist on bone—as in a punch. He lifted his head as a grunt sounded. Peering through the window, he found the guard face-down on the stone floor. What…?
Had Bruzon heard him? Come back?
The guard’s body was dragged backward, out of sight. A cell door clanged.
A blur manifested in front of his window.
Owen shoved back, heart vaulting into his throat as he landed in a fighting stance. It took entirely too long for the face beneath the ghutra to register. “Chief?”
“You make more noise than Dante’s goat.”
“Not cool, man,” Dante complained from somewhere out of sight.
Panic and adrenaline surrendered amid an intense wave of relief that nearly buckled Owen’s knees. “Thank You, God.”
“Hey, I’ve been called a lot of things…” Pike teased, swung his weapon on the sling to his back.
“Get me out of here! Bruzon’s on-site!”
Zayna left the room after pronouncing Leighton’s attire satisfactory.
The abaya far exceeded that dull word. Yesterday, Daria and Hassan had signed the wedding contract in an intimate ceremony to which Leighton had not been invited.
Now, however, they were hosting a very public reception and celebrations.
Leighton glanced down at the emerald green abaya, heavily beaded along the wide band that encircled her waist. Beads and crystals formed whorls, and flowers ran down the sleeves, cuffs, and hem.
The simple white dress beneath it was a sharp but pretty contrast to the heavily ornamented green.
A sheer green headscarf set it off beautifully.
She had tried to wear the elephant necklace, but Zayna forbade it.
Thankfully, the double-layered skirt of the abaya had pockets, so she kept it there.
It was the only piece of Owen she had left, and upon their return from the safari, she had been abandoned in the new suite Rayan had promised her while on safari.
This one had a doorknob, though the royal still kept her locked in.
But the tiny treasure had steadied her. The quiet, the solitude was good for her on one hand, but on the other, it became a haunting playground for her terror.
Like the daunting fear that had burrowed into her chest that said they’d killed him.
Rubbing the double cords of the necklace between her fingers, she dashed away a lone tear. If she ruined the makeup Zayna had spent forty minutes applying, the stern woman would probably give her a lashing. But Leighton’s heart ached. Where is he?
Maybe he should’ve just run away in the Serengeti. Somehow, she felt he would’ve had a better chance against lions than the al-Zahranis.
“I’ll shed every drop I have if it means you’re free.”
His words lingered in her heart. Had he? Had he ended up giving every drop of blood beneath the fury of King Faruq? Or Maaz?
“Please, God…”
A sharp rap came on her door.
Leighton turned from the window and eyed the door. The knob rattled, then she heard the distinct sounds of metal scraping.
Drawing back, putting the furniture between her and the door, she felt her heart drum.
The door opened, delivering a guard into the room. His thobe fluttered as he pivoted, flicked the door closed, and flipped the lock.
What was he doing? She stood, unsettled at being locked with him. “Madha turid?” she asked in Arabic as he turned to her.
“It’s okay,” he said, flashing her his palms. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
Her gaze hit the lock. Who locked himself in a room with a woman? And why was he speaking English?
“I locked the door to buy us time in case someone comes.”
Her mind scrambled to keep up. “I’m sorry—who are you?”
A smile flashed through his Middle Eastern features. “Tariq. I’m with Ap—”
“No!” Pulse pounding, she realized what he’d been about to say—Apollo. So, Owen. She took a step forward as she pointed to her ear, indicating the room was bugged.
Understanding spread over his face and he nodded.
She drew in a ragged breath and let it out, then bobbed her head toward the bathroom. In there, she turned on the faucet and extractor fan, then flushed the toilet.
“I’m here to get you out,” he said. “But we can’t while you’re up here.”
She nodded. Flushed the toilet again.
“I’ll escort you to the reception.”
Surprised that he knew, she supposed this was her confirmation that he was who he claimed to be. That meant— She took a step forward. “He’s okay?”
Tariq held her gaze for a minute. “Bad infection, but he’ll live.”
She wilted, feeling her knees go weak. “I was so sure they’d killed him.”
“Yeah, trouble’s not over. The assassin we feared might come for you is here.”
Stomach quailing, she felt a wave of nausea that an assassin was here.
“We’ll go down. I’ll stay close, then—”
Sharp raps came at the door.
The lock rattled.