the tattooed Arab woman cleaning up the lunch leftovers of mahshi, baked stuffed eggplant, and baba ghanoush, eggplant dip, while her sons gorge on watermelon and gather dry twigs, teasing each other with adolescent banter before tossing the sticks into the linen bag the older one carries. Ahmed and the other diggers sit around playing cards while loud Arabic pop music blasts on his boom box. The noon breeze has gone into hiding, the air hot and still as if it hangs suspended between the dry earth and the bleached white sky.
Fanning myself with a map, I no longer believe I’ll find anything here but broken pottery, but nevertheless, out of habit, I keep my eye on everything happening around me. I should give the order to dig in another spot, but I tend to remain in one place, especially when the pull is strong in my gut to stay here. I get emotionally attached to my excavation area, foolish perhaps, but it’s my style. Sometimes the whispers trick me, sending me in the wrong direction, but they never fail me.
I stand on the mound with my feet planted firmly, my shoulders straight back, my khaki shirt and pants beginning to show wear and stained with brown dirt, making me blend in with the earth tones surrounding me. Still, it’s a defiant gesture to the spirits to show them I’m not leaving, yet I swear the sun ignores my bland figure, preferring instead to cast its rays on the young boys chasing after each other. I blink as the bright flame of their red scarves flying around their necks in the sparkly glare bounces off my sunglasses.
Smiling, I watch the boys race over the wadi, ravine, toward where the men were digging this morning. As they jump and dodge each other as boys do, their mother is busy at her chore, not realizing they’re playing near the spot where the diggers set up the pointy stakes. I blink, realizing they shouldn’t be playing there. What if they slip and cut themselves on the sharp edges? I’ll never forgive myself.
I’m about to call out to them to be careful when the words catch in my throat. Frantic cries pierce the stillness as I watch the younger boy stumble, his brother grabbing on to his red scarf, pulling on it, but it comes loose and he disappears feet first into the bowels of the earth.
Present day
“She looks good enough to eat.”
No sooner did he speak the words did Caine regret them, knowing the Russian would take that as a challenge, using the girl as a receptacle, dispassionate and unfeeling.
He cursed under his breath. He was off his game, bursting in like this, tipping off the Russian. So far, he’d kept his surveillance on the down low, keeping the eyeball on the terrorist without him suspecting he was being tailed. Never once was the rabbit in the black—surveillance-free for more than a few seconds. The man wasn’t easily fooled, seeming to look at no one but keeping his eye out for any attention directed his way. Disguised as a punk with a spiked, black-crow haircut and patch over one eye, Caine had been closer to him than his shadow and he never knew. Until now. And why, why?
Her.
What the hell is she doing here? I thought I’d sent her ass packing. Now she’s lying half-naked across the bed, all melting flesh and big breasts, the smell of her desire driving me crazy.
She’d turned him on in that alley with her sassy attitude and curvaceous body, her breasts spilling out of that tight corset and nearly into his hands. He rubbed his fingers together, remembering jamming his knee between her legs and crushing her breasts against his chest. But that wasn’t what made him change his plans and follow her into the hotel. When she turned her head a certain way and raised up her buttocks, something clicked in his brain, as if he’d seen her somewhere. But his brain failed to connect the time or place when he rubbed up against her, smelled her, touched her.
He couldn’t believe it when she headed for the Russian’s room. He was certain she was walking head-on into a cover stop—a planned diversion by the Russian to cover up his real purpose. The ex-KGB agent would stop at nothing short of murder if she didn’t fit into his plans.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” said the Russian. Taking his time, running his hands over the curve of her buttocks, he snapped the tight red thong separating her cheeks. Her butt jiggled, pleasing Caine’s eye, but she didn’t wince. She didn’t feel the slap of the elastic band.
“Yeah. Primo ass.” Caine swallowed and nodded toward the strutting call girl lying unconscious on the bed as still and quiet as if she were bound and gagged. In spite of the situation, he grinned. Not a bad idea. He’d almost grabbed the hemp rope hanging from her belt earlier with a similar idea in mind. Now he wished he had. She’d be tied up in a rented room and out of danger and waiting for him. “What did you put in her drink? Or did you use a syringe?”
Did the Russian jab her in the thigh with a sleep-inducing drug? It was quick and done so discreetly she wouldn’t have seen it coming.
The Russian gave him a smirking look and he could tell he reveled in his application of tradecraft. “I sprayed a synthetic opioid in her ear.”
Caine tensed. “Fentanyl?”
“Yes. A favorite of mine,” drawled the Russian. “Much more potent than a Valium-type drug.”
Caine darted his eyes again on the gorgeous girl. He was no doctor, but he’d seen army medics administer the drug on the battlefield. It was a powerful anesthetic used in small, controlled doses to manage pain. Its effects were similar to nerve gas or heroin and hundreds of times more potent.
He said, “An overdose is usually fatal.”
“Not always.” The Russian patted his jacket pocket. “I have the overdose kit right here. She’ll survive.”
“Unless you don’t intend to give it to her.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
Caine stared at him. Hard. Was he telling the truth? If not, he didn’t have much time. If the opioid was comparable to what the Mossad used in assassination attempts, she could suffer from respiratory collapse and be dead in a matter of hours. He had no doubt that was exactly what the Russian intended. Why? Something didn’t add up. Yet he didn’t have the time to react to the man’s accusation. He had a job to do, and damn this girl for getting in the way.
“I have no choice but to play along with your sexual diversions.” Caine kept his cool, though a chill ran through him. “What bothers me is the girl might be dead before I take my turn with her.”
The ex-KGB agent shook his head, then smiled with a toothy grin that unnerved Caine, something that rarely happened. “She’ll sleep until I awaken her.” A grunt, then a groan spewed from his mouth. “With my cock.”
His stomach turned and bile rose in his throat as Caine fought back a rising disgust for the terrorist. Instead he said, “Then you’re not going to share her?”
The Russian punched him in the ribs. Hard. “This one is mine. Get your own pussy.”
“Fuck you. I want her.” Caine shoved him back, careful not to push him too hard. He didn’t intend to be on the receiving end of a knuckle blow to the throat. If he allowed his dick to rule, he’d be putting his head in a trap. He was operating in a red zone—enemy territory—and he could expect no mercy if the Russian saw through his disguise. He wore the mask of an operative 24/7, revealing none of his inner thoughts, and, God help him, his feelings. Violence had always been his aphrodisiac, seducing him with its acrid smells and quick adrenaline rush. Now a different scent tempted him, a bouquet tipped with honey, and he liked it.
The Russian’s eyes blazed at him. “You’ve been tailing me. Why?”
“You didn’t know I was on your back until I burst in here five minutes ago.” Caine had only to see the hostile look on the Russian’s face to know he was right. “Admit it, your Cold War days of covering your tracks by dodging around the side streets in the snow or guzzling down vodka in bars are over.”