changed direction, heading away from the Al Asheera and toward Jarek. This time a cry of alarm rose from the camp. In mass, the revolutionaries scrambled toward their horses.
But Jarek barely noticed. The plane lost its struggle and tilted into a nosedive. His gaze followed the white blur until it crashed beyond the horizon.
“Stay, Ping.” The boy dropped the reins—confident his horse would stand near his father’s.
The small prince scrambled up next to Jarek.
Rashid Al Asadi stopped less than a foot from his father. Jarek noted the black eyes—intense, sharp like a well-polished, well-cut onyx.
His wife, Saree’s, eyes.
The rest was Al Asadi. Beneath the soft, round face lay the promise of Jarek’s square jaw and high cheekbones. And if one looked closely enough, the suggestion of a high forehead and the sharp features of Jarek’s father, Makrad Al Asadi.
Jarek glanced away, unwilling to look that close.
The boy had been born with an old soul and a clever mind, Jarek’s cousin, Quamar, had stated years before. A combination that equaled nothing less than an insatiable curiosity.
“Ramon?” The little boy’s gaze darted past Jarek to where the plane had disappeared. Purpose was there, in the set of the boy’s shoulders.
“What are you doing here, Rashid?” But his tone lost its angry edge because fear was there, too. A fear that he also saw lurking in the darkest part of his son’s eyes.
“I heard you tell Uncle Quamar that you were taking a ride in the desert on Taaj before Miss Kwong arrived today,” he whispered. “I thought you might want company.”
Jarek had actually told Quamar that he wanted to distance himself from the American reporter, but he did not correct his son.
“You were wrong to follow me, Rashid.” Jarek understood disciplining his son would have to wait, but the words would not. “And don’t tell me you didn’t understand that before you rode Ping out here. I imagine your tutor has Trizal searching for you as we speak. You must have worried him a great deal when you did not show up for your studies.”
As Jarek’s personal secretary, Trizal Lamente, had dealt with Rashid’s impulsive behavior too many times in the past to react with fear but not without urgency.
Quamar, too, would be searching for them soon, if not already.
“I left Trizal a note explaining what I had done.”
Jarek believed him. His son was high-spirited and headstrong, but he did not lie.
“And you think that because you told my secretary you were skipping studies, it is better?” Jarek admonished. “And your Royal Guards? Where were they?”
Before his son could answer, Jarek pulled Rashid with him to the horses. “We will discuss your disobedience later. Now we must help Ramon.”
“Do you think they are dead?” Rashid’s bottom lip trembled, reminding Jarek just how young his son was.
“I don’t know,” Jarek answered truthfully, but tempered the words with a softer tone.
Sarah’s image flashed before him. The long, black hair, the vibrant green eyes, the delicate lines of her face.
Fear raked his gut. Icy and razor-sharp.
He helped his son onto Ping’s back. “But if they are not, they might be injured and need our help.”
The logical thing to do was to take Rashid back to the palace, then send soldiers to rescue those in the plane. But as soon as Jarek thought of it, he brushed the option aside. The soldiers would arrive too late. Even for his son, he could not leave people to die at the hands of the Al Asheera.
“We’re going to ride fast.” Jarek swung up onto Taaj. “Can you stay with me?”
Jarek had no doubt his son could, having spent more time riding Ping than in the classroom studying.
It was the vulnerability and the realization that his son might have to deal with yet another death in his short life that made Jarek wonder what else the young boy could handle.
“Yes.” The word cracked but didn’t weaken the underlying resolve in Rashid’s voice. “I can stay with you.”
After a short, firm nod, Jarek ordered, “Let’s go then.”
They had very little time to reach the plane before the Al Asheera.
With grim determination, he prodded Taaj to a full gallop, making sure his son’s horse stayed abreast.
He just prayed he wasn’t risking Rashid’s life in a race toward the dead.
She felt the pain, thick and hot. It rolled through her head and down to her chest—forced her to inhale deep. But with the oxygen came the stench of death, clouded with dust, tinted with blood. It caught in her throat and clogged her lungs.
She gagged, coughed, then gagged again before she pushed it all back with a shudder.
Blinking hard, Sarah Kwong focused through the blur and grit that coated her eyes. The pain was still there, jarred free with her short, jerky movements. She touched her temple, felt the wet, sticky blood against her fingers.
Slowly, she lifted her head and took in the damage surrounding her.
The nose and cockpit were no more than gnarled steel buried deep under sand. The pilot, Ramon, lay slumped against the instruments of the plane. The windshield had shattered on impact. Shards of glass covered the pilot’s head and upper body.
“Ramon?”
Blood matted his gray hair and coated his forehead and face in a wide, crimson mask.
She hit the release button on her seat belt and slid to the space between their seats. Vertigo hit her in waves. She stopped, caught her breath, calmed the nausea.
At sixty, Ramon had three decades on her. But with a forthcoming smile and easy banter, the pilot formed an instant rapport with her on their flight from Morocco.
She scooted forward and placed her fingers against his neck.
His pulse was weak and fluttery. Still, he had one.
Carefully, she pulled him back into his seat. Blood soaked his polo shirt, turning the navy blue a crimson black. A shard of glass, the size of her forearm, protruded from his chest. Sarah’s gut tightened in protest over the bits of bone and jagged skin that clung to its toothed edges.
The sun beat down on the plane, thickening the air to a rancid oven heat. Sweat stung her eyes. Impatiently she wiped it away, then glanced around for something to stem the flow of his blood.
Fear tightened her chest, forcing her to exhale in a long, shaky breath. “Don’t you dare die on me, Ramon,” she threatened, hoping her words would jar the injured man awake.
She’d dressed in cream-colored cotton pants, a matching long-sleeved blouse and—aware of convention in a foreign country—a camisole beneath for modesty sake.
Quickly, she unbuttoned her blouse, slipped it off, then ripped the material down the back and into two pieces.
She placed the first half under his head and pressed the second against the flow of blood from his chest.
“Don’t touch it.” The command was weak and raspy with pain.
But her relief came swift, making her voice tremble enough to draw the pilot’s gaze. “Don’t talk,” she warned, while her fingers probed lightly, judging the depth of his chest wound. “Save your strength.”
Ramon struggled to keep his leather-brown eyes on her. Blood ran from his mouth, dripped from his chin.