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Seduced by His Target
Gail Barrett
For victims of violence, Nadine Seymour – formerly Nadira al Kahtani – is a saviour in surgeon’s clothing. But this time it’s Nadine who must be saved… from her own corrupt family. Rasheed Davar – a rebellious CIA agent seeking to avenge his wife’s murder – could risk his undercover mission to save her.But will he?As a dangerous plot heats up in the nation's capital, Rasheed can't deny the mounting tension – or his desperate need to tamp down his attraction. Nadine is beautiful. She is brave. And she's just the kind of high-stakes hostage who could awaken his own battered heart – and lure them both into the terrorists' crosshairs…


Secrets, passion and revenge fuel this thrilling new installment of award-winning author Gail Barrett’s BURIED SECRETS series!
For victims of violence, Nadine Seymour—formerly Nadira al Kahtani—is a savior in surgeon’s clothing. But this time it’s Nadira who must be saved…from her own corrupt family. Rasheed Davar—a rebellious CIA agent seeking to avenge his wife’s murder—could risk his undercover mission to save her. But will he?
As a dangerous plot heats up in the nation’s capital, Rasheed can’t deny the mounting tension—or his desperate need to tamp down his attraction. Nadira is beautiful. She is brave. And she’s just the kind of high-stakes hostage who could awaken his own battered heart—and lure them both into the terrorists’ crosshairs….
“Men like you are selfish,” she continued, her voice trembling.
“You think your stupid beliefs give you the right to take whatever you want. But you’re wrong. What you believe is wrong. And you’re not going to win.”
Her chest heaved. Her eyes stung, but she blinked back the tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She would not show any weakness around this man.
His eyes turned even blacker. He closed the distance between them, but she held her ground, refusing to budge. “Stay in the hut, Nadira. Don’t try to escape.”
“Or what?” she taunted. “You’ll kill me?” She let out a high-pitched laugh.
His big hands gripped her shoulders. He gave her a shake, fueling her temper even more.
But then his mouth was on hers. She froze, utterly shocked, the feel of him slaying her senses—his warm, hard lips, the scrape of his sandpapered jaw, the strength in his massive hands. A thought bubbled up, that she needed to resist this, but it vanished like smoke in the wind.
Buried Secrets: Three murder witnesses, one deadly conspiracy.
Dear Reader,
When most people think of cosmetic surgery, they think of facelifts and fillers, implants or liposuction—procedures designed to enhance a person’s beauty and youth. But there is another side to plastic surgery, the healing side, restoring features disfigured by accidents, violence or disease.
The heroine of Seduced by His Target, Nadine Seymour, is just such a plastic surgeon. She specializes in reconstructive work on battered women. Coming from an abusive background, Nadine understands the value corrective surgery can have, not just in making these victimized women beautiful again, but in helping repair their broken lives.
But Nadine has wounds of her own, deep ones she has avoided for fifteen years. Now, when her past finally catches up to her, she must stand her ground and confront her enemies, including a lethal warrior who is everything she most fears...and desires.
This is the last installment of the Buried Secrets trilogy. It has been quite an adventure watching these three courageous runaways confront their pasts, face down their biggest fears and earn the happy endings they deserve. I hope you’ve enjoyed their stories as much as I have.
Happy reading!
Gail Barrett
Seduced by His Target
Gail Barrett

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Gail Barrett
always knew she’d be a writer. Who else would spend her childhood grinding sparkling rocks into fairy dust and convincing her friends it was real? Or daydream her way through elementary school, spend high school reading philosophy and playing the bagpipes, then head off to Spain during college to live the writer’s life? After four years, she straggled back home—broke, but fluent in Spanish. She became a teacher, earned a master’s degree in linguistics, married a coast-guard officer and had two sons.
But she never lost the desire to write. Then one day she discovered a Silhouette Intimate Moments novel in a bookstore—and knew she was destined to write romance. Her books have won numerous awards, including a National Readers’ Choice Award and Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart Award.
Gail currently lives in western Maryland. Readers can contact her through her website, www.gailbarrett.com (http://www.gailbarrett.com).
I’d like to thank my brother, Ken Archer, for helping me with the financial details of this story, and my critique partner, Karen Anders, for her expertise and support. Thank you both!
To John, one of the good guys.
Contents
Chapter 1 (#uf057e879-8f4a-5da5-8788-88b6a926cbb8)
Chapter 2 (#ubadd8da7-def9-5acc-8a07-9532b4286984)
Chapter 3 (#u67c053a1-6d1e-5dad-93b2-88e524a02634)
Chapter 4 (#ud53175a8-bcc0-5b7d-bc25-f7e7df319c3b)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1
It was the perfect day for a kidnapping.
Steel-gray clouds hovered over the mountains, obscuring their escape route. Thunder rumbled in the distance, promising to mask any cries for help. The local farmers, exhausted after a brutal day spent toiling in the Peruvian highlands, had taken shelter in their drab mud huts, oblivious to the terrorists preparing to pounce.
Gazing through his binoculars, Rasheed Davar lay flat on his belly in a tuft of chiliwua grass, studying the American medical team milling around their camp below. “Which one is the target?”
The terrorist beside him lowered his binoculars, his silver tooth gleaming in the dwindling light. “She’s not here yet.”
She? Rasheed shifted, a sliver of uneasiness stirring inside him, but he clamped down hard on the doubt. He couldn’t react, couldn’t show any hesitation or concern. Too many lives depended on this mission’s success—including his.
Schooling his expression into indifference, he thumbed the focus on his binoculars and continued to survey the camp. A young blond woman fed kindling into the campfire. A gray-haired man sat beside her, stirring something in a metal pot. Both wore scrubs, typical attire for the volunteer medical teams that traveled through the remote villages in the Andes Mountains doing humanitarian work. Another woman, a brunette in a bulky parka, knelt on a tarp laden with pharmaceutical supplies, sorting and packing them into various bags. On the periphery of the camp, beyond a cluster of dome-shaped tents, a brown-skinned man, his chullo hat and poncho marking him as a Peruvian native, tended the tethered mules.
“So what’s the plan?” Rasheed asked.
The terrorist looked at him again. Known only as Amir, he had cold, flat eyes as black as death, and promising as much. Rasheed had met hundreds of men like him during the years he’d lived in the mountains of Jaziirastan, working his way through the training camps. Ruthless. Callous. Inured to all human feelings except one—sheer, unbridled hate. Men who would kill in a heartbeat, whose goal was the annihilation of anyone who didn’t submit to their way of life. Zealots who destroyed innocents with utter disinterest, murdering women and children with no remorse.
Like Rasheed’s pregnant wife.
“We’ll wait for the woman to show up,” Amir told him in his native Jaziirastani. “As soon as we identify her tent, we’ll rejoin Manzoor. We’ll move in tonight when the rain hits. Manzoor and I’ll stand guard. You’ll grab the woman. Just make sure you get the right one.”
“I’ll get her,” he promised. He had no choice. He had to play his part.
But why did they want a prisoner? This crack terror cell, the Rising Light’s most elite contingent, had come to Peru for one reason only—to join up with the South American drug cartel that would ferry them into the United States. Or so Rasheed had thought. This surprise detour to capture an American doctor didn’t make sense.
But he didn’t dare question their plans. Neither Amir nor Manzoor, their small cell’s leader, trusted him completely, even though he’d been careful not to cause any doubt. He’d paid his dues. He’d spent years proving his loyalty as he rose through the Rising Light’s ranks. And thanks to his Jaziirastani parents—and the CIA’s most talented forgers—he had the linguistic skills and documents to pass as a native of that land. Whether the terrorists suspected him of being a traitor or were withholding information out of their usual paranoia, Rasheed didn’t know. But he needed to show them the blind obedience they expected to keep from tipping them off.
“We’ll exit that way,” Amir continued, pointing toward a slot between the hills. “We’ll need to move fast. God willing, we’ll have success.”
Rasheed gave the expected response. But his idea of success didn’t match Amir’s. He’d only celebrate when he’d thwarted the upcoming attack and brought down the terrorists’ kingpin, the financier who’d murdered his wife.
Thunder drummed across the steep terrain. The wind bore down, sweeping through the wheat-colored clumps of grass, bringing with it the threat of rain. Then a movement on the trail below them caught his attention, and he aimed his binoculars that way, careful to keep the lens from reflecting the waning light. Two people, a man and a woman, came into view, both carting backpacks, both wearing jackets over their surgical scrubs.
Rasheed’s pulse began to speed up.
The man led the way. He was tall, thin, probably in his mid-thirties, with a long, narrow face and a large hooked nose. He had a short, scraggly beard, and blisters on his nose and ears, thanks to the scorching, high-altitude sun.
The woman walked beside him, her head bent, her face hidden beneath her wide-brimmed hat. Rasheed stayed stone-still, keeping his binoculars trained on her as she hiked along. Then suddenly, she raised her head and glanced around, as if sensing his scrutiny, and he finally caught a glimpse of her face.
His breath made a hitch. His heart stumbled through several beats. “That’s the target?” he blurted out, unable to conceal his disbelief.
“That’s her.”
She was beautiful. Strikingly so with high, sculpted cheekbones, delicately winged black brows and a full, lush mouth in her tawny face. Her skin was satin smooth, her lips a tempting pink. She wore her long black hair in a single braid, but the wind had worked the shorter strands loose, sending them dancing around her face. She moved with an athletic grace, hinting at a slender build beneath her coat. But it was her remarkable face that held him spellbound, making it damned near impossible to breathe.
Then she turned her head, staring straight into the binoculars, and everything inside him stilled. Her eyes were green, the cool, silvery-green of desert sagebrush or ancient olive trees. The pale color was unexpected, captivating, provoking something instinctive inside him—the primitive male urge to possess.
His ancestors would have raided for her, started wars over her, killed for her. She had the rare kind of beauty coveted by sheikhs and kings.
“Who is she?” he asked, aware he was taking a risk. Questions aroused suspicions. And he’d worked too hard to infiltrate this terror cell to blow his cover now.
But this woman...
“She looks Middle Eastern,” he added as an excuse.
Amir grunted. “She’s Jaziirastani.”
Jaziirastani? Why were they kidnapping a woman from their own country? His curiosity mounted, but Rasheed knew better than to ask. He had to bide his time, displaying the blind compliance the terrorists expected while somehow ferreting out their plans.
The target hiked across the clearing toward the tents, her movements graceful despite her pack. She dropped off the unwieldy backpack with the woman organizing the supplies and lingered for a moment to chat. He studied the tilt of her head, the elegant way she moved her hands, still wondering who she could be. Then she continued to a large, gray-and-blue tent beneath a tree. She disappeared inside, emerging a few minutes later wearing jeans instead of scrubs, and started back across the camp toward the fire.
Amir caught his eye. His checkered kaffiyeh headscarf flapped in the wind. “We have the information we need. She’s in the farthest tent. Let’s go.” He started scooting backward through the grass.
Rasheed hesitated, shooting the medical group another look as they went about their tasks, heedless of the raid that was about to shatter their night. If only he could warn them. They’d come here with noble intentions, doing their part to mitigate the misery of the impoverished farmers’ lives. And they didn’t deserve the fear they were about to suffer during the attack.
But he couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t do anything to blow his cover now, not when this mission’s success lay squarely in his hands. Because whatever these terrorists had planned, whatever the reason they’d hired a drug cartel to smuggle them into the United States, this thing was huge, rumored to rival 9/11 in scope. And it was up to him to discover their plot and stop them, no matter what it took.
The sky grew dim. Thunder grumbled again, rolling up the valley and reverberating against the terraced hills. The medical team members halted their activities and looked up. The clouds were drawing closer, their tombstone-colored bottoms growing more ominous as they dragged rain across the jagged peaks. The mules picketed beside the tents began to stir.
Aware of Amir’s impatience, Rasheed spared the Jaziirastani woman a final glance. No, he couldn’t warn them. He couldn’t risk interfering in the attack. All he could do was try to protect them the best he could while keeping his goal in sight.
* * *
If there was one thing Nadine Seymour would never understand, it was man’s propensity for violence. No matter where she’d traveled or worked—whether in glitzy New York City, in her father’s native land of Jaziirastan, or here, in the isolated mountain villages of Peru where thatch-roofed huts clung precariously to the craggy hillsides—she’d come across the same defeated women, their bodies battered and bruised, their eyes filled with hopelessness and despair.
She would never understand it. Never accept it. And she sure as hell would never put herself in a position to experience it firsthand.
“So how did it go today?”
Her lower back aching, her head throbbing from the scarcity of oxygen at fourteen thousand feet, she lowered herself beside the campfire and warmed her hands. She glanced at Henry, taking in his kind blue eyes, his sparse gray hair sticking up in disarray, the white whiskers emerging on his jaw. A retired general practitioner in his late sixties, he’d helped organize this trek along the ancient Inca trade routes to the tiny hamlets scattered throughout the peaks—places where there was no electricity, no running water, no medical service or phones. Just unrelenting misery and abuse.
“The same as always,” she said, releasing a sigh. “Parasites, basal cells, some battered women and kids.”
“Did many people show up?”
“Yeah, we missed you.” Their small team—two doctors, two nurses, a pharmacist and an interpreter who doubled as their cook, mule tender and guide—had been traveling in the Andes with Medical Help International, a private charitable organization, for over a month now, in areas so remote some villagers had never seen foreigners before. But despite the isolation, word of their impending arrival had spread, and people had straggled into their makeshift clinic all day, standing patiently in line for hours, and paying with whatever they could—food, blankets, coins, even an occasional chicken or bird. Twelve hours later, the last few patients had finally left, their prescription drugs tucked into their unkuña carrying cloths, hiking in their tire-tread sandals back to their potato farms and alpaca herds hidden in the ravines creasing the hills.
“The violence is always the worst.” Her voice hardened at the thought. These people had a tough enough time simply trying to survive. Not only did they battle poverty—including a disheartening lack of basic amenities—but they faced danger from the drug runners smuggling coca north into Brazil and Colombia, destined for the markets in the United States. They didn’t need the added terror of domestic abuse. “I’d like to find someplace it doesn’t exist for once.”
Henry’s eyes softened. “I’m not going to argue with that, but your impression might be a little off.”
“I know.” As a plastic surgeon in New York City, she specialized in reconstructive work. And while she saw her share of accident victims and cancer survivors, she’d also seen far too many faces destroyed by fists—just as she had growing up.
Setting that depressing memory aside, she summoned a smile. “I’m just tired, I guess.” They’d spent weeks on the trail, sleeping in tents, hiking into villages so high she could hardly breathe. Sometimes they saved a life. That hope kept them going, making them feel they were doing some good, even if their efforts never seemed like enough. But sometimes the suffering overwhelmed her, despite her attempts to stay upbeat.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help,” Henry said.
She cast the elderly doctor another glance, unable to miss the wistfulness in his voice. “Don’t be silly.” Henry was suffering from a moderate case of altitude sickness, or soroche as the locals called it, which had kept him confined to the camp. Except for Manny, their native interpreter, they’d all suffered headaches and fatigue as they’d crossed the slopes. But Henry’s case had been the worst, dangerously so.
“How’s your head?” she asked.
“Better.”
“Have you been chewing the coca leaves?”
“Yes, Doctor Seymour.” He slid her a cheeky smile.
She didn’t smile back. They still had several more hamlets—at an even higher elevation—to reach before they headed down to a safer altitude. “You sure you want to continue?”
“Of course.”
“What’s your reading on the pulse oximeter?”
“Nearly eighty.”
“Eighty? It should be back in the nineties by now. The high nineties.” Cerebral edema, swelling of the brain caused by a lack of oxygen, wasn’t a joke. Hikers died from it every year—which Henry knew. “Tell me your name and birth date.”
Henry sighed. “I’m not confused, no more than I usually am. My pulse is normal. My gait’s steady. My appetite is coming back. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you if it gets any worse.”
Assuming he was lucid enough to notice. “You’d better.” Not only was the trail about to get steeper, but they were entering an area notorious for drug smugglers. Hopefully, their organization’s scouts were right, and the drug cartel had moved out due to the rainy season about to begin. But the team still had to move quickly and keep their wits about them if they hoped to survive unscathed.
“I’m monitoring it,” Henry assured her. “And I am getting better. I just need another day to rest. I’ll be jogging up the trail in no time.”
She studied his face. He was still too pale and drawn, but maybe he’d improved a bit. Still, she’d been on these trips with him before. She knew how stubborn he could be. How generous. He would never want to slow them down and deny a villager their services—even if it killed him to soldier on.
A rumble of thunder caught her attention, and she looked up. Still worried, she studied the storm clouds crawling over the peaks, their slab-gray bottoms laden with rain. Lovely. By the time they set out in the morning, they’d be trudging through mud. She just hoped their tents didn’t wash away before then. “I’d better help Lauren secure the supplies.”
Henry started to rise with her, but she held up her hand. “Stop right there. You’re going to sit here and have another cup of coca tea. And chew a few leaves while you’re at it. Doctor’s orders.” She smiled at Henry’s salute.
Hurrying now, she started toward the tarp where the pharmacist had spread out their medical supplies, reorganizing them for the following day. But halfway across the clearing, that odd feeling returned, the same creepy sensation that had plagued her earlier, as if someone had her in his sights. She came to a stop and glanced around, scanning the steep hills surrounding the camp, the long, yellow grass waving in the wind, the lone hawk riding the thermals in the gloomy sky.
Her heart still beating fast, she shifted her gaze to the camp itself—the tents grouped to one side, their native interpreter, Manny, tending the mules nearby. The pharmacist rushed to bundle up their medications while the two nurses carted the finished packs to the supply tent to keep them dry.
Nothing was wrong. No one was watching her. She was imagining that ripple of danger, the shock of remembered fear.
With effort, she shook the feeling aside. She was being ridiculous. No one could have found her here. How much more isolated could she get? She was tired, that was all. She just needed a hot meal, a warm sleeping bag and a good night’s rest to feel like herself again.
The wind whipped down, splattering icy raindrops over her cheeks. So much for comfort. Still, she could bear it. She’d faced far worse conditions than a freezing rainstorm during the years she’d lived on the streets.
But as she continued toward the pharmacist, the doubts came back full force. No matter where she was, no matter how much time had passed, she could never be completely safe. And she couldn’t afford to forget that—because if her enemies ever caught up with her, she’d be dead.
* * *
The uneasy feeling was back.
Nadine lay motionless in her sleeping bag several hours later, her breathing shallow, her gaze glued on the walls of her pitch-black tent. The rain bludgeoned the roof. The wind gusted and moaned, buffeting the nylon sides and tearing at the meager stakes. Above the storm, a mule made a plaintive haw while thunder crashed and shook the ground.
Something had woken her up. But there was no way she could have heard anything above the raging storm. And yet, the feeling of danger consumed her, the sensation that something bad was about to occur.
Knowing better than to ignore her instincts, she sat up. The pharmacist, Lauren, lay sleeping beside her. Anne, one of the nurses on the trip, snored on her other side. Nadine visualized the small camp’s layout—the men’s red tent, the smaller supply tent where Manny slept, enjoying his privacy. He was the only one who traveled armed.
The mule brayed again, followed by something that sounded like a horse’s neigh. Struck again by the feeling of wrongness, she held her breath, struggling to distinguish sounds in the seething storm. Surely she’d imagined the horse. No one would venture out on a night like this.
Not quite convinced, she dressed quickly in her sweater and jeans. She tugged on her boots and laced them, then took hold of the flashlight and lowered herself back onto the sleeping bag. Of course, she was overreacting. Sure, they were traveling through an area prone to drug smugglers, men who carried on a lucrative side business kidnapping foreigners for cash. But they were south of the coca fields. MHI, the agency that organized the trip, had monitored the situation carefully and hadn’t spotted any drug cartel activity in months.
And there was no way her family could have caught up with her out here. She’d fled her home—and the marriage her Jaziirastani father had arranged—over fifteen years ago. And while they’d promised retaliation, vowing to kill her to avenge their slighted honor, they couldn’t possibly have found her, not after all this time. She’d changed her name. She’d created a fictitious identity, complete with documentation, including a passport so authentic she routinely sailed through United States immigration points without a hitch. Even the most dogged investigator couldn’t connect her to Nadira al Kahtani, the terrified girl she’d once been.
A man shouted near the tent. Startled, she sat bolt upright again. Manny. He’d probably heard the mules and gone outside to calm them down. Maybe he needed her help. If those mules got loose, they’d have to chase them all over the mountains to find them, wasting valuable time.
Making a quick decision, she pulled on her hat and coat. She didn’t relish getting soaked, but she couldn’t shirk her responsibilities. They all had to work together to make this trip a success. And Henry couldn’t offer much assistance in his weakened state.
She picked up the flashlight and flicked it on. Careful not to disturb her tent-mates, she crawled over her sleeping bag to the storage area near the door.
Suddenly, the flap whipped back. Startled, she glanced up, catching sight of a man’s dark face. He hurtled inside in a burst of cold and rain, knocking the wind from her lungs as he slammed her down.
Chapter 2
Rasheed sprawled over the writhing woman, struggling to get her under control. He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to involve the other women in the tent and risk their capture, too. But his target bucked and squirmed beneath him, yanking his hair, raking her nails down his cheek, making it difficult to hold on. Then she dug her thumbs into his eyes.
He reared back in the nick of time. Damn. Whoever this woman was, she knew how to fight. Fed up, he grabbed hold of her arms and dragged her outside the tent into the blustery storm.
Rain lashed his face. The wind clawed at his hair and clothes. The woman managed to jerk one hand free and lunged toward him, jabbing her finger into his armpit, sending pain shuddering through his nerves, despite his coat. He swore, but didn’t let go.
Instead, he tackled her to the ground then flipped her over and sat atop her, using his weight to hold her down. But she trapped his feet against her side and knocked his arms loose in a move so quick it caught him unprepared. Then she rolled him over and tried to stand.
His respect for her grew, even as his training kicked in. He still didn’t want to harm her. But damn it, he had to play his part. And frankly, she was better off with him than the real terrorists, who’d probably kill her if she tried to resist. Using brute force, he took her down again, ignoring her yelp of pain.
Knowing he had to hurry, that too much could go wrong if he drew this out, he whipped out a scarf and secured her wrists behind her back as she thrashed and struggled to rise. Thunder boomed. Lightning crackled in the sky, illuminating the woman’s furious green eyes. His breath sawing, he wrapped another scarf around her mouth, muffling her angry cries.
Then he stood. Breathing heavily, he pulled her upright. She took a quick step back, intending to run, but he went in low and scooped her up. Then he slung her over his back in a fireman’s carry and loped toward his waiting horse.
She squirmed, and he staggered off balance, nearly dropping her in the mud. The wind howled past. The skies seemed to open up, the rain bucketing down so hard he could barely see. He made it to the horse, then tossed her over the saddle, and started to untie the lead.
But she wriggled loose and fell. Lightning scissored the sky, followed by a vicious crack of thunder. Already spooked—and with a woman now crawling beneath his hooves—the gelding reared and tried to bolt.
Swearing, Rasheed dived at his captive and dragged her from beneath the trembling horse. He had no choice now. She’d get killed if she tried to run. And he couldn’t reason with her. She’d never cooperate with a kidnapper, even if it was for her own good.
Wishing he could avoid it, he gripped her neck, bearing down on the pressure points. Short seconds later, she slumped, unconscious, to the ground. He spared a moment to soothe the gelding, then picked up the woman and draped her over the pommel, positioning her so she wouldn’t fall.
“Easy,” he told the prancing horse. Still trying to catch his breath, he unhitched the lead and sprang into the saddle, adjusting his prisoner across his thighs.
Lightning erupted in a staccato burst, revealing the billowing sheets of rain cleaving the night. Rasheed glanced at the camp, taking in the chaotic scene. One man lay on the ground. Another chased the mules as they galloped off. The tents flapped like sheets on a clothesline, their stakes torn loose by the savage storm.
He sent a fleeting wish for the medical team’s safety, hoping they’d be all right.
He was less certain about the spitfire in his lap.
Holding on to his unconscious captive, he wheeled his gelding around. He spurred him into motion, cantering to the trailhead where the leader of the terror cell lay in wait. Then, with the thunderstorm raging around him, he raced off into the night.
* * *
Nadine regained consciousness bit by bit. Her forehead throbbed. Her throat felt bruised and raw. Every inch of her body ached, from her incredibly sore ribs to the fire scorching through her shoulder blades. And she couldn’t seem to move her arms.
Someone had kidnapped her. The realization flooded through her in a rush. Henry. Lauren. Manny. Oh, God. Where were they? Panicked, she wrenched open her eyes. Then she blinked, struggling to orient herself and make out shapes in the inky night. Flames from a campfire flickered several yards off. The rain had stopped, but moisture clung to the air, so she doubted much time had passed. More impressions began to emerge from the darkness—the low rocks slanting above her, the trickle of nearby water, the chill from the stone floor seeping into her bones. She was in a cave, her hands bound, her back propped against the wall.
She’d dressed before the attack, so she still wore her jacket and jeans. But she’d lost her cap, and her wet hair clung to her neck and cheeks, adding to the cold. Her arms were completely numb.
She wriggled her icy fingers, then pulled on her restraint, unable to loosen the knot. At least her kidnappers had removed her gag, enabling her to breathe.
But who had captured her and why?
She turned her head, focusing on the campfire outside the cave. Three men sat around it, a row of boulders at their backs. To the right were several horses, their saddlebags piled nearby. To the left was a sheer rock wall. Smoke from the campfire rose in lazy wisps, then dissipated in the pitch-black air.
Trying not to attract their attention, she studied the men again. One lay on his side, asleep. Beside him, a man wearing a white turban cleaned his weapons and whistled an off-key tune. The closest man sat facing the campfire, his back to the cave, his collar-length black hair gleaming like obsidian in the wavering light.
They all had jet-black hair. The two she could see best had swarthy skin and beards. Were they Hispanic? Middle Eastern? Her heart swerved hard at the thought.
But that was ridiculous. They couldn’t be Middle Eastern, despite the turban the one man wore. They had to be drug runners. Who else would be traveling through the Andes on horseback—and kidnapping foreigners, no less?
Besides, who these men were, or why they’d brought her here didn’t matter right now. She had to concentrate on getting free.
Except...where were the other prisoners? Surely they hadn’t only kidnapped her?
Frowning, she ran her gaze around the cave again. This time, she caught sight of a man lying prostrate in the shadows, and her heart missed several beats. Henry. She couldn’t mistake his gray hair. And of all the people to kidnap...he was already suffering from altitude sickness. He couldn’t take any more abuse.
But where was the rest of the team? Her uneasiness growing, she struggled to remember details about the attack. But all she recalled was a kaleidoscope of jumbled impressions—slashing rain, a heavily muscled man knocking her down, the scream of a frightened horse. The storm had been too fierce, the raid too fast. Maybe the other team members had gotten away.
And if they had, they’d immediately mount a rescue...or maybe not. They wouldn’t know where the kidnappers had gone. The rain would have erased their tracks. And even assuming they did catch up, they couldn’t take on a drug cartel. It would be suicidal to try, especially since Manny had the only gun. No, they’d head straight down the mountain to the nearest town and summon help.
Which meant she was on her own. She had to decide on a plan, then help Henry escape while they still had the advantage of surprise.
Assuming he was alive.
Her eyes swung back to their captors. The men continued to lounge around the campfire, still not looking her way. But they didn’t need to keep watch. They’d blocked the mouth of the cave, trapping Henry and her inside.
Her hands bound, her movements awkward, she fought her way to her knees. Then she crept across the cold, stone ground toward Henry. Several difficult yards later, she reached his side.
“Henry,” she whispered, kneeling beside him. He groaned, and she tried again. “Are you all right?”
His eyes fluttered open, and he clutched his head. “Nadine?” He sounded dazed. “What the hell...?”
“Shh. We’ve been kidnapped. How do you feel?”
“Awful. Like a mule stepped on my head.”
She could imagine. “Can you loosen this scarf? My hands are tied.”
Grimacing, he released his head. “I’ll try.”
“Hold on. Don’t move.” She swiveled around, leaning close enough for him to reach her wrists. Then she waited while he fumbled with the knots.
“It’s wet. I can’t... Wait. Here we go.” A second later, the scarf slithered free.
Prickles stabbed her arms. She gasped at the rush of pain, then bit down hard on a moan. Hunching her shoulders, she rubbed her arms and hissed as the circulation began to return.
“Are you okay?” Henry whispered.
Still wincing, she sucked in a breath. “I’m fine.” Better than he was, at any rate. Trying to ignore her discomfort, she turned to him again. “Come on. Sit up so I can check your head.”
Scooting closer, she wrapped her arm around his waist. Then she slowly tugged him upright and leaned him against the wall. She slanted a quick glance at the men outside, but they weren’t paying attention to them. Yet.
“I’ve got a penlight,” Henry said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled it out.
“Wait.” Nadine crawled around Henry, positioning herself between him and the cave’s entrance in case their captors looked their way. Then she clicked on the tiny flashlight and trained it on his scalp. “You’ve got a knot and a nasty gash. Look at me.” She angled the light toward his eyes. “Your pupils look good. Do you have any nausea? Dizziness?”
“Both. I probably have a concussion.”
“Hopefully a mild one. Does anything hurt besides your head?”
He grimaced. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Definitely.” A concussion combined with altitude sickness would cause anyone tremendous pain, let alone a man his age.
She eyed his head again. “We really need to clean that cut. I don’t suppose these guys have a first aid kit.”
“Doubtful.” He craned his neck to see the men outside the cave. “So who are they?”
“Good question.” One she didn’t have a clue how to answer yet. “I’m guessing it’s the drug cartel the agency warned us about.”
“I thought they’d moved out of the area.”
“That’s what they said. Obviously, they were wrong.”
Henry slumped back against the rock and closed his eyes. “So what are we going to do?”
“Get you to a hospital, for one thing.” He needed medical attention at once—an oxygen tank, a CT scan and several days of bed rest, preferably at a lower altitude.
But how could they escape? Henry wouldn’t last on foot. A jolting race down the mountain on horseback would make his concussion worse. And even if they could slip past their captors, where would they go? She had no idea where they were. She couldn’t roam aimlessly around the Andes in the darkness with an injured man in tow.
But neither could she leave him behind.
Her gaze gravitated back to the men. She didn’t want to bargain with their kidnappers. But what other choice did she have? And maybe they’d made a mistake. Maybe they’d captured the wrong people—and she could convince them to let them go.
“Stay here,” she murmured to Henry. “Let me deal with this.” Inhaling to gather her courage, she rose and walked to the entrance of the cave.
The captor with the turban stopped sharpening his knife at her approach. His gaze pinned hers, and she abruptly stopped, a stark chill scuttling through her nerves. His eyes looked cruel and utterly ruthless, as if every trace of humanity had disappeared from his soul. And she knew instinctively that this thug would kill her in a heartbeat without a qualm.
He muttered something she couldn’t hear to the dozing man. That man roused himself and sat upright, and her disquiet edged up a notch. He had the same full beard and swarthy skin, but he was heavier, with a coarse, flat nose and fleshy lips. He also wore a scarf, the black-and-white-checkered kaffiyeh that the Arabs wore. His silver tooth winked in the light.
Shuddering, she crossed her arms, the impression that they were Middle Eastern growing stronger now. But even with their head coverings it didn’t make sense. They had to belong to a drug cartel. She was in the mountains of Peru, not the Middle East.
But the way they continued to stare at her with something akin to hatred in their eyes...
Memories bubbled up, fragments from news reports she’d read—how Middle Eastern terrorists had formed partnerships with South American drug cartels who smuggled them into the United States.
Nonsense. She couldn’t go off the deep end and let paranoia skew her thoughts. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “Oiga,” she said in Spanish. “Excuse me.”
Neither man answered, and her belly made a little clutch. They had to understand Spanish. Unless they spoke an indigenous language, like Quechua or Aymara...
She racked her brains, scrambling to remember the handful of phrases she’d learned. “Imainalla-kashanki. Hello. Do you speak Spanish?”
The third man lumbered to his feet. He turned, and his gaze slammed into hers. And for a moment, she couldn’t move. The intensity in his eyes held her riveted, cementing her in place. Startled, she took in his dark, slashing brows, his collar-length coal-black hair, his high, bold nose in his chiseled face. He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders tapering to a flat belly and muscled thighs. His mouth was hard, his onyx eyes unreadable, not providing any hints of his thoughts. But his hot black eyes simmered with intelligence, prompting another flurry of nerves.
This was the man who’d attacked her. She couldn’t mistake him. The scratches she’d carved on his cheeks gave him away.
He wasn’t exactly handsome. Taken individually, his features were too rough-hewn for that. But he was striking, incredibly so, from the sharp perception in his unwavering eyes to the day’s growth of beard stubble darkening his jaw. He reminded her of a primitive warrior, an ancient desert sheikh.
A man she’d do well not to underestimate.
He skirted the fire and headed toward her, then stopped a few feet away. This close, she could see the straight, inky lashes fringing his eyes, the stark grooves bracketing his grim mouth, the sensual shape of his bottom lip. Her nails had barely missed his left eye, and one long scrape ran from the upper edge of his cheekbone into his beard stubble, adding to his ruthless look. He was half a head taller than she was, putting her at eye level with the hollow of his muscled throat. She tilted her head back to meet his eyes.
For several seconds, he didn’t speak. Instead, he continued to study her, spurring her heart to an off-kilter beat. Then he lowered his gaze, letting it travel slowly over the length of her, causing her heart to race. His gaze flicked back to hers, the impact no less powerful this time. And she couldn’t mistake the sexual awareness flitting through his eyes.
The answering warmth in her body shocked her. Appalled, she hugged her arms.
“What do you want?” he asked in English. Flawless, American English.
“You’re American?”
“No.” He didn’t elaborate, but she angled her head, studying him with even more interest now. Few nonnative speakers had an accent that perfect. He must have spent time in the States—which might make him sympathize with them.
“Listen,” she began. “I don’t know who you were after, but you must have made a mistake. I’m a doctor. So is Henry, the man I’m with. You must have confused us with someone else.”
He folded his arms, the motion emphasizing the breadth of his muscled chest. “We didn’t make a mistake.”
Taken aback, she tried to recoup. “If you’re after a ransom—”
“We’re not.”
Her heart skipped. They had to be. Ignoring his answer, she tried again. “I can get the money. I have a friend, a photographer. She can come up with whatever you want. Just take us to a town where I can contact her.”
His black eyes continued to hold her. Firelight danced on his swarthy skin, emphasizing the harsh hollows of his granite face. “I told you. We don’t want your money.”
“But then...” She glanced at the other men. Their fixed stares further unnerved her, and she tightened her grip on her arms. And suddenly, visions spun through her mind of terrified captives paraded across the television screen, pleading desperately for their lives—and then slain. Did these men intend to kill them?
No. She quashed a burst of dread. She couldn’t start imagining the worst. They probably planned to negotiate a prisoner swap, to force the Peruvian or American government to free a jailed criminal in exchange for them. FARC had used that tactic in Colombia for years. Maybe these men were doing the same.
But that brought dangers of its own. She couldn’t risk the public exposure, no matter how much she wanted to get free. She’d spent too many years on the run, always moving, always changing her identity, carefully staying out of the limelight to evade the enemies dogging her. Not only was her powerful family hunting her down, but she had a gang executioner on her trail, a man who needed to ensure her silence after she’d chanced upon his crime. And if he ever figured out who she was, he wouldn’t just go after her. He’d pursue the other two witnesses, her closest friends.
But as much as she wanted to bolt she couldn’t worry about herself right now. She had to think of Henry, and get him to a hospital fast. She’d plot her own escape later, once she made sure he was safe.
She lifted her gaze to her kidnapper’s, wishing she could read the thoughts behind those impenetrable black eyes. “Is there a reason you need two doctors? Does someone need medical help?”
“No.”
“Because Henry’s hurt. He has a concussion. Altitude sickness, too. He needs urgent medical care. We need to get him down the mountain to a hospital before his condition gets any worse.”
His brows snapped into a frown. He glanced toward the cave behind her, a hint of uncertainty flitting through his eyes. Or had she imagined that? Just because he spoke English like a native didn’t mean he had a heart.
But whether he sympathized with them or not didn’t matter. She had to convince him to let Henry go.
“Henry has HACE,” she continued. “High altitude cerebral edema. His brain is swelling, and the concussion is making it worse. If we don’t get him to a lower altitude immediately, he could die.”
The white-turbaned man by the campfire rose. Her kidnapper glanced his way, and suddenly, a shutter fell over his face, every trace of sympathy vanishing from his eyes. “Get back in the cave,” he told her and turned away.
But she leaped out and grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
He stopped. He slowly turned to face her, his gaze trained on hers. An electric jolt sizzled through her, the iron feel of his bulging biceps scorching her palm like a red-hot brand. Startled, she released her grip. What was that? Shaken at her odd reaction, she stepped back.
“Please.” She inhaled to steady her nerves. “Henry and I... We’re not important. No one cares if we disappear or not. And the organization we’re with, Medical Help International, won’t negotiate with you. We signed an agreement. They’re not responsible for rescuing us if anything goes wrong.”
“I told you, we don’t want your money.”
“Then what do you want?”
He didn’t answer, and she tried again. “There’s no point in keeping Henry. You can’t possibly need him. He’s too sick. You have to let him go.”
The white-turbaned man approached, fingering his gun. Nadine sucked in a breath, determined not to show any fear. But this man’s dead eyes made her insides crawl.
“What’s wrong?” he asked her kidnapper in Arabic, and her heart stopped cold. Oh, God. These men were Middle Eastern.
What were they doing here?
Her kidnapper turned to the turbaned man. “The man in the cave is hurt. She wants us to let him go.”
Her lungs seized up. Dizziness barreled through her, and she feared she was going to heave. They weren’t only speaking Arabic, but Jaziirastani, a dialect spoken only in her father’s country.
The father who wanted her dead.
The man’s hate-filled eyes burned into hers. “He’s staying with us. Now shut up and get back in the cave.”
Nausea roiled inside her. She couldn’t seem to draw a breath. But she had to stay calm, think and get Henry out of this mess—before he ended up dead.
“I’m sorry,” she said in English, trying her best to look confused. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t speak your language.”
“The hell you don’t, Nadira al Kahtani. Now get back in the cave or I’ll shoot your friend.”
Her knees went weak. Shocked speechless, she staggered backward, then stumbled into the cave. She wobbled over to Henry and collapsed on the ground beside him, her carefully built world crashing apart.
“What happened?” he asked.
Too overwhelmed to answer, she pulled her legs to her chest, her entire body starting to shake.
They knew her name. They knew who she really was.
“Did you find out what they want?” he asked again.
She’d found out, all right. They wanted her.
After fifteen years on the run, her past had caught up with her. And this time it looked as if there was no way out.
Chapter 3
Rasheed couldn’t believe it. Their captive was Nadira al Kahtani, the daughter of his prime suspect. The daughter of the man who’d murdered his wife.
Still struggling to process that bombshell, he adjusted the cinch on his gelding’s saddle as the terrorists prepared to ride out. He’d known she was Middle Eastern. And he could see her as a member of the Jaziirastani royal family with her regal, spirited air. But Nadira al Kahtani? The daughter of the banker financing this terrorist mission? It didn’t make any sense.
Incredulous at the revelation, he shuffled through his memories, trying to reconcile this stunning development with what he knew of the secretive clan. Yousef al Kahtani was a wealthy Jaziirastani banker who resided in Washington, D.C. The intelligence community had long suspected him of funneling money to the Rising Light terrorists and funding jihadist activity worldwide. But thanks to his generous campaign contributions, he also had power. And every time they got close to unraveling his murky activities, some high-level politician ran interference, stopping the investigation in its tracks.
Al Kahtani’s wife had died over a decade ago. Aside from a son, Sultan, he had a daughter, Nadira, rumored to be both brilliant and beautiful, who’d disappeared shortly after her mother’s death. In fact, she’d dropped off the grid so completely the CIA assumed she’d returned to her father’s native country, where she’d either married or died.
Rasheed shot a glance at the woman sitting near the entrance to the cave. He skimmed the elegant lines of her profile, the feminine arch of her brows, and his pulse took another skip. Intel had definitely gotten the beautiful part right, especially with her startling green eyes. But where had she been for all these years? How had these terrorists found her when the CIA couldn’t track her down? And if her father was financing this jihadist expedition, why would they capture her?
Growing even more confused now, he turned his attention to their extra supply horse and inspected the tack for frays. No matter what the explanation for the kidnapping, their cell leader, Manzoor, couldn’t have plotted it on his own. He might be in charge of their crack contingent, but he didn’t have the power to shape their agenda, only to carry out their attacks.
So who had authorized the woman’s abduction? Why would they kidnap her now, en route to an important mission—a mission rumored to be so catastrophic it had the intelligence community running scared? And if al Kahtani wasn’t funding the upcoming attack, who was?
Unable to come up with an answer, Rasheed grabbed the horses’ reins and led them to the cave. But there was one thing he did know—everything about this kidnapping felt off. His instincts were clamoring hard. And he had to watch his back. Yousef al Kahtani was no fool. He’d evaded prosecution for years, running a financial operation so labyrinthine even the CIA couldn’t sort it out. And this could all be an elaborate ruse. Al Kahtani could have sent his daughter here to investigate him. He’d penetrated Rasheed’s cover once before—and killed his wife to warn him off.
Now he might be using his daughter to strike again.
The woman rose at his approach. She straightened her spine and faced him—her chin canted high, her hands balled into fists, her gorgeous eyes challenging his—a show of feistiness he’d come to expect after the way she’d fought him off. But as he drew to a stop beside her, he caught a myriad of other emotions crowding her eyes—worry, uncertainty, fear.
He frowned. The fear could be an act, a way to gain his sympathy and test where his loyalty lay. But could she actually make her face go pale on command?
And if she wasn’t pretending, if she wasn’t in cahoots with her father, and she really was an innocent victim in this attack, then why had they kidnapped her? What did she know about their plans?
He came to a stop, resolved. Whatever the answer, he had to find out. Thousands of American lives hung in the balance, depending on his success.
“Henry’s getting worse,” she announced. “We need to get him to a hospital right now.”
Rasheed shifted his attention to the injured doctor and inwardly groaned. She was right. The poor guy looked like the epitome of misery with his thin shoulders bowed, his hair sticking up in snowy clumps, his hands cradling his bloody head.
But what could he do to help? He didn’t have the authority to let him go. And showing even a hint of sympathy would invite the terrorists’ attention, increasing their suspicions of him.
Cursing this complication, he reached into his saddlebag and handed her a pouch of leaves. “Here. Try these.”
Her jaw sagged. “Coca leaves? Are you kidding? He doesn’t have a tension headache. He has a concussion. I told you. This is serious, life threatening. He needs oxygen and a CT scan.”
And he had a cover to maintain. He couldn’t afford to act out of character with so many lives on the line. Keeping his expression blank, he shrugged. “If you find an oxygen tank lying around, help yourself. In the meantime, you’ll have to make do with that.”
Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes darkened to forest-green, her indignation clear. And without warning that attraction leaped between them, that deep, sensual awareness he’d felt toward her from the start. And he had the damnedest urge to haul her against him, to turn that passion toward something more pleasurable—a kiss that would make them burn.
Stunned, he turned back to the horse. What the hell? Talk about the wrong woman! She was the daughter of a terrorist, his prime suspect, the man who’d ordered his wife’s death. She couldn’t get more off-limits than that.
Not that there was a right woman. He didn’t have relationships anymore, not since his wife had died. He’d spent too many years in the terror training camps, too many years living amid the dregs of society to ever lead a normal life. That part of him was gone. And even if he could turn back time and be the man that he once was, he wouldn’t do it. He refused to put a woman in jeopardy again.
Dragging his mind back to his mission—the only thing that mattered—he glanced at Henry again. “You know how to ride?”
The doctor looked up, confusion in his dazed eyes. “I went on a pony ride once as a kid.”
Great. A regular Buffalo Bill. “How about you?” he asked Nadira.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why? Where are we going?”
Not bothering to answer, he motioned toward the extra horse. “You can ride the mare. Henry will ride with me.”
“He can’t ride. I told you, he has a concussion.”
“Would he be better off on foot?”
“He’d be better off if you hadn’t kidnapped him.”
No kidding. And as soon as they reached a village, he’d try to convince the terrorists to leave him behind. But in the meantime...
He glanced at the men sitting astride their horses—their sharp gazes taking in every detail of the exchange—and hardened his voice. “Look. We’re heading out. You can ride or walk—your choice. But either way, you’re going to move. Both of you. Now.”
Nadira crossed her arms. Her full lips flattened into a mulish line. Rasheed held her gaze, knowing he couldn’t afford to relent—not with the terrorists watching their moves. She’d pay too high a price if he did.
But Henry lurched to his feet, interrupting the standoff, and staggered his way. “Don’t worry. I can ride.”
Sure he could. The man could barely stand upright, let alone trot down a mountain trail. But without a helicopter to airlift him to a hospital, what other choice did he have?
With a sigh, he mounted his horse. He held out a hand to Henry, but his gaze went to Nadira again. “Help him up.”
For a minute, he thought she’d refuse. She glanced at the steep rocks hemming them in, the two men waiting on the trail ahead, as if weighing her chance of escape. But then she moved to Henry’s side.
“Put your foot in the stirrup,” he told Henry.
The doctor grabbed his hand and complied. With Nadira’s help, Rasheed pulled him into place behind him, wincing at his feeble moan. He just hoped the old man could hold on.
Nadira walked around the gelding to the supply horse, then vaulted into the saddle with practiced ease. He let go of the reins, and the mare pranced back. She expertly wheeled the horse around.
Then she paused, and her gaze collided with his. And for a moment time seemed suspended, her green eyes pinning him in place. A flush darkened her cheeks. Her black hair had escaped its braid, tumbling like silk across her slender back. She sat with a regal air astride the horse, the dawn-tinged mountains rising around her, her brilliant eyes defiant, pride etched in her royal lines.
She was mesmerizing. Gorgeous.
And she was the daughter of his enemy, the key to stopping this terror attack.
He hardened his resolve. “Let’s go.”
She shot him a glare, then nudged the mare into action and started down the rocky trail. Rasheed fell in behind her, his eyes on her swaying back. She was the key, all right. She just might have the answers he needed to unravel this case. And if so, he intended to get them.
Starting now.
* * *
By the time they finally stopped to rest five hours later, Nadine knew one thing. Henry wasn’t going to make it, and it was all her fault.
She climbed down from her horse with a groan, muscles she hadn’t used since childhood protesting with a vengeance now. They’d been working their way down the mountain for hours, the sun frying her scalp as it inched toward its midday pinnacle, the parched brown landscape gradually giving way to a vibrant green. Every time she’d glanced back, she’d glimpsed Henry barely clinging to their kidnapper, his face chalk-white, his eyes lolling back in his head. It was a miracle he hadn’t passed out.
The gelding came to a stop beside her, and the kidnapper called Rasheed leaped off. Shaking aside her discomfort, Nadine hurried over to help Henry dismount.
But the kidnapper beat her to it, catching the injured doctor before he fell. “I’ve got him.”
Henry tottered and leaned against him, the deathly pallor of his skin making her even more alarmed. She hugged Rasheed’s heels as he half carried, half dragged Henry into the shade of a sprawling tree and settled him against the trunk. Henry slumped back and closed his eyes.
Worried, she knelt on the ground beside him and checked his pulse. His forehead was clammy, his breathing too shallow and fast. The gash on his head had stopped bleeding, thank goodness, but he still sported that ugly knot.
Rasheed dropped the saddlebag at her feet. “How is he? Any improvement?”
“Improvement?” She tipped back her head and glared. “Look at him! I told you he couldn’t ride.”
His gaze shifted to the wounded man. He rubbed his scruffy jaw, an emotion that resembled sympathy ghosting through his dark eyes. And for a moment, she was tempted to believe that he was a good guy, that he cared about their safety and was actually on their side.
Shocked, she gave herself a mental shake. What was this? Stockholm syndrome? This man wasn’t her friend. He was an outlaw, a criminal, the man who’d kidnapped her. Was she so desperate for an ally that she’d started imagining kindness where it didn’t exist?
So what if he spoke English like an American? So what if he was gentle with Henry, and seemed sensitive to his plight? It was probably a ploy, a trick to make her more pliable, to convince her to cooperate. She had to stay on guard.
“He can rest while we eat.” Rasheed motioned to the saddlebag he’d dropped. “There’s water in there. Some dried food, too. There should be enough for all of us. Go ahead and get it out.”
“What? You expect me to wait on you after all you’ve done?”
He shot her a level gaze. “Get out the food, Nadira.”
“Nadine.”
“What?”
“I’m Nadine, not Nadira.” She hadn’t gone by that name in years. And she had no intention of starting again now.
His eyes held hers for a heartbeat. The silence between them stretched. “Fine. Then, get out the food, Nadine. And don’t leave this spot.” Not waiting for an answer, he strode off.
Indignant, she scowled as he watered the horses, then joined the other men. He was delusional if he thought she’d cooperate with him. She was a prisoner, not his servant, and he could get his own damned food.
Still fuming, she turned her attention back to Henry. But one glance at the older doctor, and her anger instantly deflated, giving way to a rush of concern. His eyes were closed, his skin waxy in the midday light—definitely not a good sign. She removed her jacket, balled it up and wedged it behind his head.
Then she settled on the ground beside him, pulled her knees to her chest and tried to think. Her head ached. She was so thoroughly exhausted she wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep. And icy frissons of panic kept creeping through her nerves, the extent of her predicament impossible to ignore.
Her father had found her. How he’d done it in this remote location she didn’t know. But he had to be behind her kidnapping. Nothing else made sense. And unless she escaped, he was going to make good on his promise to see her dead.
Even worse, she’d dragged Henry into this mess. Now his life was in danger because of her.
What was she going to do?
She rubbed her gritty eyes, sighing as the warm breeze tousled her loose hair. The temperatures had risen as they’d headed downhill, riding northeast toward the coca fields. She glanced at the sheer mountains jutting into the sky, the river wending through the valley miles below. In the distance, coca fields filled the ancient terraces, forming a multihued patchwork of green.
Knowing she had to come up with a solution, she looked at her captors again. They knelt in the shade beside the creek, going through the ritual of their midday prayers. A cold feeling took hold in her gut. They were the same type of men she’d grown up with, the men she’d fled her home to escape—zealots who preached a doctrine of hatred, bullies who used brutality to get their way. Men like her father, her brother. Men who treated women like property, who thought they had a divine right to control her destiny and would kill her if she didn’t comply.
Her gaze narrowed on the white-turbaned man with the creepy eyes, the one they called Manzoor. He appeared to be their leader, given how the other men deferred to him. She could envision him consorting with her father. He had the same inhuman eyes.
The man with the silver tooth and checkered scarf was named Amir. He struck her as less intelligent, as more of an enforcer than a thinker, but she knew better than to sell him short. He had a sadistic look about him, as if he delighted in inflicting pain—like her heinous brother, Sultan.
She was less certain about Rasheed, the man who’d captured her. Her gaze lingered on him as he went through the prescribed motions of the midday prayer. He intrigued her; she’d give him that much. Every time she looked his way, her nerves went on full alert. But he was too earthy, too masculine with that beard stubble and muscled build—exactly the kind of man she took pains to avoid.
As if sensing her appraisal, he turned his head, his dark gaze fastening on hers. And for an instant she couldn’t breathe, her heart embarking on a crazy sprint. She took in his shaggy, jet-black hair, the intelligence in his midnight eyes, the banked power in the way he moved. He’d removed his jacket when the weather warmed and pushed his sleeves to his elbows, exposing the dark hair sprinkling his corded arms.
The men all stood, and he looked away. She dragged in a breath, trying to figure out her baffling reaction to this man. He was obviously a criminal. Why else would he kidnap her? But she couldn’t escape the impression that he was different somehow. She kept imagining those glimmers of sympathy, making her wonder if he might care.
She rolled her eyes in disgust. Talk about wishful thinking! She was grasping at straws, letting his undeniably virile looks influence her thinking and indulging in fantasies that could get her killed.
Besides, she didn’t need his help. She’d relied on herself for years, surviving far worse dangers than this. And she was going to escape these men.
But she had to help Henry recover first. Her own stomach growling, she opened the flap on the saddlebag and rooted inside for food. She unearthed a container filled with some kind of jerky, several bags of dried fruit and nuts and a cache of coca leaves. She set the food on a towel with a bottle of water, then gently nudged Henry’s arm. “Henry, wake up. You need to eat.”
He opened his eyes with a groan. “What?”
“Come on. You haven’t eaten in hours.”
Grimacing, he sat up straighter and glanced around. “Where are we?”
“I don’t know. We’ve been heading north toward the border with Colombia.” She handed him the water bottle. “We’ve descended quite a bit, though, so you should start feeling better before too long.”
“I hope so. My head...”
Nadine peered into his bloodshot eyes. “Your pupils look normal. How’s your vision?”
“Better. Clear. And the ringing in my ears has stopped. But I’m tired. And this blasted headache...”
“Try to eat something, and then you can take a nap.” She pulled the towel closer, making it easier for him to reach.
“I don’t suppose you have any painkillers?”
“No, just the coca leaves.”
Henry grunted. “Looks like I’ll get some firsthand experience with folk medicine this trip.”
“I’d rather get you to a hospital.” Not that she discounted the coca leaves. A natural analgesic, the locals had used them for centuries to treat everything from broken bones and malaria to asthma and fatigue. But Henry needed more medical care than that.
Nibbling a slice of jerky, she turned her mind back to their main problem: how to escape. Their medical team would alert the authorities, of course. But they’d been too high in the mountains to reach civilization for at least another day. And until they did, until the government could mobilize their forces and send out someone to search for them, she and Henry were on their own.
But Henry couldn’t hike. He’d never survive a flight on horseback with the kidnappers in full pursuit. And even if they had the supplies, even if they wanted to hide out in the mountains until their kidnappers gave up and left, Henry didn’t have the luxury of time. So unless a miracle occurred, they were out of luck. She’d have to wait until they reached a town where they could find a car.
She glanced at Henry again. He’d collapsed against the tree trunk, already asleep, a half-eaten slice of jerky in his hand. Hoping the nap would do him good, she returned her attention to the three men concluding their prayers. A minute later Rasheed broke away from the group and headed her way.
Her heart began to drum. She dropped her gaze, feigning fascination with her jerky as he joined her at the tree. He lowered himself to the ground beside Henry and reached for the bags of food, and she struggled to stay aloof—but he was too blatantly male to ignore. She took in the impressive breadth of his shoulders, the thick tendons roping his tanned arms, and her pulse beat faster yet.
Rasheed’s gaze tangled with hers. Her nerves made a little hum. He studied her with the clear sexual interest she’d come to expect from men. But his expression seemed more thoughtful, more assessing, as if she were a mystery he was trying to solve.
“So what kind of doctor are you?” he asked, his deep voice rumbling in the quiet air.
“A good enough one to know that Henry needs help.”
He glanced at the sleeping doctor, then back to her. “I meant, do you have a specialty?”
“Why? What difference does it make?”
“None at all.”
Averting her gaze, she hugged her knees. She didn’t want to talk to her captor. She didn’t trust this attempt at civility, this sudden desire to act nice. It was probably a good cop, bad cop routine he’d worked out with the other men, a way to make her malleable.
But if there was any chance he’d intercede on Henry’s behalf, it wouldn’t hurt to cooperate—up to a point. “I’m a plastic surgeon.”
His dark brows rose. “Is there a need for that out here?”
“There’s a need for it everywhere people suffer abuse.” She shot him a pointed look. “Men like to inflict pain. Women and children pay the price.”
Rasheed looked away—but not before she caught an emotion stealing through his eyes, a hint of something bleak.
His reaction threw her for a loop. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—a snarky remark about BOTOX or maybe a shrugged dismissal, reactions she’d experienced often enough. But for a second, Rasheed had looked...haunted, as if she’d triggered a memory that caused him pain.
Was that why he’d become a terrorist? Had he suffered a personal loss, experiencing a pain so devastating that he’d gone rogue, and lashed back at society? He didn’t seem the terrorist type—he treated Henry with a basic kindness that seemed at odds with his violent life. And she should know. She’d seen the real deal—men like her brother with his ingrained cruelty. And try as she might, she couldn’t quite see Rasheed that way.
So maybe he’d started out as a good guy and then gone off the rails. Or maybe he’d been brainwashed into extremism, an idealistic young man searching for meaning who’d fallen victim to a radical ideology.
She didn’t care. She couldn’t. This man was a criminal. His life, his past, whatever private suffering he’d endured didn’t matter to her. She had to keep her focus on where it belonged—getting Henry free.
He downed a handful of nuts, then packed up the remaining food. “We’re leaving in a few minutes.”
“Already? We just got here.” She glanced at Henry in alarm. “Can’t we let him rest for a while? He needs to sleep.”
“Sorry.”
“But—”
“We can’t.” His voice rang with finality. He took out a couple of empty water bottles and a packet of purification tablets, and set them on the grass. “Go fill these up in the stream.”
“What? You think I’m your servant now?”
“No, I think you need the water. I’ve got enough for myself. But if you and Henry want to go without...” He got to his feet with a shrug. Then he picked up the saddlebag and strode off.
She opened her mouth to protest. But damned if he wasn’t right. She had to take care of Henry, even if it meant following this man’s orders—for now. Still scowling, she gathered the bottles and rose.
But as she worked her way through the bushes and undergrowth toward the mountain stream, more doubts spun through her mind. She wasn’t prone to illusions. She didn’t indulge in useless fantasies. She was good at reading people—she’d had to be to survive the years she’d spent on the streets. So why did Rasheed seem so different to her? Was it merely wishful thinking? Was it an aftereffect of the kidnapping, a result of the trauma she’d been through? Or was there a chance that she was right, and he actually cared about them?
She didn’t know. And until she was sure, she had to watch her step. Rasheed was smart. She hadn’t misjudged the intelligence in his penetrating black eyes. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake with Henry’s life at stake—not to mention her own.
When she reached the creek, she headed upstream to a spot where the water ran clear and fast. She knelt and filled the bottles, adding the purification tablets to make it safe. That done, she took a minute to wash her hands and face, letting the cold, clean water soothe her nerves.
Behind her, a chinchilla scurried through the grass. Birds twittered in a nearby shrub. The warm breeze rustled the trees, the tranquil scene at odds with the nightmare her life had become. With effort, she shook off a wave of longing—for her team, for the inner peace she’d taken for granted only a day ago. Trying to keep her focus on the present, she collected the bottles and headed back along the path through the trees.
But a man blocked her way.
Amir.
She abruptly came to a stop. Every muscle in her body tensed. She took in his big, beefy hands, the power in his massive arms, the hatred simmering in his narrowed eyes. And she knew with an absolute certainty that he intended to do her harm.
He tossed a saddlebag in the path. “Fill up my water bottles now,” he ordered in Jaziirastani.
A swarm of uneasiness seized her. She did not want to deal with this man. He looked as cruel as her brother, Sultan, a monster who delighted in inflicting pain. And captive or not, she had no intention of being this sadist’s slave. “Forget it.”
He went dead still. “What did you say?”
“I said no, I won’t do it. I’m not going to wait on you.”
His eyes blazed with an odd excitement. He took several quick steps toward her, and adrenaline pumped through her veins. She spun on her heels, and started to run, but he was faster than she’d believed. He grabbed hold of her hair and yanked her backward, sending fiery pain slashing through her scalp. Gasping, she dropped her supplies.
But she didn’t intend to submit. Calling on all her street skills, she whipped around and lunged toward him, ignoring the sharp pain flaying her head. Then she rammed her knee into his groin with all her might. He bellowed with rage and staggered back.
But he was still too fast. His huge fist came out of nowhere, slamming into her face. The force lifted her off her feet, and she crashed to the ground, pain exploding behind her eyes. She let out an anguished cry.
He strode over and kicked her ribs. Agony knifed through her, knocking the breath from her lungs. She curled into a ball and wheezed.
“Leave her alone.”
Her jaw throbbed. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. She panted and gasped, trying to inhale around the fire torturing her ribs, and managed to push herself to her knees.
Rasheed now faced Amir. He stood on the path between them, his legs planted wide, his hands balled into fists. Tension rolled off his powerful frame.
“Get out of my way,” Amir told him. “This isn’t your business.”
“The hell it isn’t. I kidnapped this woman. She’s under my protection now.”
“She’s not your prisoner. She belongs to us all. And she can do our work until we’re done with her.”
“Not unless I say so. I decide what she can do. And you won’t put a hand on her.”
Amir’s eyes flared. A blade appeared in his hand, and Nadine’s already ragged breath came to a halt. A knife fight. She’d witnessed one in Oakland once—and once had been enough.
“You’re challenging me?” Amir’s tone was deadly now.
“I caught her,” Rasheed repeated. “So I control what she does. The man, too. No one touches them or gives them orders except me.”
Amir stared at Rasheed, pure loathing in his eyes. Nadine tried to suppress a shudder, but failed. Rasheed had just made an enemy.
Because of her.
Neither man moved. Testosterone crackled in the air. Fearing the bloodbath that was about to break out, Nadine began to creep backward, not wanting to get caught in the deadly fight.
But then Manzoor’s voice barked out from behind the trees. “Where is everyone? Let’s go!”
Amir’s eyes narrowed. Several heartbeats later, he slid the knife back into its sheath. “We aren’t finished. We’ll deal with the woman later. But be careful, brother. You might not want to close your eyes at night.” He turned on his heel and stalked off.
Nadine didn’t move. She kept her gaze on the bushes, her heart still galloping through her chest, terrified that he’d come back. But then Rasheed turned around and took her arm, and helped her to her feet.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
All right? Her jaw felt cracked. Her ribs burned so badly she could hardly breathe. Even her hair follicles ached. And without warning, tears sprang into her eyes, the horror of the attack beginning to sink in. Mortified by her show of weakness, she hurried to wipe them away.
But Rasheed stepped close and grasped her chin. His eyes stayed grim, but his hands were surprisingly gentle as he turned her head from side to side to inspect her face.
“You’re bleeding.” His voice came out gruff. His thumb stroked her bottom lip, the feathery touch quickening her pulse.
And then his eyes met hers. Her pulse skidded off beat. And for a long moment she gazed into that hypnotic blackness, conscious of his calloused fingers skimming her jaw, the heat radiating from his golden skin, the sheer maleness of him as he towered above her, solid and strong.
He looked lethal. Almost feral. Every inch the warrior—the kind of man she’d always feared. And yet...standing in his embrace with his big hand cradling her jaw, his wide shoulders sheltering her from the world, she felt completely safe.
Which didn’t make a whit of sense.
“I...I’m fine,” she managed to whisper.
His eyes stayed locked on hers. Something seemed to pass between them, something she couldn’t name. Then he dropped his gaze to her mouth, and for one wild moment, her heart went completely berserk. And a myriad of emotions roiled inside her—relief, gratitude.
Desire.
He blinked and lowered his hand. “Come on. We need to go.” He turned and strode through the trees.
Shaken, she watched him leave. What had just happened? Had he been intending to kiss her? And had she been about to let him? Had she completely lost her mind?
Stunned at her behavior, she gathered the water bottles from where she’d dropped them and returned to the gurgling stream. She was glad he’d defended her. She couldn’t bear the thought of that creep, Amir, putting his hands on her.
But why had he done it? He had no reason to come to her aid. Was he merely defending his male pride and claiming her as his property—or something more?
Thoroughly confused now, she knelt on the bank and splashed cold water on her battered face. She had to proceed with care. Rasheed might have come to her rescue this time, but he was still the one who’d kidnapped her. She couldn’t trust him. She couldn’t let herself care about him. She couldn’t fool herself about who—or what—he was.
And she definitely couldn’t desire him.
Now she just had to convince her treacherous body of that.
Chapter 4
Rasheed rode down the trail a short time later, still incredulous at what he’d done. He’d stupidly challenged Amir. He’d nearly blown his cover and given himself away. He’d jeopardized five years of painstaking work, five years spent laboring in the training camps and insinuating himself into the Rising Light hierarchy to stop these murderous thugs. He’d endangered the success of this critical mission, putting the fate of thousands of innocent civilians in doubt.
All because of this insane attraction to his captive, a woman he couldn’t trust.
He shifted in his saddle, trying not to jostle the injured doctor collapsed like deadweight against his back. He eyed Nadira—Nadine, he silently corrected—ahead of him on the trail, her slender shoulders slumped, her slim hips swaying as the mare descended the rocky slope, and knew he’d had no choice. He’d had to intercede. The sight of Amir putting his hands on her had razed his self-control. There’d been no damned way he could stand aside and let him hit her, even on the off chance that it was all a ploy. It went against everything he believed in and who he was.
The problem was that he’d done far worse than defend her. He’d done more than nearly give in to the urge to kiss her and slake his body’s long-dormant needs. He’d come dangerously close to letting her penetrate something inside him, allowing her mesmerizing eyes to crack open the lid on his buried emotions—and tempting him to care.
And that was a danger he couldn’t afford. His work ruled his life now. He couldn’t go back, couldn’t resurrect the man that he once was, no matter how much she appealed to him. That part of him was dead.
To be safe, he had to maintain his distance from her, especially if she was here at her father’s request. Although frankly, the more time he spent around her, the harder that was to believe. Her fierce resistance to any orders, her rush to protect Henry at any cost—even her refusal to use her Jaziirastani birth name—suggested that she was exactly what she seemed: a victim in this affair. Then again, these terrorists were shrewd. He wouldn’t put anything past them in their quest to root out a traitor, especially on a mission this big.
The gelding lurched, and Rasheed adjusted his grip on the doctor’s wrists, trying to keep him from falling off. Regardless of his doubts about Nadine, there was one thing he knew for sure. Henry had nothing to do with the upcoming attack. He was an unlucky bystander, an unfortunate do-gooder whose admirable intentions had placed him in the terrorists’ path. Now Rasheed had to convince these men to leave him behind—or Henry might pay for that generosity with his life.
The horses continued plodding downhill. The creak of the leather saddles, the muffled thud of their hooves broke the silence of the mountain air. Mulling over his course of action, Rasheed glanced at the sheer peaks towering overhead, the rows of cultivated coca now encroaching on the wilderness. A hawk soared silently past, the predator a stark reminder that he had to proceed with care. Manzoor was astute. If he wanted to persuade him to release Henry, he had to be careful not to tip him off.
Manzoor reached a clearing a moment later and drew his horse to a halt. The group straggled to a stop beside him, the buzz of insects loud in the air. Nadine slid off her horse without a word, dropped the reins and staggered off, seeking the privacy of the nearby shrubs.
The other men swung down. Rasheed inhaled and steeled his nerves. This was it. It was time to make his move. He knew he was taking a risk. These terrorists would perceive any concern as weakness—or worse. But he had to do something about Henry. And he had to do it now, before Nadine came back and overheard.
“We have a problem,” he told Manzoor, who was taking a map from his saddlebag. He waited until the leader looked up, then gestured toward the doctor sleeping against his back. “This man isn’t going to make it. His condition is getting worse.”
Manzoor unfolded the map and shrugged. “The woman is a doctor. Let her deal with him.”
“She tried to, but he’s too sick. The ride is making him worse. We need to leave him behind.”
“We can’t.” Clearly dismissing the subject, Manzoor turned his attention to the map.
Rasheed slid a glance at Amir. The terrorist stared back, his eyes simmering with resentment, and Rasheed bit back a curse. He didn’t want to give Amir another reason to suspect him, but for Henry’s sake, he had to persist.
“He’s too weak to ride anymore,” he continued. “He keeps passing out. He can’t be that important to our plans.”
Manzoor raised his head. Annoyance flickered in his black eyes. “He’s not important. But the woman won’t try to escape while he’s along, so he stays.”
Rasheed couldn’t argue with his logic. Nadine obviously cared about the older man. And using him to control her was a surefire way to keep her in line. “I understand that. But I’m telling you, he can’t hold on.”
“So let him fall,” Amir cut in. “That will teach him to pay attention.”
“A fall will kill him.”
“So? Why do you care?”
“I don’t care.” Rasheed chose his words with caution, aware that he was walking a tightrope, and that a slipup would invite more suspicion of him. “He doesn’t matter to me. But I do care about the success of our mission. And the doctor’s a complication we don’t need. He’s only slowing us down.”
Manzoor’s gaze went to the sleeping man. “We only need him until we reach Buena Fortuna. We’ll dispose of him there.”
Rasheed’s heart skipped a beat. Dispose could only mean one thing. If the concussion didn’t kill Henry before they reached the town, Manzoor would. He wouldn’t leave any witnesses behind.
And it made sense. According to his intelligence briefings, Buena Fortuna was the town where the drug plane would pick them up. The plane would fly them to the staging area on San Gabriel, a small, private island controlled by the drug cartel off Colombia’s Caribbean coast. There they’d make their final plans before entering the United States. And it was Rasheed’s last chance to meet with the undercover operative who’d infiltrated the cartel and tell him what he’d learned.
Except he hadn’t learned anything of value yet.
“How far is it to Buena Fortuna?” he asked.
Manzoor looked at the map. “Twenty-five miles. We’ll reach it in the morning if we push through.”
Twenty-five miles! Hell. It was way too soon. He needed more time than that to question Nadine and find out what she knew.
Keeping his voice indifferent, he perservered. “He won’t make it that far. I say we spend the night in a village to let him rest.”
But Manzoor only shook his head. “No, we will ride through the night. We don’t have time to waste.”
Rasheed curbed his frustration, knowing he had to back off. “You’re in charge. But the horses are worn-out. They’ll collapse before then. And the man won’t do us any good if he dies along the way.”
Manzoor only grunted in reply.
Rasheed pulled out his canteen and drank, but his thoughts continued to spin. What a mess. He had to get Henry to safety before his usefulness ended and Manzoor had him killed—assuming the doctor didn’t die before then. And yet, he also needed information about this case, vital information that only Nadine could provide. And as soon as he spirited Henry to safety, she’d try to leave.
But could he justify delaying Henry’s rescue for the mission’s sake? And what about Nadine? If she was as innocent as he strongly suspected, didn’t he have an obligation to help her escape? But could he really trust her? What if he misjudged her? Could he risk making a mistake of that magnitude?
The branches of the dense shrubs moved. Nadine emerged a second later, her head down, her long, black hair spilling over her arms. She walked straight to the mare, her movements stiff, her discolored jaw bearing the imprint of Amir’s fist. Then she glanced at him, her eyes shooting daggers, and his hopes sank.
She’d heard. She now knew they intended to kill Henry when they reached the town. And if he’d learned anything about this woman, it was that she’d never capitulate. She was going to do something reckless to get her companion free.
Swearing at his predicament, he tightened his grip on the reins. He had to stop her. He couldn’t let her risk her life. But if he interfered—even to protect her—she’d trust him even less.
She mounted the mare, her expression hostile—whether from anger or pain, he didn’t know. But he did know one thing. He’d just made this complicated situation even worse. He had to help the injured doctor. He couldn’t tip off the terrorists and ruin his chance to stop the attack. He also had to contend with Amir, a man clearly gunning for revenge.
More importantly, he had to get close to Nadine and find out more about the terrorists’ plans. And he had to do that without giving in to the attraction simmering between them like a cauldron ready to blow.
But if she was the innocent he believed, he’d just guaranteed that she wouldn’t trust him. And yet, if there was any chance she was in league with these terrorists, he couldn’t trust her.
So which was she—her father’s accomplice or a victim?
With time running out, he had to decide on an answer fast.
* * *
The kidnappers were going to kill Henry. She had to get him to safety quickly. And she couldn’t trust Rasheed to help.
That horrible realization had plagued Nadine as they rode down the mountain for the past few hours, fording streams and traversing coca farms, moving relentlessly closer to Buena Fortuna, the town where Henry would die.
That near kiss hadn’t meant anything to Rasheed. The compassion in his eyes wasn’t real. It had only been an illusion, a pathetic fantasy forged by her desperate mind. She was completely on her own here. And even though Manzoor had finally relented, agreeing to stop for the night in this mountain village, she only had hours, maybe a day at most, to help Henry escape.
And she still didn’t know how.
Trying not to panic, she knelt in the hard-packed dirt beside Henry in a hut the terrorists had commandeered. He lay on a sleeping pallet made of straw, an alpaca wool blanket pulled up to his neck, his face almost as gray as the whiskers covering his chin. The wooden door was ajar, the rustles of nocturnal creatures and chirp of crickets filling the night. The thatched roof formed a peak overhead.
“I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble,” he murmured. “I’m a total pain in the ass.”
She studied him in the lantern’s glow. Dark circles underscored his eyes. The pale light wavered, casting shadows over his face, emphasizing the gaunt hollows of his cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not a pain.”
“You could escape without me. I’m slowing you down.”
“No, you’re not. Now stop worrying about it.”
His tired blue eyes met hers. “I’m serious, Nadine. Take one of the horses and ride for help. It’s the only chance we have.”
Her heart skipped. Had he overheard the terrorists’ plan to kill him? But no, they’d been speaking in Jaziirastani. He couldn’t have understood. Thank God.
Because the last thing he needed was a worry like that. She refused to even tell him why the men had kidnapped them. He needed all his strength to get well.
“Would you leave without me?” she countered. When he grimaced, she gave him a pointed look. “Exactly. And I’m not leaving without you, either. We’re in this thing together. Now just concentrate on resting and getting stronger. I’ll think about it tonight, and tomorrow we’ll make our plans.”
He reached out and squeezed her hand. A faint smile reached his eyes, edging out the pain. “You’re a good friend, Nadine.”
Hardly. She’d gotten him into this disaster. He’d been kidnapped because of her. And now his fate was in her hands.
The wooden door creaked, and she turned her head. An old woman came through the door, lugging a pot of food. Barely five feet tall, she wore a thick wool cardigan sweater, several layers of skirts, and the usual tire tread sandals on her swollen feet. Her face was weathered and brown, her hip-length braids threaded with gray, her age somewhere between forty and ninety, impossible to discern.
Nadine rose, towering over the tiny woman, and helped her set the pot on the wooden crate serving as a table beside the bed. “Gracias,” Nadine told her. The woman smiled, revealing gaps in her stained teeth, and murmured something in return. The farmers spoke a variant of Quechua, not Spanish, making communication hard.
Not that they needed words. The terrorists’ guns had made their meaning clear.
But Nadine still wished she could thank her properly. The terrorists had forced the villagers from their beds and demanded food. And while she was glad for Henry’s sake, their strong-arm tactics made her cringe.
“You’d better get some rest,” Henry urged her. “I’ll be okay here.”
“You sure?”
“I’m just glad to get off that damned horse. When we get out of these mountains, I’m never riding again.”
If he got out of these mountains. He might not survive unless she came up with an escape plan fast.
But he was right. A hot meal and a good night’s sleep would help him more than anything she could do right now. She eyed the steaming stew, the mouthwatering scent of chicken reminding her that she hadn’t had a decent meal in days.
“All right,” she said. “But promise me you’ll drink more tea.”
“I will. I’ll even chew those disgusting leaves if you insist.”
“I do.” She crossed the dirt floor to the door, then summoned a smile she didn’t feel. “Don’t worry, Henry. I promise I’ll get us out of this mess.” She refused to fail this man.
She ducked through the low doorway and stepped outside. Then she paused and peered into the darkness, surprised her ever-present guard wasn’t hovering nearby. But the men had pegged her correctly. They knew she wouldn’t leave without Henry. And in his weakened condition, he couldn’t go far.
But there had to be a way to escape. Still thinking that over, she started down the moonlit path between the huts. Calling the settlement a village was an exaggeration. It consisted of half a dozen mud huts perched on the edge of the mountain, surrounded by coca plants. She passed a chicken coop and shed, heard the grunt of a rooting pig. But there was no sign of a road, no other way out that she could see, only this narrow dirt trail through the terraced fields.
She glanced at the low-growing trees silvered with moonlight and sighed. She didn’t blame these farmers for cultivating coca. They lived in houses without windows or lights, with no running water, no schools for their children or health care, just barely scraping by. The profit in coca lay further up the chain with the drug cartels. These poor people were just trying to eke out a living, growing a product that met an insatiable foreign demand.
A minute later she reached the edge of the hamlet. She spotted the horses grazing beside the path, the three captors talking in a moonlit field, and turned around. Not wanting to draw their attention—or worse, reveal that she was plotting an escape route—she followed the scent of wood smoke to the cooking fire instead.
The farmers fell silent as she approached. Too ravenous to care about their disapproval, she beelined to the soup pot, salivating at the tempting scent. A woman filled a large pottery bowl with rice, then dumped a ladleful of stew over top and handed it to her. Nadine shot her a smile of thanks, wove through the sullen men to a log and sat.
The stew was amazing—thick and hot, a delicious blend of potatoes, chicken and peppers, and bursting with seasonings. She’d devoured half the bowl before she could force herself to slow down.
But then Rasheed appeared in the line. He headed her way a moment later, carrying his own big bowl of stew. She tensed as he sat beside her, his nearness scattering her pulse. And suddenly she was far too conscious of his hard thigh resting close to hers, the glint of firelight in his jet-black hair, the warmth emanating from his big frame.
Disgusted at her reaction, she scowled. What was it with this man? So what if he was attractive? So what if he’d saved her from Amir? He wasn’t her ally. She’d overheard what he’d said to the other men, how they planned to dispose of Henry when they reached the town. And while he’d suggested resting overnight, he hadn’t done it out of kindness. He only wanted to expedite their trip so he could hand her over to her father—the man who wanted her dead.
And the disappointment she’d felt when she’d heard his words was beyond absurd. She couldn’t build this man up into some kind of savior just because he’d rescued her. He was still violent. He’d nearly engaged in a knife fight with Amir. If he really cared, if he had any real compassion inside him, he’d let them go.
He turned his head, and his dark gaze stalled on hers. And for an instant she imagined she saw it again, that glimmer of sympathy in his dark eyes.
Which only proved she was losing her mind.
“How’s your face?” he asked.
“It hurts. What do you think?”
His gaze roamed over her jaw, his scrutiny somehow sensual, and her heart fumbled several beats. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Yeah, right.” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.
He angled his head to meet her eyes. “I am sorry. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Sure. That’s why you kidnapped me.”
His strong jaw flexed. “I’ve got a job to do. It’s not something I can talk about. But I don’t wish you any harm.”
“Then let us go.”
“I can’t.” Regret tinged his voice—and damned if he didn’t sound sincere.
She lowered her gaze to her stew, but her appetite had deserted her. And suddenly, she was so tired, so incredibly confused. Who was this man? Why was he bothering to be nice to her? He’d protected her from Amir, risking his life on her behalf. But he’d also captured her and was planning Henry’s death. So which was the real man—the kidnapper or the protector? Did he care, or was he playing some kind of twisted mind game to amuse himself?
She closed her eyes, too tired to figure it out. And for the first time, despair spiraled through her, the terrible dread that she might not survive.
No. She refused to think that way. She’d been in dangerous situations before, and she’d always made it out alive. But what if she didn’t this time? What if she couldn’t save Henry? What if that dear doctor died because of her?
There had to be a way to escape. She had to put her mind to it and come up with a plan, no matter how impossible it seemed. She wasn’t going to let these people win.
Forcing herself to think, she focused on the half a dozen farmers standing around the fire, drinking pisco and coca tea. These men made their living producing coca. They harvested the leaves and converted them to paste, which they sold in the nearest town. To make the paste they needed chemicals, gallons of it— kerosene, gasoline, ammonia—which wouldn’t be easy to transport on these mountain trails.
Unless they had a truck...
That thought gave her pause. She hadn’t seen any signs of a vehicle. She hadn’t even seen a proper road. But if they had one, they’d probably park it near the pit where they made the paste.
Her hopes ticked up. She racked her brains, trying to remember what she’d heard about making paste. First they harvested the leaves and dried them. Then they put them in a pozo, or pit, and added water and kerosene. To avoid hauling water, they’d probably build the pit near a stream.
And if she could find that pit, she could find whatever vehicle they used to transport the chemicals—hopefully, a car or truck.
She stole a glance at Rasheed. He watched her with steady eyes, and her pulse increased its beat. She’d never fool him. He’d never let her out of his sight. Unless... She rose.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
She gestured toward the path behind the cooking fire. She’d seen enough villagers come and go while she’d been eating to figure out where it led. “The ditch—or whatever it is they use. Why? Do you want to come with me?”
His gaze stayed on hers for a heartbeat. A long second later, he shook his head. “No, go ahead. But Nadine...don’t try anything rash.”
Not bothering to answer, she returned her bowl to the bucket by the fire. Then she started down the moonlit path leading away from the huts, trying to act nonchalant. But she didn’t have much time. She had to locate the coca pit and hurry back before Rasheed grew suspicious and came to investigate.
The stench told her when she’d reached the right place. But a sudden crackle in the underbrush caught her attention, bringing her to a stop. She held her breath and listened hard, scouring the darkness around the path. Nothing. Probably some nocturnal animal hunting for food.
Still, in case one of the kidnappers was lurking nearby, she slipped behind the wooden screen and used the ditch. Then she took another, narrower path through the woods, following the sound of a rushing stream.
Seconds later, she reached the creek. She washed her hands, the icy water a shock to her nerves. The stream itself wasn’t wide, maybe ten feet across, but it probably flowed straight from the snowcapped peaks. She rose and glanced around, not sure which way to go. But if she were dumping toxic chemicals into the river, she would choose a spot downstream.
Clicking on Henry’s penlight, she headed along the bank. She picked her way through the bushes and rocks, tripping over branches and rotting logs. But several minutes later she stopped. There was still no sign of a pit. For all she knew it could be miles in the other direction. And she was running out of time. If she didn’t head back soon, Rasheed would divine her plan.
Deciding to keep going to the next bend, she continued hiking downstream. The creek twisted and curved, and then she spotted another path, probably leading straight from the coca fields. Her excitement mounting, she picked up her pace. And then she saw it—the pit where they made the paste.
It was literally a hole in the ground lined with a plastic tarp. They’d built a lean-to around it to protect it—a crude, wooden structure with a metal roof. Various supplies were piled outside—barrels containing chemicals, coils of plastic tubing, wooden poles to stir the paste. Hardly a high-tech operation, but it sufficed.
She continued past the pit, and her heart made another leap. A pickup truck. So she’d been right! And there was the road—a rutted tractor trail disappearing into the woods. She could sneak out later with Henry and hightail it to the nearest town.
Thrilled at her discovery, she hurried to the truck. It had a flat rear tire, rusty doors and barrels piled in the bed. But she didn’t care. As long as it ran, she would drive it on the rims.
Assuming she could find the key.
She shone the penlight through the window and looked inside. No key. Damn. One of the villagers must have it. But maybe Henry knew how to hot-wire an engine. She’d go straight to his hut and ask.
But then a twig crackled behind her. Her heart lurching, she whirled around. More branches snapped, and panic jolted her into gear. Someone was following her. Scared now, she darted up the path leading through the coca fields.

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