Course of Action: Crossfire (15 page)

On a rush of pure adrenaline, Riley straddled the tower's rim. Her rush took a quick dive when she looked down and discovered a twelve-or fifteen-foot drop to the flat roof below. Pete must have rappelled the tower's outer wall, using his weight to pull her up inside as he went down.
She
, he indicated with urgent hand signals, would have to drop into his arms. Sucking in a quick breath, she swung her other leg over the rim, mouthed a silent prayer and pushed off.

The catch was awkward. He took a knee to the ribs and an elbow in his face but merely grunted. When he set her on her feet and dropped into a crouch, however, Riley was the one who wanted to weep. His shoulders looked as though someone had taken a meat tenderizer to them. Blood streaked his back and thighs. But before she could say anything, he grabbed her hand and dragged her down beside him.

They crouched side by side, getting their bearings, waiting for their hearts to slow. Riley saw then he'd been right about this being an abandoned outpost. Except for the building they'd been held in, everything else was in ruins. Her gaze took in sunken rooftops. Tumbled walls. What must have once been a round guard or grain tower spearing empty arms up at the night sky. And a dark, oblong bulk hidden in the shadows of a date palm.

“Pete!” She elbowed him in the side and jabbed a finger at the palm. “The Range Rover!”

“Yeah,” he whispered back, “I see it.”

She knew it was asking too much to pray the kidnappers had left the keys in it. But she did! Dear God, she did! With every fiber of her being.

Her heart stuttered as she and Pete crept across the flat roof and approached the edge. But after the wind-catcher climb, exiting the roof turned out to be a piece of cake. They found a low corner, dropped to the sand and made for the Range Rover.

Riley crouched in the shadows of the palm while Pete hunkered low on the running board and peered through the side window. Unable to corral her galloping nerves, she hissed at him.

“The keys? Are they there?”

“No.”

She was fighting to hold back a groan when he dropped down beside her.

“But this baby is so old, any ten-year-old could hot-wire it. So here's the plan.”

“Plan?” Nerves bit at her like sharp little sand fleas. “Why do we need a plan? We get in, you jiggle the wires, we get out of here!”

“Close. We get in. I strip the ignition wires and show you how to cross them. Then I go back for Prince Malik.”

She wasn't surprised. She'd half expected this mucho macho warrior to revert to type. Although... She bit her lip, ashamed that a cowardly corner of her mind had tried hard to blank out what must have happened to the prince. But Pete wasn't letting her blank anything out now. Wrapping a hard hand around her nape, he pulled her close.

“If you hear anything—anything!—that sounds like trouble, promise me you'll get the hell out of here.”

“Oh, sure,” she huffed. “Like I'm just going to drive off into the desert and leave you behind.”

“Dammit, Riley. I can't do what I need to do if I'm looking over my shoulder the whole time, worrying about you. Promise me you'll make tracks.”

“Okay! I promise.”

His grin was a white slash in the dark. “That's my girl.”

She couldn't remember the last time anyone had called her a girl. And she knew no one had ever held her collared like this. They were nose-to-nose, breath-to-breath, his fingers hard on her nape, his mouth just inches away.

“You saw the lights in the far distance?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Aim straight for them and don't stop.”

“I will.”

“At the first sound of trouble.”

“I will, Pete.”

His grip eased. His thumb stroked the soft hair at the back of her neck. Riley sensed what was coming and was ready,
so
ready, when his mouth locked on hers.

The kiss seemed to hold everything they'd gone through, every desperate moment they'd shared. It was hard. Hungry. A triumph over impossible odds. A taste of things to come. Assuming, of course, they got out of this damned desert alive.

“You have to promise me something, too.” She pushed back a few inches. “You will not, I repeat, you will
not
get yourself killed!”

“Not planning on it,” he muttered, crushing her mouth again.

She was still feeling the heat when he crawled into the Range Rover. The overhead light flashed on, stopping the breath in her throat, but he doused it almost instantly. Then he wedged himself under the steering column and played with the wires.

“Go around and climb in,” he whispered a few moments later. “I'll show you how this works.”

Riley crawled on hands and knees to the driver's side of the vehicle. Once she'd hauled herself up and into the cab, she had to swallow an ironic laugh. She'd been taking lessons for as long as she could remember. Voice. Diction. Piano. Cello. French. Italian. Drama. She'd even spent a mind-numbing week with her business manager—her
actual
business manager—after she'd finally cut her mother out of her financial affairs and needed to learn where her earnings had been invested. This was her first shot at hot-wiring a truck, however. Or driving one, for that matter. She sweated about that for several nervous seconds until a panicked glance confirmed it was an automatic.

“All you do is cross these two wires.”

The terse instruction dragged her attention from the gearshift to the man sprawled beneath the steering column. He'd located two wires—one red, one yellow—and used his bucket tool to peel away an inch of the plastic coating. Holding up the exposed ends, he waved them at Riley.

“Just put the tips together and give 'em a little twist. That'll kick the engine over. Don't do it now!” He jerked the wires away from her outstretched hands. “Wait till you're ready to hit the gas.”

As she watched him melt into the darkness, a tiny niggle of guilt wormed through her almost suffocating tension. She hadn't lied. Exactly. She'd promised to make tracks at the first sound of trouble, and she would. She'd simply reserved the right to categorize what trouble
sounded
like.

She held the two wires nervously, red in one hand, yellow in the other, their tips six inches apart. Hunched low in the driver's seat, she searched the structure she and Pete had escaped only moments ago. It was little more than a dark bulk against the night sky, with a few bars of light slanting through cracks in the shuttered windows. They must have lit an oil lamp. That faint glow was the only sign of life amid the tumbled ruins of what must have once been a thriving desert community.

Her gaze darted to the empty desert beyond. The sheer immensity of it sent a shiver down her spine. But there were those other lights, she reminded herself forcefully. Miles away. Maybe hours. Beacons of hope. Of safety and...

“Khalass!”

The shout shattered the stillness. Riley jumped a good inch off the seat and lost her grip on the red wire. She'd ducked sideways, scrabbling for it, and gave a sob of pure terror when gunshots rattled through the night.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!

Hands shaking, heart galloping, she fished frantically under the steering column. Her groping fingers finally located the loose red wire and somehow, some way, connected it to the yellow. Bent over, she didn't move, didn't breathe, until the engine coughed, sputtered, caught.

Another burst of gunfire popped her upright. She locked one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift. Jamming her left foot on the brake, she found the gas pedal with the right and shoved the Range Rover into Drive.

All Riley had to do was release the brake. Hit the gas. Roar off into the desert like she'd promised. But she kept one foot on the brake even as she pressed the accelerator. The truck lurched like an old warhorse straining at the bit, caught between competing, compelling forces.

Her desperate gaze swept the ruins. The building where they'd been held loomed dark and menacing, with only those faint bars of light seeping through the shuttered windows.

Suddenly, a door burst open. The figure that staggered through it cradled one of those vicious-looking automatic weapons in his hand. His black robe flapped as he spun, searching the darkness. When he zeroed in on the date palm, Riley gave a moan of terror and stomped on the gas.

The Range Rover's rear wheels spun, spitting sand for several terrifying seconds, then caught. The jerk slammed Riley against the seat back, but she put the pedal to the floorboard again and aimed for the black-robed figure. Her only thought, only plan, was to smash the bastard like a bug.

“Bug,” she got out on a note of pure hysteria. “Big ugly g— Oh!”

She jammed the brake, standing almost straight up, as a second figure burst through the door. Even with the light behind him and his face nothing more than a dim blur, she couldn't mistake Pete's broad shoulders or naked chest. He caught up to the first man, grabbed his arm and hauled him toward the truck.

It was the prince, Riley saw now. She could make out the gold tassels decorating al Said's black robe. And the dark stains on the white robe underneath! Halfway to the truck he stumbled and sagged to one knee. His arm lifted and to Riley's horrified eyes, he seemed to be gesturing at Pete to go on without him.

Pete didn't bother to argue. Just stooped, hauled the man over his shoulder and raced for the Range Rover. Riley's heart stopped dead for the five or ten seconds it took for him to reach the truck. He angled past her, aiming for the rear, and hefted the prince into the back. She heard al Said land with a thud, heard Pete clamber in after him, then his shout from the back.

“Drive!”

 

Chapter 6

T
he race to those distant lights seemed to take two lifetimes. The dunes were treacherous enough in daylight. At night they became a shifting, sinister patchwork of shadows. Riley could barely tell what was solid earth and what was a drop into nothingness.

The two men remained in the back of the Range Rover. Prince Malik had taken a bullet, Pete shouted over the shake and rattle of the truck. He'd also lost the first two fingers of one hand. While Pete worked to staunch the blood and fought to keep the prince from going into shock, Riley strained to separate sand from shadow and repeated every prayer she knew over and over again.

When the truck finally climbed the last, treacherous dune, the once-distant lights came into sharp focus directly below. They were floodlights! Racks of bright floods mounted on tall poles, illuminating what looked like some kind of tribal enclave. Tents circled a large open space. Low tables formed a second ring inside the open area. Dozens of figures sat cross-legged or lounged on colorful pillows around the tables. Parked outside the tents, Riley saw with a sharp intake of breath, was a whole convoy of Hummers and SUVs. And camels. At least a half dozen of them tied near the vehicles.

Riley stood on the brake, terrified all over again. Was this Scarface's home base? Had she driven them right into the hornet's nest?

“Pete!”

Her cry brought him scrambling forward. Crouching over her seat back, he assessed the scene with a single glance. “It's a tourist safari!”

“A what?”

“An excursion into the desert to give visitors a taste of Bedouin life. The troops at Thumrait arranged one for us when we first arrived. Hit the gas. We're going to crash their party.”

She careened down the dune and rolled past the Hummers, almost taking down a tent before she got the Range Rover under control. Pete leaped out even before she shoved it into Park. As he raced for the camp, Riley tried to imagine the tourists' reactions at the sudden appearance of a near-naked man drenched in his own, and the prince's, blood.

She shouldered open her door, her nose twitching at the tantalizing scents of charcoal braziers and roasting meats. Ignoring her stomach's leap of eager joy at aromas, she climbed into the rear and hunkered down beside Prince Malik. One glimpse of him made her stomach do another lurch. The long-sleeved white dishdasha he'd worn under his black robe was in tatters. Part of it presumably now formed the bulky, bloodstained bandage wrapped around his right hand. Another strip circled his upper torso and held a thick, equally bloody pad in place. He didn't stir when she lifted his good hand and gripped it between hers. Didn't respond when she murmured his name. She was grappling with the fear he might have slipped into a coma when Pete returned. A small army of tourists and tour guides had come with him. One of them, a short, chunky blonde in khakis and a pink flowered shirt, hoisted herself into the truck. She was carrying a black bag and elbowed Riley out of the way.

“I'm Dr. Sutterfield. I'll take over. Hey! Get some light in here.”

Blinding, high-powered beams stabbed into the truck. A second person climbed in to assist the doc. Riley inched around them, scrambled out of the Range Rover and fell into Pete's waiting arms. They were sticky with blood and sweat, yet she'd never felt anything as strong and safe and welcome.

Their nightmare was over. They'd reached an outpost of civilization. One with electricity and cell-phone towers and, mercifully, real food. Only after Pete eased her out of his arms did she realize the phone towers were a mixed blessing.

“I need to borrow that.”

He gestured to the iPhone held by a grim-faced tour guide. The jeans-clad Omani handed it over instantly. As Pete stabbed a series of numbers, another bystander stepped forward to offer Riley a bottle of water. A third shrugged out of his long, loose outer robe and draped it over her shoulders. She accepted both with fervent thanks and guzzled half the water while Pete waited to be connected.

“Thumrait TOC, this is Majan one-five.”

He paused, was obviously asked for some identification.

“Winborne, Peter. Master Sergeant, United States Air Force. AFSC 1T2X1. Currently on detached duty as part of a US-Omani Special Ops exercise. Be advised that Ms. Riley Fairchild, Prince Malik al Said and I have escaped the cadre of Abdul Haddid's troops who raided the opera house in Muscat. Prince Malik is wounded, condition uncertain at this time. Request you advise Omani Central immediately.”

He paused again. Listened intently. Broke into a savage smile.

“Roger that, TOC. I'll need a set of camis and full assault gear. Give me an ETA. Right. Right. Over and out.”

He hit the disconnect button and tossed the phone back to its owner, then hooked Riley's elbow and drew her aside. “Scarface's video hit the airwaves a little over an hour ago. The metadata pinpointed our exact location. And your code words tipped our guys as to the number and firepower of the raiders.”

Fierce satisfaction resonated through his voice.

“Elements from the Special Ops unit at Thumrait are already in the air. They're diverting to this location. Should be here in less than ten minutes. What's more,” he added with a feral gleam in his eyes, “they think they have a satellite surveillance lock on Scarface's vehicle.”

“And you're going with them to intercept it.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He countered her dismay with that quick, cocky cowboy grin. “It's what we PJs do.”

Of course it was. She knew it wouldn't do any good to argue that he'd already done enough. That she needed him. Right here, with her. Tonight. Tomorrow. Next week. Next...

She took a step back, startled by the intensity of that need. Pete didn't notice. His attention was all on the doc climbing down from the Range Rover.

“How's Prince Malik?”

“Stable. The hand needs immediate attention, but you did a good job on the gunshot wound considering what you had to work with. Where'd you get your medical training?”

“Air Force pararescue.”

“That explains it. Air ambulance on the way?”

“Ten minutes out.”

“Good. Let's get over there, in the light. I need to take a look at those abrasions.”

Riley huddled under her borrowed robe while Dr. Sutterfield cleaned Pete's bloody back, chest, arms and knees, and applied a liberal dose of antibiotic cream. He was then offered a white robe by one of the camp operators. The camel-tender, judging by the pungent aroma that wafted from the loose-fitting garment when Pete returned to Riley's side. He started to say something but suddenly whirled and scanned the horizon.

“There they are. Four o'clock, coming in low and fast.”

She followed his pointing finger and spotted the specks zooming through the night sky. A few seconds later she heard the
whap-whap
of their rotors. Mere moments after that, one of the specks grew large enough for Riley to distinguish a white medical helicopter with its distinctive red stripes on the tail. The other two remained almost invisible except for their cockpit lights...and the high-powered searchlight that suddenly drenched the entire camp in brilliant white.

The medical chopper touched down first, generating a whirlwind that had everyone flinging up their arms against the flying sand. Two burly, gun-carrying behemoths in black jumpsuits, kevlar vests and ball caps bearing the crest of the Omani royal guards jumped out first. A medical team came next and was directed to the Range Rover. While Dr. Sutterfield briefed the medics, Pete approached the guards. Hands up, palms out, he ID'd himself and had a short, fast colloquy.

One of the guards nodded, and Pete hurried back to Riley. His borrowed robe was far too short for him but he ignored the way it flapped at his calves and rode up his forearms when he reached for her.

“You're flying back with the prince to debrief the sultan's security forces. I should be there before you're done. If not, the guards promised they'll augment the security at your hotel suite until I get back to Muscat.”

“You
will
get back?”

“Count on it. And when I do...”

She was ready this time. Went up on her toes to meet him halfway. The kiss was quick and hard, but the raw promise in it sent pleasure rolling through her.

As soon as she was aboard, Pete ducked under the blades of the closest military chopper. It was rocking on its skids, ready to go. He'd barely scrambled through the open side hatch before it lifted off. The second chopper followed seconds later. The last Riley saw of him, he'd ripped off the white cotton robe and was diving into a pair of camouflage pants.

* * *

After a quick phone call to her manager to let him know she was safe, Riley spent a grueling two hours with the chief of the sultan's security forces. More than willing to help, she dug hard and deep for details. The number of attackers who'd rushed the Royal Opera House. The drive through the desert. The type of restraints they'd used, their weapons, physical descriptions, accents, every word Scarface had spoken to her.

The exhaustive debrief might have lasted even longer if a personal representative of the royal house hadn't intervened. Tall and as lean as a hawk, he wore a ceremonial black robe with a curved, silver-hilted dagger tucked into his sash.

“Peace be with you.”

The traditional greeting was warm and sincere. Riley replied in kind.

“And with you.”

“I am Prince Faheem al Said, cousin to Prince Malik.”

“How is he? Our last report said he was in surgery.”

“His wounds are grievous, but he's expected to recover, thanks be to Allah.”

“And the team that went back after Haddad's men? Sergeant Winborne and the others? Have you had an update from them?”

“They encountered some resistance, but the raid was a complete success.”

“
Some
resistance?” Fear iced Riley's veins. “How much is some? Was anyone hurt?”

Faheem's lips curved in a small, lethal smile. “None of our men were injured, but I believe the one they referred to as Scarface will require extensive medical attention. He and his associates will join their leader, Haddad, in our maximum-security prison. And now to more important matters.”

His smile lost its predatory edge, his voice warmed.

“My uncle was at a meeting of OPEC heads of state when you were attacked and taken hostage. He's cut short his trip, however, and is even now on his way home. Both he and Prince Malik have been informed of your heroic actions tonight, Ms. Fairchild. They've each instructed me to express their
most
heartfelt gratitude and their wish that you accept the hospitality of the royal house for as long as you remain in Oman.”

Pete had told Riley he'd join her either here or at her hotel. She wasn't about to change addresses until they reconnected. Before she could think of a polite way to decline the invitation, however, the prince sweetened the deal.

“The al Alam Palace itself is used primarily for ceremonial functions, but there is a guest villa within the palace grounds. You would have complete privacy to recover from your ordeal, every luxury at your command. Your own pool, walled gardens, a spa, use of a yacht should you wish it.”

Although the security team had provided Riley with a clean tunic and a pair of the loose trousers favored by Omani women, she had sand in every pore and her hair felt as gritty as used tarpaper. The shimmering image of a luxury villa with its own pool and perfumed gardens was too tempting to resist.

“It sounds wonderful, but I need to wait for Sergeant Winborne's return.”

“That may be hours yet. And the sultan has offered the good sergeant his hospitality, as well. Let me escort you to the royal compound and get you comfortably settled. We'll do the same for Sergeant Winborne when he returns.”

* * *

This, Riley thought when she emerged from the limo a half hour later, could have been the setting for Rimsky-Korsakov's lavishly romantic opera
Scheherazade
. They'd driven through the palace's ornate blue and gold gate into a vast U-shaped complex of white marble buildings. Circling these, they'd reached the guest quarters.

Her delighted gaze roamed the bubbling fountains, the flowering pomegranate and pear trees, the gleaming white two-story villa. She could almost hear the opening motif of the opera's fourth movement as Prince Faheem escorted her up the shallow steps to the villa's brass-studded front door.

A majordomo in an embroidered skullcap and snow-robe waited on the front steps. Bowing low, he offered a traditional greeting and introduced himself.

Prince Faheem accompanied her inside but went only as far as the gloriously tiled entry. “I will leave you here, Ms. Fairchild. If you wish anything—
anything
—you have only to tell one of the staff.”

“All I wish for right now is a bath, something to eat and an update on Sergeant Winborne's status as soon as possible.”

“You shall have all three. And once again, may I say you have earned the gratitude of the entire al Said family. Such a debt is not something we take lightly.” Bowing low, he saluted her with a flourish of his hand and left.

A maid in silky black trousers and a colorful tunic denoting her tribal roots stood at the foot of a broad staircase. After the majordomo issued some brief instructions, the maid showed the way to a master suite that encompassed the entire second floor.

Once again Riley felt as though she'd wandered onto the set of
Scheherazade
. The living room was the size of a hotel lobby. Colorful spangled pillows accented low couches and chairs. Hand-loomed Persian carpets covered the marble floors, while electrically operated screens and curtains cleverly disguised every modern convenience.

The bedroom was every bit as magnificent. A canopy of sand-colored silk crowned the massive bed. Three-foot-long gold tassels anchored the gauzy material to the four posts. Tall, arched windows lined two walls. Shuttered sliding doors dominated a third. Riley slid back one of the shutters and stepped out onto the balcony, her breath catching.