SEAL's Deception (Take No Prisoners Book 8) (12 page)

Ha!

In front of her, the prince emerged from a room and turned away from her, his footsteps carrying him quickly in the opposite direction.

Yasmin ducked her head and sped up, following the prince to the end of a long hallway. When she saw him enter another doorway, she sprinted the last couple of steps and slammed into the door behind him before it closed.

As soon as she was through the door, she was grabbed and yanked backward. A dark, muscular arm clamped around her neck and shut off the air to her lungs.

Yasmin fought, kicked, and struggled, but she couldn’t dislodge the arm, nor flip the guy over her shoulder.

Prince Khalid appeared in front of her and spoke sharply in Arabic.

When she didn’t respond, the prince stared closer, his brows descending. He raised a hand.

Yasmin flinched and closed her eyes.

Instead of hitting her, he ripped off the headdress and threw it to the floor. “Aliya, what is the meaning of this intrusion? And why are you wearing a man’s clothing?”

Yasmin pulled at the arm around her neck, her vision blurring.

The prince rapped out an order in Arabic.

The man holding her released her so fast, she nearly fell to the floor. As soon as the fog around her vision cleared, she launched herself at Prince Khalid, shoving him hard in the chest.

He glared at her. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you what it’s like to be pushed around.” She pushed him again.

That muscular arm clamped around her neck again and pulled her off the prince.

Holding a hand to his chest, Prince Khalid frowned. “Are you insane? Why have you attacked me?”

“That’s not all I’m going to do. After what you did to Erin, you deserve to be pounded into a bloody pulp, you sorry bastard!”

The angry frown drawing his dark brows together deepened, and he grabbed her arm. “What about Erin? What happened?”

“You damn well know. You’re the one who beat her unconscious. That poor woman loves you enough to give up the life she knows, to share you with other women in a country that treats its women like cattle. This is how you repay her?” Yasmin fought against the arm holding her back.

Khalid backed a step, his eyes widening. “I have to see Erin.”

His shocked reaction didn’t hold true for a man who’d beat his wife, but Yasmin was too mad to stop. “Why? So you can hit her again? Leave her alone!” Yasmin kicked out, hoping to land another blow.

Khalid nodded to the man holding her.

The man released her.

Khalid grabbed her arms and held her firmly away. “I didn’t beat Erin. I would never harm the woman I love with all of my heart.”

Anger still roiling inside, Yasmin stared into the prince’s eyes, unsure about trusting him, not after the way Erin had returned to her quarters.

His grip tightened. “I wouldn’t hurt my wife.”

Noting the sincerity of the lines of concern around his eyes, Yasmin had to believe the prince. The shock and anger radiating from him could not have been faked.

His jaw hardened and a fierce look glowed in his narrowed eyes. “I will find out who hurt her and take care of this incident.” Prince Khalid stormed toward the door, breaking into a jog before he cleared the doorway. He shouted something over his shoulder in Arabic.

The prince’s bodyguard sprinted after him, leaving Yasmin alone. She pressed a hand to her throat, glad she’d lived through the bodyguard’s display of loyalty to the Saudi prince. Yasmin hoped Prince Khalid found the bastard who’d beaten Erin. If he truly loved her, he’d find the bastard and make him pay.

In the meantime, Yasmin had to find Ben and let him know what Nahla’s sister had said about her husband’s desire to halt the westernization of their country. The man had to be angry that the king had deliberately passed over him to designate Khalid as the next ruler of Saudi Arabia. If anyone had a motive to cause trouble, that person was Prince Bandar.

Yasmin pulled back her hair, settled the red-checkered headdress on her had with the black braid and peeked out the door into an empty hallway. With no one to stop her, she turned in the opposite direction as Prince Khalid and his guard and continued down the hall. Rounding a corner, she spotted Rashad entering a room.

Yasmin slowed and waited until Rashad disappeared inside before she hurried down the corridor. She’d almost made it past the entrance to the room when an arm snagged hers and yanked her through the opening.

Yasmin bunched her muscles, ready to fight. Instead of calling for help, she planted her feet on the smooth tile floor, grabbed the hand holding her arm and bent double—all in a practiced move she’d learned during self-defense training.

The man holding her flipped over her shoulder and landed on his back with a thud.

Not wanting to call attention to her plight and have the entire palace aware she’d disguised herself as a man, Yasmin made a run for the exit.

Before she reached it, a figure in black sprang out of nowhere and slammed into her side, sending her flying into the doorframe. Yasmin threw her arms up in front of her, but too late. Her head hit solid wood, pain shot through her temple and darkness claimed her.

S
ure he’d missed
something in the hidden room, Ben waited until Rashad left the study and then raced across the floor, opened the desk drawer and hit the button.

The bookshelves slid open, and Ben entered. Somewhere, there had to be a secret compartment, perhaps another hidden doorway or switch that opened a panel in the wall.

Ben focused his attention on the large, L-shaped couch in the middle of the room. Nowhere on the couch was a switch, lever or button. He lifted the Persian rug, searching for a trap door. Nothing.

Again, he ran his hand along the wall and pulled at the ornate sconces, almost ripping them down.

“Big Bird,” Irish’s voice said into the headset in Ben’s ear.

“Go ahead.” Ben listened while he continued to run his hands across the wall. He came to a mural of a silver Arabian horse rearing on its hindquarters. As he ran his fingers across the horse’s painted hoof, he felt an indentation. The light and shadows of the painting hid the hollow well.

“We found a kind of warehouse in one of the locked rooms in the basement.”

“Anything interesting in it?”

“We’re on to something down here.”

Ben could hear the excitement in Irish’s voice, and his pulse ratcheted up a notch. At the same time, he pushed on the depression in the wall. He could hear the hum of a motor and the metallic sound of gears turning. Ben glanced behind him. The entire floor beneath the couch and Persian rug rose into the air, revealing a spiral staircase winding downward to a darkened space below the hidden room. “Have you located the vials?” Ben asked, crossing to the staircase.

“Not yet, but I’d bet my boots we’ll find them in here.”

“Let me know. I’ve discovered another hidden access leading downward. Maybe into the basement. I’ll let you know what’s down there.” Ben pulled a small flashlight from his jeans pocket, switched the lens to red to make it harder for someone to see him coming, and started down the stairs. If there was a room below, it was cloaked in darkness, which was fine with Ben. Lack of light meant no one was in the room at that time.

The staircase wound around and around until it emptied onto a bare concrete floor. Ben shone his light around the room, which was nothing more than concrete walls and a door leading somewhere else. His guess was that this might be an escape route to get people out of the palace or to a safe room below.

Once his weight was off the last step, the staircase and the floor above lowered, closing him into the concrete bunker. Ben located a switch on the wall. He flipped it upward and the staircase and ceiling rose. His heartbeat sped. What if he couldn’t get the staircase to come back down?

He flipped the switch down and it descended.
Whew!
At least, he knew he could go back the way he’d come, if needed.

“There is a series of rooms off the warehouse,” Irish reported. “I had to use the C-4 to blast through the lock on the first one. It’s the armory, with a cache of rifles, grenade launchers and machine guns.”

“Nice to know.” Ben entered a tunnel-like hallway, walked to the end and faced a solid metal door. He turned the handle and eased it open. As he did, lights sprang on, illuminating another hallway painted bright white with doors leading off each side. He opened the first one to find a small room with concrete walls. It smelled like old sweat socks and urine, with a hint of a metallic bite. Ben’s gut knotted. This room was, or had been, a cell.

The next room was the same, and the next. On the other side of the hallway, he found more cells. The good news was they were all empty.

Another heavy metal door ended the hallway. He twisted the knob, but it was locked. With the metal file he’d brought from his kit, he worked the lock until he heard the solid click and the door swung open into a larger room.

Anger simmered inside Ben. Shackles hung from the walls and were anchored in the concrete floor. Chains dangled from the ceiling.

Ben’s fists clenched as he passed through what he could only imagine was a torture chamber. The floors were clean of blood and excrement, but the smell lingered. He hurried through to the next door. By then, Ben had the knack for picking locks and made quick work of tripping the latch in the doorknob. On the opposite side of the door, he noted heavy deadbolt locks.

The door opened into a huge room, with pallets of boxes and a forklift. Soft footsteps sounded on the concrete floor.

Ben ducked behind a stack of cardboard boxes and waited for the person to pass. He held his breath and listened carefully.

The sound of footfalls stopped. After a few moments, they started again, heading his direction.

Bunching his muscles, he prepared to spring at his opponent.

A figure rounded the stack of boxes and shoved the barrel of an AK47 into his face.

Ben’s heart leaped into his throat, and he froze.

“Damn it,” Irish said. “I could have killed you.”

Ben’s gaze traveled the length of the barrel, and he let go of the breath he’d been holding. “You almost didn’t need to. I almost had a heart attack when you stuck that thing in my face.” He straightened and looked past Irish. “Where’s Stingray?”

“Guys, I found them,” Stingray’s voice said into Ben’s radio headset.

“Where?” Ben stepped around the pallet of boxes.

“Back of the warehouse, last door on the left. A lab of sorts.”

“On our way.” Ben followed Irish through the maze of boxes, furniture, and supplies needed to run the prince’s palace. As they approached the open door, Ben heard voices echoing off the ceiling. He turned and peered down a long gap between stacks of boxes to see five men enter the warehouse, talking and laughing.

One climbed onto a forklift and revved the propane-powered engine. The others went to work moving boxes.

Ben stepped into the room, grabbed Irish’s arm and dragged him inside, closing the door behind them. “We’ve got company.”

“Yeah, and we have the vials.” Stingray held up a canister marked with the name of the pharmaceutical company and the green dove emblem on the side.

“How do you know it’s the virus?” Ben asked.

His hands encased in HAZMAT gloves, Stingray turned the canister so Ben could see the skull and crossbones gracing the other side. “They were locked cabinet in that room over there.” He pointed to a door on the other side of a glass window.

“Are you sure it’s safe to handle?” Irish asked.

“Hell, no.” Stingray held the cylinder away from his body. “I’m guessing the canister is keeping it contained, for the time being.”

Ben found a large insulated bag in a cabinet and held it open. “Put it in here.” Once Stingray deposited the canister into the bag, the three men scoured the room for anything else that might appear dangerous.

“We need to get out of here with this,” Stingray said. “The sooner, the better. You think the prince will miss his fiancée if we up and leave the palace without a word?”

“We’ll have to time it better than that. Getting away from the palace might not be as hard as getting out of the country.”

“First things first,” Ben said. “We have to get back to our rooms without being discovered.”

Irish shook his head. “The guys in the warehouse are blocking our exit. They could be there for a while.”

Ben nodded. “I have another way out. Follow me.” He slung the strap of the insulated bag over his shoulder and opened the door a crack.

The sound of the forklift hummed at the other end of the warehouse.

Ben poked his head out farther. When he didn’t see the other men moving around, he ran for the cover of a stack of boxes. From there, he checked the length of an aisle between the stacks of goods. When he determined it, too, was clear, he ran for the far wall, ducking and dodging between boxes and furniture until he arrived at the door he’d come through a few minutes before.

Stingray and Irish shadowed his trail.

As Ben ducked through the door, he heard a shout echo in the warehouse.

Footsteps pounded on concrete, heading their direction.

Damn. They’d been discovered. The only way they might get out of this without being caught was if they made it through to the hidden room first.

Once Irish and Stingray were through the door, Ben jammed a blade of his pocketknife into the lock and broke it off. The disabled door would hold them off for a short time, but his team still had to get all of the way back without being found in an obviously forbidden place, in possession of the deadly pet project of one of the members of the royal family.

Ben ran through the torture chamber, toward the door leading into the cells. He reached for the handle and turned it. Just as he was about to fling open the door, he heard an angry male voice on the other side.

Trapped between the warehouse men and the guy in the hallway to the cells, Ben turned to Stingray and Irish. “Looks like we might have to fight our way out of this one.”

Y
asmin came
to as she was dropped onto a cold, hard concrete floor. She blinked open her eyes and stared up the man who’d carried her into what appeared to be a stark cell without windows. The same man who’d been her escort on the plane ride over from London. Rashad.

He spoke heatedly to someone standing behind him, someone she couldn’t see. Gathering as much self-righteous anger as she could with her throbbing head, Yasmin demanded, “Rashad, what is the meaning of this?”

He glared down at her, a snarl curling his lips. “You are not fit to be a princess. Most certainly, you are not fit to marry Prince Khalid.”

“You have your opinion.” She bowed her head demurely. “I would think the prince will make that choice, not you.”

“He is not fit to be king of our great country. He is young and foolish.”

“And who should be king, Rashad?” Yasmin tried to keep the man talking so she could think through the cloud of pain for a way to escape.

Another face appeared in the doorway. Sumbal. “The man who should be king. A man who knows what this country needs. My husband.”

Yasmin nodded at the woman, remembering what Erin told her. “You are the wife of Prince Bandar.”

She lifted her chin. “I am. He will banish the westerners from poisoning the minds of our young. He will bring a return of Islam to our people, and remove the infidels from among us.”

“You were the one who hit me and knocked me unconscious?” Yasmin rubbed her forehead and winced.

Sumbal nodded. “I am. You are a disgrace to the House of Saud. My nephew would be making a mistake in marrying you.” She snorted. “A spy among us. Women were not meant to dress as men and sneak into places where they are not invited.”

Yasmin bowed her head, allowing the woman berate her, giving her even more time to think through her plan of action. With no weapons within reach, Yasmin had no other choice but to attack with all her might. Bunching her muscles, Yasmin pushed to a standing position and waited for her head to quit spinning. “Do you really want a return of Islam, or is it that you just want your husband to be king?”

Sumbal’s dark eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared. “You will never know.” She darted a glance toward Rashad. “Are you going to kill her?”

Rashad nodded.

“Good.” Sumbal spun and started for the door.

Yasmin launched herself at the woman like a football player going in for the tackle. She hit Sumbal in the middle of her back, sending her flying into Rashad’s chest. He staggered backward and fell, with Sumbal landing on top of him.

Yasmin leaped over them, but she didn’t make it to the door before Rashad caught her ankle.

Momentum carried her body over the pair, but the hand on her ankle brought her up short, and she landed on her chest, the air knocked from her lungs. Yasmin yanked her ankle free and crawled a few steps away, coming up on her hands and knees. Before she could rise to her feet, Rashad landed on her back, pinning her to the floor with the weight of his body.

She bucked and fought, but he had her.

“Kill her,” Sumbal yelled. “Or I will!”

Rashad pulled a knife from his belt and pressed it to Yasmin’s throat, the tip slicing into her skin. This was the end. She’d die at the hand of her enemy without seeing Ben again. Without the opportunity to tell him she thought he was handsome and trustworthy. And so good in bed.

Rashad jerked backward with a grunt and sprawled across the floor on his back.

Yasmin rolled to her side and stared up through the haze of pain throbbing in her temples at what appeared to be an enraged Norse god. “Ben?” she said, blinking. “Where did you come from?” Then she passed out.