In Rides Trouble (12 page)

“Don’t worry about that. Interpol will catch him. And if they don’t…well let’s just say me and the boys will make sure this is one loose end that gets tied up in a pretty little bow. Even if it means we have to scour the wastelands of Somalia in order to do it, we
will
find him and bring him to justice.”

“Oh Frank,” she replied softly, “I know you will.” If there was one thing the Black Knights were good at, it was protecting their own. Her boys wouldn’t sleep until they knew she was safe, until they knew Sharif no longer posed a threat. That support system, that knowing there was always someone there who had her back, was more precious to her than she could ever express. It gave her the courage and the strength to continue, “And while we’re on the subject of things that happened out on the Indian Ocean, I think we should discuss that little incident down in sick b—”

“Let it go,” he growled with a raised hand and a terse jerk of his stubbled chin.

“But—”

“And since you’re feeling up to getting back to work, the date of the Blackhawk’s charity auction is two months away. That should be plenty of time for you to design, fabricate, and get the bike out to the powder-coater and chromer.”

Okay, so obviously talk of what happened on the
Patton
was strictly prohibited.

Duly noted. And totally frustrating.

***

Two
days
later…

Sharif crested a shallow wave and caught a long glimpse of golden coastline dotted by multiple graduated lines of tall, white structures. The skeletal framework of cranes looked wispy thin in the distant harbor, dwarfed by the steel gray hulls of numerous freighters.

It was a port of some sort. A large one by the looks of it, and the city snuggling next to the bustling port appeared to be larger still.

A sane man would’ve cried with joy, but Sharif felt no elation. Because he feared he was no longer sane. Because he could no longer believe his own eyes. What he was seeing might very well turn out to be a mirage.

A hallucination.

After all, this morning he’d been carrying on a conversation with his dead mother…

Only, she hadn’t been dead. This morning she’d been standing at the wheel, dressed in a beautiful
guntino
and staring at the taut white sails.

“You’ve been led astray, my son,” she said softly.

He’d been in the process of explaining how things had changed since her death, how he’d been forced into his current situation, when she suddenly dissolved, simply faded into nothingness, much like Alice’s Cheshire Cat. Except there’d been no lingering smile hanging on the warm wind, only the quiet words of her gentle condemnation…

So no, he set no store in the vision before his eyes, only licked dry, cracked lips and steered toward the horizon, waiting for it to all just disappear.

Only…it didn’t.

A motorboat sped by him, kicking up hot salt spray and churning bright green algae in its wake.

This was no hallucination. Even his fevered brain couldn’t conjure those details.

Still, it felt like years passed as he gradually inched closer and closer, closing in on a giant freighter slowly lumbering into dock. A man standing on the deck of the freighter waved his arms and angrily yelled something.

Sharif didn’t speak Swahili, but he understood enough to know the man was telling him he shouldn’t sail here. Something about merchant vessels only.

Sharif tried calling out, but a dull croak was all he could manage from his parched throat. So he held up his injured hand, now dark and bloated with infection and managed to whisper one word in English, “Hospital,” before his whole world faded to black.

***

“Interpol needs a sketch of Sharif’s face.”

That name, and the memories it evoked, made Becky shiver like she’d been sitting in a bucket of ice water. Swinging away from the computer and the CAD software she was using to design the bike for the Blackhawk’s player, she stared at Frank’s concerned expression.

“Do you think you can do that?” he asked softly.

She made a face and waved her hand at the fifteen-foot tall caricatures she’d painted of the Knights all along the shop’s impregnable walls, each one was detailed and specific, not to mention a spitting image of the man it was modeled after. “What do you think?”

“I’m not talking about can you accurately
draw
the guy.” He frowned and went to cross his arms before wincing and remembering he had one in a sling. The man should’ve gone in for surgery days ago, but for some reason, she had no idea why, he appeared to be putting off the inevitable.
The
big, stubborn oaf.
“I’m asking if you’re emotionally ready to see that face again?”

Emotionally ready? Uh, no. She could happily go the rest of her life without setting eyes on that ugly mug. But she wasn’t the type to throw up her hands and play the wounded victim when there was something she could do to help put the bastard securely behind bars where he belonged. “What about the surveillance photos you have of us on the sailboat? Don’t some of them show his face?”

“Nope. They only caught glimpses of his profile and the back of his head. Not enough to run against facial recognition software. And of the million or so Sharifs in the world, about one hundred have worked as interpreters for the U.N., if you can believe that statistic. The guys and gals at Interpol would very much like to find out just which Sharif they’re after.”

“Yeah, okay.” She nodded, bracing herself to not only
see
that evil face again, but to personally
construct
it. Somehow that was worse, more…
personal
. “I guess there’s been no word at the ports?”

He shook his head, regret and frustration clear in his expression.

Yeah well, she was pretty regretful and frustrated herself. Regretful that she hadn’t driven that KA-BAR straight into Sharif’s blackened heart when she had the chance, and frustrated that he was still roaming around out there…somewhere.

The thought sent a shiver of trepidation racing down her spine, but she ignored it. With the U.S. government’s resources and those of the international community, he’d be caught eventually. Of course, it had taken nearly ten years to get Osama bin Laden, so maybe she was playing the part of the cockeyed optimist.

Whatever.

She wasn’t going to think about that. Not now. Especially when she had something she’d been needing to get off her chest and, what do you know? Here he was. Here she was. And, for the first time in two long days, they were alone together.

“Frank,” she murmured, “I know you said to let it go, but I can’t help but notice there’s this…
tension
between us, and I…I just wanted to say—”

“Are you going to do the damned sketch or not?”

Every single hackle she had stood up and started shaking an angry fist. “Yes!” she hissed, thrusting out her chin. “I’ll do the damned sketch!”
You
big, stupid dill-hole!

“Good.” He nodded, then turned and stomped back to his office.

Oooh, the insufferable…

How she could continue to
want
him, to
love
him after the way he’d been treating her the past few days was a complete and utter mystery.

She was a glutton for punishment.

That was the only answer.

A door opened down the hall. Frank knew that squeaky hinge. Becky was up.

He snatched his diver’s watch from the bedside table and glanced at the softly glowing dial. Oh-three-hundred.

What the hell was she doing awake at this hour?

He very much feared he knew the answer to that one. And his name started with an A and ended with an L and—

Sonofabitch!

He threw an arm over his gritty eyes and tried not to picture Angel and Becky together.

It was impossible.

Ever since the night he’d caught them doing the cute and cuddly bit on the couch, all he could see when he closed his eyes was Becky in that damn Mossad agent’s arms. It was enough to have him needing some of the Pepto-Bismol Bill had taken to toting around.

And yeah, so Angel hadn’t taken her to bed then, evidenced by the fact that she’d still been on the sofa the next morning—a miracle for which Frank had nearly dropped to his knees and thanked the good Lord—but that didn’t mean they weren’t currently giving each other the ol’ slap and tickle.

Ugh.
Just the thought made him want to vomit.

On the verge of plugging his ears so he wouldn’t have to hear the sound of Angel’s door opening, he sat bolt upright when the muted
chic-chic
of a round being chambered met his ears instead.

What
the
hell?

He tossed back the covers and raced to the door, jerking it open only to be greeted by Becky’s wide, panicked gaze and the business end of Springfield XD-9 Subcompact pistol.

“Whoa!” He threw his hands in the air, wincing when his injured shoulder shrieked in protest of the movement.

“He’s here,” she whispered hoarsely, turning to aim the pistol down the long, dark hall. “Somehow he broke in and—”

“Who’s here, Becky?”

“Sharif!” she hissed. “He killed Toran out at the gatehouse and now he’s here and—”

She swung around and nearly blew Peanut to hell when the cat had the bad sense to plod out of her room and into the hall.

“Oh, God, Peanut! I nearly sent you to kitty heaven!” She cried even as she spun back and once more quartered the dimly lit hall, slowly moving in the direction of the stairs.

“Becky, I need you to—”

“Where’s your weapon, Frank? You need to get a weapon!” Her voice cracked on the hard edge of hysteria, and he realized what was happening.

He’d seen it all before. Men, fresh in from the field, seemingly fine, go to sleep one night only to wake from a nightmare so vivid they’re unable to tell what’s real and what’s simply a figment of their over-stimulated brains.

“Becky,” he told her calmly, “you had a nightmare. Sharif isn’t here. He didn’t get in. Toran is fine and still—”

He could tell by the wild look on her face, she didn’t believe him.

“Come with me.” He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and slowly led her down the stairs to the bank of computers on the office level. She didn’t relax her grip on the pistol the entire way and continued to quarter the area like a well-trained commando.

“Look,” he pointed to the screen showing Toran in the gatehouse. The guy was eating a jelly donut and sipping coffee from the cap of his drab-green thermos. Very much still alive.

“But I…I saw him. I mean…I think I…oh, God.” She shook her head slowly, then swallowed and carefully placed her pistol on the conference table.

He saw it coming. Her shoulders hitched up around her ears, her lower lip quivered.

And then his fucking heart shattered, because tough-as-nails Rebel Reichert broke down in tears. No. Not tears. They were hard, heaving, gut-wrenching sobs.

“I must be going crazy,” she wailed into the hands she’d thrown over her eyes. “I was so sure…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. He knew exactly what she was going through.

“I know you were,” he murmured as he gathered her into his arms—damn the bum shoulder and the protest it lodged. Damn his promise to himself to keep his hands off of her. “I know you were,” he repeated as he half carried/half dragged her up the stairs and into the media room.

He sat on the couch, pulling her into his lap as he smoothed her hair and let her cry herself dry.

It took everything he had not to kiss away each and every one of those tears, but he satisfied himself with simply burying his nose in her hair and breathing in her clean, sweet scent.

“I thought I was stronger than this,” she whispered against his throat sometime later. He tried to ignore her hot breath against his skin.

It wasn’t working.

Especially with her oh-so-fine, boxer-covered ass planted directly over his dick which, in response, was sounding a rousing chorus of, “happy, happy, joy, joys.”

Goddamn
, he was a total reprobate. Here she was in pieces, and all he could think about was getting her naked and driving himself into the wet haven of her female warmth.

“You are strong,” he told her, adjusting her in his lap so she wouldn’t feel his always-optimistic cock pounding in rhythm to his too-fast heartbeat. “Having nightmares after going through a situation like that is normal. Especially since you don’t have any closure.
Yet
,” he quickly added.

“I think it was sketching him this afternoon. Seeing his face again. It brought it all back, you know?” She sniffled and pushed from his chest to look at him.

Her hair was a mess, her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, her cheek was still discolored, and she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

“I do know. But you need to remember that you’re home now. You’re safe.” And he’d make damned sure she stayed that way.

After a deep, shuddering breath, she nodded and gingerly crawled from his lap.

Instantly, he missed her warmth.

Curling into a ball at the end of the sofa, she shoved her cold, bare feet under his thigh and sighed as he covered her with the afghan draped over the back of the couch.

“Stay with me until I fall asleep, okay?” she asked around a huge yawn. Now that she’d come down from the adrenaline rush, it was going to be lights-out in a hurry.

“I will,” he told her and grabbed her foot, chafing some warmth back into it.

Becky had the most elegant feet he’d ever seen. Long and slim and always with some crazy polish on her toes thanks to her weekly “pedi” as she liked to call it.

The woman was a damned paradox. So tough and tomboyish one minute and then he’d turn around, catch her in a different light, and she was the softest, sweetest, most feminine thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

Her gentle snore had one corner of his mouth lifting before the thought of what needed to be done had him scowling into the darkness.

There was no more putting it off. The surgery…

He’d thought maybe…but, no. If he had any hope of being able to protect her, of being able to continue his job, he had to have the use of both arms.

Ever since he’d left Dr. Keller’s office with assurances that he’d be just fine, that they’d be careful with the dosage of the general anesthesia and monitor him closely, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the surgery would end with his shaking the bony hand of the Reaper.

He wanted to chalk it all up to paranoia, but a growing part of him was beginning to believe it was something a lot closer to premonition.

Still, Shell assured him he was being silly and, yeah, when he stepped outside himself and looked at the situation rationally, he couldn’t help but agree with her.

So…it was time he quit acting like a pussy and started acting like the steel-balled warrior he was. His men needed him. Becky needed him. And if there was a chance he could be made whole again…

He’d call Dr. Keller’s office in the morning.

***

The pain in his hand was back, sharp and piercing as the moment that stupid bitch had shoved the length of her big knife into it.

“Unnngh,” he moaned, not wanting to wake fully, afraid when he opened his eyes all he’d see was cloudless blue sky and kilometer after kilometer of bright, rolling ocean.

“Wake up,” a deep voice commanded in heavily accented English.

Sharif blinked in confusion at the dark face of the strange man leaning over him. He grimaced when something tightened painfully around his arm, then swallowed a cry of relief when he realized it was a blood-pressure cuff.

“What’s your name?” the man asked, a doctor by the looks of him. The stethoscope, the white lab coat, the stern expression all fit the bill.

Sharif turned his head and the room around him shimmered into focus. White walls, white tile floors, and a blue door with a file holder attached to its metal surface.

It was a hospital. He was in a
hospital
. He made it! He was alive!

He wanted to whoop with the joy of it, but a sudden shaft of pain lanced through his hand, making him grimace instead.

“What’s your name?” the doctor repeated the question in Somali, but Sharif just shook his head, biting his bottom lip against the fiery agony shooting up his arm. Despite the coolness of the air-conditioned room, sweat broke out on his forehead and beaded on his upper lip.

“All right,” the doctor said, “don’t strain yourself. We will answer all of these questions later. Like who you are and what you were doing piloting a boat that was reported hijacked almost two weeks ago.”

Sharif’s eyes snapped open as he scanned the doctor’s hard expression. An icy chill washed over him, momentarily freezing the sweat on his skin and the rhythm of his heart.

The doctor knew what he was, or more appropriately, what he’d become. A pirate. And that meant he was in deep,
deep
trouble.

“Where am I?” he managed to rasp.

“Ah,” the doctor smiled narrowly, unwinding the stethoscope from around his neck. “So you do understand what I am saying.”

He swallowed. His throat was excruciatingly dry, like he’d been ingesting wads of cotton for a week.

“You are in Mombasa, Kenya,” the doctor explained, plugging the earbuds of his stethoscope into his ears and placing the cool, round diaphragm above Sharif’s pounding heart. “And it is a good thing, too. Had you made the Somali coast, you would have been lucky to find anyone who could save that hand.”

Sharif glanced down to his wounded hand but could see nothing past the thick white bandages wrapped around the throbbing appendage.

“We’ve rehydrated you and cleaned out the infection. The last finger had to be amputated. There was no saving it; the infection had reached the bone.”

Hot bile climbed up his parched throat at the thought of being permanently maimed, disfigured. And the burning rage that quickly followed scorched away the ice that’d briefly filled his veins when the doctor mentioned the hijacked catamaran.

“We will have to wait and see how much nerve damage was done before we can determine how much mobility you will retain,” the doctor continued, completely oblivious to the dark thoughts of death and retribution flashing through Sharif’s fevered brain.

When the doctor finally left the room, he raked in a deep, steadying breath and pushed up on the narrow hospital bed. The walls slanted in on him as the floor bucked. It was like walking through a funhouse—only not nearly as fun. Taking slow, measured breaths through his nose, he managed to breathe away the dizziness. And when his head finally quit spinning, he surveyed his condition.

With his good hand, he grabbed one of the bags of fluid hanging from a metal pole beside his bed and read, “saline.” Gritting his teeth, he yanked the needle administering the fluid out of his arm. After flinging it aside, he grabbed the other bag. Nafcillin. An antibiotic. That one he unhooked from its metal pole in order to secure the cool plastic bag under his perspiring armpit.

He wasn’t taking any chances with the infection in his hand. Slipping his feet over the side of the bed, he tested his strength, found it pathetically lacking but firmed his jaw and took a step anyway. He couldn’t afford to waste one minute.

Pleased when he didn’t collapse on the floor, he shuffled to the little plywood wardrobe shoved in the corner. Empty—save for an extra blanket and pillow. Frustrated, he stumbled toward the door, carefully pulling it open. The hall was quiet and wonderfully vacant.

With a small smile of victory, he slipped from his room and padded to the next blue door. Knocking softly, he listened for a response and, hearing none, swept inside.

There was a man lying on the bed, hooked up to a great number of beeping, shushing, monitoring machines. The man’s dark skin hung over his face like a brown shroud, and the room reeked of astringent cleaning products, old urine, and the lingering putrescence of imminent death.

Sharif swallowed the overwhelming desire to gag, breathed through his mouth, and opened the small wardrobe.

Ah-ha!

He was pleased to discover the familiar red-and-white checkered cloth of a
shemagh
. A circular black
igal
lay on top of the carefully folded Arabic head scarf.

Most Kenyans, especially those living on the coast, tended to don western-style clothing, but Sharif was happy to see this man, whoever the poor dying sod was, did not. Hiding his injury and his bag of antibiotics in the billowing folds of traditional Arabic dress would be so much easier.

He couldn’t have picked a more perfect or comfortable disguise if he tried.

“Thank you,” he whispered to the dying man after donning the clothes. He shuffled to the door, once more peeking into the hallway. Still empty.

Stepping out, he wiped the cold sweat from his brow, lengthened his stride to conceal his weakness, and made his way quickly down the corridor.

It wasn’t until he pushed through the hospital’s wide front doors and out into the scorching African sun, that he dragged in a shaky breath.

His knees wobbled like they were made of spaghetti, his head pounded like a jackhammer, and his whole arm was ready to fall off, but he’d made it.

It was time to find a phone and get far, far away from the international police force that was sure to be hot on his trail.

***