Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (10 page)

Forgetting for the moment the mystery of the fit of the clothing, and resolutely ignoring the mirror in the corner of the room, I turn to discover that a trolley, laden with breakfast food, must have been delivered while I was showering. I can’t believe I’ll be able to force down any food, but I wander over to see what delicacies are available. As I lift the covers off the tureens, my stomach seems to be at odds with my brain and growls loudly at the smells emanating from the spread in front of me, a sweet mouth-watering aroma – as if the offerings had come direct from a bakery. I make myself take a croissant and a little pastry which is stuffed with feta cheese, as well as pouring a glass of fresh orange juice. As the flavours hit my taste buds, I appreciate the freshness and buttery flavour of the flaky pastry and I find myself taking a second cheese delicacy. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days. Once full, I sit back in the chair, realising I feel more settled with something in my stomach, and my headache has completely gone.

I finish my breakfast just in time to hear the door opening again. Tahirah is back. She looks at me carefully, and I flinch under her scrutiny. Then she smiles, the first I’ve seen from her.

“Lovely, miss.” She nods at me in appreciation, and then recoils at the glare I can’t prevent. She looks puzzled, and then it’s back to business. “Come now. Meet princes.”

I start. Princes? Oh damn! A meeting with the princes? That
is
serious business! I’d looked into the country when I was offered the work contract, so I know the princes
are
the government of Amahad. It sounds like I’ve upset people at a very high level. This is not good. As I rise, I can feel myself start shaking again. It crosses my mind that no one, absolutely no one, knows I’m here.

Opening the door, Tahirah gestures for me to follow her. I hang back. Meeting people is always difficult for me. My heart is racing and I’m panting. The breakfast in my stomach is threatening to make a reappearance, and my vision blurs. As I recognise the symptoms of the panic attacks which plague me when faced with new situations, I make a concerted effort to take deep breaths to stave it off, needing to be in control, not a quivering wreck. I lean against the wall for a moment. Tahirah turns but waits for me, noticing my plight, but I wave her on, showing I’m getting myself back together. Gradually, the blood returns to my head and I no longer feel quite so sick and faint. But while my body calms, my mind remains in shock.
Princes?
If they’ve discovered I’m a hacker, I’d expect them to take me in front of a police officer, or whatever the equivalent is here. But to be summoned by the highest authority in the country? Well, I suppose the emir has the ultimate power, but his sons rate pretty high. Frighteningly high!

Continuing to concentrate on taking air into my lungs, I inhale deep breaths and take my first step outside the room, noting the unsmiling guard again standing outside, looking steadfastly ahead. As Tahirah turns and beckons me forward, telling me only, “Come,” the guard once more falls into step behind us. My steps falter.

“Come,” Tahirah instructs again, this time sounding impatient.

Berating myself for my stupidity in exploiting my access to the Amahadian finance systems, I force my feet to move, putting one foot in front of the other. Hacking, to me, is like a drug. I know that. As my dear friend Hunter so accurately pointed out, just because I can do something doesn’t mean I should.

Although mainly concentrating on getting myself under control, I can’t fail to notice my surroundings as the maid leads me through the hallways that seem to go on for miles, or so it seems in my weakened state. The further we go, the more it starts to look like a palace; heavily ornamented walls and ceilings with plaster carvings covered in gold paint appear. Never in my life have I seen anything as stunningly decadent. Marble staircases lead to the lower floors and the ceilings grow loftier. As the opulence of my surroundings increases my concern intensifies. What have I got myself into? Who exactly am I dealing with here? My stomach churns. If the plan is to overwhelm me, they’ve succeeded. This building I’m walking through
is
the Palace of Amahad.

But why the elaborate plan to kidnap me? Why didn’t they just hand me over to the police in England? That would certainly have been my preference. The English legal system I can understand, but here? I doubt I’ll like Amahadian methods of retribution; waking up in that cell was bad enough. A cold shiver runs down my spine as I remember the emir – Sheikh Rushdi – is an absolute monarch. Now I’m in Amahad, I’m completely under his power.

Nijad

Pulling back sharply on the reins I bring my Arab stallion, Amal, to a skidding halt, sending clouds of dust up from his heels. Sheikh Rais, the leader of the largest of the desert tribes, draws his mount up beside me. We look down at the ground as if seeing the southernmost border of Amahad marked by a line in the sand. If only it were a visible line it would make patrolling the border easy, but the shifting sands would obliterate any physical boundary within minutes. The border can be found only by geographical coordinates, or the innate knowledge of descendants of those who had lived in the desert for generations. Both Rais and I, friends since childhood, having spent many of our formative years roaming the sands, can sense the exact location of the border, and this morning we’d ridden a portion of the central part. Looking one way and then the other, I speak once our warriors have caught up.

“We wasted our damn time today.” I’m as disappointed as I sound.

Rais narrows his eyes and, with his left hand, shields them from the harsh sun. We are all armed with semi-automatic rifles and have long scimitars in our belts. The swords are not ornamental. “We had reports of sightings in the area yesterday.”

“My gut tells me the jihadists are planning something.” I’m worried. “The rumours suggest there’s something building. Did the prisoner say anything?” I add, referring to the man we captured hiding in one of the border villages a couple of days ago. He was holding a family at gunpoint but, in a well-practiced manoeuvre, we managed to extricate both him and the tribespeople alive. Well, in his case, alive enough to remain of use to us.

“Muzaffar is still softening him up. I’ll take over when I return.” Rais sounds like he’s relishing the prospect. I grimace and turn my face away. Interrogation is a necessary evil but, to be honest, I haven’t the stomach for some of the methods I know the Haimi tribe use. I prefer to see a man die quickly if there’s a need to kill him, not to see a man tortured to within an inch of his life. There’s only one outcome for the prisoner; the only question is how long it will take. “He’ll talk,” Rais continues confidently.

I incline my head in agreement. I’ve seen Muzaffar’s work before and even thinking about it makes me shudder. But the civilised world seems a long way from the hostile environment of the desert. Here, I just accept the importance of intelligence-gathering in keeping on top of what our enemy is doing. I just don’t like how we go about it. Since the war with Ezirad ended some years ago it’s not even another country that’s threatening us, but the extremists who want their interpretation of the Muslim religion imposed across the globe – or, in my opinion, just want an excuse for violence. Amahad is liberal compared to some of our neighbours. My job is to coordinate the effort to stop radicals invading our country so we can keep it that way. And protecting the southern border is key to that aim. Unfortunately, Ezirad remains a weak country and is unable, or perhaps unwilling, to block jihadists from using their lands as a springboard to invade the more tolerant northern states.

“We need information about that rumour,” I remind him, referring to the reports of a terrorist training camp being set up in Ezirad. That would surely be too close for comfort.

“Muzaffar will get it,” Rais says, confidently. He sits on his horse, upright, his head cocked to one side as if listening to the perfect silence. There’s no sound except the occasional jingle of the bridles as the horses shake their heads to disperse annoying flies. “But for now, it’s quiet, Nijad. There’s no work for us to do this morning.”

After staring into the distance for a while, I nod in agreement while deep down I’d been hoping for a skirmish to relieve some of my tension, my thoughts of the day ahead. But there’s nothing here to take the edge off. I squeeze with my legs and subtly loosen my grip on the reins to signal Amal to wheel round. The urgency gone, we start on our way at walking pace, towards what counts for civilisation in these parts.

“So, it’s today that the daughter of the thief is arriving?” Rais asks after a few minutes have passed.

Glancing sideways at him, I reply simply, “Yes.”

We continue to ride in silence for some time. I realise that by now my new bride will have woken in Amahad, and I find myself pitying her. What will be her reaction? Will she be scared? Angry? Both, probably. One thing’s for certain: she’ll have absolutely no idea of the fucking nightmare she’s about to enter. Marriage to the savage sheikh! I know my brothers have plans to soften her up, to start to break her before they bring her to me. I’m disgusted with myself for having to take part in this fiasco.

Then Rais speaks again. “You’ll bring her to meet us, Nijad?”

His suggestion surprises me, and I’m not unconcerned. An involuntary movement makes my body tense and almost causes the well-trained Amal to halt. I frown. “Her punishment is being married to me, Rais. Let that be enough.”

A quick smile appears on my companion’s face, and he shakes his head before correcting my assumption. “Seeing her married to you is our revenge, Nijad. I have confidence that you’ll be able to keep her in line. But the other leaders will need convincing by seeing evidence of that.”

At the last his face twists and he leaves me in no doubt as to his meaning. Distaste floods through me at the thought that my desert brother recognises what I can be. Do they want to see her damaged, her spirit broken?

Rais pulls his horse up and I halt alongside him. “I’ll try to set the example with the other tribes. The money will be paid back, and the savage sheikh has a wife. There is no need to seek further retribution.”

“What about Abdul-Muhsi?” I cover my eyes from the glare of the sun and turn to look at my friend.

Rais dips his head thoughtfully. “Always out to start trouble, that one.”

We’re both silent for a few seconds, thinking about the older leader of one of the larger tribes. He’s a distant cousin of my father’s, and as entrenched in the old ways as it’s possible to be. It’s well known that he has a dislike for the ruling Kassis family, although currently he doesn’t have enough support behind him to make a serious challenge for the throne. That could change at any minute, a fact that’s a concern for us all. It’s a fragile balance among the volatile tribes of the desert, and so my forthcoming marriage is crucial to keep them united.

“As long as she behaves suitably and doesn’t make waves, I should be able to ensure the support of the other tribes,” Rais continues. “Abdul-Muhsi will be on his own. I’ll let them know that the bride price will be forfeit, should anything happen to her without good reason. You” – he pauses, and stares at me – “you, my friend, hold her life in your hands. No one else.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m grateful, Sheikh Rais.” I show my respect with the honorific term, not often used between us. Rais is one of the younger tribal leaders but well respected. While Abdul-Muhsi might not follow his lead, the majority of the other desert sheikhs probably would. It’s a chilling fact that some of them would have preferred to see the bloodline of their enemy erased completely. Although the morning is warm, a cold shiver runs down my back at the thought that an innocent life, to the Western mind at least, could be extinguished so readily.

It’s my responsibility to keep her alive and, if I need to harm her to do that, I will. I remain mindful of my father’s comments. The desert sheikhs will want to see the daughter of their enemy enduring the retribution agreed for her. Her introduction to the tribes will be problematic if I end up with a feisty wench protesting about her treatment and resenting the marriage. They will expect her to accept her punishment, submitting to her new husband. And that would take a very special woman. Will I be able to make her understand the politics of a way of life so far removed from what she’s accustomed to? Will she accept my protection? Or will force be necessary? I frown. I’ve been given permission, no, more than that, there’s the expectation that I will hurt her. And what sickens me down to my very soul is the thought that I might enjoy it. Fuck that blackout! Did I enjoy beating Chantelle?
I can’t imagine there’s anything inside me that would take pleasure from injuring a woman, but while I can’t remember, I don’t know how deep the darkness inside me goes. Jasim was right to ban me from his club. No one, least of all I, can know what might happen if I lose hold of my, usually, tight control. He couldn’t take the risk and, up to now, neither could I. Is Cara Benting to be my next victim? Fuck, I could never lose control, never raise my hand to a woman.
But I did.

Rais glances across at me. “The blood of that bastard might flow through her, Nijad, but she, herself, carries no burden of guilt. We must all remember that.” I throw him a quick look and nod, again grateful to my friend. Then he loosens his reins and lets his horse lower his head for a while.

“Do you miss it?” he asks me, curiously, a little while later. At my puzzled glance, he clarifies his question. “The jet-setting, the lifestyle you used to lead?”