Seduced by His Target (2 page)

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

R
asheed 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.