The Black Madonna (18 page)

“Swiftly now,” the attacker said, climbing into the rear compartment.

Storm felt the adrenaline rush of unlimited fear and desperate need, though her head was too filled with shooting agony to say precisely what was the threat. She exploded into a frenzy of desperate flailing.

But the man was ready for this as well. He jammed the outer edge of his shoe into her neck, cutting off her air. His voice remained exquisitely polite. “Remain quite still, else I shall be forced to introduce you to an entirely new level of misery.”

The driver put the car into gear, turned the wheel, and hit the gas. Storm gasped, “What—”

The foot pressed harder still. “Hush, now.”

The car rolled smoothly away. Storm gripped the man's ankle, but the shoe did not move. The manor's shadows passed across her face. The car continued around the drive's main turn and started back toward the entrance.

She knew the attacker probably meant everything he had said about further pain. But she had no choice. She had to try.

The man must have felt her tense, for he jabbed the cane's silver tip deep into her ribs. “I assure you, there is no profit in testing—”

His threat was cut off by an assault so violent the man's head splintered the side window.

Another vehicle hammered the right rear corner of the Rolls, causing it to skew violently sideways. Her attacker was then rocked back the other way as they bounced over the curb and collided with what Storm assumed was one of the elms. He slumped across the rear seat and did not move.

Storm was up and clawing at the handle when the opposite rear door wrenched open and a woman's voice shrilled, “Move! Move!”

The Rolls's driver jammed down on the gas. The engine howled. Metal screeched and the car heaved. The man in the passenger seat turned and gripped the shoulder pad of Storm's suit and tried to haul her back down. But the woman in the doorway found Storm's hand and pulled. Storm heard yells and shouts and knew some of the noise was hers. All she could focus on was the door and the woman gripping her hand.

The Rolls jerked forward. The driver wrenched the wheel about, the tires spun, the car gave one final shudder and then came free.

Somehow Storm kept a grip on the woman and popped from the open door, colliding with her rescuer. They both tumbled to the ground.

Which was the moment she realized she held the attacker's silver-tipped cane.

She rose unsteadily to her feet, her vision still clouded by pain and panic. The Rolls had slowed, and a man leaned out of the passenger window. He was holding a gun.

Storm heard herself say, “I've had just about all I'm going to take!”

“Wait! Ms. Syrrell!”

Storm's sudden rage circumvented the portion of her brain that said, running toward a man raising a gun in her direction was insane.

She caught up with him just as the Rolls hit a speed bump, marring the man's aim. She applied the cane to the attacker's arm like a hammer.

The man howled and dropped the gun. The weapon hit the road and went off. The pistol shot was a blast of noise and heat.

The woman raced up just as the car stopped and the passenger door opened. She sprang at the man as he used his undamaged hand to scoop the gun off the pavement. He was caught in a moment of uncertainty over two targets and chose the woman clawing for his throat.

Storm hurriedly jabbed the cane at the back of the man's skull. The sound was that of a pool cue striking a ball. The man's gun hand wavered. Storm did not have time for the full swing she wanted, but a ten-inch arc knocked the man to his knees.

The woman kicked the pistol from his grip, sending it rattling across the pavement. She gripped the man by his lapels and rapped his head against the front fender. “Who sent you?”

Storm thought she detected a strong accent in the woman's voice, but her own rasping breath and the shouts that rang from the manor behind them interfered with her hearing.

The woman rapped the man's head against the fender a second time. His heels scrabbled across the pavement. The woman shouted in a language Storm could not understand and rapped his head yet again, this time hard enough to dent the fender.

The driver raced around the hood, snarling with fresh menace.

But before the driver came into range, a white van bounced over the curb, scraped past an elm, and halted between the woman and the driver. The man driving the van shouted and gestured violently at the woman.

She released the dazed attacker, gripped Storm's arm, and said, “You must come with us.”

“Why?”

The woman was already moving for the van, dragging Storm with her. “If you stay, you die.”

She climbed into the van's rear door and hauled Storm in after her. The van sped away as the driver of the Rolls dragged Storm's unconscious attacker back into the car.

In the distance a siren wailed.

H
ARRY DRIFTED THROUGH MUCH OF
the four-hour drive. He came fully alert with taut little jerks, pulled to wakefulness by jabs of either fear or pain or both. The jolts were worth the trouble, for Emma was there each time. Ready to gentle him with a stroke of his arm, the softest word, a caress to the undamaged side of his face. She held his hand throughout, snug in her lap.

They returned to the main highway and headed south. Just past the Petra turnoff, Saleem halted to refill his tank. At Emma's request, Saleem purchased drawstring pants and a T-shirt decorated with the Jordanian flag. Ten miles farther on, he then pulled into a desert turnout. Harry limped into the shadows and changed clothes. His ribs hurt too much to do what he wanted, which was fling the djellaba at the stars. Harry returned to the car and resumed his hold on Emma's hand.

It was fully dark when they reached the port city of Aqaba. Harry heard Emma discuss the hotel situation with Saleem without fully coming awake. He worked their words into his dream, finding bone-deep comfort from a woman he could trust to take charge.

Saleem chose for them a hotel two blocks off the main waterfront. An Indian couple smiled them in and made cooing
sounds over Harry's injured state. Emma explained that he had been in an accident and needed to rest. She claimed that his papers had been lost in the accident, along with all his clothes, and that the embassy was sending down new ones. Emma paid for three rooms in cash and offered a generous tip. The proprietor smiled his enjoyment of her tale.

When she was done, Harry gestured toward Saleem and said, “We need to have a chat with your pal.”

“You look all done in.”

“I've felt better. But if we hold off until tomorrow, there's a good chance Saleem will vanish with the dawn.”

Emma went over and asked Saleem to join them. The portly gentleman carried himself with a nervous air. Harry said, “We need your help, and we will pay.”

Saleem's fearful gaze shifted from one to the other. “I am thinking anything with you has much danger.”

Harry glanced at Emma. She motioned that this was his show. Harry said, “Listen to what we need, and if you think there is any risk, then leave. And we'll pay you anyway.”

“I leave, you still pay?”

“Not as much as if you help us. But I'd say you've earned a bonus whatever you decide. Emma tells me you had relatives who are smugglers. Do any of them live in Aqaba?”

Saleem's furtive glances, the nervousness, the mobile features, all vanished. “Who can say?”

“I'm asking because we're looking for a smuggler who calls this town home. His name is Wadi Haddad.”

“I am not knowing this man.”

“No, but your relatives might.” Harry slipped the Palestinian ID from his pocket. “Have them give this to Wadi Haddad. Tell Wadi the bad guys are on his trail. They've been tracking me because they want him. Tell him what you saw yesterday at Nebo.”

“And tell him about me,” Emma said. “Tell him everything.”

“We're the only people who can help him.” Harry needed Emma's help to rise from the chair. He kept the pain from his
features as he said, “The clock is ticking, Saleem. Tell that to Wadi Haddad as well. I don't know how much time we've got before they show up. But my guess is, we'd all be safer moving with the dawn.”

HARRY'S ROOM WAS LARGE AND
slightly seedy but immaculately clean. He took what should have been the finest shower of his entire life. He could not scrub as hard as he would have liked because of his ribs. He shaved away his stubble and grunted against the pain of lifting his arms to wash his hair. Worse than his physical discomfort, however, was the alarm bell echoing through his brain.

All his previous relationships had hit a wall about now. Every time danger had reared its head, the next words his latest lovely uttered were, “I didn't sign up for this.”

The arguments that followed always ended with the same ultimatum. Either Harry chose a new line of work or their time was over. Harry's problem was, his work was his life.

Which meant he had always treated women with the same cavalier attitude as most treasure dogs. Relationships started, they broke apart, and he moved to the next hunt.

Only not this time.

Harry had known for months he'd moved far beyond his normal safety zone. But so long as Emma's work kept her in Washington, he could put off confronting the new reality. The alarms had started clanging on the drive south. Now that he was here alone and safe and clean, there was nothing left to hide behind. What the lady might say, and how he might respond, left him quaking in his sandals.

Emma arrived while he doctored his face with salve the doctors had given him. She pulled a feast from various bags and set the contents on the rusted balcony table. Chunks of roasted beef in a spicy sauce, lamb with pine nuts nestled in hummus, a fragrant Arab salad of cumin and coriander and
mint, on and on the dishes came. Harry ate until his belly hurt worse than his ribs.

They sat for a time, listening to the night. Harry's balcony overlooked a bustling central market. From the street below came the electrified beat of modern Arabic music. Harry smelled charcoal and cumin and diesel and donkey in the hot nighttime wind. On the balcony above his, four backpackers chattered and smoked cigarillos laced with clove.

Then he realized that Emma had shrunk inside herself.

That was how it seemed. This strong and vibrant woman had shriveled up. The only thing big about her was her eyes.

Harry realized he wasn't the only one fighting old ghosts.

The awareness brought no comfort, however. Harry was on new terrain. None of his old habits or shields or attitudes fit this scenario. The lady needed answers. Harry had none. He had never felt as poor as right then.

He struggled to say, “Maybe I should get some rest.”

Emma sighed with what Harry figured was pure relief. She gave him a hug as strong and swift as summer thunder and was gone.

Hours later the traffic finally thinned, the hotel went silent, and Harry decided it was probably worth trying to get a little sleep.

T
HE FEMALE GUARD WHO HAD
rescued Storm was named Tanya. She and her partner had been tracking Storm since her arrival at the auction. Why, Tanya would not say. They drove Storm to a public restroom at the border of a village park. When they pulled up, Tanya slid open the van's rear door and stepped out. The driver motioned for Storm to stay where she was. He never spoke or ceased his constant search of the night.

The restroom was built of brick and stone and resembled the surrounding Victorian village. Tanya fed coins into the restroom door, checked inside, then signaled for Storm to come over. As soon as she stepped out of the van, it sped away.

Tanya wore a dark leather jacket over shoulders that bunched and shifted like a bodybuilder's. Her dark hair was cut so short Storm could see the woman's scalp. Her lips were a thin slit. “Inside.”