Wade (9 page)

“Dear God,” Chloe whispered.

Treena was silent for long seconds. When she
spoke again, her voice held determination. “The American must be told.”

“What can he do?” Chloe laughed without humor. “This is a family matter.”

“I'm not sure. Still, he was sent by your father so stands as proxy for him. His presence added to this crisis, I think, since it forced Ahmad to take notice of your coming and going. The foreigner has a responsibility toward you.”

“Ahmad won't see it that way,” Chloe warned. “And he may consider any message to Wade Benedict as a greater betrayal than all the rest.”

“He may, if he finds out.”

“He will certainly guess if Benedict interferes.” Privately she was sure that contact was useless. Regardless of what he'd said, it was doubtful he would risk a serious confrontation with Ahmad for the sake of a woman he barely knew.

“What Ahmad thinks of me matters little,” Treena answered.

The apprehension that crept through Chloe's veins suggested otherwise. “But if he is so dangerous to me, will he spare you?”

“I am his sister.”

“You are a woman.”

“So I am, and a mother of daughters,” Treena answered with resolution in her voice. “Some things must be done because they are right, not because they are safe.”

T
he crash against the bedroom door brought Chloe around in a single wrench of tense muscles. She stood still where she had been pacing in the darkness. She'd heard no footsteps, no warning, yet it sounded as if someone was trying to break down the door. Before she could gather her thoughts for her next move, another blow struck the heavy panel. It swung inward, propelling a man into the room. He plunged to a halt then straightened, a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette against the light coming from the small anteroom beyond him.

Wade Benedict.

He'd actually come for her.

“Get your things and let's go,” he said. “We don't have time to waste.”

At that moment, Treena appeared behind him, coming from where she must have been standing back out of the way. “Hurry,” she urged. “Ismael watches in case Ahmad returns or his guards discover that the American has eluded them. But he won't be able to stop them.”

The noise had awakened the children in the next
bedroom where Treena and her husband slept, for they were crying. Their frightened screams, and the nursemaid's futile attempts to quiet them, made it hard to concentrate. They were also a reminder that she might never see them again if she went away now. These little girls, along with Treena and Ismael, were the only things she valued in the house. Everything else, the photo of her parents, the last of her mother's trinkets and jewelry, had been sold or destroyed. Regardless, she hesitated. She had been so doubtful that this man would come that she had made no final decision. Yet here it was upon her.

Hope was life and life was hope in her lexicon. If she could not expect to live long enough to fight for what she believed, then it was better to leave the battleground. In that case, there was no real choice.

“There's nothing I want to take,” she said as she stepped toward Wade Benedict. “I'm ready.”

“You will need this,” Treena said, handing over the burqa that was draped across her arm.

“Yes, of course.”

Shaking out the heavy folds, she lofted them above her head and let them settle around her while trying to position the mesh screen so she could see. She was still struggling with it when the commotion began at the front of the house. She went as motionless as a cloth-covered statue as she heard Ismael's voice, followed by that of Ahmad's in rasping command.

Her elbow was caught in a firm grasp and she was pulled in the general direction of the kitchen with its
rear exit. She took a few blind steps, then bumped into Wade as he stopped abruptly. As she finally centered the small viewing window, she saw that they were in the center of the anteroom from which many of the rooms opened, and that the American was staring at the doorway that led into the
hajra.

Chloe swung around in time to see Ahmad drag his brother-in-law into the room by the collar of his shirt, then give him a hard kick that landed on his maimed foot. Ismael groaned and would have fallen if Treena hadn't rushed forward to clutch his arm. As he regained his balance, she slid her hand down to hold his, keeping him close beside her.

Ahmad gave them a look of derision, then turned to Chloe. His gaze moved over the blue burqa that she wore. “Going somewhere, my bride?”

She refused to lower her eyes before him. “As you see.”

“I think not.” The purple mottling of rage suffused his face.

“There is only one way to stop me.”

“My pleasure,” he answered in a growl, then slapped a hand to the sheath on his belt. His knife flashed silver from hilt to curved tip as he drew it. Then he lunged forward.

Wade Benedict shouldered Chloe aside to face the bull-like charge. She whirled out of his way, coming up against the wall with her breath lodged in her throat. He had no weapon that she could see, no way to defend against that wickedly curved blade. She half
expected to see him sliced open, but he sidestepped that first swiping blow. Circling Ahmad, he avoided the next slash with such smooth agility that he made it appear effortless. Swaying, leaping back from the plunging, roundhouse slices, he drew her stepbrother away from where Chloe stood. Then he skidded to a halt in a half crouch and whipped a hard arm behind his back. When he brought if forward again, a snub-nosed handgun was in his fist with the bore held rock-steady on Ahmad's chest.

Chloe put a hand to her mouth to stifle the sharp cry that rose inside her. Her gaze was not on the weapon, however, but on the dark wetness that cut across the front of Wade Benedict's black T-shirt, gleaming as it angled down to the waistband of his jeans.

Ahmad stopped. His eyes narrowed as he saw that his adversary was armed. Then his gaze fell to the evidence of injury. “This is interference that you are going to regret, American dog. I told you what would happen if you once more put your unclean hands on the woman who will be my wife.”

“Your wife?” A sardonic smile curled the American's mouth. “Funny she didn't want to stick around for the wedding.”

“Her desires make no difference.”

“Lord, but you have a lot to learn about women.”

“I know well how to treat bitches.”

“That explains it,” the American drawled. “Wrong breed.”

Ahmad shifted the knife in his hand, as if itching for a target. Voice uneven, he said, “You show your ignorance now, for she has proved what kind she is by enticing my sister's husband with her evil wiles and woman's body. She used him to heap shame on my house. She holds him in such thrall that he even obeyed when told to send for you.”

“No!” Treena cried.

The two men paid no attention. His gaze on Ahmad's face, the American asked, “And you still mean to marry the lady? Money has a way of overcoming principles, doesn't it?”

“So does revenge,” Ahmad answered on a growl. “I guessed the vice in her, but now I am sure of it. I watched this house as Ismael left it on the way to your hotel, watched you arrive with him. For this added betrayal, the man who should have been as my brother will die with the woman when I am master of both her and her wealth.”

“You needn't hold it against him, since I was on my way anyhow.”

Even as Wade spoke, Treena released her grasp on her husband's hand and started toward her brother. “No,” she said again.

“Don't!” Agonized supplication sounded in Ismael voice. He reached out to catch her arm, but she avoided him.

Ahmad barely glanced at his sister. “Fear not. You will also be avenged.”

“I spit on your revenge,” she said in a voice that
rang with fear and pride. “It was not my husband who helped Chloe deceive you, not his heart that wept tears for her future as your wife. I have been her accomplice and her savior. It was I who sent Ismael. It was I!”

Treena's advance had brought her within a few feet of Ahmad. Now he lifted his head, straightened slowly from his fighter's crouch to face his sister. His fingers gleamed white at the knuckles where they clenched his blade. “You,” he repeated as if he'd never heard the word before. Then his face contorted with terrible, murderous anguish.

Terror engulfed Chloe. She opened her mouth to call out, but no sound emerged. Time slowed to a crawl. As she stepped forward with her gaze fastened on her stepsister's face, it was as if the air was as thick and viscous as oil. She saw Ahmad heave around and strike out in a sweeping, backhanded cut. The blade in his hand reflected a strange blue light in the dimness. It reached toward Treena. As it flashed past her throat, it left a red line in its wake.

Treena gave a bubbling sigh and lifted her hands to her neck. She began to fall like a marionette whose strings have been severed. Ismael caught her, stumbling to his knees as he eased her to the floor. A terrible cry left him as he covered his wife's hands with his own, pressing, trying to hold back the liquid red flow. It could not be done.

Treena caught his wrist as she gazed up at him. She spoke in a mouthing of words without sound.

“Our daughters, yes,” Ismael said with strained comprehension in his voice. “To my mother. It will be done.”

Treena tried again to speak.

“Yes, this day, my heart, my adored one. His reprisal shall not touch them. I promise it.”

Treena didn't hear the vow in her husband's voice, or the love. Her valiant features went slack and her eyes began to glaze.

Ismael groaned, weaving where he knelt as he covered her eyes with his blood-red hand, smoothed down her slim shape to press his hand to her abdomen with its slight swell. Then he turned his head toward Ahmad. “You killed her,” he whispered. Then he said again as wild sorrow infiltrated his voice. “You killed my wife, your sister. You killed my son, your nephew. What kind of honor, what vengeance, is this?”

Ahmad did not answer, didn't appear to hear for long seconds. He stood white-faced and slack-mouthed, staring at his sister on the floor with empty eyes. Then he whispered, almost to himself, “Her daughters. They are tainted as well.”

Wade spoke then, his voice like iron as he pointed the handgun at Ahmad. “Hands up. Now. Where I can see them.”

Ahmad shook his head like a boxer recovering from a knockout punch. As he looked at the American, recognition of his position came into his face, tightening the skin across the heavy bones. Slowly he
obeyed the order, but the enmity in his face was frightening to see.

“Good. Now back up, nice and easy, until you're inside the room behind you.”

It was a storeroom, and a good choice, Chloe thought as she fought the black horror that gripped her. The lock on her own room was broken, the largest chamber that Ahmad had taken as his own was more likely to have a weapon stashed away somewhere inside, and he could not be allowed near Treena's daughters. With a dazed glance at Wade, she said, “The key…”

“Get it.”

Ahmad had it, of course, since he enjoyed control of all the rooms and their contents. She could smell his acrid sweat, nauseating and animalistic, as she moved closer to him. Fearful that he would try to grab her, she was careful not to block the firing path. She reached out from as far away as possible to snag the metal key ring from his belt, then waited until Wade motioned him into the storeroom.

“For this, you will surely die,” Ahmad said as he obeyed the gesture. “You cannot escape your fate, just as my sister could not escape hers. I will finish you and all your tribe.”

“You can try.”

Wade moved close enough to catch the door and slam it shut, keeping his shoulder against it. Chloe inserted the key in the old-fashioned lock and turned
it. Then she stepped back as if her stepbrother might be able to reach through the solid wood.

“Go,” Wade said in low command as he nodded toward the doorway that led back into the
hajra.
“Move it.”

It was necessary; she could see that. Still, she couldn't prevent herself from turning toward where Ismael still sat rocking his wife's lifeless body as if nothing else existed in his world. Then she looked toward the far bedroom where the children still cried without end.

“You can't help her,” Wade said, his voice rough with something that had the sound of understanding. “You can't help any of them.”

She glanced at him, noting almost unconsciously the pale line around his mouth and the haunted pain that darkened his eyes. “I know,” she whispered, her own unbearable grief apparent in that soft acknowledgment.

“Then let's get out of here while we still can.”

He gave her no opportunity to argue, but clamped an arm around her waist and swept her from the room. She didn't resist but moved beside him from the house and out into the street.

The night had the sooty blackness of the hour after moonset. It didn't seem to bother Wade. He paused long enough to search the area around him with a hard gaze, then started down the dusty street.

A yell rang out, followed by gunshots. Dust geysers
kicked up just behind them. Wade whipped around to return the fire, even as they broke into a run.

“Ahmad must have had men with him earlier,” Chloe said, her voice jerky with her effort to keep up with Wade's long strides.

“Good guess.” He caught her arm, increasing her pace, even as he fired again. “Had to have been a small detail or we'd have been goners by now.”

“Maybe only Zahir, a friend of his.” The random pattern of the rounds and apparent lack of pursuit made it seem likely.

“Yeah, we met.”

“He'll release Ahmad.”

“Better than coming after us.”

The shots trailed to a halt, either from the discouragement Wade had offered or because they were out of range. As they reached the middle of the next block, he swung into a narrow, rutted alleyway that was bordered by mud walls overhung by palms and bougainvillea. Chloe could see a vehicle sitting in the dark at its far end. They raced toward it. Some fifty yards away, Wade pulled up and motioned to her to stay put. She nodded her understanding even as she fought to catch her breath. He approached the older model Volvo on a careful trajectory.

Abruptly something burst out of a mass of wild grape just beyond the car's left fender. Wade Benedict hugged the wall, swinging his head in her direction as if to make certain she was doing the same. She shook her head, motioning toward the feral cat that
had stopped to look back at him from under the car's rear bumper. He made a low sound of disgust, then moved on again.

Chloe held her breath as she saw him bend to look in at the front window. She saw him stiffen. After a second, he opened the door and reached inside at an awkward angle to turn the key. She heard a click, but the ignition didn't engage. He closed the door then walked quickly back to where she stood.

“What is it?”

“Dead. Driver and car.”

“I don't…”

“My transport. The driver had instructions to wait for us. Now we don't have to wonder why Ahmad was a little slow reaching the house.”