The Sheik's Safety. Dana Marton

shouted a greeting. The man, lying face down in the sand, didn’t move. Dead, he thought and went closer yet. The stranger’s back rose and sank, the slight movement barely noticeable.

      “Get up.”

      The man didn’t move a muscle, made no attempt to even look at him.

      With rifle in hand, ready for any surprise, Saeed flipped him over with the tip of his foot. The stranger made no sound, nor did he open his eyes. He was unarmed, save a knife he kept in a holster on his thigh, of which Saeed relieved him at once. He wore a camouflage uniform with no military markings, his face wrapped against the sun. A lone bandit, probably a mercenary. His proximity to the cave was more than suspicious.

      Was he one of the thieves who had stolen the gold? Or was he another would-be assassin? He reached down to pull off the frayed headdress, but the knot in the back was too tight. Time enough for that later. Saeed whistled for Hawk, and when the stallion trotted over, he lifted the listless stranger in front of the saddle then mounted the horse. He had to make sure the man lived long enough to answer his questions.

      The stallion rode as if sensing the urgency, paying no heed to the extra weight—not that the man was heavy, rather the opposite. Must have been out in the desert without food and water for some time. He was lucky. Weather had been mild and temperate this January so far. Had it been summer, he would have been already dead.

      THEY REACHED THE OASIS in two hours or so, a couple of stars already visible in the sky. The place wasn’t much more than a seasonal watering hole with a handful of scraggly date palms and a smattering of grasses.

      Saeed slid out of the saddle, caught the stranger when the man nearly fell after him, and lowered the limp body to the sand. He used the man’s knife to slice through the knot of the headdress in the back, wanting to free his mouth to get some water into him.

      He turned him with his left hand, the knife in his right. Then stopped in midmotion.

      His left palm, having tried to brace the stranger’s chest, was filled with a mound of flesh, soft and round. He was old enough to recognize a female breast, especially one that filled his palm to perfection as this one did.

      Allah be merciful…

      She was beautiful in the moonlight, despite the grime that had found its way under the fabric. Her hair, the color of rich, spiced coffee, had half escaped from the braid that had once contained it. For a moment the face of another woman appeared before him, her black curls streaming to the ground as she lay dying in his arms.

      He blinked away the memory and focused on the foreigner. Her feminine, delicate features stood in puzzling contrast to the uniform she wore.

      A female soldier? Israel had women in its army; so did the U.S.A. But what would one be doing here? Judging from her exotic features, she was a westerner. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt and reached inside.

      The back of his hand brushed against velvet skin. He hesitated for a moment before continuing.

      No dog tags.

      His first assessment had been correct. She did not belong to the military. But then who was she? He had a hard time believing her proximity to the cave was a coincidence. She had to be there either for him or for the gold.

      He walked over to the well, shook the bucket clean and lowered it, relieved when he heard the unmistakable sound of it hitting water instead of mud. The water was full of sand as expected, but better than nothing at all. He used the woman’s makeshift headdress to strain water into his flask, then went to settle onto the sand by her side.

      He dribbled water onto her parched lips, and when she moaned, he sloshed some into her mouth, massaging her graceful neck, helping her to swallow. “Drink.”

      His eyes settled on the small triangle of skin between her collarbones revealed by the top two open buttons. Her pale skin shone in the moonlight. If she was a mercenary, a hired assassin, they had picked well this time.

      This one could have gotten to him.

      He helped her drink some more, folded the wet cloth and placed it on her forehead, then went back to the well to draw water for Hawk and considered whether to unsaddle him while they rested.

      “Sorry, friend.” He patted the stallion’s neck, deciding he could not afford to give the animal that comfort. “We might have to leave in a hurry.”

      He strained the water for the horse as carefully as he had for the woman, but still when Hawk tasted it, he shook his head a couple of times.

      “You’ll get a cleaner drink when we get to camp.”

      Hawk bent to the bucket as if understanding, but looked up after a few moments, his ears turning. He picked up his head and neighed.

      Saeed listened to the night. Nothing. Then he could hear it too, a low rumbling sound. He stood and searched the desert until he spotted the source: a black SUV coming at them from behind, flying over the sand. Moonlight glinted off the rifle barrels that hung out each window.

      Here we go again. By Allah, he was tired of this game. And he had no choice but to play it out to the end.

      He pulled the woman under the cover of two palms that grew side by side, their twin trunks offering sufficient protection.

      He glanced at Hawk, out in the open, and let out a sharp whistle that sent the stallion galloping off into the desert to safety just as the first series of shots rang out.

      He peered from behind the palm and took aim. The rifle flew out of the driver’s hand the next second. Somewhat of an improvement, as now only three of them were shooting, but the SUV picked up speed, the man’s full attention on driving now.

      Saeed had his great-grandfather’s bolt-action Remington, a finely made piece, but still only eight rounds, no more. He had to pick his aim carefully. The next shot shattered the windshield, the one after that hit the radiator. Steam rose from under the hood but the vehicle didn’t halt.

      It didn’t even slow.

      He aimed again and hit the man in the passenger seat, then squeezed off another round, trying for the driver. The SUV veered to the left as it came to a slow halt on the sand.

      The two men in the back got out and hid behind the open doors for a minute before throwing themselves to the ground.

      Using the tufts of grass for cover, Saeed crawled along a natural indentation in the sand, moving as fast as he dared toward the well. Its raised stone edge, about half a meter high, offered more substantial protection, and if he managed to reach it without being detected he might be able to pick off the men from the side.

      He made it—a miracle—squeezed off a shot, ducked down again. Return fire came swiftly. He kept quiet, waiting for them to get closer. He could not afford to miss. No margin for error. Zero. He was down to his last two bullets.

      He peered from his cover then ducked back when they shot at him. The men had separated, circling the well one on each side. He would be in the line of fire soon. He rolled into the open, aimed, shot, rolled back.

      One attacker remained.

      Saeed lay low to the ground, waited until the man came into sight—rifle first, holding the AK-47 extended before him. With his last bullet, Saeed shot at the right arm then pulled back immediately. A shout of pain and rage flew across the sand. Good. He wanted him incapacitated but alive. He wanted answers.

      He took off his kaffiyeh and wrapped it around the Remington’s barrel then lifted it above the rim of the well.

      No shots.

      He stuck his head out. The man was rolling back and forth, grasping his wrist.

      “I will pay the blood price in gold,” Saeed said as he walked to him. “For the name of the one who sent you, I will pay double.”

      The man looked at him with death in his eyes and lifted his rifle with his good arm.

      Even though the assassin was too far, Saeed