.

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

      Rasheed 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