Under the Sheik's Protection. C.J. Miller

      The sound of gunfire continued at a rapid rate. It was either an automatic weapon or multiple shooters. Bullets kicked up shards of asphalt and concrete, biting into Saafir’s skin. His choices were to duck back into the building, remain crouched behind the Dumpster or wait for their car. If they ran for the back door, standing would open them up for another attack and staying pinned down wasn’t the safest option.

      Saafir’s rented black town car screamed around the corner and pulled to a stop in front of him. Adham opened the car door and Saafir pulled Sarah to her feet. He shoved her inside the car and then climbed inside behind her. Adham got into the car and Nibal clambered into the front passenger seat. The driver pulled the car out of the alley, tires squealing.

      “Sarah, are you okay?” Saafir asked.

      Sarah was pale and staring at her blood-covered hands. “I’m bleeding.” She sounded like she was in shock. The sight of red on her hands prompted a primal rage in him. He had to help her, shield her. She was his to protect.

      “We need to take her to the hospital,” Saafir said. He searched her, removing her jacket and finding the source of the injury. Her shoulder was injured, the skin abraded. Was it from the fall or had she been hit with a flying bullet or rubble?

      Too much blood to be superficial. Saafir cradled her in his arms and pressed down on the wound. Sarah moaned in pain.

      “Where is she hit?” Adham asked, shifting to help.

      “Her shoulder. Looking for other injuries. I think she’s in shock,” Saafir said.

      Adham shifted to get a better look at the injury. Saafir contained his fear and anger at the sight. She should never have been pulled into his problems within his country, and this attack had to be from one of his political enemies. Sarah had nothing to do with them.

      “Drive faster,” Saafir commanded the driver.

      His hands weren’t staunching the blood flow. “This might hurt. I’m sorry, Sarah.” He shed his jacket and removed his shirt, pressing it hard over the wound. Sarah let out a cry of distress.

      She was still conscious and that was good. “I know that hurts. It will only be for a few minutes more. We’re getting you help,” Saafir said. The amount of blood pouring out of her seemed too great. He’d had some medical field-training and knew that stopping the blood flow was priority one.

      “It doesn’t look good,” Adham said in Arabic. “She is losing too much blood. I can’t see if the bullet is lodged inside or if it passed through. Captain, are you hurt?”

      Saafir’s arm stung, but he wasn’t loosening his grip on Sarah to check his injury. “She’s my primary concern.”

      “And you are mine,” Adham said.

      His guard took his duty seriously. He had earned Saafir’s unwavering trust. Saafir looked away from Sarah for a moment. Only then did Saafir notice Adham had sustained an injury. Deep red was darkening the front of his black shirt.

      “Adham, you’re injured,” Saafir said.

      Adham hesitated a moment. He was the latest in a long line of men who served Qamsar’s emir, pledging his life in defense of the emir, dedicating himself to the emir’s protection. It was a thousand-year-old tradition with an impeccable history. Every man named a Qamsarian Warrior had served honorably. Adham hid injuries and hurt behind his sense of honor and duty. It was that sense of honor that would force Adham to tell the truth, especially when Saafir addressed him. “I was hit.” His face registered no sign of pain.

      “Sit back against the seat. Hold this over it,” Saafir said, handing Adham his suit jacket.

      Adham obeyed the order.

      Saafir turned in his seat and noticed a car speeding behind them, aiming for them. “We’re being followed.”

      “Do you have tactical driving experience?” Saafir asked the driver.

      “None in the last ten years.” The man’s anxiety was evident in his voice.

      “Keep the car on the road. Don’t turn onto any side streets,” Saafir said, wishing he were driving. It was protocol for the emir to be chauffeured, but if he were behind the wheel, he could lose the tail.

      Saafir looked around for an opportunity. The light in front of them turned yellow.

      “Hit the gas,” Saafir said. If they stopped, they’d be cornered and shot.

      He did as Saafir asked. They sailed through the intersection. Their follower pursued, but was struck by oncoming traffic.

      “That should slow them down,” Saafir said. “Nearest hospital.”

      “Change of plans,” Nibal said. “No hospitals. No help. I’ll tell you where to drive.”

      Saafir braced for more danger ahead. He looked from Sarah to Adham to Nibal. It was unusual for Nibal or Adham to disagree with a direct command unless they’d identified a security threat. Nibal seemed off and somewhat nervous. Saafir had never seen him that way.

      “Tell me the problem,” Saafir said. He struggled to keep his voice calm and not overreact. With Sarah bleeding in his arms and Adham injured, that took every ounce of strength.

      “We’re not going to the hospital,” Nibal said.

      “Sarah and Adham need medical attention,” Saafir said, stifling the urge to yell. If Nibal was losing his cool, Saafir didn’t want to escalate the situation. Nibal had never been as rock-steady as Adham under pressure.

      Nibal lifted a gun to the driver’s head and had a second gun pointed at Saafir. “No hospital. I’m calling the shots and I’m telling you that we are not going to the hospital. We’re ending this agreement with the Americans and we are ending your rule as emir.”

      Scorching anger in Nibal’s eyes confirmed his words—he wasn’t interested in helping Sarah, Adham or Saafir. “We will take Sarah and Adham to the hospital and then we can talk about the trade agreement. Sarah and Adham are not part of this,” Saafir said. His hand crept down his pant leg to his ankle holster, carefully and quietly unsnapping his gun. It had been a long time since he’d used it, but it would be like riding a bike.

      “She is part of this,” Nibal said narrowing his eyes at Sarah. “They are all part of it.”

      “They” being the trade agreement committee or Americans? Saafir had heard this extremist “all” speech from too many fanatical groups in Qamsar. Desperate individuals and groups who needed someone to blame and who took action to make a change. Unfortunately, the action rarely led to accomplishing anything other than hurting people.

      This new reality for Qamsar wasn’t one that Saafir embraced. It made him angry and frustrated. Those emotions were sidelined by the woman in his arms who needed him to remain calm, defuse the situation and get her medical help. Adham hadn’t spoken, but his skin was pale.

      The driver kept glancing at Nibal and was visibly shaken by having a gun locked on him. The car swerved in the road, left and right, narrowly missing cars parked along the street.

      “Keep the car steady. Do not try to alert the American police,” Nibal said.

      “Please don’t shoot. I am not alerting anyone. I want to go home to my wife and daughters,” the driver said, fear vibrating his voice.

      Sarah’s face was unmoving and her eyes were closed.

      Saafir tried again. “Nibal, this is not the way to get what you want. Please let everyone out of the car and we’ll talk.” If he could keep Nibal’s focus on him, perhaps Adham, Sarah and the driver could get to safety.

      “No,” Nibal said. “No talking. Action. I am making a point. You are the wrong leader for Qamsar. You were never meant to be the emir. I am doing my duty and removing you from your position before you destroy everything we hold important.”

      Saafir