Desire In The Desert. Ryshia Kennie

and now the shouts were followed by something even more deadly. Silence. The moon slipped from behind a cloud and bathed the area in light.

      She wished she could disappear but there was nowhere to go. Instead she was trapped by the frightening scene in front of her as the man pulled his rifle from his shoulder and hurled it. She watched as the smaller man, who it was meant for, lunged, missed the catch and stood. The moonlight disappeared again as the gun hit the ground and skipped twice along the battered rug she knew, even in the fickle light of the fire, lay on the desert sand.

      Now the gun lay forgotten and their raised voices began to dissolve into shouts and yet another fight. It was a relief, for she knew the fights kept their attention from her.

      The leader muttered a string of curses in Arabic before he launched himself into their midst, punching one and grabbing the other and throwing him to the ground. His voice was harsh and, as usual, louder than necessary. She closed her eyes and hoped they remained there—killing themselves in their fight would be ideal. But, as always, she knew this fight wouldn’t last long.

      She prayed he’d stay away from her. Her prayers went unanswered as minutes passed, silence ensued and then came what she had hoped wouldn’t.

      She could see him clearly as he approached. His face was highlighted in the moonlight. It was so familiar and yet so very strange. She dropped her gaze, not wanting to meet his eyes, hoping he would leave, change his mind. Instead the sand crunched beneath his heavy boots and he squatted beside her.

      She looked up and met the odd yet gentle smile. The smile didn’t match the dark look in his eyes. She dropped her gaze to the sand. She could smell the sweat of him, like he hadn’t bathed in weeks or even months. He was too near and she fought not to move away for she had nowhere to go and little rope with which to do it.

      She drew back, trying to make herself small. He wasn’t the man she remembered.

      He chuckled as he ran a knuckle along her cheek.

      She fought not to cringe or to move away. Although there wasn’t far to move; the rope gave her five feet of freedom.

      This time she blew out a relieved breath as he stood to join the others.

      “Do you know what stands between us and wealth?” she heard him ask. But it was his reply that made her cringe. “Death.”

      She shuddered, trying not to think of whose death he might be implying. She watched as the moonlight reflected across his face and clearly showed the disfiguring scar that covered the left side. The scar made a mockery of what had once had been a handsome face. Close up, she knew the scar appeared raw, almost painful, despite the fact that it was clear it had been from wounds long healed.

      But it was then that she heard the most frightening thing of all. His promise to take down the house of Al-Nassar, to take what it held most precious and to leave nothing to remind anyone it had ever existed.

       Chapter Nine

      “Kaher is on the fringe of the Sahara, like Zafir said. Not well used by tourists and hikers, but that might be to our benefit.” Even Kate could hear the trace of excitement in her voice. “What incredible luck that they have an airstrip.”

      She ran her fingers through her hair and looked at him. His dark eyes were both grim and determined. “That information certainly came out of nowhere,” she added. “Let’s hope someone knew this guy. Like, who he was hanging with, what he was doing...”

      “And we can find out who and what they know quickly,” Emir said.

      “At least before first light,” she agreed, grimacing. “You’ve flown at night? I mean, you have experience at this sort of thing?”

      “You doubt me?”

      “No.” She shook her head. “Of course not. I was just surprised.”

      “I’m a qualified pilot and I’ve flown at night often,” he assured her. “I’ll get us there in one piece, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

      “Did I say I was worried?” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Let’s get moving.”

      But before either of them could act on those words, her phone dinged, signaling a text message. She looked at it with a frown then back up at him. “It’s a blocked text—no identification.” She held up her index finger, warning him to silence. “This is odd.”

      Outside, a siren broke the quiet; the distant sound knifing in through an open window. The flashing lights seemed to pulse through the night, as if forewarning them of something even more threatening than what they already faced.

      Seconds seemed to tick away and the silence within the room wrapped around them in a thick, almost choking veil.

      Her eyes met his and she pushed a button on the phone.

      “It’s a video.”

      She looked up, saw the perspiration dotting his forehead and wondered if the pressure of it all was finally getting to him. She dismissed the thought. He was strong, too strong. There were other words for men such as him... Just his nearness could take a woman’s breath away. She’d bet that he’d never had a woman turn him down. She remembered how, earlier, he had been outlined in his office by the city lights as he’d stood by the window, how his well-muscled form had been clearly defined by his T-shirt.

      She was always in control and now, at a completely inappropriate time, her mind was running amuck thinking of...

      She frowned and clutched the phone tighter. “It might be nothing—”

      “Or it might be from them,” he said, cutting her off.

      And they both knew what he meant. Tara’s kidnappers.

      Her finger lifted from the phone as if that were a deal-breaker. “Maybe I should watch it without you.”

      “No, start it. We need to see it and see it now.”

      They didn’t know what was on the video. It could be anything or anyone. But in this situation, with everything that had happened, the possibility that it wasn’t a ransom demand in some form, that Tara wasn’t involved, was slight.

      “Start it,” he said thickly as he leaned over her shoulder.

      They watched the video begin with no prelude but, rather immediately, a woman’s face dominated the screen.

      “Tara,” he said, an edge to his voice.

      Her hands were tied and she was kneeling, looking right at them or, more aptly, at the camera or at whoever was filming her.

      “Please, Emir,” Tara said, her voice pleading. But the words didn’t seem as panicked as they seemed forced. It was as if she wasn’t saying them voluntarily but instead was being coached. She hesitated and stumbled over what she was saying, sounding reluctant.

      Kate swallowed. It was tough to watch. There was a flashlight on her face and Tara blinked frequently, squinting against the light. Her dark hair was long and loose, curling wildly around her dusty face. Her faded jeans were torn, not as a fashion statement, Kate suspected, but more a result of her ordeal. Her flowered, peasant-style cotton blouse had chalk-colored streaks running through it. There were numerous thin, red scratches on her hands and across one cheek, but she met the camera with fire in her eyes despite the tears on her cheeks.

      “Tara,” Emir murmured. “Hang in there. I’m coming.”

      In the video, Tara turned slightly, as if she might have heard him.

      She sat on her heels on what looked like a burgundy blanket, but it was faded with age and dusty with sand. It was hard to tell if the blanket might have some sort of ethnic origin, a clue to who she was with or where she was, but that clue was lost as the camera never went near enough to give them a clear visual.

      Kate tried