The second man was slightly built, particularly when viewed next to Mansur’s bulk. Hamid al Dauod was Mansur’s deputy and a cousin to the king, and therefore to Mansur, although he bore little resemblance to either man. Short and slender, with watchful eyes that seemed to miss nothing, Hamid’s features were almost delicate compared to the other men. But Sean knew not to underestimate Hamid, who had first taken Sean into custody, and Sean remembered exactly how strong and painful Hamid’s small hands could be. He was the sort of man who enjoyed inflicting pain, and Sean wondered if the new prisoner’s injuries were Hamid’s handiwork.
Both men bowed low before the King, then straightened. Mansur, however, was the one to speak. “Yes, Highness?”
Faisal didn’t even glance at his son, keeping his dark eyes on Sean. “The man who was captured today has been resistant to providing the information I desire. I want you to be persuasive. Mishaan is to watch.”
There was no mistaking the intent behind Faisal’s words, and Sean took a step forward, outraged. “What kind of monster are you?”
Sean heard rather than saw the guards behind him shifting forward, but he didn’t care. He returned Faisal’s glare, the two of them staring each other down across Faisal’s desk.
“If I may make a suggestion, Highness.” Mansur’s voice broke into the battle of wills, and Faisal shot an annoyed glance at his son.
“What?” The King’s tone was hard, and Sean looked at Mansur in surprise. He would never have expected help from that quarter, if help it was. Hamid seemed surprised as well, if his expression was anything to go by.
Mansur regarded his father levelly. “Mishaan now knows what you are prepared to do to compel his cooperation. Perhaps if you gave him a day to rethink his position?”
For a long moment, Faisal continued to stare at his son, and then he nodded curtly. “Yes, Mishaan… consider your options. And remember my patience is not unlimited, and your parentage won’t protect you forever.”
As far as Sean was concerned, his parentage had gotten him into this mess. He drew in a deep breath, sensing he’d been granted a temporary reprieve, although he wasn’t certain what its eventual cost might be. He glanced again at Mansur, wondering what was going through the man’s mind. What did Mansur think he would accomplish by giving Sean another day? Did he really think Sean was so soft as to give in at the mere threat of Faisal having a complete stranger beaten in front of him? From the anticipatory smile on Hamid’s face, Sean was pretty sure he knew what way Hamid was betting.
Unfortunately, Sean wasexactlythat soft.
3
After Sean was taken away, Bash had slowly risen to his feet, stumbling as his injured knee threatened to buckle beneath him. His head was throbbing, and breathing deeply made his ribs ache, but these were all trivial compared to the larger threat looming over him. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to ignore injuries in order to find a way out of a dangerous situation — and he was in a great deal of danger. As soon as Mansur bin Faisal, the notorious head of Akkadian intelligence, as well as the leader of Faisal’s bodyguards, had time to deal with him, Bash’s ass was going to be in a lot worse shape.
The cell didn’t contain a sink or a toilet, just a hole in the floor in one corner, probably the same one that had been in use by prisoners since the time of the Crusades. Other than that, he had a metal-framed cot with a thin, lumpy mattress covered by a sheet and a blanket, and nothing more.
There might be some utility in disassembling the cot to make a weapon, but he didn’t know how long he had until the guards returned. So he moved up to the bars, gazing at the four empty cells stretching along the corridor from his, before looking into Sean’s cell, his eyes narrowing as he noted the different furnishings within.
While there was a metal cot similar to his own, Sean had an actual mattress with a duvet and a pillow. There were several books stacked next to the cot, and atop these were a notepad and a pen. Bash’s eyes narrowed. Obviously, the guards didn’t think Sean was a threat if they were willing to give him so many things a man like Bash could have rendered into weapons in seconds.
There was something else, back in a shadowed corner and half-hidden by the bed. Bash had to move to the extreme corner of his own cell and climb the bars upward to get a good look at it, but when he did, he gave a low chuckle of satisfaction. A guitar that was old and well-used, with gleaming metal strings. Bash had found his means of escape, if he could convince Sean to leave the guitar close enough for him to get his hands on it. The thinner strings would make excellent garrotes, but the thickest one was literally the key out of his cell.
A plan took shape in his mind, and he mulled it over as he turned his attention to the area outside the cells, looking for evidence of video surveillance. He didn’t see any, but that didn’t mean there weren’t half a dozen different cameras on him, set to cover the cells from different angles and into the infrared. Yet his instincts told him he wasn’t under observation; the cells beneath the palace probably weren’t used very often, since the primitive latrine in the corner didn’t give off any smell. Not that he felt any temptation to make his way out through the sewers beneath him. That kind of thing only happened in the movies.
Once he’d determined there was nothing useful to be done about his situation, Bash moved to the bunk, sat down, and lifted his tank top to examine the bruises on his torso. The man upstairs who had worked him over had left a mass of shallow bruises over the three deeper hematomas where bullets had impacted on his body armor. The squad he’d taken on to enable his team’s escape had been tougher than he’d thought, and, to his shock, they had turned out to be troops of the Akkadian Army, not more terrorists. Which had been lucky for Bash, in one respect, since he’d been taken to the palace to face questioning as a potential spy, rather than executed as an infidel invader — but it begged the question of why a unit of the Akkadian Army had been meeting up with a group of terrorists.
The door to the cell block opened with a squeal of hinges, and Bash watched as Sean descended the short flight of stairs. Behind him was a man Bash recognized from photos in the news: Mansur Al Faisal, the king’s head of security and, if rumor was true, his illegitimate son by the daughter of a Bedouin tribal chief. The man who would probably be in charge of Bash’s interrogation. Behind Mansur was the cold-eyed little creep who had worked Bash over. Said creep was smirking, and Bash made a silent promise to himself to remove every tooth from the creep’s mouth as payback.
Sean’s expression was grim, and he cast Bash a look that seemed almost guilty as Mansur locked him back in his cell. Then Mansur stood in front of Bash’s door and regarded him with such a neutral expression that Bash was immediately on guard. Creep took up a position just behind Mansur.
“I am told you have declined to answer questions as to your name, affiliation, or purpose for being in my country,” Mansur said quietly. “We do not care for spies, no matter whom they work for.”
Bash wasn’t about to violate operational security, but he had a few questions of his own. “And I don’t care for governments who collaborate with terrorists,” he replied, shrugging carelessly.
He had the satisfaction of seeing Mansur blink, but Mansur gave nothing else away.
“By any measure, you are the terrorist in this situation. Heavily armed and armored, shooting at a unit of this country’s military, caught outside a house where a dozen men were massacred.”
“Eleven.” Bash smiled coldly. “Let’s not exaggerate.”
Mansur inclined his head. “Eleven, as you say. At least you are not denying it.”
Bash shrugged again. “Would there be any point?”
“No.” Mansur looked at him intently. “Who was in the helicopter that escaped?”
“I didn’t see any helicopter,” Bash replied without missing a beat. It wasn’t even a lie.
