“That won’t happen.”
He meant well. And merciful goodness how she wanted to believe him. A decade spent trapped in this world proved no one could fulfill a promise like that. But the way he watched, the intensity in his beautiful eyes, told her this man would not easily give up. That, at least, they had in common.
Regardless, she must feed him something to turn that hunger for justice in another direction. “Taweel—”
Fool!What had she done, speaking that name!? It had been her intentnotto mention him. If it was learned she had given them his name—
He nodded, a smirk sliding into his handsome features. “Good.”
It dawned on her that the name had not surprised him. “You know him?”
Another nod.
So perhaps it was not so bad as she had anticipated. Still ... she must be more careful. Kasra hugged herself, trying to look demure. Insecure. “What does your boss think?” she asked, and when he frowned, she clarified. “About Madam?”
After a sidelong glance, he squinted out at the paved parking lot in the center of the block. “We need her to talk.”
“Your boss is …” She tried to leave an opening for him to fill in the name, but he did not. “He knew of Taweel. Has he … Is there proof?”
Was it possible theycouldtake him down for good?
Curse you, Kasra! You know better!
“Is he the one who did this?” His fingers reached toward her cheek and lower lip.
Even as her stomach fluttered, she batted away his hand. Then started at her bold move and tucked her chin. How did she keep making so many mistakes with this man? Batting his hand away was not the action of a girl who had been trafficked, but of one who was in control. She stared at the dirty road, yet could sense his discerning gaze on her.
He was dangerous. Far too dangerous for her to remain here.
“I should return to the others.”
But he angled his head, reaching for her shoulder, but stopping. “Hey. Nobody is going to hurt you here …”
Relief swarmed her—not at the empty words, but that he had not realized her mistakes. Kasra reminded herself that, to him, she was not the jaded madam; she was an innocent girl. “You cannot promise that. Nobody can.” With that, she turned toward the gate where an armed soldier stood guard.
He didn’t open it.
The soldier glanced to the man who had escorted her back. A man she had heard the boss call Pretty Boy. Needing to be freed of his presence, she looked back as well, putting as much pleading into her gaze.
He jutted his jaw to the gate, and the guard swung open.
Kasra hurried in, not surprised to see Razam striding toward her. Pretty Boy was too keen, too perceptive. With the slightest shake of her head to warn off her bodyguard, she went in a different direction. Spied little Iamar and lifted her into her arms. Surprising how good it felt to hug her, to restrain her need to pace or panic.
“R’augh!”
The shout drew her around. Shock pinned Kasra to her spot at the sight of Razam fighting with Pretty Boy. The confrontation was fierce, a flurry of fists and moves. But the blond, blue-eyed operator was a blur of rage, and quickly gained the upper hand. Gripped Razam by the shirt. Drew him up. Slammed him against the concrete wall, his arm still well in the man’s grasp, eliciting a howl from Razam.
“Don’t move,” the American growled, “or you’ll have an extra hole in your head.”
“No!” Kasra started forward, even as those words registered. As the weapons drawn on Razam stilled her.
Two men burst into the yard from the other building. Luther, who had been in the interview room, and the one they called Chief—their boss.
“Range,” the chief shouted. “Stand down!”
Arms hooked beneath his, they hauled him backward. Face red, eyes ablaze, he scrambled at Razam, who slid down against the wall, shaking. Bleeding.
Her gaze connected with his—what they called him, Rage, seemed fitting—and then wandered to her friend. She hurried to Razam’s side and squatted next to him. “What did you do?” she hissed as the chief all but pushed Rage through the gate. She helped him on his feet.
