The guard’s body was dragged backward, out of sight. A cell door clanged.
A blur manifested in front of his window.
Owen shoved back, heart vaulting into his throat as he landed in a fighting stance. It took entirely too long for the face beneath the ghutra to register. “Chief?”
“You make more noise than Dante’s goat.”
“Not cool, man,” Dante complained from somewhere out of sight.
Panic and adrenaline surrendered amid an intense wave of relief that nearly buckled Owen’s knees. “Thank You, God.”
“Hey, I’ve been called a lot of things…” Pike teased, swung his weapon on the sling to his back.
“Get me out of here! Bruzon’s on-site!”
Zayna left the room after pronouncing Leighton’s attire satisfactory. The abaya far exceeded that dull word. Yesterday, Daria and Hassan had signed the wedding contract in an intimate ceremony to which Leighton had not been invited. Now, however, they were hosting a very public reception and celebrations.
Leighton glanced down at the emerald green abaya, heavily beaded along the wide band that encircled her waist. Beads and crystals formed whorls, and flowers ran down the sleeves, cuffs, and hem. The simple white dress beneath it was a sharp but pretty contrast to the heavily ornamented green. A sheer green headscarf set it off beautifully.
She had tried to wear the elephant necklace, but Zayna forbade it. Thankfully, the double-layered skirt of the abaya had pockets, so she kept it there. It was the only piece of Owen she had left, and upon their return from the safari, she had been abandoned in the new suite Rayan had promised her while on safari. This one had a doorknob, though the royal still kept her locked in. But the tiny treasure had steadied her. The quiet, the solitude was good for her on one hand, but on the other, it became a haunting playground for her terror. Like the daunting fear that had burrowed into her chest that said they’d killed him.
Rubbing the double cords of the necklace between her fingers, she dashed away a lone tear. If she ruined the makeup Zayna had spent forty minutes applying, the stern woman would probably give her a lashing. But Leighton’s heart ached. Where is he?
Maybe he should’ve just run away in the Serengeti. Somehow, she felt he would’ve had a better chance against lions than the al-Zahranis.
“I’ll shed every drop I have if it means you’re free.”
His words lingered in her heart. Had he? Had he ended up giving every drop of blood beneath the fury of King Faruq? Or Maaz?
“Please, God…”
A sharp rap came on her door.
Leighton turned from the window and eyed the door. The knob rattled, then she heard the distinct sounds of metal scraping.
Drawing back, putting the furniture between her and the door, she felt her heart drum.
The door opened, delivering a guard into the room. His thobe fluttered as he pivoted, flicked the door closed, and flipped the lock.
What was he doing? She stood, unsettled at being locked with him. “Madha turid?” she asked in Arabic as he turned to her.
“It’s okay,” he said, flashing her his palms. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
Her gaze hit the lock. Who locked himself in a room with a woman? And why was he speaking English?
“I locked the door to buy us time in case someone comes.”
Her mind scrambled to keep up. “I’m sorry—who are you?”
A smile flashed through his Middle Eastern features. “Tariq. I’m with Ap?—”
“No!” Pulse pounding, she realized what he’d been about to say—Apollo. So, Owen. She took a step forward as she pointed to her ear, indicating the room was bugged.
Understanding spread over his face and he nodded.
She drew in a ragged breath and let it out, then bobbed her head toward the bathroom. In there, she turned on the faucet and extractor fan, then flushed the toilet.
“I’m here to get you out,” he said. “But we can’t while you’re up here.”
