Dillon smirked. “Fair.” He ducked into the bathroom and cocked his head toward the door, telling Owen to get on with it.
More knocks. “Mr. Apollo, forgot your drink. Leaving it by the door.”
Double-checking through the peephole, he saw exactly what the guy said. He opened the door, called a thank-you, and retrieved the drink. Why am I exposing myself here? He ducked back inside and locked the door. “You have to find a way out so nobody will see you,” he called to Dillon as he set the drink on the credenza, then grabbed his ruck. When no answer came, he noticed the bathroom door ajar. Eased it open. Empty. No Dillon. “What the…?” He looked over his shoulder and noticed the silver metal food tray lid had been removed. Burger gone. His gaze hit the balcony just in time to see a shadow vanish.
“Twice in one day,” he muttered, mourning the stolen burger. At least the fries were still here.
Now that he wasn’t fighting for op-sec, he regretted making Dillon leave. Had to admit it’d been good to see the guy who’d been on the lam, searching for his dad the last two years. And still alive. A miracle in and of itself, considering the hard-driving mentality inherent in the thick skull that had just left. The Scions hadn’t been sure he still numbered among the living after the long radio silence following his run-in with McKenna in Armenia. Crazy.
Man, had to let someone know he’d seen Dillon. But he was on his own now too, so no phone. No contact. Screw that up and it could mean Leighton’s death.
Alone with his thoughts, he sat on the bed and ate the fries. As the time fell off the clock, his doubts grew louder. More persistent. What if this part of the plan didn’t work? What if the guards who followed him decided he wasn’t worth the effort?
Stretched out on the bed an hour later, he couldn’t help but wonder—what if Pike and Navas were wrong? What if all this had been for naught? How long would it take before he knew if this was a no-go?
That would majorly tick him off since he’d suggested to Pike that they just take her from the street. But the innocents and the high number of guards trailing them had been enough justification from Command to kill the idea.
Yawning, he shook his head. Now here he was, hours later, wondering if it wasn’t already screwed up. TV droning, darkness falling, he swiped a hand over his mouth. Yawned again. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
God, pretty sure I could pull this off, if you give me a chance.
He thought of Leighton. Her terror when Brick had grabbed her, which reminded him of Soph’s party when he’d seen that fear on her resting expression. Had she been afraid this whole time? Thinking about her, wondering about her months in captivity… Another yawn and he closed his eyes, letting himself imagine what their first encounter would be like. Would she hug him, relieved to see a friendly face? Which would be bad—so how did he stave that off? Not that he’d mind if she was in his arms…
Two taps to his temple twitched him awake.
“Do not move,” warned a deep, ominous voice.
Awareness flared through Owen—when had he fallen asleep? He froze every muscle as his eyes barely made out the large handgun pressed to his temple and the dark form looming over him. “Easy,” he muttered, heart ricocheting, blinking away the fog of sleep. Shocked this had worked. Thrilled this had worked.
“You will come with us or you will die. Which one do you want?”
Yeah, real hard decision. “I’ll come.”
5
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
“Go, go, go!”
The man’s urgent words had played over and over again in Leighton’s head since that moment on the street in Paris. An hour ago, she and the other princesses had returned to the palace under guard. The princesses had been ushered into the king’s reception hall, or whatever they called it. She had been forced to wait a while with Khalil, her new-but-temporary guard since Asim had been injured in the Paris incident.
Finally, Khalil turned to her. “It is time. Do not speak to the king unless he directly asks you a question.”
The doors opened and she entered. The long, narrow space had twenty-foot ceilings heavily adorned with plaster and intricate designs. Six chandeliers hung overhead in pairs of two, forcing her gaze straight down the middle of the room to the central couch where King Faruq sat, flanked by his advisors on their own seating arrangements. Couches and tables lined the walls on either side with dozens of men in white kaftans and ghutras.
In the front, right corner, Aliyah and Daria were moving to settees. Aliyah gave her an apologetic smile, but when Leighton’s gaze shifted to the king—and connected with his eyes—she remembered to avert at the last minute, but not before seeing him rise.
Oh mercy, she’d angered him already. Pulse stampeding, she stared at the glossy floor, though keenly aware of his black shoes clipping nearer.
Having reached her, he hooked a finger under her chin and nudged it upward.
Still, she looked elsewhere.
“Look at me!” he demanded.
Twitching at the terse command, she popped her gaze to his.
His beard was peppered with gray. Brown eyes studied her. “I see your mother in you…”
