A low tone sounded in his right ear, and Owen’s eyes flew open. He stilled, despite the instinct to lift his head off the wall as the internal comms activated.
“OTG to Apollo,” Pike spoke quietly. “You read me?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“We have a thirty-second clock. Are you being monitored?”
Owen eyed the bars’ metal door and once again visually traced the room for surveillance devices. Using his fist, he covered his mouth. “Unknown.”
“Play it safe. Reception’s bad. Where are you?”
“Dungeon.”
Silence gaped for a long second. “You in trouble? Wounded?”
Knees up, elbows atop them, he steepled his fingers. “Alive. Bruised rib.”
“The history we built is getting pinged hard.”
He grunted.
“What’re you feeling? Want us to pull you?”
Wide caramel eyes ignited in his thoughts. He felt that jolt again. Recalled her desperation, fear. “No.”
“If they suspect you, they’ll kill you.”
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he quickly replied, “They beat her. Often. She needs to get out. I’m here. I can do this.” Desperation coiled through his veins. Did not want another half-cocked effort preventing mission success. “Hitting my history means they’re going to let me take the job.”
“Or trying to decide if they can get away with killing you.”
He stretched his shoulders, covering his words with his arm. “You need to work on your pep talks.” The groan of metal on metal in the passage stilled him. “Incoming.”
“Omen out.”
Climbing to his feet, Owen braced his side and let out a small grunt. He moved to the center of the room, lowering his hands to his sides as the door swung open. He shifted his right foot back, ready for a fight.
The guard jabbed his M4 at him. “Back! Make room for the prince!”
Steeling his spine, Owen remained in place. Prince, huh?
“It is okay, Jamil.” A second man stepped into view. Tall and dressed in tan slacks with a black shirt, he wasn’t wearing the standard ghutra and thobe like everyone else in this place. He splayed his hand over his chest. “My name is Rayan.” His eyes smiled as he considered him. “Come, I will take you to your charge.” He stepped back and indicated to the right.
A prince escorting him to Leighton? Yeah, not buying it. Hesitant, half expecting an ambush so they could torture him more, Owen knew there was nothing for it. He walked forward, letting his gaze roll to the guard. Daring him to sucker punch him again.
Rayan caught his shoulder, and it wasn’t a move designed to control, but one that seemed to tell the guards that Owen was under his protection. “I do apologize that you were forced to spend the night in there. Due to Princess Daria’s wedding preparations, guest wings are being utilized for her staff and her guests.”
With causal confidence, Rayan strode to the end of the passage and accessed a security panel that opened a door. They climbed the stairs on the other side. “Tell me,” he said with a small laugh, “did you imagine you would be coming to a palace to protect someone when you left Virginia?”
Was he trying to unsettle him that he knew that tidbit? Pike had been wise to layer in real facts with the fake persona. “No,” Owen said in a huffed laugh, feeling that sweet relief that Pike’s plan was working. That the royals were tasking him. “Guessing this is about the chick from Paris? The king’s daughter?”
“Nouri,” the prince affirmed, arching an eyebrow at him. “It is quite the coincidence that you are from Virginia like her. Did you not know her?”
Owen balked. “Dude. It takes five hours to drive from the bottom to the northern tip of Virginia. And the closer to you get to DC, the more heavily populated.”
“Of course. And were you close to DC? Did you see the president?” Rayan asked with a chuckle.
“No, not really into politics.” Guess it was this guy’s job to ask all the questions that had arisen while probing his legend. “What about you—have you always lived here?”
