Royals? What the…
“I know it was. I went there.” The guy’s accent sounded Spanish, but wasn’t Yasmina an Arabic name?
The question drew Owen closer, but he used a crepe myrtle to conceal his presence.
Face lit by the firelight, Dad frowned and leaned forward, posture and tone filled with tension, mild alarm…and disappointment. “You went there?” he balked.
“Do not judge me too harsh, Midas.”
Whoa. Dad’s old callsign went way back. He’d shed that name after Owen was born, as much as he could. Was that how this man knew him—from…before?
“There are many parts to this. Nobody knows Nouri is my daughter, or so I thought. But when I surveilled the palace of the Central Kingdom to find a way in, I noticed this man.” A blue halo of light bloomed in the night as he showed his phone to Dad.
“Should he mean something to me?”
“You recall Nesto Bruzon?”
Dad punched to his feet. “Are you kidding me, Navas?”
Owen hauled in a breath at that name, but quickly, deliberately, swallowed it. Retreated deeper into shadow, pulse jackhammering. This man…this was the man he’d been named after. The mercenary who’d saved his parents in Venezuela. Saved Dad from prison. Dad had always said giving Owen that name was only the beginning of what they owed this man. That really, they owed Navas a life debt.
“The general’s brother and son have built an empire down there,” Navas went on. “They want to hurt Nouri to punish me for what I did, helping you get Danielle to safety.”
“Holy…” Dad hung his head and ran his hands over his hair.
“You know I would not be here if there was any other way,” Navas all but hissed. “I have a plan—we embed you into the palace?—”
“No. I can’t.” Dad looked at the mercenary—is he still a mercenary?—and seemed grieved. Alarmed. “I’m not that man anymore. I?—”
“Nouri has been in Faruq’s hands for months. He believes she is his daughter.”
With a groan, Dad tightened his expression, and Owen felt himself shifting forward.
“If Bruzon tells Faruq that she is mine, he will kill her—or worse, and I do not have to explain the things they dream up to torture women.” He threaded his hands in a praying gesture. “Please. I must get her back and cannot do that without your help.”
Owen felt a thrumming in his veins at the man’s pleading request. No way Dad could turn him down.
“Navas… I can’t. I retired for medical reasons—my spine. And I’m out of practice. I would not be a help—I’d put her life at risk.”
Man, Owen couldn’t fathom Dad saying no, but he had given up working with teams long ago because of his back. Still…
“Do you expect me to just leave her there? They will kill her! The risk is too great to not only Nouri, but Yasmina and myself.” He stepped closer and tapped Dad’s chest. “You owe me this, Midas. I saved your lover, now you help me save mi hija.”
“It’s not that easy,” Dad complained. “The sun set long ago on my skills. We need someone young. I could talk to?—”
“No, I do not want some stranger who would not care about my daughter. It must be someone with skin in the game. This has to matter to them or Nouri is as good as dead!”
“I’ll do it.” Only when their heads swiveled in his direction did Owen realize that had been his voice. Speaking aloud.
Dad was on his feet, scowling. “You shouldn’t?—”
“I’ll go,” Owen insisted. Hadn’t he just been begging God for direction? Might as well own it. He stepped forward, the back porch light streaking over him, as if to amplify his volunteering. “Let me?—”
“No, you have no idea what’s happening here. You?—”
“Dad.” He regretted the bite to his words, but he was tired of being told no. “You just said you need someone young…” He held his hands out to the side, offering himself up to them. “Here I am.”
Navas angled his head and moved toward him. “You are Owen.”
