Heart thudding that this mercenary knew not only of his existence but his name, he nodded. “I am.”
Nodding, Navas looked to Dad, then back to Owen. “This could work.”
“Hold up.” Dad held up a staying hand to Owen along with a severe expression that warned him to stand down. “He’s never seen combat. His entire five years have been training.”
Hearing Dad spell that out, disqualify him…hurt more than both non-selections. More than being handed his DD214 this morning.
Pursing his lips, Navas didn’t look deterred. “He does not need combat experience—this is a palace. What he will need is instinct.” His teeth bared beneath that word. “Do you have that?”
“It’s in my blood.” At least, Owen hoped it was. Who could explain why he’d qualified Rangers and Special Forces but didn’t get selected for either? Maybe it was for this reason. To save some chick in a palace. “I can do this, Dad.”
“Owen, think,” Dad ground out. “This is a girl’s life.”
“Do you really think I don’t get that?” He considered his dad for a second. Frowning, he was suddenly back on that peewee baseball mound all over again when he saw that look in his dad’s eyes that said he didn’t measure up. “You don’t think I can do it.” Disbelief chugged through his veins.
“I think it’s in a foreign country. Do you know how to get in and out of there on your own?”
Miffed at how deep his dad’s rejection cut, Owen exhaled and held his ground. “They taught us that in Ranger school. I might not have been selected, but I qualified.”
Dad shouldered in, eyes lit with challenge. “You go in there and get caught, it won’t just be you who pays the price. Besides, getting in is one thing. Getting out—that’s a whole different game. You have to get both of you out. Alive.”
Had to admit a wad of hurt lodged in his throat that Dad seemed to think so little of him. Guess after two failed launches it was par for the course. “This is just like what you did with Mom.” He’d grown up hearing that story over and over. That mission to Venezuela to rescue Mom from General Bruzon had been the same one in which Owen had been conceived.
“Owen,” Dad said, frustration in his voice as he landed a hand on his shoulder. “I was a combat medic. With multiple deployment stripes on my sleeve before Venezuela. This isn’t just a thing to do, a notch in your tactical belt.”
Those words punched his gut. “Do you really think that’s what I’m doing?” But…wasn’t he? After all, purpose dangled before him, taunting him. Yanking out of reach with each word Dad spoke.
He refused to be thwarted. “I may be lacking in a lot of areas, but not in grit and determination. Metcalfe blood is raw and ready—you taught me that. So stop doubting me. Believe in me.”
“It’s not?—”
“You are young.” Navas gripped Owen’s bicep and squeezed. “Strong and agile. You are a good fit. It can be done.” He sized him up, apparently by a very large measuring stick—Dad. “Have you ever killed a man?”
Owen took a steadying breath, begging Navas not to disqualify him now. “No.”
“Are you prepared to, if needed?”
“Life is precious. But I wouldn’t have joined the Army if I hadn’t been willing to defend the innocent with violence of action.”
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
Concrete walls soared three stories tall, surrounding her on all sides as if keeping her captive in a well instead of a tiny courtyard. Was this how Joseph from the Bible felt when his brothers threw him down into a well, then sold him off? It was a distant, though not entirely inaccurate, parallel. Sun high overhead, its bright rays pushed down into the dull hollowness that consumed her.
Leighton Kingslake peered up, grateful the guards had been delayed in returning her to the cell. This lapse in their duties afforded her a rare moment in true sunlight. Not just ambient light that trickled through the opening above. Eyes closed, she savored the warmth on her face. Time had lost meaning with each day being spent in a concrete room with nothing but a pillow and blanket. No bed. No electricity. No pictures. No books.
If you don’t make sacrifices for what you want, what you want becomes the sacrifice.
That could not happen. So, she must do this, maintain her quiet vigil to keep Ummi—her biological mother—safe. To keep herself safe.
A creak above made her eyes fly open. Connect with a beautiful woman whose thick, black hair formed a curly halo around an olive complexion. Much darker than Leighton’s. The eyes too. Her heart jarred, realizing who that was!
Giggling, Princess Daria dropped something from the upper terrace. Laughter drifted down with the object—a pink flower petal. It alighted on the nearby stone pavers, delivering a subtle joy to Leighton. The petal, a stark, elegant contrast to the dark stone, seemed a symbol of hope.
When she glanced back up, Leighton too late understood her folly, for the princess had been replaced by a fierce man. The princess’s fiancé, Hassan.
Startled at the sight of the mean Arab, Leighton yanked her gaze back down, the ache of her last beating—for daring to meet the eyes of the crown prince—all too fresh in her mind and body. It would not surprise her if Hassan punished her for looking at the princess.
“Keep your eyes to yourself or they will be gouged out!” Hassan shouted.
