Prince Under Cover

With difficulty, he forced his attention off his new bride and cast a surreptitious glance over their guests, but it was the sense that someone was watching him that set his internal radar on alert. He had studied his brother, learned his mannerisms, his peculiarities of speech, his walk, the way he held himself. He played his role well—but was it sufficient?

He supposed he’d know soon enough.

Javid and Miah moved to stand near the candelabra to receive their guests, who offered best wishes, kissed Miah and shook Javid’s hand, then filed to the buffet table.

Khalaf came toward them.

Miah’s father had a lean, wiry build, swarthy skin and a large, straight nose above a full black mustache. In contrast, his daughter towered over him by a good three inches, and nothing in her exotic face spoke of her sire. Javid surmised Miah took after her mother—which explained what Khalaf had seen in Anjali, but not what she had seen in Khalaf.

“You seem different somehow, Zahir.” Khalaf narrowed his keen black eyes, peering at Javid like a chemist viewing a disease through a microscope.

Javid’s breath hitched, but he warned himself not to panic. He had honed the arts of diplomacy and tact, and wielded both with the same daring he’d used as a boy handling Grandfather’s treasured dagger. He gentled his smile and his voice. “Oh? Perhaps it is marriage that agrees with me.”

“It is too soon to tell that.” Khalaf’s steely gaze raked over him, and a nerve twitched in Javid’s jaw. “It is the suit, I think,” Khalaf said at last, folding his hands over his formal robe. He sneered. “Too Western for my tastes.”

“Ah…I thought perhaps it was my clean-shaven face.” Javid stroked his chin, bare of the beard and mustache Zahir usually sported.

“Yes, this is the first time I have seen you thus shorn.” Khalaf gave a disapproving shake of his head.

Javid’s shrugged. “I prefer much that is Western.”

Khalaf scowled with disapproval. “Do not forget who you are, my friend.”

“I will never forget that.” Javid touched the spot behind his left ear where a fake scar had been applied. Zahir had carried a scar there since the fateful day they’d dared play with Grandfather’s swords.

“Good, good.” Khalaf clasped his hand and smiled, revealing a mouthful of uneven, yellowed teeth. “We are family now, Zahir. United against our enemies. Soon, we will overcome the wrongs that have been done to us.”

“Soon,” Javid agreed, returning his father-in-law’s knowing look, despite the fact that he had no idea how Khalaf and Zahir intended to overcome those enemies. Or why the sheik was so certain that the United States wouldn’t place sanctions against Nurul when it discovered this newly formed familial connection. Javid could not, however, come out and ask Khalaf. Especially not at this time, no matter how quickly he felt his window of opportunity closing.

Felt time running out.

Whatever Khalaf and Zahir planned would happen within the next couple of weeks, between now and their departure for the Middle East. Javid felt it in his bones. He would have to get Khalaf alone, carefully pick his brain. Before it was too late.

With a tight band of frustration gripping his chest, he watched Khalaf kiss Miah, seeming to be a gentle, kindly father delighting in his daughter’s joy. The deception soured Javid’s stomach. God, how he ached to see this man behind bars, caged like the animal he was.

The sound of a high-speed motorboat approaching the yacht intruded on this thought. Shouts erupted outside. China cups rattled on saucers and voices inside the cabin collided. An outer door burst open and Khalaf’s private bodyguards raced inside, consulted the sheik, then hurriedly hustled to the launch at the aft deck of the yacht before Javid could protest.

The launch was gone in the next moment, the powerful motorboat slicing across the water at twice the speed of the boat approaching the yacht.

Quint Crawford ducked into the salon, his head all but brushing the ceiling. He wore a security uniform, a baseball cap and his cowboy boots. He said to Javid, “Looks like paparazzi. How do you want it handled, sir?”

“Oh my God, it’s Bobby!” Cailin headed for the door. “I’ll get rid of him.”

“No.” Javid stopped her. “If Redwing sees you, he’ll only become more persistent. I’ll talk to him. Security will keep him from boarding. Everyone, please go on with the celebration.”

“Zahir…?” Miah moved as though to stop him.

“Visit with our guests, love,” he whispered. “I’ll be right back.”

Javid and Quint hurried out into the heat of the afternoon.

Quint grumbled in his Texas drawl, “Damn reporter scared Khalaf off like a sidewinder in a windstorm.”

“I thought Andy has Ramses waiting on the pier to pick him up.”

“That’s the plan. You get anything out of the varmint?”

“Nothing helpful.” Javid followed Quint to the aft deck to join the other Confidential agents, disguised as security, who were positioned there. The speedboat didn’t slow as expected, but raced past with a spray of water.

“Hell, that’s not Redwing,” Vincent groused, his brow pulled into its perpetual frown. “Just some damn joyrider.”

“False alarm, folks.” Law tugged at the sleeves of his uniform as though he were adjusting a dress shirt with French cuffs.

Vincent nodded grimly. “You can put your weapons away.”

A smile started to relax Javid’s tensed face, but vanished at Quint’s “Look out!”

Javid froze. The speedboat had circled around and was coming back. The driver wore a ski mask, a rifle at his shoulder. Quint tackled Javid at the same time he heard the teak paneling near his head explode. Screams issued from within the salon.

“Miah.”

As Javid fell, a second blast went off. He felt a sharp pain in his forehead, then something dripped into his eyes.

The agents returned fire on the passing boat but were helpless to do more than watch it speed away. Until the launch returned, they were stuck on the yacht.

“Miah!” Javid pushed against Quint’s weight. “Miah?”

“She’s okay, pardner. Whitney hustled all the guests down to the staterooms. Now, you stay down.” Quint moved off Javid and both men sat on their haunches.

Javid swiped at the warm liquid spilling down his face. Blood. “The bastard grazed my scalp.”

“I don’t think so.” Quint flicked the brim of his baseball cap the same way he usually did his Stetson—missing it, Javid figured. He drawled, “Looks like a piece of paneling jabbed you. Cut’s not deep, just messy.”

He helped Javid into the deserted salon and settled him down on one of the folding padded chairs.

“Oh my God, Zahir.” Miah appeared at his side, taking the chair next to him, dabbing a wet linen napkin to his wound, not seeming to notice or care that blood spilled on her wedding gown. Her golden eyes were dark with terror. “What just happened? Why was Security shooting at the person in the speedboat?”

“Because he was shooting at us, ma’am,” Quint supplied.

Javid scowled at him.

“Tell me what’s going on, Zahir.” Miah lifted the napkin and narrowed her eyes. “Why would someone shoot at you? Try to kill you?”

But he had no answer. There was no way Khalaf was behind this. He’d never have disrupted his daughter’s wedding. Or taken off as he had. So what was going on? Javid was sure of only one thing. Someone had just tried to kill him.

But was it Javid they wanted dead? Or Zahir?

Chapter Four

Zahir wrapped his hands around the steel bars of the prison cell where he’d spent the past few months, and swore in Arabic, then English. This was Javid’s doing. When he got out of here, he would find his twin and kill him, plunge a dagger through his heart as he had been prevented from doing so many years ago.

This time no one would stop him.

Like a caged panther, he paced the six-by-six cell, past the rust-stained toilet and sink, the too-short cot with its lumpy mattress, rubber pillow, scratchy blanket.

His captors thought to break him with these obscene conditions, this vile treatment. Zahir laughed to himself. “Fools.”

To survive in his world, a man learned many things, lessons taught through physical and emotional pain, endurance in the face of the unendurable. He’d spent his thirty years honing his senses on such trials. His fingertip found the scar behind his ear and the old hatred heated his gut. It was the first wound Javid had inflicted upon him, but not the deepest.

He had survived both, though at the time, he’d thought he’d die when his father displaced him as rightful heir to the throne of Anbar and bestowed it on that hyena, Javid. He’d wanted to kill Javid, there and then. Their father, too. He’d been saved from acting on his fury by Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed of Imad, a man with a like mind on the subject of Anbar, and toward Zahir’s brother and father.

Khalaf had made him an offer he couldn’t resist.

He’d allowed Father to believe he was sorry for his misdeeds, and Father had promised to keep Zahir in the lifestyle he’d become accustomed to, as long as he kept his nose clean and did nothing more to disgrace Anbar. To hide his covert activities, Zahir continued living as a playboy—until Javid told Father about his association with certain terrorists. Zahir had, naturally, denied all involvement with the cell, but Javid had provided proof, and Father had blocked Zahir’s access to every single Haleem bank account.

At the time, Zahir vowed to exact immediate vengeance on his family. But Khalaf had taught him revenge, if swift, could taste as bitter as prematurely picked dates. The secret was to let your enemy relax, to study your prey like the cobra, find their weakness, let them think you had gone away, that they were safe from your vengeance. That was when you struck. Zahir, a fast learner, came to realize the wisdom of planning. Of patience. He strove for control of his patience now.

He closed his eyes, savoring how close he and his partner were to controlling a huge percentage of the world’s oil supply.

He and Khalaf would be a rich and powerful force to reckon with, not only in the Middle East, but in the whole world. And Javid would finally pay for his treachery. But it would all be for naught if he couldn’t figure a way out of this place.

He heard movement and the murmur of voices behind the door at the end of the hall. His captors. He considered shouting “I am not a terrorist! I am a Prince of Anbar! I have diplomatic immunity! I demand release this minute!”

But they would ignore him, these jackals, as they had ignored his pleas for release from the first. Their mistake. They had no idea with whom they dealt. Their ignorance would cost them in the end.

If he were being held in a public facility, a Chicago Police Department jail, he would have been allowed a phone call, a lawyer, and he’d have been processed and out hours after being arrested. But his captors seemed to be a secret, undercover organization, one of those set up by the American government to search out and bring down terrorists. He had to get out of here. Had to warn Khalaf.

But how to escape?

He studied the cell, decided it might be easier to get out of this place than out of a regular Chicago jail cell, and tested the bars at the window and door. What worried him was that he’d lost track of time during his incarceration. Had not seen a newspaper or television newscast. Didn’t know how close the wedding was. He reefed on each individual bar, but found them all solid. He knelt by the sink, gripped the moist drainpipe, and yanked.

His jailers refused to speak to him of the world outside this cell; their talk consisted only of their questions. Always their questions. He would never tell them what they wanted to know. Would never betray his and Khalaf’s plans to demolish Quantum Industries…not even if they tortured him.

The pipe refused to budge, was rusted tight. He swore again in both his native tongues. He had to get out of here. But how? He growled and flopped down on the cot. The springs creaked in protest. The springs. He scrambled to his feet and lifted the mattress. The frame was a crisscross of stretched wires. Nice thick, sharp wires. Zahir smiled, sank to his knees and began the arduous chore of loosening one eight-inch length.

As he worked, his mind went to his impending nuptials. To Khalaf’s daughter, his betrothed. Miah was merely a means to an end, a pawn on his path to untold riches and power, but he would enjoy bedding her. Often. If not exclusively. He would also enjoy beating some of the fight out of her. Curbing her sharp tongue. Her wild spirit. And the sooner, the better. But first things first. He gyrated the wire, twisted harder, felt it give.

Khalaf had to be frantic at his disappearance, beating the underbrush looking for him.

Unless…

His hand stayed on the wire as an unthinkable idea gripped him. No. But, yes. Javid would play his own game against him—would impersonate him.

Would Khalaf realize?

Would Miah?

The wire snapped free.

Zahir’s head jerked at the sound of the hall door wrenching open. He heard the rattle of dishes on a tray. He sprang to his feet, dropped the mattress into place, shoved the weapon up his sleeve and crossed to the sink.

You are dead, Javid. As dead as this agent who brings my lunch.

Chapter Five

“You have to tell me what’s going on, Zahir. My mother’s heart can’t take any stress. I can’t have her exposed to, to, to…” The feeling she’d swallowed chips of ice hit Miah with renewed vengeance. There was no way to protect her mom from what had happened, no way to hide the blood splatters on her wedding gown. On Zahir’s tuxedo. All she could do was deal with the aftermath.

“If I had answers for you, love, I would give them to you.”

He had dragged her to the master stateroom and now stood by the door as though guarding it, or blocking her exit. She spied Cailin’s cell phone on the bed and grabbed it. “Then, we’ll let the police figure it out.”

“No.” He rushed to her, snatched the phone and thumbed the off button. “We aren’t calling the police.”

“Give me that.” Miah grabbed for the phone, but he held it out of her reach. Furious, she growled, but stopped fighting him. “Look at us, Zahir. There’s blood on our wedding clothes. Someone was shooting at you. You might have been killed. We have to call the police.”

“No.” Zahir’s dark eyes hardened like the slivers of bullet-blackened teak she’d tweezed from his forehead earlier.

“The harbor patrol, then,” she insisted. She wanted the person who’d shot at her groom, who’d ruined the joyous day she’d planned for her mother, who’d given her mother the very stress she’d vowed would not touch her. And she wanted that person now.

“No, love. This must be handled privately.”

“Privately? Privately!” She supposed his calm tone was meant to soothe her. It had the opposite effect. She moved at him and poked her index finger against his chest as she spoke, each strike a punctuation of her words. “Bullets were fired. That’s against the law. A matter for the cops.”

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