Something about aimee, p.13
Something About Aimee, page 13
Selima trained her gun on the woman.
The woman paused before lifting her hand to her sunglasses. She removed them and casually looked at Selima.
“Who are you?” Abdal demanded.
“You can call me Dallas. This is… Hamlet,” Dallas introduced.
“Greetings,” Hamlet said.
“You’re American,” Selima stated, not lowering her weapon.
Dallas nodded and looked down at the village. “Yeah, I’m trying to clean up an American-made mess. Unless you plan on killing us as a distraction, I’d appreciate it if you’d aim that pistol somewhere else.”
Selima lowered her weapon, but her eyes still showed her suspicions. “Are you CIA?” she inquired.
Dallas squatted down next to them. “Now, I can’t admit to the U.S. government being involved in an international incident. Let’s just say we are on the same side. Some people in the world don’t think Andrius Bronislav should keep his power.”
“How can you help us?” Aimee curiously asked.
Aimee kicked the tattered ball between her feet. It gave her an excuse to keep her head bowed. Out of her peripheral vision, she warily watched Abdal striking up conversations with members of the village. Each person cast a furtive glance at the armed men before they nodded. Slowly but surely, everyone began disappearing from the village.
Selima carried the bucket out of the house and over to the well again. She called out a sharp request for Aimee to get the food she had prepared for the Elder. Aimee picked up her ball and hurried to the house.
On the table was a small basket with stoneground flat bread, goat cheese, and dried fruit. She picked up the basket and exited the house. When she was a few feet from the guarded house, she dropped the ball to the ground.
Keeping her head down, she moved the ball back and forth while Selima talked to the guards in Arabic. They frowned and shook their heads. Selima motioned to the bucket of water, the basket, and the door.
The guards balked.
Aimee was beginning to doubt their plan when the door suddenly opened. Through her eyelashes, Aimee recognized the interpreter from earlier.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
The first guard shrugged. “This bitch has food and water she wants to deliver.”
The interpreter asked Selima in Arabic to explain herself. Selima kept her eyes down and softly said that it was her responsibility to bring food and water to the Elder.
“Who is this?” he asked, indicating Aimee.
Selima reached out and slapped Aimee lightly on the back of the head. “This is my brother. He is still young. He has no manners. It is time he learned responsibility instead of playing with his ball all day.”
Aimee stilled the ball with her foot and slumped her shoulders. The interpreter was silent and Aimee felt like his eyes were drilling through her disguise. He finally grunted and stepped aside.
“Put the water and food on the table and keep your eyes down,” the man instructed.
“You think Anderson’s going to feed them?” the second guard asked with disbelief.
“Fuck no. He’ll probably eat it himself,” the first guard snorted.
“Shut the fuck up and stay alert,” the interpreter ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the second guard muttered.
Aimee kicked the ball through the door and entered ahead of Selima. She took a few steps inside and the door closed behind them. A soft gurgling sound made her whirl back around. Aimee stared in wide-eyed shock as the interpreter slid down the closed door. He had a hand pressed to his slit throat.
Selima stepped away from the man, the knife in her hand dripping with his blood. Aimee shook herself out of her trance, placed the basket on the table, and retrieved the knife hidden under the food.
The house only had two rooms, the main area and another without a door. Through the opening, she could see an elderly man sitting on the floor.
She cautiously approached the room’s entrance. Selima signaled her to stop. Aimee froze in place while Selima scanned the room.
“Help him while I make sure no one comes in,” Selima ordered.
Aimee nodded. She hurried over to the old man and sliced through the ropes on his wrists and ankles. He reached out a shaking hand and touched her arm, then pointed behind her toward the corner.
“The prince,” the old man murmured.
Aimee barely stifled her cry of horror when she saw Qadir sitting on the ground in the corner partially hidden by a stack of crates. He was bound and blinded by a hood.
She rushed over to him, sliding the blade between the plastic straps around his ankles. She slid her hands along his dirty trousers to his tethered wrists. They were raw and bloody from the thick plastic strap around them. His fingers curled.
“Qadir, I’m here. We are going to get you out of here,” she breathed.
“Is he capable of walking?” Selima asked from the doorway, her attention still on the entrance.
Aimee looked up at the other woman and shook her head. “Not yet,” she quietly replied.
She tried to be as careful and gentle as she could while cutting through the strap. It was so tight, she could barely squeeze the tip of the knife between his wrists. His hands fell limply to his sides once they were free and fresh blood oozed from the deep gashes in his skin.
She cut the rope holding the hood on and pulled it off his head. His eyes were closed. His face was badly bruised, his upper lip was split, and there were gashes on his right cheek and left temple. She tenderly caressed his bruised flesh, stroking his face with her thumbs.
“Here, give him water. It will help. Not too much at first,” the elderly man instructed.
“Ashkuruk,” Aimee replied, thanking the man for the cup and the damp cloth he held out.
She placed the cup against Qadir’s cracked lips and murmured soft, encouraging words for him to take a drink. He moaned and tried to turn his head away until some of the cool, soothing liquid touched his parched tongue. He parted his lips.
A loud thud came from the house’s door, causing Aimee to jump and Selima to twist around. Dallas was being true to her word. Shouts and the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic gunfire filled the air. Aimee jumped again when fingers wrapped around her wrist. Her gaze softened when she saw Qadir’s dark eyes staring back at her.
“Am… I… dead?” he croaked out.
She laughed in relief and shook her head. “I don’t think it would hurt so much if you were,” she tenderly replied.
He swallowed with difficulty. Aimee placed the cup back against his lips with one hand and ran the damp cloth over his face with the other in the hope it would help revive him. He reached up and took the cup from her with a shaking hand, put it to his lips, and drained it.
“More,” he demanded.
The elderly man reached for the cup and hurried into the other room where the pail of water was. Aimee gently cleaned the blood and dirt from his face. He drank the second cup of water before setting the empty cup on the ground beside him.
“Help me up,” he ordered.
Aimee wrapped her arm around his waist while the elderly man took his other side. Fear poured through her when Qadir winced at the movement, turned deathly pale, and swayed before stiffening his spine. They kept their arms around him as he took a step forward.
“How many men are there?” he asked.
“There were ten. Selima killed one. Dallas and Hamlet are taking care of the rest,” she said.
“How many are from our military?” he gritted out.
“Two units arriving asap,” Selima replied.
They all heard the fast approaching helicopters. The sound traveled loud and clear through the house. Bullets pierced the door. Selima twisted and sank down against the thick mud walls. Aimee staggered sideways. The move sent Qadir off balance. He would have crashed to the floor if she had not wrapped her arms around him and pulled him back against the wall.
“Don’t touch me!” he snarled.
Aimee stared up at him, startled. He pushed her arms down from around him. An eerie silence filled the house when the last of the reverberations of gunfire faded. She slowly stepped away from him, and he turned his back on her.
Tears pooled in her eyes and overflowed down her cheeks. She lifted her hand and wiped them away, but they kept falling. Outside, she heard Abdal’s loud shout of triumph. Selima rolled the body of the interpreter out of the way and cautiously opened the door.
The bodies of the two guards littered the opening. In the square, sand wildly blew in all directions as members of the royal guard rappelled out of the helicopter hovering above the plaza. The moment their feet touched the ground, the helicopter flew off and was replaced by a second one with more men.
Aimee remained standing in the small room while the village Elder helped Qadir to the door. Selima looked at her, then at Qadir with a concerned expression. Two members of the Royal Guard rushed to help Qadir. Aimee slid down the wall, her stricken eyes following him as he was helped onto a stretcher and then airlifted. Tears blurred her vision, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand.
“Aimee?” Selima said in a soft, compassionate voice.
Aimee shook her head and turned her face away. He hadn’t cared that she was still alive. He hadn’t even said goodbye.
She buried her face against her knees and silently sobbed. She really did lose everything when the FBI took her identity. Now, not even the man she loved more than life itself cared that she was alive.
Chapter Eighteen
Aimee stared out the passenger side window of Abdal’s car. She and Abdal had opted to retrace their journey. They returned the horses to the farmer and picked up Abdal’s car.
Dallas and Hamlet had disappeared without a trace. Selima traveled back to the capital by helicopter so she could report to her superiors. There was a massive manhunt for Anderson Coldhouse. He was the only one to survive the shootout.
Abdal looked up as a helicopter flew overhead. “They are still looking for the others,” he commented.
Aimee didn’t bother to nod. Abdal sighed. She knew she was being rude, but she didn’t feel like talking. Both Coldhouse brothers had escaped. That meant she would have to go back to her life of obscurity.
“How much farther ‘til we get back to the capital?” she asked.
“Another hour,” he replied.
Aimee nodded. Their trip back had taken longer than the trip there. Abdal had passed out from exhaustion once they reached the farmer’s house and slept for almost forty-eight hours straight. Aimee had been very tempted to take his car. It was a shame that she didn’t know how to drive.
Instead, she had helped the farmer’s wife during the day and stared up at the stars at night. She had picked out a half-dozen of the brighter ones that she would like to visit. She wanted to be anywhere but here.
There was no news on how Qadir was doing. The farmer had no internet, and she had no phone. Even poor Abdal was having withdrawals by the time they left.
Aimee glanced through the dirty windshield and frowned when she saw the line of cars ahead of them on the highway. Abdal slowed to a crawl before stopping completely in the long line of traffic. She sat up, trying to see what the issue was.
“It looks like they are searching the cars,” Abdal commented.
“What for? Do they do that often?” she asked.
Abdal shook his head. “No. It must be extra security precautions since the Coldhouse brothers and their men are still free.”
She frowned. “Surely they wouldn’t be stupid enough to come to the capital when they were so close to the border? That would be suicide. I imagine the royal family has enough security around them now that nobody could get within ten miles of them.”
“I don’t know. The line is moving fast. It shouldn’t take us long, which is good. I need petrol soon,” he said, looking at the gas gauge.
Aimee watched as the car in front of them was searched. She felt a little self-conscious about the fact that she had bathed and changed into her American clothes of torn jeans, an oversize green T-shirt with a polka-dot chicken on the front, and her scuffed ankle boots.
“Tahiat sayidi,” Abdal greeted the officer when it was their turn.
“Do you have IDs?” the man asked in Arabic.
“Yes.” Abdal handed over his identification.
Aimee looked down at her hands. She jumped when another officer knocked on the passenger window. She pressed the button.
“Tahiaati lak,” she greeted.
“I need to see your identification,” the man stated in Arabic.
Aimee reached into her bag on the floor, pulled out her passport, and handed it to the man. He looked at the image, then her, and frowned. He stepped away from the car with it and spoke into the radio attached at his shoulder. She leaned forward but she couldn’t hear what he was saying.
“That was a valid passport, wasn’t it?” Abdal asked in English.
Aimee nodded. “It’s the one I was given,” she replied in the same language.
The officer stepped back to the car and returned her passport. She breathed a sigh of relief. She was putting it away when two other men dressed in military uniforms walked over to the car.
“Ms. Jones, I must ask that you exit the car and come with us,” one of the men said in Arabic.
Aimee looked at them with a confused expression. “Is there a problem? I’m here legally,” she said in the same language.
The man reached for the door. Abdal quickly unlocked it. Aimee shot him a nasty look.
“They have guns—lots of them. We don’t. Go with them. I’ll contact Selima and find out what is going on,” Abdal muttered in English.
Aimee realized he was right. She swung her legs out and stood up, clutching her backpack to her chest. She silently followed the two men to a military style vehicle. Another officer pulled open the back door for her. Aimee paused a moment, looking back toward Abdal before she ducked inside.
The military officer who had requested that she exit the vehicle climbed in beside her. Nobody talked as the vehicle pulled away. Aimee turned and looked behind her. The other three vehicles that had been blocking the road fell in behind them.
She slumped down in her seat, suddenly exhausted from the last week. She had barely eaten or slept, and the cool, dim interior, the silence, and that familiar, depressed apathy she had been carrying the last few years washed through her like molten lead. Leaning her head against the window, she closed her eyes.
Only for a few minutes, she promised herself.
“Why isn’t she waking up?” a deep, rough voice demanded. “You said there was nothing wrong with her!”
“Sire, she is exhausted and has been through a lot. As have you. She will still be here after you have both gotten some badly needed sleep. Her vitals will be monitored for the next few hours as a precaution, as will yours when you go back to bed!”
Aimee frowned in her sleep. The first voice sounded as if the man had a sore throat. The second one sounded like Dr. Fuah. The thought of Qadir’s personal physician made her shrink back toward the darkness. It was safe there. It felt as if she were among the stars.
The second time she woke it was dark. There was a heavy weight across her waist, holding her down. She was too tired to move it, so she didn’t try. Sliding her hand down, she thought she felt an arm. She decided she must be dreaming. Not wanting to let the feeling go, she threaded her fingers through the imaginary hand and fell back asleep.
When she woke the third time, she realized two things: she was hungry and she needed to use the bathroom. Sliding out of the bed, she stopped when her toes sank into a plush carpet. A swift scan of the room told her she wasn’t in a hotel—at least not any that she could afford.
The urgent pressure on her bladder forced her to make a beeline straight for the bathroom. Closing the door, she relieved herself, then decided to freshen up. She unwound her hair, grimacing at the grit still in it. It took her longer to shower than normal. The hot water and powerful jets felt good on her sore muscles. She had to wash her hair three times to get all the sand out.
She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, enjoying the feel of water on her skin. A frown puckered her brow as she tried to remember how she got here. Her last memory was closing her eyes in the military vehicle. After that, everything was a fuzzy blur of images and sounds. She wasn’t sure what had been real or just a dream.
Her breath caught when a pair of hands slid along the wet skin of her hips. She opened her eyes and stared at the wall when a hard body pressed against her back. Her hands clenched against the wall.
“You had better be Qadir Saif-Ad-Din or I swear you’ll be a dead man,” she muttered, already imagining how she was going to get out of this situation.
“You had better not be a figment of my imagination, 'amirati alkhayalia, or I will wish I was dead all over again,” Qadir’s rough voice murmured near her ear.
A choked sob caught in her throat, and she turned, burying her face against his bare chest. The dark, coarse hair on his chest teased her nose as she rubbed her face against him. She wrapped her arms around his waist. He winced when she squeezed him a little too hard.
“Careful, habibi. I’m still recuperating.” He chuckled.
She loosened her grip immediately, sliding her hands down and cupping his buttocks instead. His low groan and hard shaft indicated that he was feeling good things at the moment. She stroked his ass, enjoying the way his muscles contracted when she caressed him.
“Hi,” she whispered, looking up into his eyes.
He answered by capturing her lips in a passionate kiss that made the water raining down around them feel cool. She hungrily returned his kiss, devouring him like a dying woman drinking the elixir of life.
