like what she and Thorne created together. “What did he want, Husani?” she repeated.
“To speak with Father.”
Her nape tingled with apprehension. It was plausible. Dylan, being an Egyptologist, and having worked for her father for years, knew Beniti al-Atrash. They came to her father’s old friend when they wanted honest workers to go on a dig, or needed supplies whose prices hadn’t been jacked up to the skies.
Why wouldn’t Dylan visit him if he was in Egypt? But why would her father’s assistant pick this time of year to excavate when the heat index was killer and most of the locals who could afford it left the city?
She adjusted the strap between her breasts, the weight of the camera comforting against her side as they talked. “What did he want?” She opened the bag and shifted things to accommodate the small box. It was a tight fit to close the bag. “Did you tell Dylan that Beniti is in the hospital?”
Husani shrugged. “No. When he found out that Father was not here, he said that Professor Magee sent him.”
Isis curled her lip. “He did not.”
Implacable, unflappable, Husani added, “He claimed your father sent him to retrieve the object he left behind on his last trip.”
Her arm brushed Thorne’s as she touched her camera bag. “The stick and the box?” His innate strength lent her courage. “Did he ask for them specifically?”
“No, which raised my suspicion. When I inquired as to what the item might be, he prevaricated, then admitted he didn’t know what had been left. I informed him I had no knowledge of such an article, and he departed.” Husani shrugged as if he had no control over the whims of fate. “He was not pleased.”
Dylan “not pleased” was as petulant and whiney as a hormonal teenager. Isis shot a look at Thorne. “Dylan’s fishing. He wasn’t here that last time with my father, so he shouldn’t even know about this.”
“I figured. This adds another new player, doesn’t it?” Thorne took his phone from the front pocket of his jeans. “What’s this Dylan’s last name?”
“Brengard.” Isis’s fingers tightened around the lid of her camera case. “You don’t think he was the one who sent those men last night, do you? That doesn’t sound like something Dylan would do. He’s…” Weak. A follower. “A pacifist. Well, maybe not that, but he doesn’t seem the kind to condone violence.” He’d taken her rebuff with a shrug.
Isis knew unequivocally that if and when Thorne decided not to be as patient as he was pretending to be, he’d take and not ask. She just wanted to make sure to let him catch her when he was ready.
He gave her an indecipherable look as he punched in a number on his phone. “If there’s enough incentive people will do anyth—” He stopped abruptly at the sound of a skirmish outside, whipping his gun from under his shirt at the small of his back and subtly stepping in front of her.
Heart in her throat, Isis peered around his arm, hearing running footsteps approaching, accompanied by shouts of anger.
Hell, not again—
SEVEN
Thorne and Husani both leveled their weapons toward the swinging curtain at the entrance to the inner sanctum as the driver pushed his way through the carpets hanging from the ceiling.
“Company,” he said quietly and succinctly, his eyes intense and focused. He too carried a very large black gun.
Who the hell was Connor Thorne?
“Back door?” Thorne demanded, addressing Husani.
“I know the way,” Isis told him, forcing the basket down so she could latch the camera bag. “Are you coming, Husani?”
“I will greet the visitors,” he said grimly, tucking his gun into the back of his loose pants. “Go, little bird!”
“Thank you! This way.” Isis pushed between hanging layers of fine kilim rugs. The stall backed up into Beniti’s small shop, which faced the alley in the next block. Thorne stayed on her heels and the driver brought up the rear.
“Get the lead out,” Thorne told her briskly as they moved from blankets, textiles, and plastic sphinxes to more expensive faux artifacts.
“We can go through here, and then through the next shop, and then out a side d—” Her words were cut off by the sound of a gunshot. She spun around, slamming into Thorne’s hard chest. Isis braced a hand over the steady beat of his heart. “Husani!”
He grabbed her upper arm. “Let’s go.” Twisting her around, he propelled her between crowded display cases, intricately inlaid tables where she’d played as a child, had haggled behind