“Our driver.” He raised his rifle and surveyed the terrain through the scope.
Waseem grabbed Sandra, pulled her in front of him. The leader searched for cover, spotting the jeep several yards away.
Itamar shook his head. “We’ll never make it. We’re caught in the open.”
Gunfire rang out, strafing the jeep radiators. Blowing them out. Making the vehicles useless.
“You have what is mine, Waseem. Let her go and I might let you live.” Booker’s voice boomed off the sands, the tone harsh, the words clipped.
“How did he know your name?” Itamar asked.
“The drivers, idiot.” Waseem scanned the horizon, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the sun. “And if I don’t?” he yelled.
A gunshot ricocheted, punctuating the leader’s question.
Itamar grunted. He looked down at his chest where blood blossomed across the white of his shirt. He sank to his knees and hit the ground face-first.
Another scream hit the air. Followed by whimpering. “Your drivers have been very cooperative. Surprising what losing a finger one at a time will convince a man to do,” Booker announced.
Waseem grabbed Sandra by her hair. She cried out in pain. He forced her down on her knees and crouched beside her, placing his knife at her neck.
“That’s a mistake, Waseem,” Booker yelled from behind the dune.
The whimpering grew louder from the darkness. “Now your friends here, the ones crying like a baby? They’re already dead. But you can live if you let go of the doc. Immediately.”
“If you don’t come out now, McKnight, unarmed, Doctor Haddad will die before I do.”
Steel bit into her neck, forcing Sandra to take shallow breaths. While his hand was steady, she felt his heart racing against his chest, his rapid breathing.
Fear?
Sandra decided to play into the possibility. Use it as a weapon. “He’ll kill you if you hurt me. The last man who touched me died with a knife in the back of his head.”
“I think he will do nothing while I have you.” He tightened his grip until she cried out.
Sandra caught the whisper of movement. Heard Waseem grunt. Suddenly, the leader dropped her and his pistol. Blood poured from his arm, the wrist nearly severed.
Sandra stumbled away. She looked up, saw Booker holding a machete over the injured Al Asheera, who lay on his back, hugging his arm, moaning in agony.
Booker kicked the pistol toward Sandra. His features were pale, drawn. She saw him sway a bit on his feet, understood how unsteady he really was. It added to the dangerous set of his features, the edge of his temper.
“Get out of here, Sandra,” he said, low and mean. “Take the pistol and walk up the path about a hundred yards. The horse returned. I tied him to the brush behind a cluster of boulders.”
“Booker—” she answered, not knowing what was going to happen.
“You actually thought I’d leave you to them?” He glared at her. “Don’t ever make yourself a target again.”
“He’s going to kill me, Doctor Haddad, then turn you in to Trygg himself,” Waseem bit out.
“Your men mentioned Minos. The new Al Asheera leader. Then they died.” Booker’s features hardened. “I’m hoping for better information from you.”
“And if I disappoint you?” the man sneered.
“The ants are feeding on your friends as we speak,” Booker stated.
Waseem physically blanched.
“Booker—”
“Leave,” he advised, his eyes flickering over Sandra. “Now.”
From her estimate, he had very little time left on his feet, but sheer stubbornness was going to get him his answers.
She picked up the gun, not sparing Waseem a glance. There was no doubt in her mind that Waseem had planned much worse for her. She could not stir any pity for him. “You have a half hour. Then I’m coming back.”
“It won’t take that long.”
* * *
TIME PASSED AND BOOKER didn’t show, so she grabbed the horse’s reins.
When the gunshot sounded, all she could do was feel relief. Straight to the heart, as if he was putting a rabid dog out of its misery. Something she’d seen her Bari and the others do a million...
Then she heard it, the heavy shuffle of feet against the dirt.
Booker broke into the clearing, his face gray, his body sluggish. “Get on the horse, Doc,” he ordered grimly. “Nothing left here.”
She stopped herself from reaching for him. Knowing if she offered to help, the argument from him would make his head worse and drain more of his strength.
Once Sandra was on, Booker mounted up behind her. He leaned into her, more deadweight than not.
He took the reins, tugged, and the horse started toward the foothills.
“Can