LITMIR.BIZ

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Nadira al Kahtani, the daughter of his prime suspect. The daughter of the man who’d murdered his wife.

      Still struggling to process that bombshell, he adjusted the cinch on his gelding’s saddle as the terrorists prepared to ride out. He’d known she was Middle Eastern. And he could see her as a member of the Jaziirastani royal family with her regal, spirited air. But Nadira al Kahtani? The daughter of the banker financing this terrorist mission? It didn’t make any sense.

      Incredulous at the revelation, he shuffled through his memories, trying to reconcile this stunning development with what he knew of the secretive clan. Yousef al Kahtani was a wealthy Jaziirastani banker who resided in Washington, D.C. The intelligence community had long suspected him of funneling money to the Rising Light terrorists and funding jihadist activity worldwide. But thanks to his generous campaign contributions, he also had power. And every time they got close to unraveling his murky activities, some high-level politician ran interference, stopping the investigation in its tracks.

      Al Kahtani’s wife had died over a decade ago. Aside from a son, Sultan, he had a daughter, Nadira, rumored to be both brilliant and beautiful, who’d disappeared shortly after her mother’s death. In fact, she’d dropped off the grid so completely the CIA assumed she’d returned to her father’s native country, where she’d either married or died.

      Rasheed shot a glance at the woman sitting near the entrance to the cave. He skimmed the elegant lines of her profile, the feminine arch of her brows, and his pulse took another skip. Intel had definitely gotten the beautiful part right, especially with her startling green eyes. But where had she been for all these years? How had these terrorists found her when the CIA couldn’t track her down? And if her father was financing this jihadist expedition, why would they capture her?

      Growing even more confused now, he turned his attention to their extra supply horse and inspected the tack for frays. No matter what the explanation for the kidnapping, their cell leader, Manzoor, couldn’t have plotted it on his own. He might be in charge of their crack contingent, but he didn’t have the power to shape their agenda, only to carry out their attacks.

      So who had authorized the woman’s abduction? Why would they kidnap her now, en route to an important mission—a mission rumored to be so catastrophic it had the intelligence community running scared? And if al Kahtani wasn’t funding the upcoming attack, who was?

      Unable to come up with an answer, Rasheed grabbed the horses’ reins and led them to the cave. But there was one thing he did know—everything about this kidnapping felt off. His instincts were clamoring hard. And he had to watch his back. Yousef al Kahtani was no fool. He’d evaded prosecution for years, running a financial operation so labyrinthine even the CIA couldn’t sort it out. And this could all be an elaborate ruse. Al Kahtani could have sent his daughter here to investigate him. He’d penetrated Rasheed’s cover once before—and killed his wife to warn him off.

      Now he might be using his daughter to strike again.

      The woman rose at his approach. She straightened her spine and faced him—her chin canted high, her hands balled into fists, her gorgeous eyes challenging his—a show of feistiness he’d come to expect after the way she’d fought him off. But as he drew to a stop beside her, he caught a myriad of other emotions crowding her eyes—worry, uncertainty, fear.

      He frowned. The fear could be an act, a way to gain his sympathy and test where his loyalty lay. But could she actually make her face go pale on command?

      And if she wasn’t pretending, if she wasn’t in cahoots with her father, and she really was an innocent victim in this attack, then why had they kidnapped her? What did she know about their plans?

      He came to a stop, resolved. Whatever the answer, he had to find out. Thousands of American lives hung in the balance, depending on his success.

      “Henry’s getting worse,” she announced. “We need to get him to a hospital right now.”

      Rasheed shifted his attention to the injured doctor and inwardly groaned. She was right. The poor guy looked like the epitome of misery with his thin shoulders bowed, his hair sticking up in snowy clumps, his hands cradling his bloody head.

      But what could he do to help? He didn’t have the authority to let him go. And showing even a hint of sympathy would invite the terrorists’ attention, increasing their suspicions of him.

      Cursing this complication, he reached into his saddlebag and handed her a pouch of leaves. “Here. Try these.”

      Her jaw sagged. “Coca leaves? Are you kidding? He doesn’t have a tension headache. He has a concussion. I told you. This is serious, life threatening. He needs oxygen and a CT scan.”

      And he had a cover to maintain. He couldn’t afford to act out of character with so many lives on the line. Keeping his expression blank, he shrugged. “If you find an oxygen tank lying around, help yourself. In the meantime, you’ll have to make do with that.”

      Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes darkened to forest-green, her indignation clear. And without warning that attraction leaped between them, that deep, sensual awareness he’d felt toward her from the start. And he had the damnedest urge to haul her against him, to turn that passion toward something more pleasurable—a kiss that would make them burn.

      Stunned, he turned back to the horse. What the hell? Talk about the wrong woman! She was the daughter of a terrorist, his prime suspect, the man who’d ordered his wife’s death. She couldn’t get more off-limits than that.

      Not that there was a right woman. He didn’t have relationships anymore, not since his wife had died. He’d spent too many years in the terror training camps, too many years living amid the dregs of society to ever lead a normal life. That part of him was gone. And even if he could turn back time and be the man that he once was, he wouldn’t do it. He refused to put a woman in jeopardy again.

      Dragging his mind back to his mission—the only thing that mattered—he glanced at Henry again. “You know how to ride?”

      The doctor looked up, confusion in his dazed eyes. “I went on a pony ride once as a kid.”

      Great. A regular Buffalo Bill. “How about you?” he asked Nadira.

      Her eyes narrowed. “Why? Where are we going?”

      Not bothering to answer, he motioned toward the extra horse. “You can ride the mare. Henry will ride with me.”

      “He can’t ride. I told you, he has a concussion.”

      “Would he be better off on foot?”

      “He’d be better off if you hadn’t kidnapped him.”

      No kidding. And as soon as they reached a village, he’d try to convince the terrorists to leave him behind. But in the meantime...

      He glanced at the men sitting astride their horses—their sharp gazes taking in every detail of the exchange—and hardened his voice. “Look. We’re heading out. You can ride or walk—your choice. But either way, you’re going to move. Both of you. Now.”

      Nadira crossed her arms. Her full lips flattened into a mulish line. Rasheed held her gaze, knowing he couldn’t afford to relent—not with the terrorists watching their moves. She’d pay too high a price if he did.

      But Henry lurched to his feet, interrupting the standoff, and staggered his way. “Don’t worry. I can ride.”

      Sure he could. The man could barely stand upright, let alone trot down a mountain trail. But without a helicopter to airlift him to a hospital, what other choice did he have?

      With a sigh, he mounted his horse. He held out a hand to Henry, but his gaze went to Nadira again. “Help him up.”

      For a minute, he thought she’d refuse. She glanced at the steep rocks hemming them in, the two men waiting on the trail ahead, as if weighing her chance of escape. But then she moved to Henry’s side.

      “Put your foot in the stirrup,” he told Henry.

      The

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