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  She pulled back, humiliated. “This won’t solve our problems.”

  Booker shuddered and pulled away. “All right. We’ll play it your way,” Booker answered, his voice little more than gravel and glass shards.

  “Now isn’t the time,” she said, straightening her shirt. “But our timing has always been off,” she acknowledged with a weak smile.

  “We’re tired,” he reasoned, his eyes on the horizon, not her. “We only have a couple more hours before the sun gets too hot for us to continue.”

  He jabbed a finger at the mountains in the distance. “We should hit the foothills right about the same time. If I have my bearings right, there is an oasis hidden in the crevices at the base.”

  “Malaquo,” Sandra murmured, forcing herself not to rub the ache in her heart. “I know it pretty well.”

  Unable to sit close to her, he set her forward and slid off. Deftly, he swung the reins over the horse’s head. “Time to give the horse a break.”

  When Sandra shifted to slide off, he stopped her with a raised hand. “Stay. You don’t weigh enough to make a difference.”

  “And it wouldn’t hurt for a little distance, right?” she observed, still smarting from the moment.

  “The only distance I’m worried about right now is between us and Trygg’s hired guns. Whether they are Al Asheera or mercenaries,” Booker replied. “How much do you know about desert survival?”

  “Enough to know we’re in serious trouble.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Watch out!”

  A wail of temper hit the air and jaws snapped at Booker’s shoulder.

  “Damn horse,” he roared, then glanced at his shoulder, saw the small line of red marring the T-shirt.

  “Are you okay?” Sandra patted the horse’s neck from her seat in the saddle, felt the muscles quiver beneath her touch.

  “Something’s got him spooked.”

  Her eyes scanned the stretch of sand around them, glaring in the evening sun.

  Booker grabbed the reins, held them tight in his hand. Then talked in low, easy whispers. The horse tugged once, then lowered his head with a snort.

  “Now we have an understanding.” Booker rubbed his nose, then loosened the reins. “Good boy.”

  “How are you with kids?” Sandra asked jokingly, but the soothing tone, the gentle movements, caught at her. She found herself wondering if he’d be a good father.

  Booker swung up behind her. “Don’t know any kids,” he answered. “I understand horses because I spent most of my childhood on Texas ranches.”

  “You don’t know—” Sandra’s jaw tightened. “Quamar and Jarek’s children?”

  “I don’t have the same kind of relationship with the royals that you do, Doc. I’m the hired help,” he said, the stern edge back in his tone, the aloofness rigid in his muscles.

  “You’re more than that to them. I know for a fact Quamar and Jarek consider you a good friend.”

  “I imagine they are rethinking their position right about now.”

  “I’d be disappointed in them if they did,” she answered softly.

  Booker’s gaze met Sandra’s, and he tried not to read too much into the flash of truth.

  “Tourlay is a day of travel from here by horse,” he explained, directing the conversation back to their predicament. “We can get there by midnight. About an hour beyond Tourlay is the airstrip.”

  “Why the airstrip?”

  “You’re going back to the States,” he answered. “After you give me your best guess at their location.”

  “And the cylinders? Where do you think they’re going?”

  “With me,” he replied.

  “Those cylinders are worthless without me,” she managed through her anger.

  “I don’t care. Your life—”

  “Is mine, alone,” Sandra snapped, cutting him off. “And I’ve been living this nightmare for five years. Now I have the opportunity to correct what mistakes I can.” She turned in the saddle. Her eyes narrowed. “And nothing, especially you, McKnight, will stop me.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes.” She gripped the pummel in fisted hands and resisted the impulse to punch the arrogance from his face. “That’s right.”

  She turned to the front, her spine rigid, her eyes forward. “We’re in this together or I do it alone, Booker. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  Without warning, the horse cried out and reared back.

  “Hold tight!” Booker yelled, but the order came too late. The horse jerked, breaking the reins free from Booker’s grip. Sandra grappled to keep her seat.

  Booker reached for her, but the animal shifted in one violent, sweeping movement.

  Sandra screamed, grabbed for the horse and caught only air. She hit the ground hard, the breath punched from her lungs.

  The horse came down, stamping the ground with his hooves.

  Booker dived under the horse, hit the ground and rolled over Sandra, putting himself between her and the horse’s hooves.

  The horse stomped. The hoof hit the back of his head. Pain exploded through Booker’s skull.

  “Booker!” Sandra reached around, hugged his head with her arms, then struck at the horse with her heels.

  The horse howled, then took off over the dunes, the reins dragging behind him.

  “I should’ve shot the stupid—” Booker swore, blinked against the blurred vision. “Look around, Doc. Find what spooked him.”

  Sandra scanned the sand, saw the shift. A red tidal wave across the sand.

  “Fire ants. Swarm,” she gasped. “Too wide to dodge on foot.”

  Nausea swirled in Booker’s stomach, slapped at the back of his throat. He staggered to his feet. The pain cleaved his skull; blood trickled down the back of his neck.

  Sandra looked at his eyes, saw the lopsided dilation.

  “Booker.” She grabbed his chin, checked first one, then the other eye in the morning light, caught the haze of confusion in his gaze. “Hold on, damn it.”

  Quickly, she checked for other injuries. Blood pooled at the back collar of his shirt; she probed the cut at his hairline with her fingers.

  “If you lose blood, we could be in trouble,” she murmured.

  “You have no idea.”

  She stopped, frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m AB negative, Doc,” Booker retorted. “Rare blood types can mess a guy up when he’s out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Damn it, Booker—”

  “Leave it. We need to move,” he snapped weakly. “I’ll be fine. Been hurt worse.”

  He took a step, and his knees buckled. Sandra grabbed his arm to keep him upright. “Hold on.”

  “Fire ants have scouts,” he warned. “We’ve got to put distance between them and us.”

  “I know. I was raised here, remember?” Once a scout ant attached itself to her or Booker, the others would swarm them. A swarm of fire ants had been known to envelop livestock, pick it clean and move on in mere minutes.

  Booker grunted, but managed to move his feet through the sand. “Over the dune...rock formations. Higher ground. Give us time.”

  “No.” She scanned the area for brush, trying to keep her head as the army of ants drew closer. “We fight fire ants with fire.”

  “Fire,” he grunted, trying desperately to gain his equilibrium. He reached into his front pocket and pulled out a lighter. “Use this and my knife. Cut the brush. Circle it around us.”

  She moved them closer to the rocks, sat him on the nearest one. Pulled the knife from his sheath. Quickly she hacked at the nearby brush, relieved when the branches broke dry and brittle.

  “Be ready. Smoke can be seen for miles,” Booker muttered.

  “One enemy at a time.” She placed the brush low in a ten-foot circle around them and struck the lighter.

  The flames leaped to life, giving her a moment of safety. Booker shifted, then groaned. His face whitened.

  “I need to examin
e your wound.” She lifted her medical bag from her shoulder.

  “We have more important problems right now. The damn horse took the supplies and water. Besides, I can see the concussion from this side,” he snapped, but his words were badly slurred. He locked his legs under him to stand.

  “Hold on, damn it.” But she was too late. Booker’s head lolled back and he slumped back onto the ground, unconscious.

  “If you’d just given me a minute,” Sandra muttered. Anger and frustration clashed, setting her jaw. “Arrogant superhero stereotype—”

  Sandra stopped. Engines roared in the distance. She jumped the fire ring and scrambled up a nearby boulder.

  Time had run out.

  Two jeeps. Four men. Rifles. Just over the nearest dune.

  Sandra jumped from the rock, made her way back to Booker. The sea of ants stood between them and the jeeps, giving Sandra some time.

  Quickly, she plowed up the sand at the base with her hands. She rolled him into the shallow hole, tossed his pistol beside him and shoved the scrub over him, praying the smoke, brush and rock hid him.

  Suddenly a flamethrower ignited; its flames spewed over the army of ants, burning them.

  The acid scent of fuel and burned insects caught in her nose. “Handy,” she muttered and palmed a nearby rock. “Why didn’t we have one of those?”

  Two of the men hopped from their vehicles, leaving the drivers of the jeeps to follow.

  No use hiding. She wasn’t armed and couldn’t outrun a bullet. And she wouldn’t leave Booker, until she was sure he’d be safe.

  The first one, the shorter of the two, smiled at her. The sweaty features and huge lips filled with conceit.

  “Where is the man, Doctor Haddad? McKnight?”

  “He’s dead.”

  The man hesitated, his eyes scanned the area briefly, touching on the boulder before moving back to her. “How?”

  “Snakebite. Viper.” Sand vipers were a well-known danger in the desert. Their venom lethal.

  The second jeep stopped a few yards away.

  A tall man approached, and the arrogance of his stride told Sandra he was the leader.

  “Good work, Itamar.”

  Dressed in white with a red scarf wrapped around his head, he’d left one end loose against his shoulder, exposing his features. His right eye was covered by a black patch, but the other black iris burned with anticipation.

  “She said McKnight is dead, Waseem. Viper bite.”

  “You’ve survived the desert on your own?” Waseem asked, disbelief in the glance he sent the other three men, the twitch of arrogance at the edge of his lips.

  Her chin went up. “Yes.”

  “You don’t mind then, if I make sure,” he said, then turned to the two drivers. Both faces red from the sun. “Search the area and see if you can find his body. If he died, it hasn’t been that long. Even dead he is worth money to us.”

  “We wait?” Itamar asked, frowning.

  “No,” Waseem replied, his eyes scanning the terrain. “We’ll take her back to our camp and meet them there.” The arrogance twisted into a tight, foreboding smile. “I have a few unanswered questions I wish to ask before we take her to Minos.”

  “Minos?” Sandra questioned, surprised.

  “Go to the rocks,” Waseem ordered the two men, ignoring Sandra. “Start there, then work your way out and around. If you don’t find him, get in the jeep and make the circle wider until you do.”

  “You’re wasting your time. He’s buried miles from here.”

  “We’ll see,” the leader replied, his eyes on the drivers.

  “Someone was here with her. If it was McKnight, he’s gone,” the first shouted from beside the boulder. “Whoever it is has left footprints. A male from the size of them.”

  “Search the area,” Waseem yelled, then he turned to Sandra. “You lied.”

  She shrugged, relieved Booker got away. “Think what you want.”

  “What I think is that McKnight hides behind a woman. That he left you here to die when he saw us coming,” Waseem answered. “I was told he was your protector.”

  “I need no one’s help,” she snapped, but she couldn’t shake the thread of truth in the Al Asheera’s words. “Especially from a dead man.”

  Waseem laughed, showing a row of white teeth. “How long did you think you’d survive without any supplies?”

  She nodded pointedly at the guns. “Your concern for my welfare touches me. But you needn’t bother.”

  “Not you,” he mused, his grin now vicious. “What you represent. Profit. General Trygg will pay handsomely for your safe return—do you not think so?”

  “King Jarek will pay you more than General Trygg ever could.”

  “Is that so?” Waseem rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully. “Trygg put out a bounty of a million for you. And for your friend.”

  Sandra laughed with derision. “How well do you know Trygg?”

  “Well enough.”

  “I know him better. Which is why he wants me so bad,” Sandra scoffed. “You’re an idiot. Trygg will kill you before he’d actually pay you.”

  The punch came from nowhere. Stars exploded in her temple, the pain jagged and mean. Sandra fell to her knees.

  “You assume much, Doctor,” Waseem mused, his smile wicked. He shook out the sting in his hand.

  A scream echoed off the dunes. An agonizing, almost inhuman scream that sent a chill up Sandra’s spine, nerves dancing in her stomach.

  “What is it?” Sandra asked, suddenly more afraid of the scream than of Waseem.

  Itamar swore. “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 i
n 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.