CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

NIGHT IN THE RUB’ AL KHALI felt less oppressive than day, darkness being a more natural cloak than sand. Unfortunately, the growl never slept. With nothing to physically see, I relied on my psychic map. The sand interfered with my sixth sense, but not to the extent it did with my sense of sight. Mentally, I could see almost thirty meters in every direction. Under the conditions, it felt like thirty kilometers.

Hassan led the way toward the center of the village, fully confident in his surroundings. I supposed the basic layout of the village hadn’t changed in years, certainly not since the Rub’ al Khali had swallowed it. The streets resembled spokes on a wheel, reminding me wistfully of my old laboratory. Two main roads, or rather, empty flat spaces, crossed each other at right angles in the middle. Out from that juncture, four angular paths shot off at diagonals.

A variety of small and medium-sized earthen dwellings filled every nook and cranny between the roads as if homes had been poured into molds and baked dry by the sun and wind. The continuous dwellings were a result of haphazard sections connecting one home to another, most likely a defense against the constant blowing sand.

The building in the center of town stood well apart from the others. In front, a forgotten low wall looked as though it might have been a fountain in a life past.

“Your friends are inside.” Hassan stopped short of the low wall, as if he could see it in the dark. “My cousin is the jailer. He will be here soon. While sympathetic, he will not openly help us.”

“Help us what?” I liked Petrosian’s plan less and less.

“It will be up to you to keep your friends unmolested until we reach the destination for the adkhala abadan.”

“They’re intended as blood offerings for the desert god.” Petrosian stated the matter flatly.

“For the love—”

“Hey, my way or—”

“Go to hell, Grish.”

“You’re catching on, kid. This crazy scheme just might work.” He thumped me on the back.

“It is haraam to spill their blood in the village.” Hassan shushed us. “Come, I hear my cousin. The procession will start soon.”

Hassan’s cousin proved the strong, quiet type. Without a sound, he unlocked the door to the makeshift jailhouse, allowing us entrance while standing guard outside. The rest of us flooded into the cramped space.

“Over here.” I led the way toward an even smaller room separated by iron bars, behind which five individuals crouched at the ready. “It’s Buckner.”

“That was a fine welcome you prepared for us.” Eyes stood and grasped the bars. “We’ve done our best to be patient, but—”

Hassan stepped in front of me. “Sorry about the unconventional transport. Admittance into the Rub’ al Khali is strictly prohibited to outsiders. This was the only way.”

“So let us out, and we’ll get on with it.” Ransom cracked his knuckles.

“I am truly sorry, but—”

I interrupted. “You’re going to love this part. Since we don’t have much time, I’ll get to the point. You guys have been acquired as blood sacrifices to the desert god, part of a ceremony taking place in a few minutes.”

“An adkhala abadan. I knew it.” Fatty cuffed Dirk and swore.

Double Phil bowed toward the east and began ejecting nonsensical prayers in Arabic.

“Cut it out,” Eyes quieted them. “So what’s the play? How do we get our weapons back?”

“Your weapons are worthless in the Rub’ al Khali. The sand is too dense. One of the camels carrying water has been loaded with several scimitars. Combat is personal in the desert, and blood is precious.”

Dirk cut in, “What about our explosives? Stuff blows up in the desert, don’t it?”

Hassan turned, his posture betraying his voice. “I will do what I can. When the wailing starts, it will be up to Dr. Buckner and Miss Love to procure the swords and effect your release. Disappear quickly, and do not come back.” He stopped at the door. “Remember, these people are my family.”

As he disappeared into the darkness of predawn in the desert, something about his gait and carriage struck me as familiar, yet out of place. Cutting the thought short, Hassan’s cousin entered, followed by a dozen armed men.

Petrosian forced Evie, Adel, and me into the far corner while the jail cell was unlocked and emptied. A number and a prayer were called out for each member of the unit as they were pushed roughly out the door. No restraints were necessary in an environment so hostile that escape meant death.

“Boots.” Eyes muttered the word on his way out to join the others.

Scanning the entirety of the room, I located a pile of personal possessions lying on a rug nearby. Unless I missed my guess, they were to be divided among the grieving families afterward. “Evie, give me a hand.” I tore a curtain from the wall and handed it to my daughter. “I’m putting you in charge of their boots.” We piled all five pairs into the cloth.

Petrosian grunted. “The more you interfere, the more you jeopardize their escape.”

I ignored him, continuing my instructions to Evie. “You’ll be the least conspicuous. See if you can get these to them early in the procession. When the moment comes, there won’t be time. And when the sun comes up, they’ll be dead without them.”

“No problem.” She squeezed my hand.

“As for the explosives.”

“Forget ‘em, Buck.”

“We both know Hassan has no intent to bring them.” I jabbed my finger into Petrosian’s chest. “Do you want Oleg dead or not?”

He backed down. “You screw this up, and all of us will be dead before we get a shot at Oleg.”

“Well, then, who among us is least likely to screw it up?”

He growled. “Fine. I have a pretty good idea where the munitions would be. I’ll grab the most useful of the lot and hump it to the back of the procession, where I expect to find the rest of you minding your own damn business.” He exited.

I turned to Evie and Adel. “What do you think?”

Adel responded first. “Mind our own business? I don’t think this guy knows you at all.”

“Agreed. I had something totally else in mind. How do you feel about camels?”