Aljibal Alsawda'
(Black Mountains of Jawahir)
Colin cursed under his breath. His brother had screwed up the mission by not securing the area. He should have known better than to trust Anderson.
The unmistakable sound of military helicopters searching the area had forced him and his team to seek cover in the caves along the road. Anderson’s team was cut off twenty kilometers to the north.
They would have made it across the border to safety if someone had not seen and reported the attack on the royal convoy. He didn’t know who had, but he looked forward to finding out. He had lost five good men to a sniper. They had gone down like cans on a fence before his people could take cover.
Regardless, Sheikh Qadir Saif-Ad-Din was in one of Anderson’s vehicles, and Tarek Saif-Ad-Din was among the dead. Those were good things.
Now, it was up to him to get them all out of this mess. Cut off from using the main road by the Jawahir Royal Military, Colin accepted that they would not make it to the base tonight.
After she swore Habib to secrecy, Aimee shared her past with him. At first, she was hesitant to share much, but once she opened up, it was like a dam had burst, and she poured out most of what had happened to her.
Habib was shocked. Slowly, the shock turned to awe, then to determination. He said she might be the Nasira of Jawahir—the Defender. In the ancient story, the Nasira was a woman who would someday cross the world to save Jawahir for the sake of her long lost love.
By morning, Aimee had booked her plane ticket from L.A. to Jawahir, and it was agreed that Abdal would take her anywhere she wished to go. According to Habib, Abdal was fearless, knew the country better than anyone, and loved the royal family almost as much as he did.
Aimee landed at LAX with just enough time to make it to her apartment, shower, change, and grab the map before she took a share-ride back to the airport.
Twenty-nine hours later, she stepped off the plane in Jawahir and passed through customs with just her passport, some money, and her backpack. Habib had promised that anything she needed, Abdal could supply for her.
Aimee scanned the group holding up signs. One of the men held up a sign that said ‘Habib’s Cousin.’
“Abdal?” Aimee inquired.
“Tahiaatun, Nasira of Jawahir,” Abdal greeted.
“Tahiaatun. I’m Aimee,” she said, holding out her hand.
Abdal grasped her hand and bowed over it with a beaming smile. Aimee released a tired laugh. Abdal was in his late twenties, and he had an infectious smile. His irises were a deep dark brown, and his eyes sparkled with his vivacious spirit.
“Hello, Aimee. Come with me. I will be your willing servant,” he said.
Aimee fell into step beside Abdal. She was wearing jeans, an oversized T-shirt, a light jean jacket, and a pair of well-worn dark brown ankle boots. In contrast, Abdal was wearing the clothing typical of the region: a long, white tunic called a dishdasha with short sherwal trousers and a white headscarf.
“Did you get the list of what I need from Habib?” she asked as she followed him outside.
“Yes, I have everything. I have to admit I am very curious about some of the items,” he said with a smile.
A young woman stood next to the old Toyota Camry they were walking toward. She was dressed in a wide, long abayas and a dark blue hijab that showed strands of her black hair.
Aimee stopped in her tracks. “Who is she?”
Abdal looked back and forth between them, frowning as he motioned for her to continue to the car.
Aimee shook her head. “Man hi almar'a? Who is the woman?” she repeated.
“This is my sister, Selima. She will travel with us. It is not proper for me to travel alone with you.”
Aimee felt her stomach clench. “No, she mustn’t come with us,” she said in a low voice.
“Selima is very good. You will not know she is there,” he promised, motioning again for her to get in the car.
Aimee shook her head. “Abdal, I need you—only you—to drive me to the places I need to go. It will be dangerous. I don’t want to endanger Selima.”
Abdal smiled. “Selima will be good. Trust me, Aimee Nasira of Jawahir. Many of the women of Jawahir are warriors. They have fought beside our men for centuries.”
Selima opened the back door of the car for her. The windows in the back were tinted a darker color than the front. Aimee mentally cursed and climbed into the car. Selima sat in the front seat while Abdal hurried around to the driver’s side and climbed in.
“Welcome to Jawahir,” Selima said with a warm smile.
Aimee bowed her head in greeting. “How much did Habib tell you about my trip here?”
“Very little,” Abdal said. “He felt it would be better not to write things out. The items he asked for are common and could have easily been for him. I do not understand why you needed a man’s outfit and a worn ball, but I have all the items Habib requested.”
Aimee pulled the map out of her jacket’s inside pocket and sat forward. She pointed and said, “I need to go to these three places.”
Selima frowned. “These are near where the attack on Sheikh Qadir and Tarek took place.”
“Yes,” Aimee replied.
Abdal glanced over his shoulder at her before returning his attention to the traffic. “The Royal Military is searching the area,” he warned.
“I expect it is,” she said.
“Not quite. These are west of where the JRM is currently searching. May we ask why you wish to go there?” Selima inquired.
“Because I think one of those spots is where Qadir was taken.”
“How do you know about these places?” Abdal asked.
“I found the map three years ago… along with some other photographs.”
“Why didn’t you notify the JRM about this?” Abdal asked, glancing at her in the rear view mirror.
“And tell them what? That I’m an American who found a map in a bloody envelope three years ago and I think I know where their Crown Prince is being held? They would either laugh me out of the country or lock me up.”
Aimee blew out a slow breath, sat back, and looked out of the window. She didn’t add that she was lousy at working with others and still had major trust issues. The only reason she was sitting in the car with Abdal was because of her friendship with Habib.
There were many pedestrians looking at the fashionable shops lining the street. The cafés were packed. The city reflected the wealth of the nation. High tech mixed with centuries-old architecture.
“There was a photograph of an American man,” Aimee continued. “He did some terrible things here. I think he’s the one who has Qadir, and I think these markings indicate his bases in the region.”
“This American—do you know his name?” Abdal asked.
“Yes.” She paused. “I don’t actually know for sure that he is behind it,” she hedged.
Selima watched her carefully as she said, “Our sources say Colin Coldhouse was hired by Andrius Bronislav to capture Sheikh Saif-Ad-Din.”
Aimee stiffened at the mention of Coldhouse.
Selima continued, “We did not receive the information until after the attack. Whoever reported it saved the life of Sheikh Tarek. Unfortunately, eight highly skilled members of the Royal Guard were killed.”
Suspicion flared inside Aimee. She hadn’t shared everything with Habib, but she had trusted him when he said he knew someone who could help her. Now her old insecurities rose up, and she wondered if she had made a mistake.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I am Selima Abd Wahhab, of the RIS, the Royal Intelligence Service.”
“I’m Abdal, Habib’s cousin, and also a member of the RIS, though I am usually behind a keyboard and not out in the field like Selima.”
Aimee looked out the window in silence, ignoring Selima’s intense stare. It wasn’t often that she was wrong about someone. Habib had lied.
“We owe you a great debt, Ms. Jones,” Selima said. “The information you gave to your government three years ago was passed on to us and saved many lives. Habib told us what you gave up to do this. Let me assure you that the royal family, the JRM, and our people recognize you as our Nasira of Jawahir.”
Aimee’s face flushed with guilt. She hadn’t given up anything—she had thrown everything away. If she could save Qadir now, it was the least she could do for him. She had learned her lesson and wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
“The victims of Bronislav’s atrocities will be avenged,” Selima said. “The sanctions placed upon him have had a rippling effect. He is a desperate man.”
“Desperate men are dangerous—and he has Qadir,” she said.