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“It means we’re gonna make ourselves a fortune,” Alex had said, grinning.
And they did. Powerful clients paid them exorbitant amounts of money to do things that would have made most men’s bellies knot with fear.
Things that the law just wouldn’t—or maybe couldn’t—handle.
The only person who seemed oblivious to their success was their father…and then, last night, Avery had turned up at Cam’s Turtle Creek triplex.
Avery hadn’t wasted time on preliminaries. He’d explained that his oil contracts negotiator in the sultanate of Baslaam hadn’t reported in for almost a week and was unreachable by cell phone or satellite computer.
Cam had listened, expressionless. Eventually Avery fell silent. Cam still said nothing, though by then he knew what had brought his father to him.
Moments crawled by. Avery grew red-faced. “Goddammit to hell, Cameron, you know what I’m asking.”
“Sorry, Father,” Cam said tonelessly. “You’ll have to tell me.”
For a second, Cam figured Avery was going to walk out. Instead, he took a deep breath.
“I want you to fly to Baslaam and see what the hell’s going on. Whatever your fee is, I’ll double it.”
Cam had tucked his hands in the pockets of his trousers, leaned back against the railing of the wraparound terrace that looked out on the city.
“I don’t want your money,” he said quietly.
“Then what do you want?”
I want you to beg, Cam had thought. But the damnable code of honor drummed into him by the Army, by Special Forces, by the Agency and maybe even by his own convictions, kept him from saying the words.
This was his father. His blood.
Which was why, less than eighteen hours later, he deplaned into a desert heat so fierce it slammed into him like a fist.
A small man in a white suit hurried toward him.
“Welcome to Baslaam, Mr. Knight. I am Salah Adair, the sultan’s personal aide.”
“Mr. Adair. Good to meet you.” Cam waited a couple of seconds, then made a show of looking around. “Isn’t the rep from Knight Industries with you?”
“Ah.” Adair smiled brightly. “He has undertaken a survey beyond the Blue Mountains. Did he not notify you of his plans?”
Cam returned the bright smile. The negotiator was an attorney. He wouldn’t have recognized signs of oil from signs for a neighborhood gas station.
“I’m sure he notified my father. He must have forgotten to tell me.”
Adair led him to a black limo, part of a mixed convoy of old Jeeps and new Hummers. All the vehicles held soldiers bristling with weapons.
“The sultan sent an escort in your honor,” Adair said smoothly.
The hell it was. No escort would involve so many armed men. And where were all the regular citizens of Baslaam? The paved road that led into town was empty. As the only road in a country trying to claw its way into a semblance of the twenty-first century, it should have been crowded with traffic.
“The sultan has arranged a feast,” Adair said with an oily smile. “You will taste many delicacies, Mr. Knight. Of the palate…and of the flesh.”
“Great,” Cam said, repressing a shudder. This part of the world, delicacies of the palate could make a man’s stomach roll. As for delicacies of the flesh…he preferred to choose his own bed-mates, not have them chosen for him.
Something was wrong in Baslaam. Very wrong, and dangerous as hell. He had to keep alert. That meant no strange foods. No booze. No women.
Definitely, no women.
Where were all the women?
