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“Stay and watch them,” the leader growled out in Arabic to the youngest thug. “If any of them tries to escape, shoot them.”

“Yes, Colonel Aydin.” The young man stood up straight. “I will not fail you.”

Leila watched as they practically dragged her boss across the rubble strewn on the top floor of the small building. They were bypassing the elevator and heading for the stairs. The explosion had been targeted to the conference room, nothing outside of their room had been destroyed. They’d known what they were doing. They hadn’t wanted the people inside to die. Nope, just enough blast to make everyone inside duck for cover.

As Leila watched her boss stumbling in front of the leader, she hoped he was playing possum and was really okay, but that pistol had hit him hard.

“Please help us,” Leila pleaded with the young guard, trying to suss out if he understood any English.

He turned around. “Silence, or you will be shot,” he shouted in Arabic.

She had it. They were all speaking the Arabic language with a Mesopotamian accent. That was the accent used in Northeastern Syria, ISIS, and Al Qaeda territory. It didn’t mean these assholes were necessarily terrorists, it could just as easily be Bashar al-Assad’s goons. But then again, Assad wanted what they were supposedly selling, so he didn’t have any motive to go after them.

Enough processing, time for more action.

“I must relieve myself. Don’t make me debase myself in front of these men. I beg of you. Would you want your sister or your mother to squat so close to men?”

That should upset a good Islamic boy. He didn’t flinch.

Good, he doesn’t understand English.

“Please,” she begged louder.

He walked over what was left of the conference room door’s threshold and jabbed the muzzle of his automatic rifle into her gut. “Silence,” he yelled in Arabic. He jabbed the muzzle again and again until she fell backwards onto her ass.

“Now wait a damned minute,” Landry stepped forward. Faster than you could spit, the kid had a knife in his hand and he sliced it across Landry’s fat belly.

And he was supposed to be the nice terrorist.

Landry screeched and jumped backward, holding his gut, but Leila didn’t see any blood seeping through his fingers. The young man laughed. Then he put his forefinger to his lips. His meaning was clear. He wanted silence.

Leila tried to think. How many other terrorists were there? She didn’t think it was just the four of them.

Why were northeastern Syrians here in Damascus? The only thing that made sense was that they were with ISIS or Al Qaeda, and they didn’t want Assad to get any kind of advantage. How did they know that their tiny little delegation was here to broker a lucrative deal for al-Assad here in Syria? At least that was their cover story. Katherine Cole, with her hybrid soybean operation, and Landry with his oil and chemical business, were supposedly going to help bring American business to Syria, which would mean money. American business that would be outside the scope of USAID, so there would be profits that would line the pockets of Katherine and Landry and, especially al-Assad.

Even better, it would eventually mean other American investors. It was a perfect cover story that would keep that greedy fucking bastard al-Assad on their side. Nope, al-Assad wasn’t behind this operation. He wouldn’t want to bite the hand that could feed it.

But these guys? How did they know Elijah was really the big fish, and he was the one who was trying to meet with one of al-Assad’s underlings who was willing to trade over five million dollars in diamonds to get four people out of prison?

There was a leak, and since al-Assad knew nothing yet, it had to be on the US side of things.

Goddammit!

“I need a doctor!” Landry bellowed. “I’m going to die! Your leader won’t be happy if I died. He’ll lose out on millions.”

“So now it’s millions, huh?” Felix Ratcliff moved forward and pushed Landry’s hand out of the way. He tore his shirt farther apart and looked at the wound. “It’s as deep as a paper cut. You’re going to be fine.” Felix looked over his shoulder at Leila. “No English? Are you sure?”

Leila nodded. “We need a diversion so that we can get to Nottingham and Unger’s weapons.”

“What are you talking about?” Landry demanded to know. “They took their weapons. Weren’t you watching?”

Leila rolled her eyes at Felix, who gave the kind of sigh that only an old man who had seen everything could give.

“Landry, we need to check for their hidden weapons,” Felix explained. Leila appreciated him stepping in. Right now, she didn’t need to get into a dick measuring contest with Landry, she just needed results.

Landry frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Robert, I need your help,” Leila said in the most pleasant tone of voice she could muster. Hell, she sounded downright submissive!