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“Your wound doesn’t look serious,” he lied. “And I think I can lose the men chasing us, but it’ll be hard to hide you from them—they know that I have to take you to a hospital. Who are they? Do you know anything I can use? The king has made it clear that you’re to be kept safe at all costs.”
Bin Musaid started to cry. “I . . . I betrayed him.”
“Who? Who did you betray?”
“I gave money to ISIS. I supported their effort . . .” His voice faded. For a moment Rapp thought he was dead, but a volley from behind jerked him back to consciousness.
“Nassar! It has to be.”
“Nassar? Do you mean Aali Nassar?”
Bin Musaid nodded and then coughed violently, spraying the steering wheel and Rapp’s right hand with blood. “He drained my bank account, knowing that I’d seek my brother’s help. He knew it would be easier to kill me in Europe than at home.”
“That makes no sense, Highness. If he suspects that you are involved with ISIS, why wouldn’t he go to the king? Why wouldn’t he just arrest you?”
“You don’t understand,” bin Musaid responded, weakening quickly. “I was just the messenger. He’s afraid that if the CIA takes me, I’ll reveal that he was behind all of it.”
“Behind all of it,” Rapp repeated. “Are you telling me that Aali Nassar is coordinating support for ISIS?”
Bin Musaid nodded.
“Who else is involved?”
The prince didn’t respond.
“Answer me!” Rapp shouted. “The king will take care of Nassar, but if I don’t know who the others are, I can’t stop them from killing you.”
“I don’t know,” bin Musaid sobbed.
“He must have said something. Wealthy businessmen? Other royals? Government employees?”
“The hospital,” bin Musaid said in a voice that was barely audible. “You have to get me to the hospital.”
He didn’t have much more time, and it was likely he was telling the truth about not knowing more. Why would Aali Nassar tell this useless piece of shit anything?
Rapp tightened his hands on the wheel and focused on putting a little distance between him and the chasing vehicle. He wasn’t going to be able to shake them completely, though. The Volvo was a surprisingly capable car, and the man behind the wheel was either going to stay on their tail or die trying. This situation was unusual in a fundamental way, though. For once, they weren’t after him.
He hammered his foot onto the brake pedal, slamming bin Musaid against the dashboard. Rapp kept his eyes on the headlights growing in his rearview mirror as he reached for the passenger-door handle.
“What are you doing?” bin Musaid managed to say before Rapp threw open the door and shoved him out.
“Stop! What—”
Rapp accelerated away, turning on the stereo and leaving bin Musaid lying in the road. In his rearview mirror, he saw the Volvo come to a stop in front of the prince, illuminating him in its headlights as the man in the sunroof emptied a full clip into him. After that, they hooked a U and disappeared back up the road.
With his immediate problems solved, Rapp dialed Claudia.
“Mitch! Are you all right? I’m not getting a GPS signal from you.”
“I’m fine. The transmitter probably got shot.”
“Where are you?”
“About seven miles south of Terry’s, getting ready to head back.”
“No, don’t. All the terrorists are down and Grisha and Donatella are out.”
“Do they need a pickup?”
