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That.
I.
Bloody.
Fucking.
Failed her.
I wait till the last possible second when I should be at the rendezvous point where I purchased a jet ski. I safely tucked the boat I came in on at one of the small uninhabitable islands a few miles off the coast.
Wearing black tactical clothing and gear, I follow the path I’d taken before and watch Al Rafi’s home guards.
Ten blokes circle about the compound in impressive intervals, leaving not a square inch of a blind spot.
I place a silencer on my sniper rifle and peer into a scope less than one hundred meters to the west, where, parallel to the home, there’s a hedge of date palms. I aim for the yellow irises of a Little Owl. One squeeze of the trigger sends the bird falling. The little wanka is injured, but it should survive. A half-second later, another bullet causes a bushel of dates to tumble atop it.
“What’s that?” One of the guards mutters in Arabic.
The two east and west of him hurry over while I sprint across the yard under the veil of night.
“The stupid bird flew into a tree,” I hear one exclaiming. A few others laugh.
As I slip into a set of doors, I breathe easy. They are thorough with concern to sweeping the perimeter but not suspicious of a nocturnal fowl. However, I did choose a particularly small caliber if they investigated more carefully. I place the sniper rifle over my shoulder and look into the sweeping area with its gold filigree walls.
Al Rafi held my woman hostage here.
Slipping my backpack from my shoulder, I assume the garbs of a male servant.
A whitethawbenrobes me and falls to my ankles. I place a pre-rolled black-and-white checkered keffiyeh over my head, tugging down to conceal as much of my face as possible.
I move along the corridors, body rigid, head down, blue eyes cast to the floor. Steps start in my direction from ahead.
No falter in pace.
No quickening.
No hesitation at all.
Soon enough, the person passes me. I look up discreetly and over my shoulder. Still no change. No recognition exchanges between the bloke and me.
My gander snaps forward, and I’m damn near knocked on my arse by the sight before me.
I lock onto the side profile of the stranger I crossed paths with at my old duchy before Luxury and I took our impromptu trip to the Mediterranean.
I saw the bloke while Lux and I were out to dinner.
We had company . . .
Madeline . . .
And the wanka, Lake Russell.
But another person was present that night—the Middle Easterner who is down the hall from me now.
As I slow my pace to a stroll and follow thetosser,I berate myself for a moment. I thought nothing of the bloke from the restaurant. As we dined with Madeline and Lake, the man hadn’t seemed too out of place. He’d not concealed himself in the slightest nor appeared paranoid. But what are the chances of seeing him that night and being here now?
I tell myself to be on guard while slowly pursuing the man whotookmy lady in the first place.
