Prince Under Cover. Adrianne Lee

okay, pardner. Whitney hustled all the guests down to the staterooms. Now, you stay down.” Quint moved off Javid and both men sat on their haunches.

      Javid swiped at the warm liquid spilling down his face. Blood. “The bastard grazed my scalp.”

      “I don’t think so.” Quint flicked the brim of his baseball cap the same way he usually did his Stetson—missing it, Javid figured. He drawled, “Looks like a piece of paneling jabbed you. Cut’s not deep, just messy.”

      He helped Javid into the deserted salon and settled him down on one of the folding padded chairs.

      “Oh my God, Zahir.” Miah appeared at his side, taking the chair next to him, dabbing a wet linen napkin to his wound, not seeming to notice or care that blood spilled on her wedding gown. Her golden eyes were dark with terror. “What just happened? Why was Security shooting at the person in the speedboat?”

      “Because he was shooting at us, ma’am,” Quint supplied.

      Javid scowled at him.

      “Tell me what’s going on, Zahir.” Miah lifted the napkin and narrowed her eyes. “Why would someone shoot at you? Try to kill you?”

      But he had no answer. There was no way Khalaf was behind this. He’d never have disrupted his daughter’s wedding. Or taken off as he had. So what was going on? Javid was sure of only one thing. Someone had just tried to kill him.

      But was it Javid they wanted dead? Or Zahir?

      Chapter Four

      Zahir wrapped his hands around the steel bars of the prison cell where he’d spent the past few months, and swore in Arabic, then English. This was Javid’s doing. When he got out of here, he would find his twin and kill him, plunge a dagger through his heart as he had been prevented from doing so many years ago.

      This time no one would stop him.

      Like a caged panther, he paced the six-by-six cell, past the rust-stained toilet and sink, the too-short cot with its lumpy mattress, rubber pillow, scratchy blanket.

      His captors thought to break him with these obscene conditions, this vile treatment. Zahir laughed to himself. “Fools.”

      To survive in his world, a man learned many things, lessons taught through physical and emotional pain, endurance in the face of the unendurable. He’d spent his thirty years honing his senses on such trials. His fingertip found the scar behind his ear and the old hatred heated his gut. It was the first wound Javid had inflicted upon him, but not the deepest.

      He had survived both, though at the time, he’d thought he’d die when his father displaced him as rightful heir to the throne of Anbar and bestowed it on that hyena, Javid. He’d wanted to kill Javid, there and then. Their father, too. He’d been saved from acting on his fury by Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed of Imad, a man with a like mind on the subject of Anbar, and toward Zahir’s brother and father.

      Khalaf had made him an offer he couldn’t resist.

      He’d allowed Father to believe he was sorry for his misdeeds, and Father had promised to keep Zahir in the lifestyle he’d become accustomed to, as long as he kept his nose clean and did nothing more to disgrace Anbar. To hide his covert activities, Zahir continued living as a playboy—until Javid told Father about his association with certain terrorists. Zahir had, naturally, denied all involvement with the cell, but Javid had provided proof, and Father had blocked Zahir’s access to every single Haleem bank account.

      At the time, Zahir vowed to exact immediate vengeance on his family. But Khalaf had taught him revenge, if swift, could taste as bitter as prematurely picked dates. The secret was to let your enemy relax, to study your prey like the cobra, find their weakness, let them think you had gone away, that they were safe from your vengeance. That was when you struck. Zahir, a fast learner, came to realize the wisdom of planning. Of patience. He strove for control of his patience now.

      He closed his eyes, savoring how close he and his partner were to controlling a huge percentage of the world’s oil supply.

      He and Khalaf would be a rich and powerful force to reckon with, not only in the Middle East, but in the whole world. And Javid would finally pay for his treachery. But it would all be for naught if he couldn’t figure a way out of this place.

      He heard movement and the murmur of voices behind the door at the end of the hall. His captors. He considered shouting “I am not a terrorist! I am a Prince of Anbar! I have diplomatic immunity! I demand release this minute!”

      But they would ignore him, these jackals, as they had ignored his pleas for release from the first. Their mistake. They had no idea with whom they dealt. Their ignorance would cost them in the end.

      If he were being held in a public facility, a Chicago Police Department jail, he would have been allowed a phone call, a lawyer, and he’d have been processed and out hours after being arrested. But his captors seemed to be a secret, undercover organization, one of those set up by the American government to search out and bring down terrorists. He had to get out of here. Had to warn Khalaf.

      But how to escape?

      He studied the cell, decided it might be easier to get out of this place than out of a regular Chicago jail cell, and tested the bars at the window and door. What worried him was that he’d lost track of time during his incarceration. Had not seen a newspaper or television newscast. Didn’t know how close the wedding was. He reefed on each individual bar, but found them all solid. He knelt by the sink, gripped the moist drainpipe, and yanked.

      His jailers refused to speak to him of the world outside this cell; their talk consisted only of their questions. Always their questions. He would never tell them what they wanted to know. Would never betray his and Khalaf’s plans to demolish Quantum Industries…not even if they tortured him.

      The pipe refused to budge, was rusted tight. He swore again in both his native tongues. He had to get out of here. But how? He growled and flopped down on the cot. The springs creaked in protest. The springs. He scrambled to his feet and lifted the mattress. The frame was a crisscross of stretched wires. Nice thick, sharp wires. Zahir smiled, sank to his knees and began the arduous chore of loosening one eight-inch length.

      As he worked, his mind went to his impending nuptials. To Khalaf’s daughter, his betrothed. Miah was merely a means to an end, a pawn on his path to untold riches and power, but he would enjoy bedding her. Often. If not exclusively. He would also enjoy beating some of the fight out of her. Curbing her sharp tongue. Her wild spirit. And the sooner, the better. But first things first. He gyrated the wire, twisted harder, felt it give.

      Khalaf had to be frantic at his disappearance, beating the underbrush looking for him.

      Unless…

      His hand stayed on the wire as an unthinkable idea gripped him. No. But, yes. Javid would play his own game against him—would impersonate him.

      Would Khalaf realize?

      Would Miah?

      The wire snapped free.

      Zahir’s head jerked at the sound of the hall door wrenching open. He heard the rattle of dishes on a tray. He sprang to his feet, dropped the mattress into place, shoved the weapon up his sleeve and crossed to the sink.

      You are dead, Javid. As dead as this agent who brings my lunch.