Leila cringed and picked up a little speed. As soon as her foot landed on the next step, a creak filled her ears.
They both froze. Leila didn’t dare breathe or even move her foot off the offending step.
The house remained still and silent.
Drake’s shoulders relaxed and she waved at Leila. Hurry.
Leila made it up the last few steps and they paused in the hallway, eyeing the closed doors that lined it. Slivers of moonlight beamed through the cracks at the bottoms and muffled snores came from the room at the end of the hall.
Drake pointed at a door on the left side of the hallway, and they crept toward it. With one hand resting on the gun at her waist, Drake held up a palm.
Leila stopped and waited, watching over Drake’s shoulder as she slowly pushed the door all the way open. A low scrape met their ears. They held their breaths.
There was a snort, silence, and then the snoring continued.
Leila gradually released a lungful of air and peered into the office. Blue light filled the room, making it easy to see the sleek, modern furniture that was clear of clutter. Between the lone potted plant in one corner and the computer monitor on the desk, no artifacts were in sight.
Drake headed for a sideboard on the right side of the room. Leila turned to the tall cabinet on the left. She pulled the double doors open and scanned the shelves. Her gaze stopped on a wooden box on a shelf a few feet up. That looked promising. A bit too easy if it really did have an artifact inside, but this doctor probably wasn’t expecting any visitors tonight. Slowly, she slid the box down, set it on the floor, and kneeled beside it. She lifted the lid and swallowed a gasp.
There it was. A smooth alabaster canopic jar with the jackal head of the god Duamutef, protector of the abdominal organs. She slipped on a new pair of latex gloves and lifted the statue from the box. Drake crouched next to her, holding out a cloth. Leila let Drake wrap up the lid while she folded a white cloth around the empty jar. She shrugged off her backpack and pulled out a hard, silver briefcase. Another towel went around the objects before they placed them into the briefcase, latched it shut, and put it inside the backpack. Once it was zipped up, Drake nodded at Leila.
Time to go.
Buzzing with the excitement of a successful rescue, a smile stretched over Leila’s face. She turned to close the box and return it to the shelf. No one needed to immediately know they’d been here. Before she closed the lid, she stopped, her hand still resting on it. A slip of paper lay on the bottom of the box with something scrawled across it in rough handwriting. She should just ignore it, but her curiosity nudged her on to pick it up.
This one is for you, little louse.
Her lungs froze. Had someone been expecting them? But how could they have known? She dropped the note back into the box and snapped the lid shut. Before she could stand, someone grabbed her shoulder, and she swallowed a yelp. She whirled around to see Drake’s eyes blazing down at her. Let’s go.
Leila jumped to her feet. Drake was right; they could forget the box. Who cared if someone found it on the floor, empty the next morning? Empty, except for that note. But that could have been written for anyone.
“Stop!” a male voice barked.
Drake stiffened. Leila slowly turned, her heart in her throat. A man pointing a gun at Drake stood in the doorway, his lower face covered with a headscarf, revealing only his eyes.
“Put your guns down,” he growled.
Keeping her movements slow and smooth, Leila reached to her waist and slipped the handgun from its holster. She placed it on the floor next to Drake’s. Who on earth was this guy? Would the doctor have concealed his face in his own home?
The man took a step forward, gun in both hands, his aim steady. “Hands up where I can see them.”
Drake slowly lifted her hands, stopping when they were level with her face. Leila did the same, the sound of blood rushing in her ears. Yep, she should have stayed at Aunt Nur’s. What a stupid way to end a day like this.
Keeping the gun pointed at Drake, the man inched forward and was followed by two more men. As the first man stopped to kick the two handguns toward the door, Drake turned, ever so slightly to the side. Once he was within a few feet, Drake swung her arm, knocking his arms up. A well-placed foot to his groin sent the man falling backward. He landed on his rear and the gun went off, the bullet striking the ceiling.
Leila ducked, pulled her janbiya knife from its sheath, and sliced at the second man’s knees. He yelped and stumbled back. She grabbed his gun with her free hand, and her training with Drake kicked in. She pulled, twisting it from his grip, but the man held tight. A foot came out of nowhere, hitting her on the side of her head.
Stars danced before her eyes, and she fell onto her back. Once the flashes ebbed away, Leila forced her eyes open, only to stare into the barrel of a gun.
Drake’s yells filled the office as four or five men swarmed the room. Drake lashed out with fists and feet, but one of the attackers tackled her from behind. After a moment’s struggle, they slipped a black bag over her head and the three men dragged her from the room in a tangle of thrashing arms and legs.
Still glued to the floor, Leila glanced back up at the gun, her breaths hollow. There was no way she’d be able to fight her way out of this. Her best chance was to do as he said and keep an eye out for an escape. How likely that would be, she had no clue. Who were these men, anyway? They definitely weren’t dressed like police.
All this for a canopic jar? It’s not even made of gold or studded with jewels.
Another man walked up to her, grabbed the front of her shirt, and pulled her to her feet. One of the gunmen ripped the balaclava from her head. Another took her backpack and weapons and laid them on the desk while the man holding her shoved her into the chair. Guns pointing at her from both sides, she gripped the armrests and her gaze darted around the room, looking for an escape. Nothing. Even Drake’s screams had stopped. Where had they taken her? Now what?
Footsteps came from the hallway, then another man appeared in the shadowed doorway. Leila held her breath. There was something familiar about the silhouette she couldn’t place. Then he stepped forward into the moonlight, and ice surged through her veins.
It was Faris Al-Rashid.
“I knew you’d come, Leila,” he said, his narrowed eyes betraying a glint of loathing. His black hair was combed back, like she’d always seen him wear it. His neat, white collared shirt was unbuttoned at the top and tucked into black trousers, like this was just another day at the office.
Someone pressed a button and a shade rolled down, darkening the windows, sending the room into a moment of near pitch blackness. Leila squinted when a light flicked on, her hands tightening around the ends of the armrests. Faris was supposed to be in an overcrowded cage at the Tora prison for another five years. What on earth was he doing in a villa in Palm Hills?
He wandered across the office, his steps slow and deliberate as if he had all the time in the world, until he arrived at the desk. His gaze dropped to the objects on its surface, and he clicked his tongue. “My, my.” He held up her gun with two fingers. “This is illegal, you know. It’s one thing if my thugs have them, but little, innocent Miss Sterling?”
This was unreal. Yet there he stood, his hair still glossy black, the grooves in his forehead hardly noticeable. It was like he hadn’t aged a day over fifty, though he had to be close to sixty by now.
She opened and closed her mouth until finally she managed, “Where did they take her?”
“Take whom?”
“Drake.”
“That other leech?” He put the gun back down, a sneer tugging at his upper lip. “I have no idea. But she’ll be fine as long as she doesn’t fight too much. My men hit back, you know.”
Leila sucked in a deep breath. The last thing she needed now was to start hyperventilating. Panicking wouldn’t help anyone. She needed answers, and she could only get those if she stayed calm. “Did you break out?”
