A heavy hand landed on Xander’s shoulder. He shrugged it off, just as a fist swung toward him. He ducked and the fist whooshed over his head. With a yell, he tackled Jones. Shouts erupted around them as they struggled against each other. More punches were thrown, one meeting Xander’s nose.
But he kept fighting. He had to get Leila out of there. The thought lodged in his mind. He would get her out.
Then someone punched him in the gut. He doubled over and his arms were pulled behind him before a zip-tie locked around his wrists.
Jones stood over him, wiping a smear of blood off his nose with the back of his hand. “Get him out of my sight!”
Xander threw one last glance at the monitors as he was dragged from the room, but the screen had gone black.
CHAPTER 9
A wave of icy air tingled over Leila’s skin, causing the hairs on her arms to stand on end. Someone must have cranked up the air conditioning. But the chill wasn’t enough to stop her mind from spinning.
Soliman, a museum bomber? The idea was ridiculous. The British lady, Hawkins—or Valerie as she asked to be called—had shown her the surveillance videos and defined their suspicions. But it simply wasn’t true. Soliman never would have bombed the Egyptian Museum. He had just been delivering a recovered artifact, like he often did.
But how could she explain without getting more people into trouble? Leila would love nothing more than to express her frustrations outwardly, preferably with a scream, but she held it in. These people had more or less ignored her request for a lawyer. They wouldn’t even let her make a phone call. What kind of arrest was this?
Heart pounding, her gaze flicked to one of the cameras, partly hidden by the shadows in the corner of the room, the red dot glowing ominously. Each of her movements were being scrutinized, even her non-movements. She couldn’t do anything right.
Involuntarily, she shivered. Although Valerie never showed it, Leila knew her silence had frustrated her interrogator. Leila glanced down at her hands, her fingers growing stiff from the cold. Her captors were losing patience.
Leila shifted in her seat, tempted to sit on her hands to warm them. Were these people going to keep her in here until she couldn’t take it anymore? Was this some kind of torture?
Unable to stop herself, she rubbed her arms, longing for the warmth of Xander’s embrace. Yesterday morning felt like eons ago. He’d have noticed she was gone by now. Would the agents—or SIS as Valerie had explained—have contacted him? What would he think of this? The whole situation was unreal.
She glanced down at her hand, studying the indent that circled her empty ring finger. If only they’d let her call him; just the sound of his voice would cheer her up. Give her courage. To do what, she wasn’t sure yet.
But she couldn’t talk. She had no idea what happened to Soliman. As much as she wanted to tell them they needed to focus on Faris and not the Medjay, she knew if she started talking, she’d ramble, talk herself in circles, mention too many names, drag more people into this mess, and soon, the whole Medjay would be after her. She’d probably end up in a ditch. Tongueless.
She was already in enough trouble as it was. And there was no reason to betray any of the Medjay. It was best to just stay silent.
The door banged open, and she jumped in her seat. A man strode in, slammed the door behind him, then marched up to the table. She couldn’t make out his features until he came into the light. The skin on his face looked rough, with deep wrinkles lining his forehead and cheeks like someone who’d seen too much sun in his lifetime. He sat in front of her, his angular features stern. His biceps bulged as he crossed his arms over his giant chest.
She swallowed, then averted her gaze. Something told her she’d rather be interrogated by Valerie.
“Not talking, are you?” His voice sounded hoarse, as if he’d recently done a lot of yelling. By the looks of him, she wondered if that’s all he ever did.
Breathe, Leila. Don’t let him know he freaks you out.
Her gut twisted as he watched her, his gaze intent, his fists tight. They must have decided Valerie was too nice, so they sent this guy in to scare her. What would happen if that didn’t work? She didn’t want to find out.
Resisting the urge to change position in her seat, Leila swallowed again. Confidence. Show him confidence. She lifted her chin. “I have nothing to say.”
“Ohh,” the man breathed. “I’m sure you have lots to say. Seems to me you’ve been up to no good. And guess what? You’re going to tell me all about it. Every. Little. Detail.”
Her vision blurred and she blinked a few times to clear her eyes. The only way out of this mess was to talk, but at this point, she didn’t think they’d believe anything she told them, anyway. Or they would want more and more—where would it all end?
“Why can’t I get a lawyer first? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?”
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” the man warned, ignoring her question.
Leila sat rigid in the chair. Another breath of icy air. She shivered again.
“Start at the beginning.”
The beginning? She didn’t even know where that was. Her first run-in with Drake, probably. No. It began way before that. Perhaps the night she and Xander broke into the Weston Manor and Xander stole a papyrus. Or maybe further back, when Faris faked her mother’s death and kidnapped her. That would make more sense. And it would bring Faris into the picture.
It would be a mistake to stay silent, but it would be a mistake to talk. They had her backed into a corner. Maybe if she told him harmless anecdotes, it would buy her time. He did say she should start at the beginning, after all. Yes, she could do that. Start with Faris, then mention he’d looted the museum and kidnapped her mom and brother—maybe they could even do something about it for her.
Here goes nothing. She cleared her throat. “The first time I came to Egypt was when I was four years—”
The man slammed a fist onto the table, making her jump again. “Don’t play games with me,” he hissed. “Tell me what Soliman said to you yesterday.”
Her whole body began to shake. From the cold or from the fear rising in her chest, she wasn’t sure.
“He… he said he had to go to a doctor’s appointment.”
The man expelled a loud breath through his nostrils. “What else?”
She tried to recall Soliman’s exact words. “A lung doctor named Sobek.”
The man threw a glance over his shoulder, his gaze directed toward the camera.
As if on reflex, to comfort herself rather than help the man, she went on, “Sobek is an ancient Egyptian god with the head of a crocodile—”
“Enough!” the man roared. “I want answers, not a history lesson.”
Leila pressed her back into her seat. None of her answers would make this guy happy.
