Xander kept his gaze even, his body stiff. He didn’t dare move. The Bedouin held their rifles ready.
“We mean you no harm. We’re desperate—”
The old man pointed the tip of a janbiya at Xander. “That’s not what we heard,” he scoffed, then nodded at one of the gunmen.
The man rushed forward and raised his rifle. The butt swished toward Xander’s head.
Xander ducked, but it met his shoulder with a sickening thud. He hit the ground, gripping his bicep.
“What was that for?” Emma cried out from somewhere above him.
“Emma, stand back,” Xander warned through clenched teeth, trying to see through his watery eyes. The gunmen were on the move. One of them grabbed Emma by the arm and dragged her away.
“You can’t do this,” Emma screeched. “We’re unarmed. Let go of me, you—”
A foot flew toward Xander, meeting him in the ribs, knocking the air out of him. He sprawled onto his stomach with a groan, his lungs burning as they struggled to refill.
Someone grabbed his arms and began to tie his wrists together, the rough fibers cutting into his skin.
He turned his head to the side and spit out the sand.
“What do you mean, that’s not what you heard?”
The old man knelt down next to him. “We were warned about you. You’re a liar, thief, and a murderer who deserves to be judged by the sword.”
“Warned about me?” Who on earth would have warned them? Leila—no. That made absolutely no sense. “I’m a British policeman. I’m working together with the Cairo police department. Check my pockets; you’ll find my ID and badges.”
Hands reached into his pockets and emptied them. He kept perfectly still as the Bedouin sorted through his wallet, muttering among themselves.
Stay calm. This was good. They had heard something. Leila must have been around. She was alive. Maybe they were even trying to protect her.
“What do they say?” one Bedouin asked.
“They all say Alexander Harrison,” whispered another. “He’s police.”
“They could be faked.”
“But the other man didn’t show us any proof at all. This one has actual papers.”
“You think he’s the real one?”
“The other one could have been lying.”
“He was pretty good at lying, then.”
“Khara.”
“You believe the other one was pretending to be him?”
The conversation went on for a few moments, until finally someone pulled Xander into a sitting position.
The old man knelt before him. This time, his features looked concerned.
“There has been a mistake,” he said carefully.
Xander could think of all sorts of responses to his statement, but kept his mouth shut. No need to re-escalate the situation.
“Yesterday, a man stopped here at our camp,” the elder went on, “looking for the young lady. He brought us food and water, and thanked us for our help. He knew of her troubles and that he would be able to find her here. He told us his name was Alexander Harrison. We had no reason not to believe him.”
What was he hearing? Someone pretending to be him? A chill like the crawl of scorpion legs went down his spine. He wasn’t the only one looking for Leila.
“And this person,” Xander said slowly, “is the one who warned you about me?”
The old man nodded.
“Wait a minute,” Emma piped up. One of the gunmen still held onto her arm, though she didn’t seem to notice as she focused on the elder Bedouin. “Is Leila even here?”
Still on his haunches, the old man twisted toward her. “She was.”
No. No, no, no. “Where is she?” Xander choked.
“She left. One day before the imposter showed up.”
The words echoed in Xander’s mind. How could they be so encouraging yet so taunting at the same time? She had been here. She wasn’t kidnapped by a smuggler. She was alive. And… she left.
“She’s alive.” Grinning, Emma shook off the Bedouin holding her arm. He stepped back without a word. “I knew it. Where was she going?”
“She’s heading for Saint Catherine with two others.”
