Abdullah returned to his sister’s side. Leila wasn’t going to get any more answers from him right now. At a burning sensation on her neck, she placed her hand on the spot. Wet. She stole a glance at her hand. Her gut churned at the sight of the bright red stain. She covered her mouth and hurried out the door.
After losing what little was inside her stomach, she mindlessly allowed her feet to carry her down the steps in front of the house. They led her to the heavy wooden doors of the stable, so she cracked them open and slipped into the manure and straw scented darkness. As her eyes adapted, she settled her gaze on the camels. They rested on their bellies, eyes half-closed in content. They turned their heads in her direction but otherwise showed no interest in moving.
Although her initial thought was to mount her camel and head for Saint Catherine alone, she found herself sitting on the floor next to Fatma. Exhaustion, shock, and confusion muddled her thoughts. Besides, she had no idea which way to go. A few minutes passed, her foot began to tingle. She adjusted her position and something tightened around her chest. The gun was still strapped to her back. She pulled the strap over her head and set the weapon on the ground next to her, then rested her chin on her knees. With her arms wrapped around her legs, she wished it could be Xander. He’d hold her tight. He’d tell her it wasn’t her fault. All of this was beyond her control. He’d know what to do next. That is, after he beat Abdullah to a pulp.
She released a shaky sigh. None of it made sense. Why would that woman, Drake, try to save her? Why would she bring her to Abdullah, the last person on the planet who would help? Who exactly wanted her dead in the first place? All she now knew was that whoever it had been on the roof and at the cave wasn’t Faris. Probably had no connection to him, either.
But it had been someone just as determined to get rid of her. If not more so. Was the shooter even still alive? Abdullah seemed certain he had hit him… but that didn’t mean the man was dead. He could still be here, somewhere in this forsaken town.
And she had to find him.
Her heart fluttered, warning her not to go looking for danger. Not after Amina had been so heartlessly shot down. It seemed so unfair. Amina deserved better. Leila wiped her face with her sleeve. No. She couldn’t let the murderer keep following them. Even if she did make it home, she’d be putting Xander and others in danger. This had to end. Now. Before another innocent was killed. Before he followed her back to Xander, Emma, her family… she had to go to him.
With resolve building in her mind, her body warmed and her strength returned. She picked up the gun and slipped back into the empty street.
When she neared the plaza, Leila flattened herself against a crumbling plaster wall and held the gun to her chest, trying to calm her racing pulse. Her hands twisted around the cold metal, her sweaty palms squeaking softly from the friction. It was hard to believe she was doing this. Going to the murderer was asking to be killed. With a deep breath for good measure, she peered around the corner.
CHAPTER 33
The square was empty. Except for the shriveled tree, which now had several bullet holes in its trunk. Their water bottles lay forgotten on the ground near the well, rolling back and forth in the light breeze. The rough, grayed planks that had covered the well remained untouched where she and Amina had leaned them against its edge.
Her gaze shot up and focused on the roof. From where she stood, it also appeared to be deserted. If she was lucky, the guy was lying up there in a pool of his own blood. After chasing them across the desert, after what he did to Amina, it was the least he deserved. In fact, it would be too easy of a way out for a monster like him. But the only way to know for sure was to go up there and look. The thought made her hands tremble, dreading the sight of yet another dead body. Or a trap.
She checked the upper windows for any movements. The glass, clouded with dust and grime, was dark, offering no clues as to what could be hiding behind it. Wooden planks nailed into the walls covered the lower windows. She glanced at the empty doorway. The door stood ajar an inch. Her pulse gained speed as she tried to remember if it had been open or shut when she had stood next to it. She was certain it had been closed. Or had it been open?
Her fingers tightened around the weapon and she raised it to rest the recoil pad against her shoulder. With the barrel pointing at the door, she chewed on her lip, trying to gather the guts to take the next step.
Something rustled overhead. Her breath caught and her head snapped up. A flock of birds flew over the square in a dark, nebulous cloud. She shook her head to refocus, her heart still running a marathon.
She could stand there all day waiting for something to happen, or she could take a few steps forward and get it all over with. And probably die doing it. It was crazy, but she couldn’t see anyone else get hurt. This had to be done alone. And Abdullah had to be left out of it.
Now.
It was as if her foot was made of lead when she took the first slow step. She trudged forward, each step deliberate, making sure to avoid any stone or twig or other obstacle. The last thing she wanted was to trip and give herself away.
Keeping close to the walls, she crept her way toward the overhang. Blood pounded in her ears and her lungs froze. She couldn’t help but expect another gunshot to crack across the square. One finger rested on the trigger, ready to squeeze at the slightest hint of danger.
She didn’t release her breath until she was in the shadow of the overhang. Her heart only raced faster as she neared the door. Now she could see a glimpse of what was inside through the crack—a shape of light. She pressed herself against the wall next to the door. Her feet refused to budge. She couldn’t go in. Not yet.
She looked back at the square and her eyes fell on the spot where Amina had collapsed. The large pool of blood had dried, soaked into the sandy earth below.
A painful lump formed in her throat. She didn’t even try to get rid of it. Her gaze flickered to the objects on the ground nearby. Her scarf and Amina’s bag lay discarded, forgotten.
After a quick glance at the door, making sure there were no sounds or movement, she inched forward until she could reach the scarf. Using one hand, she wrapped the dark cloth loosely over her hair.
She picked up Amina’s bag, relieved it still had weight to it. Just to make sure everything was still there, she lifted the flap and peered inside. The dry water bottle that held the rolled-up journal pages was inside, between glass jars and a flashlight.
Satisfied, she closed the bag and slid the strap over her neck. Hopefully she would have the chance to give the journal another look. She lifted her head and stared at the door in front of her. Green paint flaked off, revealing drabby gray underneath. Inviting, it was not.
But there was no going back. This had to end now.
Her hand shook as she lifted it higher and higher until her fingertips brushed the rough wooden door. Her heart felt like it would burst through her ribcage. She pushed the door open.
It creaked as it swung inward. Leila jumped to the side, expecting a spray of bullets. After a moment of nothing but silence, she slowly stuck her head inside. It was a large, empty room. The light she had seen moments ago streamed from a window on the other side. A board had fallen off, allowing a ray of sunlight in. The paint on the walls, perhaps once an aqua color, was peeled and cracked. A concrete staircase on the left side ascended to the upper level.
The only sound was the rushing noise in her ears, so she lifted one foot over the threshold and entered, keeping the gun raised and her finger poised.
With nothing to see in the main living areas, she padded to the stairs and made her way up, hesitating over each step. Beads of sweat rolled down her temples, her body suddenly too warm underneath the layers of robes. At least the staircase was solid as a rock. She didn’t have to worry about creaking boards that might give her away.
She reached the landing. On the left, a door stood ajar. In front of her, a ladder leaned against the wall, allowing passage through a hole in the ceiling. She decided to check the room first and tapped the door all the way open with her foot.
The door groaned as it swung and she cringed as the sound grated in her ears. The room was dark, the boarded window only allowing slivers of light to seep through. Faced with another empty room, all she had left was the roof. She studied the ladder for a moment. She’d be at a huge disadvantage when she climbed up. Unable to aim, unable to fight back in case of an attack. Maybe she should try a different approach first.
“Hello?” she called out in a scratchy voice, keeping the gun aimed at the opening. Above her, clouds rolled by silently. She waited a few seconds, then lifted her finger from the trigger and shrugged the strap over her shoulder. She was going up.
A deafening bang came from behind her. Her heart froze. She whirled around and peered down the stairs, but she was still alone. The front door had shut, but otherwise nothing had changed. It was just the wind.
Moments later, she stood on the roof, looking over the village. She wasn’t sure if it was relief or disappointment she felt that the shooter was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he had only left behind remnants of himself. A small puddle of blood near the three-foot-high wall at the edge, and droplets splattered over the floor. He’d been hit. Badly by the looks of the blood. But not badly enough. He’d been able to walk out of there alive.
I hope he’s suffering.
With a grimace, she walked toward the short wall and something scraped beneath her foot. She looked down and recognized the long, brass cylinder on the floor. Kneeling, she picked it up with two fingers and glanced it over. At least she had something she could give to the police, though she wasn’t sure what they could do with it. Trace the gun, maybe? But the gun laws in Egypt meant he would have acquired it through the black market, so there probably weren’t any records.
She swept her gaze over the rest of the floor. A yellowed newspaper flapped in the wind in one corner, a crinkled plastic bag stuck on a piece of metal fluttered in another. That was it, then. Her heart thumped its way down to a normal pace, though that did nothing to stop the ache. That would follow her for a long time. Her palm wiped under her eyes to dry them, and she clattered back down the ladder. When she reached the landing, the front door downstairs creaked open. She stopped, still on the last step, her hands gripping the sides of the ladder as if her life depended on it. Heavy footsteps paced downstairs.
He was back.
Tears burning her eyes, she slowly felt her way off the ladder, then brought the gun around to her front and shuffled backward into the empty room. The footsteps started up the stairs. She could try to escape out the window. Bust out the boards and jump onto the overhang. But there was no way she’d manage that before the shooter made it up the steps.
