Sweet Temptation

Anna’s parting words at the airport fill my head: It was always you for me. Only you. And with that lovely thought floating through my mind, I sleep better than I have in ages.

As it turns out, Kope is a good man to have at your side in the Middle East. His Arabic is flawless. I know only a few phrases, so I keep my mouth shut and let Kope do the talking. We travel through Damascus to pick up our weapons from Belial’s human contact, and then stop near a busy mosque to search the area.

My eyes scan the scene, searching for the other Neph we’re to meet here. A bloke in a maroon head wrapping stands out with his boxy body type and the roundness of his face, though his skin’s been given a bronze dusting and he’s wearing a brown beard like me. The son of Duke Mammon, from Australia. I know him as the doorman for the summits.

“There,” I say to Kopano under my breath. “Near the corner.” The man looks over when I speak. I stretch my hearing and open it around him. “Is that you, Flynn?” I ask.

The man gives a single nod. “’At’s me, mate.” He rubs a hand over his mouth to hide the fact he’s talking, and in an Aussie accent. “I’ll follow you out and keep my distance. I’ve scouted the area already, and there’s a hill nearby where I can watch from afar. Maybe thirty minutes outside the city. I’ll give a yell if anything looks suspicious. There’s three guards outside the compound, and it sounds like at least two inside. I don’t think they’re treating their prisoner nicely, if you know what I mean.”

Ah, shite.

Kopano goes rigid. “We must go,” he says. “Now.”

The two of us head for the car while Flynn climbs aboard a small scooter/moped contraption.

We navigate away from the busy area and head toward a smaller town on the outskirts of the city. It feels like it takes longer than thirty minutes on the dry, bumpy road. The city lights and sounds and scents of spices are long gone. The landscape is more barren, though beautiful in its own way. Far ahead of us, Flynn takes a dirt path that leads toward low hills. It’s now dusk, and I feel the stares of suspicious eyes peeking out of squat shanties.

I keep a strand of my hearing in a flimsy line behind me, concentrated around Flynn, who’s found a spot on higher ground, covered with trees, for his lookout. I can see the rise of his hill clearly as we take a potholed side street to a small, darkened building. A wire fence surrounds the compound, guarded by three men with semiautomatic guns slung across their chests. They all stand a bit taller at the sight of our car. We pull aside and park.

We’d decided before arriving that I would listen for warnings from Flynn while Kope focused on the mission Belial planned for us.

I don’t scare easily, especially where humans are concerned, but these men with their weapons and dark gray auras appear stark raving mad. Not the sort of combination that puts a bloke at ease. I treat them like the Dukes, not making eye contact but keeping my shoulders squared as we step out, so as not to show weakness. I’m ever aware of the daggers at my ankle and waist and will not hesitate to use them.

Kopano stands tall, briefcase in hand, and walks forward without an ounce of trepidation. He could be a prince of Africa with the air of importance he’s giving off. I’m surprised when he barks out a phrase in Arabic as he approaches them on quick feet, sounding bored and angry. Gone is his gentle spirit. I think I recognize the word girl.

The guards exchange glances and frowns. We stop in front of them. Before any of the gits can respond, Kope is barking again as if they’re wasting his time. The three of them jump a bit, clearly frazzled by this seemingly powerful man pretending to hail from Egypt. Kope lifts the briefcase, snaps it open to reveal piles of foreign bills, then slams it shut and says something else in that badass deep tone.

And I can’t help myself. I’m impressed. Maybe he took acting classes at Harvard. Whatever it is, he’s bloody brilliant.

Finally one of the guards speaks. Kope responds, sounding annoyed, but then stands back and lifts his arms. He never lets go of the briefcase. They pat him down, taking a handgun from his waist. I reluctantly lift my arms as one approaches me, and I allow him to confiscate my knives. I feel naked as the weapons are stripped from my body—and not the good kind of naked. I take note when he puts the daggers in his left pocket.

We’re in. Excellent.

They lock the gate behind us and rush into the building with guns in hand, strapped over their shoulders. Didn’t anyone ever tell these minions not to run about with their fingers on the triggers? Unnerving. I’m ready to get Zania and get the hell out of here.

One of the guards shouts something to a man who stands as we round a dark corner. The new man looks us over, his eyes a little wild, then gives a hard nod toward a doorway. Kope marches past him and I follow.

Bloody hell . . .

My stomach sours, just as it does when one of Marissa’s new girls is being trained into obedience. But Marissa doesn’t allow the men to beat her girls to this extent. Zania is little more than a brown pile of bones on a dirt floor. Naked. And no, her nakedness does not rouse my lust. Not a bit.

One of the guards nudges her with his boot and yells something. Kope waves him off with a harsh swipe and squats beside her. He speaks to her in a rough tone and she curls tighter. At least it’s a sign of life. Kope repeats the phrase, slower and more quietly this time, and I think I understand enough of the context to put it together.

“You belong to me now.”

Kopano takes her wrist and turns it over. He feels her thin bicep, checking her condition. Then he turns his head and gives a curt nod to the bloke standing in the doorway. The man comes forward, sets his gun down with a clatter, and pops open the briefcase, counting. His eyes are bright with greed. He shouts something at one of the other men, who runs off and comes back with a black cotton dress. The idiot starts trying to dress Zania, shoving the opening over her head and yelling at her when she won’t straighten her arms for him.