Undercover Sheik

The American woman, Sadie, had been gone for about two hours.

He didn’t blame her—he would have done the same—but neither could he let her go to her death. What did she know about the open desert?

He would wait another hour or two before he went after her—enough time for her to realize the mistake she’d made. She was on foot. She would be exhausted by then and lost. She would know she had failed. He had to wait that out—he couldn’t afford to watch her every second of the day. For her own sake, she had to accept that staying with him was her best chance for survival.

In general, he believed that the fewer foreigners in the country, the better. Most of them came to his part of the world for gain, at the expense of his people. He trusted only one, Dara, his brother’s wife, another American. Dara would want him to look after Sadie, but it wasn’t his only reason for doing so. He was Bedu and he lived by the code of the Bedu, the sharaf, part of which was protecting women.

There were some religious fanatics who considered only Arab women worthy of protection, not even the women, really, but their virtue. And if they deemed that lost, they thought it just and right that the woman should be killed, that they were worthless without it. Anger boiled in his blood at the thought. Never had the Prophet, blessed be his name, required the killing of the innocent.

He was conservative and proud of it. There was much in his culture he wished to preserve. But he had nothing to do with this new breed of religious devotees who sought to rule by terror, preach purity in the streets, then engage in the vilest acts of immorality behind their walls. And these fanatics who’d had free reign under the previous king were now plotting against the new ruler, Saeed, Nasir’s brother.

Nasir looked up to the ceiling of the tent and swore to Allah he would stop them. As long as there ran blood in his veins, he would protect his people and his family. And beyond them, he would protect all who needed his help. He was Bedu.

SADIE WALKED FORWARD in the sand, pulled her headscarf from her pocket and mopped her forehead that beaded with sweat from the effort. She’d decided to leave it off until the sun came up and grew hot enough to necessitate cover.

Her small pack of food and water seemed to weigh thirty pounds. She adjusted the sack over her back. She was thirsty, but was determined to ration what little water she had. She was tired, but resolved not to stop until sunup, to use every minute of cool air for walking. She moved forward toward a bright star she could not name. By keeping to it, she made sure she would go in a straight line instead of in circles.

Other than that one precaution, she was pretty much lost.

When she’d started out, she’d walked in the direction Nasir had rode in from a few weeks back. He had to have come from somewhere.

She hoped it wasn’t another bandit camp.

God, he confused her.

He was some grade A badass, to use an expression she’d learned from a ten-year-old boy she’d once treated for a broken leg in the ER. And yet, Nasir had saved her from execution, and then saved her from Ahmed. Why? For himself? He had claimed her. God, did he know what century this was?

He would see her to safety, he’d said. She wasn’t about to trust anyone who had anything to do with the people who’d kept her captive.

She glanced behind her as she had from time to time, although if the bandits came after her, she figured she would hear the motors of their pickups before she saw them. The moon provided enough light to walk by, but she could see only a fraction as far as during the day.

She yanked her right foot as it sank into the sand. The foot came up, her sandal didn’t. She leaned her weight on the other foot to search for it. The fine sand seemed to be crumbling around her, flowing like water. She tried to brace herself, waiting to touch solid bottom, thinking it a windblown spot where the soil was looser. She was in up to her knees before she realized the seriousness of her situation.

Quicksand.

“Help!” The terror-filled cry tore from her lips without thought, dousing her with desperation once it was out. Who could help her here? Nobody. There was none.

She tossed her bag clear, tried to tug her feet free, no longer caring about the sandals. But as soon as she made headway with one foot, the other sank deeper. She squirmed. No. She had to stop that.

Spread the bodyweight. She remembered some childhood advice on what to do if the ice cracked on the pond she and the neighbor kids had used for skating in the winter. The same principle should apply here. She lowered herself onto the top of the sand, hoping she could somehow crawl to safety.

But within minutes, she was in to her waist and knew there could be no way out.

Stop. Stop. She forced herself to stay still instead of madly scrambling like instinct pushed her. She held her breath, watched the sand. She was still sinking, but slower now.

How long did she have? She had sunk up to her chest in about fifteen minutes. If she hadn’t moved at all, could she gain another fifteen? What would be the use? What were the chances that someone happened along? Yet the instinct to survive would not let her give up. She grappled desperately for an idea as she held her body in iron control, utterly still, to buy herself as much time as possible.

Fifteen minutes.

She wouldn’t think of what would come after that. She was a doctor; she knew what it meant to die by suffocation.

She tipped her head to look at the stars.

The sand squeezed her, held her tight. She kept her arms above it, her neck stretched once she sank to her chin. A few more minutes. She took deep breaths to keep the panic at bay. Then the sand came over her mouth. The desert sand had the consistency of fine dust, unlike the gritty beach sand she’d known all her life, and it felt like drowning in talcum powder.

When the sand covered her nose, panic kicked in and she could hold still no longer. She thrashed, made it to the surface for another full breath, called out again, her subconscious mind flashing a name, “Nasir!” before she went completely under. She couldn’t stop struggling now even knowing each movement took her under faster.

Her lungs burned, stars growing and exploding behind her closed eyelids.

She clamped her mouth shut against the reflex to open and try to gulp nonexistent air.

As her hands, the last of her, went under, she clawed at the sand. She thought she heard a shout. Hard to tell over the blood that rushed loudly in her ears. Maybe the voice had been nothing but a trick of her oxygen-deprived brain. Then something solid brushed against the tip of her fingers, and she jerked to get back to it. She desperately searched around, clinging to the last few seconds of life she had.

A hand wrapped around her wrist and heaved hard. She started to come up little by little, her lungs ready to explode. She was barely aware now what was happening, focused with the last vestiges of consciousness on the strength of the hand that was pulling her back from death.

WHEN HE’D BEEN A CHILD, he’d had nightmares about quicksand—torturous dreams that had seemed to go on forever. He used to wake in terror, covered in sweat, gasping for air in the night.

Reality was worse, Nasir thought, and hung on to the slim hand, holding his breath under the sand. He jerked his right foot—he had dove in headfirst and his right foot was the only part still above ground—and yanked on the rope again, urging his camel to a faster walk. Ronu obeyed and pulled he and Sadie up, inch by slow inch.

Soon his head was free, and he took his first breath of air, coughed out the sand that had gotten into his mouth.

“Faster!” he yelled at the camel in Arabic and yanked the rope again.

The arm he held under the sand had gone limp.

He pulled with all his strength and once the hand was up, he let it go and reached below, hooked under her armpits. As soon as her head appeared, blue-faced and barely recognizable, he stopped and reached into her mouth with his fingers to clean out the sand.

He put his ear to her lips.

Nothing.

Ronu kept pulling. He paid little attention to the animal now, barely registering as they reached solid ground again after a few seconds. He called out to the camel to stop, then turned all his attention to the woman in his arms. He wiped his hand then reached deep into her throat with his fingers to clear it, flipped her over his arm, thumped her back to dislodge anything else that might be in there. When he turned her once more, he sealed his lips to hers and forced air into her lungs. He was probably blowing some sand into her air pipe, but he had to take that chance. If he succeeded in reviving her, she could cough that out.

He pulled away and pressed his ear to her chest. A second passed then another. He breathed for her again then swore as he waited for signs of life.

You should have come after her sooner.

He would have, but he had run into Ahmed, who’d been lurking around her old shack, and they’d had words. He had to make sure Ahmed was settled before he could ride off into the desert.

He pressed his lips to hers one more time, ignoring the sand between them, and pushed air into her.

And then she coughed, al hamdu lillah! Praise God.

“Sadie?” He called her name, shook out his kaffiyeh and used it to wipe her eyes, then pulled the flask off his belt and poured some water on her face. Drop after sandy drop rolled off her eyelashes, her cheeks, her lips.

Her eyelids fluttered and she raised a sand-covered hand on reflex to rub them. He held her down and used more water instead to keep her from rubbing in sand.

She was coughing in earnest now, a terrible, choking sound, but a sound of life nevertheless that filled him with relief.