would go crazy in this place.
* * *
Abram sat back in the comfortable leather of the modified Land Rover as Tariq drove into the fortress compound. His gaze narrowed at the men and women milling around in the outer yards. The women were covered from head to toe in the required burka, while the men were dressed in fatigues or combat-ready pants and shirts.
The face of the Mustafa province was changing and he hadn’t been able to stop it during the years when stopping it had mattered to him. All he did now was look on in regret.
Once, this land had thrived, if not from oil then from the small mines outside of town where precious ore was eeked out and sold to the government. It had been a minimal income, but when added to the funds the monarchy had once sent, the lands and mines had been sufficient to keep the small farms pulling precious water from the deep wells and the crops growing.
The province had held a small but thriving area of trade due to those crops and the ore. Something it no longer held because of Azir’s greed and murderous inclinations.
“Look who showed up.” Tariq nodded toward the fortress castle where a lone figure stood at the top of the stone steps against the stone wall.
The tall double doors were his backdrop, emphasizing the slender, muscular form, his dark hair pulled back from a lean, Arabic face.
The man who had been slowly overtaking the Mustafa fortress even before the deaths of Ayid and Aman Mustafa. No matter how Abram had fought over the years, still, Jafar Mustafa—along with Ayid and Aman—had facilitated the steady introduction of men Abram was certain were no more than soldiers to the terrorist cell Ayid and Aman had commanded. A cell Jafar was now rumored to command.
First cousin to both Abram and Tariq, Jafar was the son of the youngest of the three Mustafa brothers who had inherited differing sections of the province from their father.
Until the two youngest brothers had died under highly suspicious circumstances. Abram had always suspected Azir had had his brothers killed, but he had never been able to prove it.
“He can’t want anything good,” Abram assured him as Tariq drew the Land Rover to a stop before the castle. Stepping from the vehicle Abram allowed Tariq to move in behind him and cover his back. They mounted the steps and moved up to the entrance where Jafar awaited them.
The dark arrogance in the other man’s expression was a forewarning. Abram could feel the tension emanating from him, the animosity that had been brewing between them mixing to create a heavy, barely civil atmosphere.
The cynical amusement in Jafar’s odd green eyes was a clue to the fact that he wasn’t going to like whatever the other man had to say. Fortunately, there was at least a shred of information in anything Jafar said. He enjoyed the games he played and the fact that Abram couldn’t do a damned thing to stop the steady infiltration of the terrorists moving in.
Like Abram and Tariq, Jafar’s mother had been American. But unlike them, Jafar had actually inherited some of his mother’s traits. His hair was a deep, dark brown, rather than black, and the celadon green of his eyes was damned off-putting in a land of mostly dark eyes.
The men of Mustafa seemed to have a particular fondness for pale-haired or redheaded women. Jafar’s mother had been a Scandinavian blonde and like Abram and Tariq, he had taken his height from her ancestors.
It was a fondness their sons seemed to share as well, Abram thought.
“What the hell do you want, Jafar?” he growled as he topped the stone stairs and faced his cousin.
Jafar chuckled, the amusement in the sound matching that of his eyes as his gaze flicked between Abram and Tariq.
“Perhaps I just want to wish you a good afternoon, cousin. After all, it’s been a while since we’ve visited. Don’t tell me you haven’t missed me.”
“I haven’t missed you,” Abram assured him with a sneering lift of his lip.
* * *
Abram sat back in the comfortable leather of the modified Land Rover as Tariq drove into the fortress compound. His gaze narrowed at the men and women milling around in the outer yards. The women were covered from head to toe in the required burka, while the men were dressed in fatigues or combat-ready pants and shirts.
The face of the Mustafa province was changing and he hadn’t been able to stop it during the years when stopping it had mattered to him. All he did now was look on in regret.
Once, this land had thrived, if not from oil then from the small mines outside of town where precious ore was eeked out and sold to the government. It had been a minimal income, but when added to the funds the monarchy had once sent, the lands and mines had been sufficient to keep the small farms pulling precious water from the deep wells and the crops growing.
The province had held a small but thriving area of trade due to those crops and the ore. Something it no longer held because of Azir’s greed and murderous inclinations.
“Look who showed up.” Tariq nodded toward the fortress castle where a lone figure stood at the top of the stone steps against the stone wall.
The tall double doors were his backdrop, emphasizing the slender, muscular form, his dark hair pulled back from a lean, Arabic face.
The man who had been slowly overtaking the Mustafa fortress even before the deaths of Ayid and Aman Mustafa. No matter how Abram had fought over the years, still, Jafar Mustafa—along with Ayid and Aman—had facilitated the steady introduction of men Abram was certain were no more than soldiers to the terrorist cell Ayid and Aman had commanded. A cell Jafar was now rumored to command.
First cousin to both Abram and Tariq, Jafar was the son of the youngest of the three Mustafa brothers who had inherited differing sections of the province from their father.
Until the two youngest brothers had died under highly suspicious circumstances. Abram had always suspected Azir had had his brothers killed, but he had never been able to prove it.
“He can’t want anything good,” Abram assured him as Tariq drew the Land Rover to a stop before the castle. Stepping from the vehicle Abram allowed Tariq to move in behind him and cover his back. They mounted the steps and moved up to the entrance where Jafar awaited them.
The dark arrogance in the other man’s expression was a forewarning. Abram could feel the tension emanating from him, the animosity that had been brewing between them mixing to create a heavy, barely civil atmosphere.
The cynical amusement in Jafar’s odd green eyes was a clue to the fact that he wasn’t going to like whatever the other man had to say. Fortunately, there was at least a shred of information in anything Jafar said. He enjoyed the games he played and the fact that Abram couldn’t do a damned thing to stop the steady infiltration of the terrorists moving in.
Like Abram and Tariq, Jafar’s mother had been American. But unlike them, Jafar had actually inherited some of his mother’s traits. His hair was a deep, dark brown, rather than black, and the celadon green of his eyes was damned off-putting in a land of mostly dark eyes.
The men of Mustafa seemed to have a particular fondness for pale-haired or redheaded women. Jafar’s mother had been a Scandinavian blonde and like Abram and Tariq, he had taken his height from her ancestors.
It was a fondness their sons seemed to share as well, Abram thought.
“What the hell do you want, Jafar?” he growled as he topped the stone stairs and faced his cousin.
Jafar chuckled, the amusement in the sound matching that of his eyes as his gaze flicked between Abram and Tariq.
“Perhaps I just want to wish you a good afternoon, cousin. After all, it’s been a while since we’ve visited. Don’t tell me you haven’t missed me.”
“I haven’t missed you,” Abram assured him with a sneering lift of his lip.
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