Sahara Crosswind by T. Davis Bunn

tinkled merrily, spraying out a continual sheen of perfumed water.
    Omar ignored the silence and the stares that their appearance caused and imperiously ordered a waiter into swift action. Within minutes a tray was brought bearing heavily sweetened tea and glasses of cooled honey and curds. Jake drained his glass in one thirsty gulp and then reached for his tea. “I want to get back and see if everything is all right.”
    â€œAgreed.” Pierre licked at his white moustache and took the tray with the extra servings. He said to Omar simply, “Patrique and Jasmyn.”
    But when Pierre turned for the door, the waiter grasped his arm and began arguing. Omar reached into the leather purse slung from his belt and spoke soothing words. Impatiently Jake stepped back into the sunlight.
    As he moved across the square, he felt the bottom drop from his world when a familiar voice hissed, “Yes indeedy, just as was thinking. Is the one destroying Hareesh Yohari’s world and home and life.”
    Jake spun and found himself facing a diminutive figure,hopping from one foot to the other with rage, his head raised to eye level by standing on the well’s stone border, both hands gripping an ancient single-shot pistol. From Jake’s perspective, the gun looked as big as a cannon. All he could think to say was, “How’s business?”
    â€œBusiness, yes, man now speaking of business. I speaking of business too. Business of missing Rolls Royce motor vehicle. Business of palace wall and escaping prisoner. Business of ruining life of sultan’s official chief assistant.” He shook the barrel inches from Jake’s eyes. “But I am making all correct. Yes. Am bringing head of number one criminal back to sultan, sitting on front of formerly stolen Rolls Royce motor vehicle. Now you are telling me where—”
    â€œIs that who I think it is?”
    Hareesh Yohari jumped and spun about. His eyes widened at the sight of Pierre marching toward him, dressed in desert garb and burned to a leathery brown, bearing a gleaming tray with tea and curds. The little official squeaked, “You!”
    Then Jake did the only thing that came to mind, which was to bend over and grip Yohari’s ankles, lift, and fling the man over the lip of the well. The sultan’s former official gave a lingering wail that ended with a resounding splash. Jake straightened up and did not bother to mask his grin. “All in a good day’s work.”
    â€œCome, my friend,” Pierre said. “The tea is growing cold.”
    They turned the corner to find a dusty jeep stationed in front of the French post, its motor idling noisily. “For once my army has acted with dispatch and efficiency,” Pierre proclaimed. “I must write a note of commendation once I am again myself.”
    Jasmyn appeared at the head of the stairs, Patrique leaning heavily upon her. Her eyes fastened upon Pierre and remained so throughout the maneuver of loading the sick man into the jeep. Yet she said nothing. Her gaze shifted only when the corporal came around the jeep and officiously helped her in. She permitted the man to load her into the back besidePatrique, shook her head to the proffered tea, and handed both glasses to Patrique, who drank greedily. Then her eyes turned to Jake. “Colonel Burnes.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œYou are to take care of my treasure,” she said quietly, her gaze dark with unspoken loss.
    â€œWith my life.” Jake fumbled over the affection he felt for that beautiful, brave woman. “Everything I’ve learned here has been because of you.”
    â€œNo, Colonel,” she corrected. “I have helped. But you have learned because you have wanted to. You have not been stopped by the alien surroundings or the hardship or the fatigue. You have given great honor to my mother’s people. I am proud of you. As are they.”
    â€œJake,” Patrique