Sheik Protector by Dana Marton

like a very hot, very dry, overcrowded sauna.
    Aziz apparently used his attic to store some of his finds from his amateur archaeological adventures. Odd, really. Karim had been under the impression that everything Aziz had found went into Queen Dara’s museum. The country’s foreign queen had an obsession for preserving the past—the first thing his countrymen had agreed with her about before she had irrevocably wormed her way into the people’s hearts with her many projects.
    There were crates up here. Not one of them broken, nor any of the statues disturbed. Whoever had ransacked the house below had not been in here.
    But the attic did hold an intruder tonight.
    Where was he?
    Karim peered into the darkness and tried to breathe in the oppressive heat. He moved forward, passed another statue and realized why these never made it to any museum. Most of the statues depicted human shapes, a practice forbidden by Islam. What on earth was Aziz doing with them?
    He heard noise from the back and stole forward, spotted the man’s dim flashlight. He stayed hidden behind the crates and statues as he moved forward, careful not to make noise. The attic was enormous, spanning the whole width and length of the palace. A few minutes passed before Karim could make out what the guy was doing. The intruder had a sheet of paper in one hand and the flashlight in the other. He was examining the statues, looking carefully at each one before moving on.
    He had both hands full and no weapon that Karim could see.
    “Stop,” Karim called in Arabic and aimed his gun at the man.
    He turned off the flashlight at once, enveloping them in complete darkness. They were too far from the entrance for any light from there to reach them. He heard clothes swish and made a grab that way, but caught nothing but air.
    He moved quickly toward the exit, knowing the man would head that way, too, not wanting to become trapped up here. He was about halfway when they bumped into each other at a fair speed. The man went down. Karim saw stars when the guy slammed right into his bullet wound, and lost his own balance, toppling forward as well.
    “Who are you?”
    He grabbed the man tightly, and they rolled on the floor, bumping into crates. He could have shot the guy, but he didn’t want to, not unless he had no other choice. More than anything, he wanted answers.
    “Who are you?” he repeated.
    The only response he received was a grunt.
    They rolled again and something sharp burned his side. A blade? He reached out and found that hand, immobilized it, felt the handle of a knife.
    He outweighed the intruder by close to twenty pounds, but the man was wiry. And fought dirty, he realized the next second when the intruder bit his neck hard. Karim brought up his elbow sharply, hit the guy on the chin by chance and heard the man’s neck snap back. Then his opponent went limp.
    Karim secured the man’s hands with his own before he dragged him toward the light, down the stairs.
    A youth, barely over twenty. He was shaking off the injury by the time they reached the landing.
    “Who sent you?”
    The intruder was grubby, most of his front teeth missing, his clothes and hair unkempt. He spit at the floor by Karim’s feet and lunged at him. Karim held him back, reached for a curtain pull, yanked it off the wall and tied the guy’s hands.
    “All right. I’ll call the police. They’ll know what to do with a thief.”
    The young man went white. Until recently, the punishment for thievery was cutting off the criminal’s right hand in the marketplace. Although most of Beharrain’s ancient laws were being reformed, a thief could still count on a severe caning and considerable time in prison.
    “In Allah’s name I beg you for mercy.” The intruder fell at Karim’s feet.
    “When you tried to kill me, was that in Allah’s name, too?” He wasn’t impressed by the plea. “Who are you?”
    No response.
    “Who sent you?” He had a fair idea that he was a street boy