Page 343 of Wild Mustang Security Firm

Their ride had arrived. She could hear the rhythmicwhoop-whoop-whoopof helicopter blades whirling just outside.

“Take a seat until we’re ready to load up,” one tried to tell her, but she kept going, shuffling on her shaky legs outside.

“I got her,” the guy behind her said. Combat rifle slung over his shoulder, he sauntered after her, slowing his speed to keep pace with her as she crossed the cobblestone courtyard, following the sound of the idling helicopter.

The pilot gave her a double-take when she staggered up to the rescue vehicle. No doubt she allowed it only because of the guy trailing along behind her, but Aliya didn’t care. All she wanted was a place to collapse, where she could make herself as small as possible and not have to move again until they were as far from here as the pilot planned to go.

“Don’t help me,” she said when the guy behind her tried to offer her a hand up into the open back.

Hands up in surrender, he stepped away again. Reaching up, she grabbed the hand bar, making her wounded back stretch and bunch. It hurt but nowhere near as much as the uselessness of her struggles. No matter how she heaved, she couldn’t lift herself into the chopper.

“Don’t,” she said when her silent, knowing companion again tried to help her, but it had taken so much time for her to walk here from the house, whatever had been the holdup at the house was finished. The rest of the party was out of the house and crossing the courtyard toward them, a line of three prisoners in their midst, Fariq’s body in a sheet over one of their shoulders, and Christian, with a sheet wrapped around his waist and bandages on his ribs, limping along with his arm around another guy’s shoulders.

She couldn’t lift herself up, and in less than a minute, they’d reach the chopper, at which point, she’d be holding everyone up.

“Take my hand.”

Looking up into the sympathetic face of the female pilot, Aliya stared next at the woman’s outstretched hand. A failure all the way to her soul, she gave up and let herself be lifted into the chopper. Given a seat, Aliya had nothing left with which to complain as she was buckled in.

“I’ll get you back to the base as fast as I can.” Tearing open a packet of wet wipes, the pilot handed it to her. “For your face,” she said hesitantly.

Aliya held the wet wipes, but she didn’t use them. She looked out the window instead, waiting as the man who’d escorted her sat down on the seat beside her, feeling every jostle of the vehicle as another person climbed onboard.

The prisoners were cuffed in the back. So was Christian, although cuffing him seemed more of a token effort on their part than out of any real desire to restrain him.

“Sorry,” the rescue leader even apologized. “You’ve got a date with the General, and we promised him, this time, you won’t get away.”

“Everyone pays a price for what they do.” Settling back in his seat with a sigh, Christian closed his eyes as if he didn’t even care that he faced the full ramifications of her brother’s crimes.

And there was nothing she could do to help him. She wasn’t her brother. She didn’t have his contacts.

She blinked as the doors were closed, and as the helicopter began to lift off the ground, her unfocused stare suddenly sharpening.

No, she didn’t have her brother’s contacts, but over the years, she had met a few of them, some in person, some through their attachés. Some had sent her gifts at Christmas, especially the year she turned eighteen. She even remembered who some of them were. After all, her brother had been a powerful businessman. It only made sense he’d know—and do business with—other powerful people. Glancing at the man beside her, she watched him texting on his cellphone, and hesitantly, she got his attention.

“Is there a phone I can use?”

He glanced at her. “In the back. Wait.” He stopped her from getting up, and glancing into the back of the chopper, where two of his men were keeping a close eye on the three prisoners, he ended his text. Closing the program, he opened the phone app and handed it to her. “Here. I don’t mind.”

She took it. There was no such thing as privacy in a helicopter, but there was—God bless the makers of Sikorsky—a lavatory.

“Where are you going?” he asked when she started to unbuckle herself.

“To the bathroom, so I can make my phone call without you stopping me,” she said bluntly, casting off the seatbelt and standing.

A strong woman would have swallowed the pain and stalked past him, nose high with righteous confidence. Aliya could barely get her feet to obey her. Her balance felt off, and when she stood, her head spun. Grabbing for the back of her seat, she missed, catching his shoulder instead. He caught her, his handigniting dull throbs of heat on her hip that wrapped all the way around her.

“I’m fine,” she said, pulling away.

He all but rolled his eyes and promptly threw off his seatbelt as well.

“What is it about women that they have to say that when they are so clearly not fine?”

She turned on him. “I don’t need help walking,” she snapped. “I don’t need help to make a phone call or going to the bathroom, either! I don’t need anyone’s help to take care of myself.” Her voice cracked. “So just let me do it!” She could feel the burning weight of everyone looking at her, even Christian, who lifted his head off the back of his seat to watch her.

“Princess…”

God, that tone. That was his ‘what are you doing, don’t make me come over there’ tone, which both saddened and infuriated her.

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