Page 9 of Deceptive Lies

If she could, she’d tell him that Tarek Mahmoud didn't recruit women, he recruited men to join Allah’s Warriors. Young men. This man looked like he was probably a couple of years older than her own twenty-nine years, which would mean his mom was most likely around fifty, much older than the professor’s target demographic.

“Y-yes, of c-course,” Professor Mahmoud stammered, no longer the tough guy he was when he was beating on her. It was one thing to pretend you were strong and powerful when your victim was so much physically smaller than yourself. It was quite another when the man staring you down with hatred in his eyes was bigger than you.

Releasing his hold slowly, the American nodded at the table, and Professor Mahmoud scurried over to it. Instead of taking a seat alongside him, the man stood beside the professor’s chair, his arms crossed over his broad chest, a glare on his face.

“Start talking,” he ordered.

Mahmoud nodded like his head was one of those bobble-headed statues people put on the dashboards of their cars. “I d-don’t know much,” he prefaced. When the American did nothing but stare him out, he continued, “I recognized the picture. Such pretty green eyes. The kind you don’t forget. I saw her here in Egypt a long time ago. Eighteen years.”

That sparked something in the American’s eyes. “How do youremember it was eighteen years? That’s quite specific considering it’s almost two decades ago.”

Another manic nod from the professor, his eyes darting about as though seeking help from somewhere. However, she was the room’s only other occupant, and she sure as heck wasn't going to help him. Not for any reason, but certainly not when she wasn't sure if the American was here solely about his mother or if this was some sort of ruse to get intel on whether or not she was alive and being held there.

Wishful thinking, Willow.

Of course it was, she just wasn't ready to accept that yet. If the man was there because of her, he would have done more than give a single disinterested glance in her direction. As badly as she wanted to rid herself of the gag and call out to him, beg him for help, tell him that she was being held against her will, she held back because she couldn’t know for sure he was a good guy.

American, yes. Military, she’d bet everything she owned on it. But that didn't mean he was one of the good guys. What if he was one of those guys who had become a mercenary or something? What if he was a bad guy now?

Or what if hewasone of the good guys and had a whole team waiting outside to swoop in and save her? If she did anything now, not only would she incur the professor’s wrath in the form of another beating—he’d informed her before the American arrived that he had a visitor coming, and if she spoke or drew attention to herself in any way she’d be punished—but she might ruin whatever plan her potential savior might have.

“Y-yes, yes. Eighteen years. The year I married my wife,” Professor Mahmoud explained. “That’s where I saw her. We threw a large party, and she was one of the attendees.”

From the expression on the American’s face, he was trying to take that information and figure out how it fit into what he already knew or suspected.

“That’s all I know,” Professor Mahmoud said, a hint of defiance in his tone now.

Given what she knew of the man, she was positive that was a lie. He knew more. If he didn't, he wouldn't have told this man that he hadrecognized his mom’s picture. Whatever game the professor was playing, it didn't seem like it had anything to do with her.

Which meant this man likely didn't have anything to do with her either.

That meant she had nothing to lose.

Even if the American was a threat, she’d only be exchanging the frying pan for the fire, it wasn't like her position could get any worse than it already was. If she stayed, then all she had to look forward to in her future was pain and then, eventually, death.

If she risked it, then maybe the American would save her even if that wasn't why he was there.

As though he could read her mind, Professor Mahmoud immediately got up. “I'm sorry, I must ask you to leave. I have a speaking engagement this morning that I must get ready for. I'm sorry I don’t have more information for you, but at least now you know that your mother had some sort of business here in Egypt not long before she died.”

Clearly, the American was debating his options, and Willow was about to risk screaming through the gag and begging for help, but Professor Mahmoud shot her a murderous glare. Even if the American was inclined to help her, it didn't mean he’d be able to get her out of this house alive. The Warriors owned this whole street. All the professor had to do was alert them, and neither she nor the American would be leaving this house alive.

Defeat had her snapping her mouth shut before she made a sound.

Why risk the American’s life when there was the tiniest thread of hope that he was there for her, that he did have a plan in place, that maybe she would be going home?

Finally, the American nodded. “If you think of anything else, please contact us.”

“Of course,” Professor Mahmoud said like he actually cared about anything other than himself and his own beliefs and goals.

Watching the American walk out of the kitchen, Willow couldn’t help but feel that her only chance at survival had just walked out with him.

Had she made the right choice?

Or had she just sealed her own fate?

Chapter

Three

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