The Price of Freedom (6 page)

Ilias kept his eyes closed as the landscape swooped past. He always felt sick on these flights, whether from the vibration of the helicopter or from knowledge of what was to come. At the compound there would be dead bodies. Probably more people would die, either the poorly trained self-styled terrorists or the army men riding with him. Perhaps he himself would die.

Death had been close to him many times. Well, that was true for all men. A car accident, heart disease, faulty electrical wiring. A man could drown swimming on a summer holiday. The time of death was God’s will. All an honest man could do was his duty.

Ilias smiled. Salwa said he defined his duty too widely. That was her love speaking. She shared his commitment to peace, but she worried about him.

The helicopter hovered and Ilias opened his eyes at the change in movement. Around him, men checked their weapons a final time. He caught the captain’s eye and nodded. He was fine, ready. They would have to flush the terrorists out of their hill tunnels. Tear gas first, in the hope that the desert men lacked masks. If that didn’t work, they would blast the tunnels. Before that happened, he’d have to translate and shout the offer to accept their surrender.

He hoped they weren’t of the death-before-dishonor brigade.

“Go, go, go.” The helicopter landed and the men poured out.

Ilias left the helicopter last, allowing the soldiers to fan out and secure the compound. He jumped awkwardly but corrected his stumble and ducked behind a concrete wall that was still standing despite the bombardment.

The helicopter lifted, stirring the dust and debris with final violence. It was a sitting duck on the ground. The pilot would wait a safe distance for a radio call to return.

“Come on.” A lieutenant grabbed Ilias’s elbow and hurried him forward.

They skirted a dead body. The blood had already soaked into the thirsty earth. More death waited if the terrorists refused to surrender.

The entrance to the tunnels had been savagely exposed by the destruction of the compound. The gash in the hillside showed pale earth and stripped rock. The torn vegetation had slid down in a storm of dust, pulverized.

Ilias gathered his breath and shouted the terms of surrender. He told the hiding men in the rat tunnels that there was no escape. They should follow his instructions. The soldiers around him were seasoned professionals. They would shoot first, under no illusions as to their enemy’s trustworthiness.

“Do this, and you will be safe,” Ilias concluded.

Silence mocked him.

“Three minutes,” said the captain.

Ilias nodded and repeated the time limit to the men in the tunnels. He watched the entrance, aware of the captain checking his watch.

At two and a half minutes, Ilias heard a soft scuffling from the tunnel. A man emerged, both hands gripping a stick with a white shirt tied to it. He was stripped to his underwear, no explosives strapped to his body.

He stared, wide-eyed and wild at the masked soldiers. “Surrender.”

A shot rang out from the tunnel and the man fell forward, dead.

The tension among the soldiers tightened to a killing pitch. The captain signaled to one, who swung his weapon up. Tear gas shot into the tunnel.

Curses and coughs echoed, then men stumbled out with their eyes streaming and their lungs fighting for air.

“Lie on the ground! Lie down,” Ilias shouted. If they didn’t, if they continued stumbling forward, the soldiers would shoot. “Lie down.” He dragged his mask back on, grateful for the protection.

The soldiers weren’t cruel, but terrorists had killed before in these situations, using people’s pity against them.

The captain’s hand went down, and the lieutenant fired.

The terrorists slammed to the ground, their arms above their heads. Only one man took the time to cushion his fall, dropping first to his knees. He was older than the rest, skinny and with a matted beard.

Ilias translated the captain’s orders. “No one move.”

Two of the soldiers ran forward to pat down the coughing prisoners. Ilias went with them. Tears and snot ran down the men’s faces, and their breathing rasped. He reached the skinny man. He was mouthing curses even as he struggled to breathe.

Ilias watched for sudden movements, following the training on locating knives, guns and explosives. Men who hated kept death around them. He paused at a hard bulge at the man’s waist.

Black eyes glared at him, seeming to pierce through the gas mask Ilias wore. The man coughed a curse and grabbed for Ilias.

A soldier swung the butt of his gun, and the man collapsed unconscious.

Ilias nodded his thanks. No longer needing caution, he found the cause of the bulge and the man’s defiance. A bottle, the glass green with age. Ilias slipped it into a pocket. Broken glass was a weapon. He continued extracting a pistol and knife. He moved on. None of the other men gave any resistance.

The captain slipped off his mask. “Have them drag their comrade away from here. I’ll question them away from the gas.”

Ilias passed on the order. He was astonished at the rough way two men grabbed their fallen fellow. He would have more bruises than just the one on his head when he woke.

“Careful,” Ilias said.

One of the prisoners spat. “Not for him. Umar killed Ali. He shot him in the back. Said terrorists don’t surrender, but he’s here, isn’t he?”

“What did he say?” the captain demanded.

“The old man’s the one who shot the first man in the back,” Ilias translated.

“Ah. Is he their commander?”

Ilias asked the prisoners, then grimaced. “He was.” He didn’t need to translate the men’s anger. The dead man, Ali, must have been popular.

“Him, him, and him.” The captain pointed quickly, first to the unconscious man and then two others.

The lieutenant called up the helicopter. The chosen men were loaded and removed for serious questioning. The others were herded down to the shade of a few spindly trees. There was a village half a mile away, but the captain wouldn’t risk his men on an unknown welcome. They all stayed in the barren landscape while Ilias took up his translating and interpreting post.

He was exhausted and it was long after dark before he and the captain were sure of what they had already suspected: this rough bunch weren’t terrorists. They had followed one man’s hatred, but their own attitudes were less vicious, more the minor feelings of disgruntlement. They were men without property or purpose.

The local village didn’t want them.

“Can’t blame them,” the captain said.

With soldiers still stationed at the compound, sorting through its devastation and the hill tunnels, the ragtag militia was without arms.

“Drive them off,” said the village elder. “Bullies and cowards.” He spat his disgust. “Without guns they’ll not trouble us.”

Looking at the straight backs of the villagers and their scorn for the would-be terrorists, Ilias agreed. The village knew the desert ways. Let them control their own fate.

“Are you sure?” The lieutenant was incredulous at such haphazard ways. He came from a world of prisons and courtroom-measured action.

“There are laws out here too,” said Ilias.

The captain nodded. He’d been briefed. “Let ’em loose. They know we’ll be around a while. They’ll leave.”

The village made sure of it, letting loose their dogs.

In the helicopter flying out, Ilias closed his eyes. The death he’d seen today was not a good thing, but the villagers had no taint of the terrorists’ hatred. They had offered the soldiers clean water, and they had met his eyes and his questions directly. Good enough.

On the other hand, waiting at the military base would be the terrorists’ commander and the other two men the captain had selected for detailed questioning. Ilias had been on another such expedition with the captain and knew the man had a gift for picking the leaders of any group.

Questioning the terrorist commander would be revolting. Tired as he was, Ilias’s skin crawled at the thought of doing his job, not only translating but understanding the man’s thinking. The man’s hatred, his love of dealing death.

The major who met the helicopter acknowledged Ilias’s exhaustion by stopping first at the mess. Ilias ate and drank the hot, strong coffee.

“We’ll start with the commander,” said the major. “The bastard won’t even give his name. Oh, he’s awake,” he added in answer to the questioning jerk of Ilias’s head. “I had a medic check him. Probably has a killer headache, but he’s fit to answer questions. If he’ll answer them.”

“We can only try.” Ilias set down his coffee mug and pushed back his chair.

The major stood. “This way.”

The terrorist commander was shackled in an interrogation room. An armed guard stood outside it. The major nodded to him, and the guard opened the door.

“Ilias Aboud.” The name sounded like a curse on the terrorist’s lips.

“You know me?” Ilias stopped in the doorway.

“I tried to kill you, peace-whore. Wasted wishes on it.” The man’s hatred and concussion slurred his words. “Damn djinni.”

Djinni. Ilias fumbled the unexpected word. Djinni.

His eyes widened. A djinni bottle.

Suddenly the old glass bottle was heavy in his pocket. But the man had to be raving.

“What is your name?”

“Umar Haya.”

“Ilias has Rafe’s bottle.
Ilias.”
The twist of fate stunned Mischa. She had followed Ilias from the terrorist compound to the temporary camp under the trees, to the village, back to the compound and finally, to the military base. In the interrogation room she stood against the back wall.

Umar Haya’s hatred was almost visible, the miasma of despair and loathing as thick as demon excrement.

Mischa felt sick. This man, this failed excuse for a human being, had controlled Rafe. The unfairness of it clenched her fists. She wanted to scream and pound the walls. She wanted to unsheathe her sword and kill. Umar Haya belonged with the demons.

Instead, bound by her promise to Andrew and her duty to the Guardian Council, she could only stand and watch.

“Who stole my djinni?” Umar Haya glared at Ilias. “What white-skinned son of a—” The rant exposed the man’s unbalanced thinking, the hate that ruled him.

Bile rose in Ilias. “I have it,” he snapped.

“You?” Haya tried to rise from his chair but the shackles held him.

“Me.” Ilias ignored the major, who watched from the far side of the table. He fumbled in his pocket and drew out the bottle.

“It’s mine.” The shackles aborted Haya’s lunge.

“No.” Ilias shook with disgust that such as Haya had controlled a djinni. The bottle in his hands warmed.

Rafe materialized. “Master?”

“Rafe,” gasped Mischa.

He ignored her.

The major’s eyes closed in magic-induced forgetting.

“Kill him,” screamed Haya. “It is my wish. Don’t fail me again.”

Rafe turned his back on Haya. “Master?”

Ilias stared at the djinni. Tall and somber, power radiated from him.

“Did you try to kill me?”

“It was my order.”

But even faced with a legendary being, Ilias had spun words too long and in too many pressured environments to be misled. “Did you want me dead, O djinni?”

A suspicion of a smile rewarded his shrewdness. “No.”

“Just no?” Ilias prompted carefully, inviting fuller explanation.

The djinni bowed his head a fraction, a gesture of pride rather than submission. “I cannot change a man’s heart, and Solomon’s binding requires me to fulfill three wishes for whoever holds my bottle. There are many actions in my life that I regret. But I have learned. I have had millennia to learn how to twist a man’s wishes and frustrate them even as I serve.”

“And so I live,” said Ilias. “By your will.”

“You are a good man. There are people who would mourn your death.”

“Demon spawn. Cheat. Liar,” Haya howled. He was sound and fury, signifying nothing, and he was ignored.

Ilias stared at the djinni who loomed over him. There was the scent of the desert on his clothes, its fierceness in the djinni’s green eyes. Such power shouldn’t be held.

“How many men have you called master?”

“Three hundred and twelve.”

Haya slammed his manacled fists onto the table. Rage and hate twisted his face into a gargoyle’s image. Blasphemies streamed from his lips.

The djinni had been forced to serve such men for centuries. It was unimaginable suffering, a torture of the spirit, yet he emerged from it with honor and the strength of character to live compassionately.

“It is enough.” Ilias set the djinni bottle carefully on the table. “I wish you free.”

The wind that swept the room swallowed Haya’s unclean curses.

Ilias closed his eyes against the storm of light and sound. When he opened them, the room was still and the djinni knelt before him.

“My name is Rafe, Ilias Aboud, and I thank you.” In a clap of thunder, he vanished.

“You’re a fool,” said Umar Haya savagely.

“But I can sleep at night.” Ilias shivered, still tingling with the power of the djinni’s release. How many centuries of suffering had he just unbound? A thought lit within him. If he could unbind a djinni, it was a good omen for his peace work. Faced with men such as Umar Haya, he would remember this moment. Freedom and respect, and the power of both.

“What is he saying?” The major was awake again.

Ilias laughed. “He thinks I’m a fool.” He picked up the bottle, empty glass now. “And he tells me this is his djinni bottle.”

The major snorted. “A lunatic. Ah, hell. We won’t waste our sleep on him. We’ll question him in the morning.”

“Ilias, thank you.” He couldn’t hear her, but she’d never forget this gift. Her Rafe was rising from the floor, free and powerful. His hawk eyes glowed, his mouth curved in triumph. All rage and grief was transformed to love and exultation.

“Mischa!”

They slammed into one another, the impact tearing the air. Passion made them clumsy, their noses bumping and their mouths missing, searching, kissing feverishly.

Mischa couldn’t get close enough. She held Rafe desperately. The familiar scent of him drenched her and his taste set up a clamoring need. He had to fill her, had to take her.

“I’m free, Mischa. Free.”

“I know.” And nothing would separate them again. She would fight for him, love him, share everything with him. “I love you.”

“Yes!” Rafe shouted.

He thrust them up from the military base, his energy so uncontrolled and so powerful that they dived around the world. Sunshine, night time, frost, snow, tropical beaches, the desert.

“I love you.” He sobered, his expression intense. “I missed you and craved you. You are my heart, Mischa.”

“You’re my life.” She rubbed her face against his. “And if you ever trick me again, I’ll bury you at the North Pole.”

“Warrior lady.” Laughter and love threaded his voice. It sent shivers along Mischa’s spine. His hand followed the shivers, intensifying them.

“Love me,” she whispered. “I’ve been lonely for you, Rafe.”

“Dear heart.” He kissed her, tasting and inciting her hunger.

She gasped at the assault on her already stirred senses. He swallowed the gasp and thrust his tongue into her mouth, stroking in explicit mimicry of ultimate union.

The rhythm poured through Mischa. Her breasts hurt and she pressed them against his chest, letting the rhythm drag them to yet greater stimulation. Rafe’s pulse controlled hers. She wanted everything he wanted, and he seemed intent on shattering her with foreplay.

She caught his tongue and suckled fiercely. Their eyes met and she stroked her tongue along his.

Fire burned in his eyes.

He gripped her hips and held her against his erection. Playtime was over. She vanished their clothes somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. “I need you, Rafe.”

The words were as sweet as her breath. Rafe closed his eyes a moment in thankfulness for this closeness and to gather his control.

She was open to him, her legs wrapped around him. She wanted him.

“I love you, Mischa.” He was inside her, as he’d dreamed of being during his imprisonment. She was hotter, tighter, more everything than he’d remembered. More real. All his.

Mischa and freedom. He thrust harder, wanting everything, finding happiness in her answering violence.

They climaxed over the ocean, falling into it as their concentration shattered. Laughing, Rafe resurfaced. He shook the water from his hair. He felt young, free, all-conquering.

Mischa rose and pushed him backward.

He floated, unconstrained by the laws of physics, holding her over him. She sprawled wantonly, her thighs enclosing him, and licked his lips.

“Salt.”

The rocking of the waves slid their wet bodies against one another. He felt himself hardening, sliding against her heat, ready for her again.

Her tongue investigated further, finding a new flavor. “Rafe,” she announced.

He tasted his name on her lips and tried his own investigation. Happiness tasted of Mischa.

A wave, stronger than the others, crashed over them.

“Now I know why I prefer the desert,” Rafe pretended to complain. Mischa had slid from his body and rested laughing in the water. “It doesn’t spoil the mood.”

“Your mood doesn’t seem spoiled.” Her hand traced the evidence.

He groaned and a second wave crashed over them.

“That does it.” He gathered her close, concentrated, and in a second they were at his oasis. The sun was warm on his back, the scent of orange blossom and hot sand familiar and dear.

Home. And with Mischa in his arms.

She looped an arm around his neck, brought his mouth to hers and kissed him, sharing the moment. “Welcome home, Rafe.”

The familiar scents and sounds of the oasis were there, beyond Mischa, but it was she who made the oasis home. He filled himself with her, her taste, her scent, her joy. “I am happy.”

“Me, too.” She smiled. “You make me happy.”

“Can hearts burst?” His was swelling and aching.

“Love heals them.” She pressed a kiss on the skin of his chest, over his heart. Her lips lingered.

“Love. Oh God, I love you.”

She straightened to meet his kiss and pressed her body into his. Their separation had been so cruel. They needed each other again. He ran his hands over her body and she shivered responsively. She was completely his, and his triumph was sweet because he was hers, forever. “You taught me to love.”

“We taught each other. I love you, Rafe.”

He glanced down and saw she’d conjured a silk carpet and cushions. His Mischa, his lover. He was glad she was greedy for him. Freedom would be an empty gift without her to light his life.

Mischa sank down on the cushions, tugging Rafe down with her. She had been devastatingly lonely, terrified for them both, and she needed the reassurance of his strength and gentleness. He covered her softly and entered her powerfully. This second loving was controlled, prolonged by both of them to enjoy the intimacy of giving and receiving pleasure, of moving together. But urgency caught up with them.

Harder. Faster. An intensity of pleasure so profound it was almost pain.

They shattered from physical union to angel loving and wove energy patterns of total openness and commitment. Mischa rippled with Rafe’s soul embrace before they sank back to physical form and slept, curled into one another.

The chime of a bell woke them.

Rafe grumbled. Mischa leaped to her feet.

No!
No one was taking Rafe from her. Duty be damned. She’d learned that life was empty without Rafe.

She flexed her hand and the Sword of Good and Evil responded to her call. She grasped it determinedly.

“Warrior lady.” Rafe smiled up at her. “You are beautiful.”

“We’re about to have a visitor,” she warned.

The angelic chime protected privacy, but some angels weren’t particular about intruding. They didn’t wait for an acknowledgement or invitation, which reminded her.

“Clothes, Rafe.” She magicked on a tunic.

He stood, stretched and shrugged on a Bedu robe.

“You are gorgeous.” She kissed him, surrendering to a surge of love and lust. “I won’t lose you again.”

“You should have faith, sister,” a disapproving voice observed. The angel chorister Mischa had threatened months before hovered in the air, a very reluctant messenger. “The Guardian Council summons you and the djinni.”

“Do you mind?” Mischa murmured against Rafe’s mouth. For herself, she had to obey the summons. But if anyone tried to take eternity from them, she’d fight.

“I’d like to see your Council,” said Rafe. Sleep and passion vanished from his eyes, leaving them desert fierce. He, too, would protect their love.

They walked up to heaven and stood fingers entwined before the Council. The Councillors were awesomely old and awesomely wise, and the Grand Hall shone with their power. Mischa inclined her head. Rafe stared boldly. His Bedu robes were out of place but he wore them proudly.

He was djinn, of the desert.

Mischa loved him.

He spoke before the Council could. “You planned this.” He’d had time to think in the djinni bottle. He and Mischa had been manipulated. No one would do that again.

“Yes.” The President of the Council accepted the charge. “We thought Ilias was your best chance of a human releasing you. He is a man of peace and honor. That is why we set Mischa to guard him.”

“You set me to guard my own future,” she said slowly. Understanding flooded through her as she unraveled the plot the Councillors had woven.

No wonder Rafe was so tense. They had been set up. She tightened her hand around his. “If Rafe had kept me with him till Ilias died…” She couldn’t complete the sentence.

The president could. “Then he would have stayed bound by Solomon’s magic. Only Ilias had the strength and selflessness—the thankfulness for his own life and love—to free a djinni. And only by loving you and respecting your freedom did Rafe win his own. There is a lesson for you there, Mischa. A lesson for all guardians. Love is a gift won by others’ generosity. What we give, we receive.”

“It’s a hard lesson. I felt so helpless.” Her mouth thinned. “You could have given me a hint.”

“You know we can’t meddle with free will,” another Council member chided.

The president dismissed the whole discussion with a wave of his hand. “The question now is Rafe’s future.”

“You are not binding him again.” Mischa put her hand to the Sword of Good and Evil. It promptly vanished.

“Honestly, Mischa.” The Councillors tsked. “Trust us.”

“I thank you for your interest in my future.” Rafe gathered Mischa close against his side. “My future is with Mischa.”

She turned in his hold to hug him. “And mine is with you.”

“We hoped you would say that,” the president said. “We think you’d make a fine guardian, Rafe.”

“Connivers,” Mischa said against Rafe’s ear. So this is what they had schemed for—a djinni guardian.

“It makes sense,” he said. “Since I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

“Mmm.” She could approve of that sentiment. She had no intention of ever letting him go.

“I accept,” Rafe said to the Guardian Council.

“Excellent,” said the president. “We’ll present you with your first assignment in a week’s time. For now—” he smiled, “—I’m sure you’ll find some way of occupying your time.”

“Yes.” Rafe looked at Mischa. “We will.”