Fiction: Sequel to Pride and Audacity
Crossing the Chasm — Part 2
She needed a savior — but the devil would have to do
A botched abduction by a local terrorist group at a Middle East airport leaves Jessica imprisoned in a sweltering desert camp awaiting execution. She needs a miracle — but the Devil will have to do.
Califar Cadin, the First Regent of the Middle Eastern country of Ahalamin, is a man of tradition, authority, and determination. But to Jessica Heathly, he’s the arrogant tyrant who calls her WIFE.
NOTICE: Crossing the Chasm is book 2 of the Sheiks of Ahalamin series. While it reads well on its own, it is better appreciated if book one (Pride and Audacity) has been read first. The main characters of Crossing the Chasm first meet in Pride and Audacity and knowing their history will enhance your reading pleasure.
Jessica squinted her sore eyelids and focused a bleary gaze on the black scorpion meandering toward her bare feet. She wondered at her lack of dread as the large bug drew closer and climbed over her toes. Scratchy little feet executed a tap dance routine on her instep as the dancer twirled and swayed to a rhythm unheard by others.
With a jerk of its body, the visitor ceased its antics and lifted both head and tail. The lethal tail curled tighter as her desert companion wasted no time in abandoning the new territory.
She turned her throbbing head, allowing her gaze to follow the scorpion’s retreat. Scampering in a straight line toward the side of the tent, it slipped under the canvas cloth to disappear into the hellish desert beyond. In a strange way, she missed the creature’s presence, regretted its desertion.
Her chin sunk closer to her chest, her eyes closed. Though her lips moved, the plea she uttered barely echoed through the chambers of her heart. Just let it be over.
The sound of approaching male voices challenged her last remnant of endurance. They were coming for her. She would be number four…the last one to die.
Her arms, bound at the wrist and secured to a pole over her head, ached unbearably as she straightened her back. She tried fisting her fingers, but their swollen size prevented them from curling into her palms. The wire that coiled around her wrists and bound her to the overhead pole cut deeper into her skin with every movement.
Pushing up with her toes, she sought to temporarily relieve some pressure on her hands and arms. Weak leg muscles quivered and released, dropping her to her heels with a jarring pain that shot through her arms like flaming darts.
The foul taste of bile started to rise in her throat. It hurt to keep swallowing, but she couldn’t vomit-not again. The crusty evidence of the last failed effort to control her nausea stained the front of her black robe. The repugnant odor added another level of stench to the tainted air in the stale confines of the sweltering tent that had been her prison for… How long had it been? The nightmare merged into one agonizing eternity until she could no longer remember.
More than anything, in these last moments of life, she wanted to retain a shred of courage, to keep a fragment of dignity that no one could take from her.
In her head, echoes of her Father’s voice opened a cache of past regrets. She remembered his baritone voice, his scorn for her weakness, his unrelenting demand that she stand and fight, and her pathetic reply. Dad, he’s twice my size. I’m just a girl. Her excuse, as he’d labeled it, hadn’t mattered then, nor would it matter now.
The angry tenor of the approaching voices confused her. Previously, the guards checked on her without speaking, as if a word spoken in her hearing would foul them in some way. The verbal contention made their approach even more threatening. She barely stifled a scream as the tent flap flew back-exposing her to the sun’s fierce light.
Three men entered through the tent’s opening, their robed silhouettes rippling in waves of heat. A heat so intense, it had long since drained her body of even the cooling relief of sweat.
Fighting back an overwhelming wooziness, she focused on the trio standing just inside her prison. Two were familiar, their hate-filled eyes permanently inked on the pages of her mind. The third man stood a little apart from the other two and spoke to them in a guttural tone as he stabbed at the air with his fist.
Another memory of her father’s perpetual nagging mocked her weakness. Stand up straight Jessica. Why can’t you be like your brothers? A weak female is useless. If you don’t shape up you’re going to find yourself on the street.
The remembered threat sent the same cold shame through her heart as it had done when she was thirteen. She shifted her body weight in an effort to stabilize her trembling legs. A painful groan slipped through her lips. Fresh blood oozed from the cut on her wrists-wrists that felt like they would tear from her arms if she dared to move again.
Jessica looked up to see three pair of dark eyes rivet their gaze on her before the gusty desert wind blew the tent flap across the opening, obscuring them in the tent’s filtered light. The new man stood rigidly still. An aura of authority rang in his voice as he barked something in his native tongue. Then, he took two steps in her direction.
She refused to lower her eyes in submission to this cowardly murderer. She poured every drop of contempt she could siphon from her exhausted willpower into the gaze she lifted to his. The snarl on his lips showed clearly the disgust he felt. But there was something more.
Were her senses playing merciless tricks on her mind? Could he really have found her? Had he come as executioner or savior?
Califar Cadin, the man she’d used every contrivance to avoid-the last man on earth she’d ever expected to see in this place, stared at her with pitiless disapproval.
Hope and humiliation were strange partners, but both stole her breath as his gaze enveloped her in one long, silent commanded that she stay in the land-of-the-living. At least, she hoped that was what he wanted her to do.
Her emotional numbness shattered just before the heavy mantle of unconsciousness covered her in darkness.
Califar shoved one of the guards out of his way and surged toward Jessica. She hung like a slaughtered lamb, fresh blood streaking down her arms. He lifted her limp body and jerked his head toward her hands, giving the two guards a command that didn’t need words. His gut gnawed with primal fury as they uncoiled the wire from her wrists.
Her full weight tested his grip. Tossing her gently upward, he secured her more firmly in his arms. Heat radiated from her body. She burned with fever.
He’d never experienced the intense urge to kill that suddenly choked him. Vengeance burned through him, leaving an array of mental images, the strongest being his merciless grip on a man’s throat. Cursing the circumstance that prevented him exacting justice, he vowed that when Jessica was safe, he’d do whatever it took to eradicate this band of desert vermin.
Striding out of the tent into the open, he stopped to fill his lungs with clean air, air without the stench of human misery that defiled his nostrils and left a sour coating in his throat.
With no other option, he headed for his temporary quarters. Little more than a hovel constructed of old packing crates and smelling of goats, it was the best he could do for her now.
He kicked the door open and bent to enter through the low opening, then kicked it shut. Placing Jessica on the room’s single cot, he eased the filthy robe over her head and tossed it toward the door to discard later. A short, Western-style blue dress clung to her thighs.
Irritation deepened the worried scowl furrowing his forehead. He should be accustomed to the feeling. This strangulating irritation had always been the second strongest emotion he’d endured in this woman’s presence, the first being an unwelcome attraction.
His hands shook as he turned and opened the bag beside the cot. Retrieving a small medical kit and bottled water, he cleaned and bandaged her wrists. The depth of the cuts worried him. It would not have taken much more pressure for the wire to cut into a vein. The skin on her wrists festered with infection.
He wanted to strip her clothes from her, to see for himself the whole extent of her injuries. But she’d endured enough atrocities, better to wait until she could tell him of her needs.
He pushed two fingers under the edge of her black headcloth. A gentle tug removed it completely, allowing a tangled mass of curls to escape. Impudent curls that persisted in constantly invading his dreams. The first time he’d gazed upon their coppery luster, they had tumbled in glorious profusion down the back of the most animated and beautiful woman ever to cross his path. Now, they lay lifeless, their sheen dulled by dirt and sweat.
He winced from the sharp pain cutting deep wounds in his heart. Walls of indifference he’d tried to build toward this woman shattered. He wanted to cradle her like a child. He wanted to promise that never again would she suffer, that he would forever stand as her protector. He wanted those things more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life… but a man could not do those things for a woman that did not belong to him.
Frustration clawed at his control. How was he going to save her, this woman who despised him and everything he stood for? A woman his mind rejected…and his heart craved.
No longer able to hold them in check, his hands cupped her face. His lips joined the rebellion and pressed to her forehead with fierce anguish. He traced the contours of her eyes and lips with the gentlest of kisses. The sickening fear that had taken residence in his soul since learning of her capture loosened its grip, inch by stomach-churning inch.
To find her alive in a camp of militants known to execute their prisoners was a gift from Allah. He wanted Jessica safe, away from this place. It was a thing easily desired, but not easily obtained. Since her captors had allowed him access, he could only hope they intended to negotiate her release.
Rising from the side of the cot, he searched the medical kit for the antibiotics and pain medication it contained. It was an easy matter to dissolve the tablets in a little water, not so easy getting them down Jessica. He sighed with relief when her body’s natural swallowing instinct took over. Not all the liquid made it down her throat, some of it spilled onto her cheek and neck. At least, it was a start.
He felt, more than heard, the presence of someone at his back. Easing to his feet, he turned to confront the intruder.
“You are Califar Cadin, First Regent to Prince Davar?”
Califar eyed the well-armed stranger dressed in a uniform of desert-camouflage and whose demeanor was one of authority despite his youthful appearance.
“I am.” Califar lowered his chin and stared at the stranger through tightened eyelids.
“I am ZaKar, the leader in this camp.” His lips twisted into a cynical smile. “I was much amazed when told of your arrival. What does the First Regent of Ahalamin want with this woman?”
“She is a personal friend of Prince Davar’s wife.” Califar allowed a challenging glint to sharpen his gaze. “The Prince wishes to spare the Princess further distress over her friend’s welfare and respectfully requests that you release this woman to me.”
ZaKar studied him in silence. Califar did not think he could be older than twenty-five, but his eyes were those of a tested fighter, calculating and watchful.
Without a reply, the man skirted him and walked toward the cot where Jessica lay like a lifeless doll.
Califar stiffened and cursed himself for not having covered her. Projecting a calmness he didn’t feel, he passively allowed ZaKar to approach the edge of the cot.
“For an infidel, she is strangely beautiful, is she not?” Zakar tilted his head toward Jessica, a carnal smirk lifted the corner of his mouth.
It was an obvious fact; nevertheless, Califar didn’t like hearing it from another man’s lips. Before he’d detected Zakar’s intention, the man boldly reached for a limp ringlet of hair resting against Jessica’s cheek. The delicate curl clung to his finger.
Califar’s stomach clenched as he tried to keep his posture loose. His arm muscles quivered. He didn’t speak. He didn’t trust his voice not to reflect the jealousy devouring his control.
“I have heard that there were women whose hair captured the glow of the setting sun, but never have I seen such before. It is most alluring.” Zakar dropped the curl and transferred his gaze to Califar.
“Prince Davar does not fight with his Arab brothers in this Holy War; however, he has not interfered in the past. It is strange that he would bother with this hostage, an insignificant woman.”
Shifting his weight to one leg, Califar let a few seconds lapse before answering. “You must remember that he took an American woman as a wife. His interest is personal.”
“And you, is it only the interest of the Prince that you serve? Perhaps there is a personal involvement of your own?”
Califar stiffened at the question, knowing he’d underestimated the man’s astuteness. Self-disgust sharpened his reply.
“Prince Davar considers this woman as part of his household. He will view further harm to her as an act of aggression.” Califar kept his countenance calm as Zakar’s assessing glare studied his face. The young leader didn’t like the veiled threat but he was doing a better job of masking his feelings than he was.
“Since this woman is of personal interest to the Prince, perhaps I should make sure she has no further injuries. She is a Westerner, exposing her body to our eyes will be of no consequence.” ZaKar reached toward Jessica.
Califar’s nostrils flared. Before ZaKar’s hand could make contact, Califar manacled his wrist with a crushing grip. They stood on either side of Jessica’s cot like two competing jackals over a fresh kill.
“I do not think that Prince Davar would object to an examination under the circumstances.” Zakar pulled back on his wrist.
Califar’s fingers tightened. “I object.” His words sliced through the pretense.
“Aaah…And what rights do you have over this woman?”
“She belongs to me.”
“You are married?”
“She is promised.” The shock of his own words altered the rhythm of his heart and allowed a desire, long subjugated, to surface. He tightened his eyelids until they were dark slits of lethal intent.
“Remove your hand and back away from my woman.” The sinister warning hung in the air, sharp as the sheathed dagger Zakar wore at his side.
ZaKar nodded in assent and pulled backward on his imprisoned arm.
Califar released his grip.
The camp leader circled the cot and strode toward the door, pausing at the opening. “It seems we both have an interest in this female. I, at the present, am her protector. You are her betrothed. At times like these, is it not our custom to discuss the matter of a bride price? We will talk of it tomorrow.”
Califar stared at ZaKar’s back as he vacated the hut. He never expected to free Jessica without cost, but thanks to his accursed jealousy, Zakar now possessed an advantage, one that would certainly elevate the price.
He glared at the woman whose image invaded his waking hours and tormented his sleepless nights. His obsession with her would be the death of them both.
He should have taken Prince Davar’s advice and married, putting an end to this inexplicable insanity. Fatima, the daughter of Sheik Hassid, would make a suitable choice.
Grabbing a goat-hair blanket from the side table, he tossed it across Jessica. Since there were no other beds, he extinguished the oil lamp and lowered himself to sit on the floor, resting his back against the side of the cot.
Jessica awoke to the hum of a generator somewhere in the distance. Its familiar, irregular tempo told her she was still in Hell, still in a world where demonic terrorists tortured and murdered for the sake of their unholy cause. Despair shuddered through her body.
Though night had fallen, encasing her in thick darkness, she could tell that somehow she’d been removed from the tent. Wherever she was now, the smell was different, almost pleasant. She flexed her fingers, relieved that her wrists, though swollen, were bandaged and much less painful.
She turned her head to the side but could see nothing. The unnerving blackness was as impenetrable as it had been in the tent. How she longed for the lighted digital display of her bedside clock or the soft glow from the fish aquarium she kept in the bedroom of her New York apartment.
A rustling noise near the bed locked her next breath in her throat. She sensed something moving close to where she lay. Then a heavy, cold object pressed against her forehead and covered her eyes. Before her brain could make a rational plan of action, her body exploded into action. Lifting both feet, she kicked with all her strength. A sharp gurgling sound whooshed from the unknown intruder as it lifted and flipped over the bed, landing with a heavy thud on the other side.
Rolling off the cot, she crawled as far as she could in the opposite direction and waited.
A groan pierced the black night, accompanied by a rapid flow of unintelligible expletives. Knowing that her unseen assailant was human eased her fear a little, but all the same, she was glad when footsteps sounded toward the far side of the room. The flare of a striking match sent her scurrying for the corner and its deeper shadows.
“Stop! If you move again, I’ll kill you myself.”
Alarm shuddered through her, the truth of the threat unmistakable in the strained and furious tone.
She eased off her knees and sat on the floor, bracing her hand next to her hip. If she got any dizzier, her equilibrium would turn her world inside-out.
The glow from the lighted lamp barely reached her side of the hut but highlighted every inch of the dark, sullen man scowling at her. His long legs, parted and ready for battle, supported a frame that had to be at least two inches over six feet. Thankfully, those were encased in loose-fitting black pants. Two fists rested at the curve of his waist and hips. Masculine lips pulled tight in anger, revealed clenched teeth.
Her eyes rounded in disbelief. “Cal…Califar? I’m…I’m sorry.” The pathetic words barely left her lips before she regretted them.
An audible snarl signaled his approach. She jerked her head up to judge the distance to the door, only to have a wall of angry, aggressive male block her vision as he braced a foot on each side of her outstretched legs. Tilting her head back far enough to see his face was impossible. Like looking at a
skyscraper from its base, she could not see the top without falling over.
She focused on his feet and tried to formulate an explanation. Almost any conciliation was preferable to his intimidating closeness.
“I said I was sorry. How was I supposed to know it was you?”
“In this camp, how many men do you think would be sleeping on the miserable floor while you have the only bed?”
Her own anger flared at the implied slur on her intelligence. “I didn’t know that. Besides, you should have said something before you touched me. It’s your fault.”
Her sore muscles cringed when he stepped closer and straddle her thighs, bring her nose perilously close to his one of his knees.
“I was attempting to discern if your fever had returned. From the way you’re trembling, I would say it has.”
His words were less angry. If she didn’t know better, one might even detect a measure of concern, almost caring. Drawing her legs toward her chest, she wrapped her arms around her knees, shrinking from the hateful man who was just spoiling for a fight.
Califar’s hostility both frightened and confused her. In spite of their yearlong acquaintance, she didn’t know, in fact, had never known how to deal with this man. He was like the dark side of the moon, alien and beyond her realm of understanding.
Black circles danced before her eyes as ten days' worth of hellish memories rushed against the gates of her control, submerging her under its repulsive weight. Her last bit of shredded courage dissolved. With frenzied desperation, she launched herself at the only thing standing between her and the unspeakable horror outside. Wrapping herself around one of the powerful legs straddling her like the Colossus of Rhodes, she clung with the last vestiges of her strength, her mind dangerously near the edge of sanity.
To be continued…
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