No Rules(76)

The room had changed. A man lay draped over the coffee table where they’d eaten supper the night before. A few feet away Donovan grappled with another man. As she watched, he used two hands to jerk down on his neck, then knee him in the face. With a sickening crunch, the man’s nose broke. The next second, he crumpled into an unconscious heap.

Donovan blew out a breath and threw her a quick glance. “Close the door,” he ordered.

She did, staring openmouthed as he ripped the cords off the rattan window shade and bound both men hand and foot, then hog-tied them. Finishing, he lifted each man’s eyelids and stood, looking at them with disgust before turning calmly to her. “Get changed,” he said. “Something that makes you look like an American tourist.”

When she just blinked, his expression softened and his demeanor seemed to drop into a lower gear. He walked to her and touched her face, cupping her jaw with a gentle hand. “I’m sorry. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. “I, uh, no, you just knocked the wind out of me.” She looked at the two unconscious men, each with the dark skin tone of a native Egyptian. For the first time she noticed the two knives in the center of the floor. “Were they after me again?”

“Both of us, by now. We need to leave, Jess. Fast. They know where we are and what we look like. So I want you to look like someone else—can you do that?”

She nodded. “I have slacks and a blouse,” she began, then stopped herself. He didn’t need to hear wardrobe details. “Yes.”

He smiled. “Good. Come on.”

He took her hand and led her down the hall to the bedrooms. It was a move she’d been imagining in a completely different context five minutes before, and she nearly giggled at the absurdity of how things had changed. It’s shock, she told herself, and tried to adjust to her new reality. Donovan had done it in a split second—he’d spotted danger and kept her out of harm’s way as he fought off two attackers. She had to keep up.

She stripped off the hijab and abaya. She already wore a white short-sleeved knit top and shorts, so she just changed the shorts for a long, colorful skirt and brushed out her hair. Most of the female tourists she’d seen made no further concessions to the Muslim culture, and it didn’t seem to be expected of them. She hurriedly zipped everything into her three bags, then grabbed Avery’s neatly packed duffle, thanking her silently for her military efficiency and preparedness.

Donovan was already back in the living room with four duffle bags piled near the door—his, Kyle’s, Mitch’s, and the one she knew held weapons. He wore jeans and a white button down shirt, and was bent over one of their attackers, slapping the man’s face. The man responded with an annoyed string of Arabic and tried to move away. He didn’t get more than two inches.

“Hey! Talk to me,” Donovan ordered.

The man squinted at him, confusion turning to an angry glare. He said nothing.

Donovan slapped him again, not gently. “Who are you?”

The man worked his jaw, wincing. “I am nobody,” he said in passable English.

“Why are you here? What do you want?”

“To kill you.” His eyes found her. “And her.” He said it with such a lack of emotion that it sent chills down Jess’s back.

Donovan’s mouth tightened. “Why? Who sent you?”

“I don’t know him. He had money, I agree to the job. I don’t ask why. Maybe you know why, eh?”

Donovan stood, turning his back on the man dismissively. With a nod at her four bags, he asked, “Ready?”

She nodded.

“Our two friends have kindly provided us with a car. Here, let me carry the garment bag.”

The large bag was awkward, but he already had four, and the ones with the guns probably weighed more than all of hers put together. She hefted the garment bag, then the others. “I’m good, let’s go.” She gave their attackers a final glance. The conscious one eyed her with cool interest, as if wondering what made her worth killing but not really caring. His gaze made her feel unclean. She sincerely hoped Donovan had hurt him.

Downstairs, he led the way to an older-model Fiat. They tossed their bags in the backseat and got in, Donovan taking the wheel. She reached for her seat belt from habit, but found it stubbornly stuck and unusable. She experienced a brief moment of panic, hearing her mother’s voice listing all the horrible consequences of not wearing a seat belt—mangled limbs, months of rehabilitation, even coma and life support.

Donovan didn’t even try his seat belt, starting the car and darting out in front of a motor scooter just as it backfired. She ducked from an imagined gunshot, only slightly relieved to find herself mistaken. It could have easily been real. Maybe seat belts weren’t their biggest concern at the moment.