Blood Trust - Eric van Lustbader [123]
These were two proud men, preeminent within their own spheres. But both were acutely aware that the Syrian’s sphere was vastly larger than Xhafa’s, and sometimes this discrepancy caused friction. But managing friction was one of Xhafa’s strong suits, even if, in this case, it meant putting his tail between his legs.
“Apologies,” Xhafa said again. “The loss of my longtime base was something I never imagined.”
The sun was gone now, the shadows lengthening, the air growing cooler.
The Syrian sighed. “Sometimes it seems to me that life is constructed only of unexpected losses.” This was as far as he was prepared to go to mollify Xhafa.
* * *
“HABIBI.”
The whispered voice from behind Caroline stopped her from returning to her work. She turned slowly, her lips turned up in a mysterious smile.
Taroq was standing in shadow, in a place where he couldn’t be seen by the two men in the garden. Like his master, he was Syrian, a distant nephew, in fact. Tall and bronzed with wide shoulders and a slender waist, he exuded a certain solidity. His full beard was light brown, almost copper-colored in sunlight, and his long eyes were gray. Still as rock, he watched her with an avidity she could feel though twelve feet separated them.
Caroline hated men, but she didn’t hate Taroq. She had cultivated him almost from the moment the Syrian had brought her to the compound. Caroline was one of those people who felt no remorse, no guilt, no sense of loyalty. She defined herself as amoral; a psychiatrist would no doubt render a diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder, because her major traits fit like a glove: patterns of deceitfulness, a failure to conform to societal norms, blatant disregard for the rights and safety of others. An ignorant person might call her a psycho, but that would be a misnomer; Caroline’s disorder was far more complex.
The best thing about Taroq—besides his strength, that is—was that he was drawn to her, rather than being repulsed as the other guards clearly were. Taroq was smart enough, and close enough to his master to be curious about Western civilization—not the TV shows or films or designer clothes, but the concept of having choices. For him, Caroline presented a doorway into a new world, in more ways than one.
“We’re quite alone.” His voice was already thick with lust. He held out a hand, his need shining like a beacon in a storm. “Let’s go—”
“No.” She beckoned. “I want to look at him while we do it.”
This was apparently too much for Taroq. He stood very still and shook his head.
Caroline stared into his eyes as she began to slowly unbutton her shirt. She was wearing nothing underneath and by the fourth button the inner halves of her breasts were visible. She kept opening buttons without parting the shirt. When she was finished, she unbuttoned her jeans and slowly pulled down the zipper.
Taroq’s eyes grew wide; she was naked underneath.
Her arms hung at her sides. Some mysterious inner working rolled the tiny swell of her belly.
“Come,” she said, and Taroq was compelled to do as she commanded.
* * *
GUNN, CURLED in the trunk of Vera’s car, heard the doors open, then felt the weight of two people getting into the car. This indicated that Vera had been successful in luring O’Banion. He turned and, pulling open the Saab’s pass-through from the trunk to the backseat, he crawled through, only to find O’Banion on the backseat, pointing a suppressed Glock at his face.
“Howdy-do, Gunn.” O’Banion’s grin was chilling. “You proved yourself to be a snake just like all the rest of your kind. I don’t think snakes live very long, but in any case longer than you.”
Gunn wanted to say something—anything—but, frankly, he was speechless. How had the bastard known? Willowicz was dead, so that left Vera. Where the hell was she? Probably cut and run. That fucking bitch!
O’Banion took possession of Gunn’s Sig Sauer and stuck it in his waistband without taking his eyes off his adversary. “Believe me, it’s going to be a pleasure watching your head fly apart.”
At that moment, Vera’s head popped