“Zara’s napping,” Maryam said. “Goat-milking duty this morning.” Tambara and Jol concurred.
Nasha looked up from her lunch with sudden interest. “What’s a Musketeer?”
“A character,” Amal said. “From a book called The Three Musketeers.”
“I want to be a Musketeer. I can milk goats.”
“You can’t,” Tambara said. “There’s no such thing as five Musketeers.”
“There’s no such thing as four,” Nasha said.
“D’Artagnan,” Maryam replied.
Nasha looked at Amal. “Who’s that?”
“An honorary Musketeer.”
“See?” Maryam said. “So there are four.”
Nasha scrambled from her seat, glaring at her. “I hate you. I hate all of you,” she shouted, then ran from the mess hall.
Remi glanced at Amal, who raised her brows slightly. Both had been warned by Wendy to let the girls work out their own problems. Even so, Remi was torn ab
out whether she should follow Nasha, especially when Maryam gave a dramatic sigh, saying, “She’s so immature.”
“She’s eleven,” Remi pointed out. “Maybe we could be a tiny bit nicer?”
Maryam nodded, her gaze moving to the floor. “Sorry,” she whispered.
Jol, not to be dissuaded from their earlier conversation, looked eagerly at Remi. “We want to know how you can do all those things when you’re just a girl.”
“Just a girl?” Remi said. “What makes you think girls can’t do that sort of stuff?”
The three young ladies shrugged their shoulders. Tambara elbowed Jol again. “Ask her,” she whispered.
“Ask me what?” Remi said.
“About that time you and Mr. Fargo were trapped in a shipping container in France.”
They had to have been talking about her and Sam’s search for the stolen prototype of the first-ever Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. “How’d you hear about that?”
“Miss Wendy told us,” she said. “Weren’t you scared?”
Nasha suddenly raced back into the cafeteria, pointing out the door. “Mr. Fargo is back.”
Remi smiled at the girls. “Tell you what. I’ll share a fun story of one of our adventures after lunch.”
“Promise?” Maryam said.
“Promise.”
Remi followed Nasha out into the courtyard to the front of the compound, curious. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.” Nasha led her across the drive to the locked gate.
Something must have happened, because Sam wasn’t due to return until the following night. Remi peered between the two posts of the fence, seeing what looked like a mini dust storm in the distance. A gust of wind blew from the south, clearing the cloud enough for her to see the white truck and an SUV behind it. A chill swept through her. “That’s not Sam,” she said.
Nasha’s breath caught. “Scarface …”