“How old are you?” he asked in a calm, soothing voice.
She looked up at him with dazed eyes shimmering with tears. “Fifteen,” she said.
Junayd stiffened and looked down at the man moaning on the ground. From the scent in the air, he knew Oliver Quest had pissed his pants. His jaw tightened with disdain.
“See that the girl is protected. Make sure she is transported to the hospital and evaluated. Notify her family and stay with her at all times until they arrive,” he ordered Issa and Hyder.
“Yes, sire. What about this one?” Yahya inquired, still kneeling next to Oliver.
“Leave him. The paramedics and the police can deal with him.”
He led the girl to a nearby bench, encouraging her to sit. Within a few minutes, the call to her family was completed and the sound of sirens was quite loud. Curious guests began to trickle out along with Quest’s personal security. It wasn't long before all his guards were assembled in a protective semi-circle.
Ashar handed Junayd his cashmere overcoat and they sat on the garden’s cold, wrought iron benches. Oliver Quest stayed on the ground, his pained expression both calculating and affronted under the hostile stares of the men surrounding him. The teenage girl was very still, breathing shakily and clutching Junayd’s tuxedo jacket tightly around her delicate form.
When the police and medical personnel arrived, Junayd rose from his seat and gave his statement to the police, describing in detail what he had witnessed, though of course he could not be anything but vague about the mysterious person who had come to the girl’s aid.
The curious crowd slowly trickled away, seeking the warmth of the house. As they left, their gossiping whispers and murmurs blended into background noise. Junayd remained standing where he was because he could sense that the girl’s rescuer was still here, watching the events unfold.
Ashar hesitated, frowning when Junayd didn’t move. “Sire?” he asked.
“Wait for me out front. Take the guards with you. I will be there shortly,” he ordered.
“I… yes, sire,” Ashar replied with a slight bow.
Junayd waited until everyone was gone before he faced the hundred-year-old tree. Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, he slowly walked around the tree, carefully scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. The minutes stretched in silence and he began to wonder if perhaps he was mistaken. He stopped on the opposite side of the tree. A low branch curved toward the ground before reaching upward.
“You broke his arm,” he said, waiting to see if the shadow would respond.
“He deserved it—and more,” a soft voice replied.
Junayd twisted, trying to pinpoint the location of the speaker. His eyes locked on a tall hedge.
He took a step toward it and stopped. “You’re right. In my country, in the desert, I would have killed him for abusing a woman like that,” Junayd responded.
“Not a woman, a child. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll wish he was in your desert.”
The lilting sound of her voice caressed his senses. Shock filtered through him when he realized that the speaker was a woman. His body responded to the husky voice as if she were whispering directly to his soul.
“Who are you?” he demanded
“I’m vengeance, justice, someone’s lost conscience.”
She was all around him. No matter where he turned, he sensed she had moved, though he couldn’t quite see her. She was like thezala alqamar aleayim,the floating moon shadow that swept across the dunes at night, making them appear alive.
“Pick whichever name you want,” she replied.
“I want….” he said huskily.
The words were pulled from him before he had finished the thought, and saying them out loud brought him to a confused halt. He did not know what it was that he wanted, but hewantedsomething.
“What do you want, Dr. Junayd Saif-Ad-Din?”
He breathed in her mesmeric voice and slowly turned toward the trunk of the tree, captivated by the tantalizing scent of oranges and vanilla washing over his senses. His breath hissed when she stepped into a sliver of moonlight filtering through the barren branches of the old oak.
A dark red scarf covered the lower half of her face. Only her almond-shaped eyes and her forehead were visible. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were a dark rich chocolate color framed by long black lashes that looked incredibly soft. Her hair was black with a blue sheen. It fell in thick waves down her back and over her shoulder, barely restrained in a simple low ponytail.
She was dressed all in black, her clothes form-fitting. His eyes moved to the black tonfa in a sheath at her waist. The smooth wood with a perpendicular handle a third of the way down the length was known for its ability to incapacitate an opponent with a single, well-placed blow. It was an unusual weapon for an American.