Page 82 of The Geek and the Sheikh

The ping of the elevator and the opening of the doors into the bright light of a hallway teeming with activity made her laugh with relief. Jameel’s oldest brother turned with a frown when he saw them.

“Jameel! Where have you been? I was about to send out a search party for you,” Qadir growled.

“Oh, we were just taking care of a few things,” Jameel replied with a crooked grin.

Qadir frowned. “What happened to your face? Did you run into a wall?”

Jameel lifted a hand to rub at his bruised jaw. Qadir reached out and gripped his arm, looking at his blood and torn flesh with a concerned expression. Jameel pulled his arm free and sighed.

“There are a couple additional bodies in the tunnels below. A mercenary named Mark Hammer and a woman named Allison Turnwell. They were working for Bronislav,” Junebug said, wrapping her arm around Jameel’s waist.

Jameel looked down at her with a frown. “What about—?”

She shook her head. “He’ll be gone. He never sticks around… unless he has unfinished business.”

“Does he?”

A shiver ran through her at Jameel’s quiet question. She thought about it, and then she shook her head.

“No, I don’t think he does,” she finally said.

* * *

Moscow, Russia:

One month later

“That will be all. Set it down and get out,” Andrius snapped at his manservant who was hovering nearby with a tray containing his afternoon refreshments.

The man placed the tray on the table near the window, bowed, and made a hasty retreat from the room, closing the rich, double mahogany doors behind him. Andrius leaned heavily on his cane and walked over to the table. He poured a cup of tea and wearily walked over to sit in a chair in front of the fire.

God, he hated the cold weather. It was snowing again. A wet, sticking cold snow that caused every bone in his body to ache. He set the cup down on the end table, spilling a little on the antique oak finish.

He had returned to Moscow when a former government official and ally of his warned him that he was about to be arrested in Lithuania. He had barely made it out.

Settling into the cushioned armchair, he retrieved his phone and pressed the number on the screen. After the tenth ring, he hung up. He tried a different number and the same thing happened. He slammed his cell phone on the table when the third number did the same. Irritation soared inside him when the door behind him opened.

“I told you to get out!” he snapped.

The clink of china-on-china made him twist in the chair. His scowl of annoyance turned to one of surprise when he saw a huge black man pouring a cup of tea. What surprised him even more was where the man must have gotten the fragile china teacup, as there had only been one on the tray and it was next to him.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded in Russian.

“It is amazing how a nice cup of hot tea on a cold day can warm your insides,” the man answered in Russian. “Isn’t it?” he finished in English.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Andrius barked in English.

The man took a sip of the tea, added a cube of sugar, picked up a small spoon, and stirred his tea before he turned and walked over to the twin chairs in front of the fire. Andrius twisted, following the man’s movements with his eyes. He swallowed past the sudden restriction in his throat. The man moved with the grace and silence of a lion on the hunt.

“It is a shame about Allison. I had such high hopes for her as a child,” the man stated as he sat down in the chair next to him.

“What happened to her?” Andrius asked, his throat dry.

The man shook his head with regret and took another sip of his tea. “Dead, I’m afraid. Along with Coldhouse and Mark Hammer, though I wasn’t responsible for Coldhouse.”

“What happened to Coldhouse?” Andrius asked.

The man chuckled. “You could say he fell to pieces… or was blown away. I can never remember the idioms the kids today use.”

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