Page 70 of Locked and Loaded

Something flickered across her face. He couldn't read it. That bothered him. He could usually read her.

They got back in the car. The heater kicked on, and the tires crunched over sand and gravel as they climbed toward the ridge. The sun was fully up now, small and white, and the dunes went on forever in every direction.

"People who grew up in the desert say it has a spirit," he said. "They mean it literally. The desert is alive. It decides whether you live or die. You don't conquer the Sahara. You survive it, if it lets you."

"And it let you."

"It let me. Mostly."

They crested the ridge and the camp came into view below.

The tents were red. Pomegranate red, deep and dark, with peaked roofs facing the sunrise. Six of them, arranged in a loose semicircle. Carpets ran between them in patterns of rust and gold, and solar-powered lights lined the paths, their glow still visible in the early light.

"Dragan. Those tents are red velvet."

"They are."

"There are carpets on the sand."

"Moroccan. Good ones."

She turned to look at him, and for the first time since she'd woken up, there was something in her eyes that wasn't exhaustion. "What is this place?"

"A bivouac. Luxury camp. Rich Europeans pay a fortune to come out here and pretend they're in the desert for a weekend. It's not the kind of place anyone would think to look for us. That's the point."

A man emerged from the largest tent. Late fifties, gray beard, skin weathered by a lifetime of sun. White djellaba. He was already smiling.

Dragan embraced Hassan like a brother. They exchanged greetings in Arabic, rapid and warm, the kind of conversation he could only have with someone who had seen him at his worst and not walked away.

Dragan introduced Lennox. Hassan assessed her in a single glance, the way he assessed everyone, and then pressed a hand to his chest. "You are welcome. Any friend of Dragan is family. I am Hassan."

"Lennox."

"Please, come. You must be tired. The drive from Marrakech is long. I will have tea brought to your tent."

"Actually," Lennox said, and her voice was steadier now, "I was wondering if I could have my own tent. If that's possible. It's been a long night. I'd like some space."

Hassan's gaze shifted to Dragan, then back. "Of course. I will have the tent beside Dragan's prepared."

"No."

Lennox turned on him. So did Hassan. Dragan didn't look at either of them.

"She stays with me," he said.

Lennox's jaw tightened. "Excuse me?"

"Until we know who followed us out of Marrakech and whether they're still tracking, you stay where I can see you."

Lennox put her hands on her hips. "I'm asking for my own tent so I can get some sleep without an audience."

"You'll sleep just fine. I'll be awake." He was heartened to see a bit of spirit. The color was coming back to her cheeks as well.

"That's not the point."

"That is exactly the point." He said something to Hassan in Arabic. Hassan nodded once and gestured toward the largest tent.

"This way. I will bring tea and fresh water. Towels are inside."