Page 91 of High Treason
Monica sighed. “Never had a sister to understand all the girlie-mood stuff.”
“We can be strange.”
Monica laughed. “Good way to put it.”
“I was determined to dislike you, but instead I’ve found admiration and respect. Our lives are so different, but getting to know you helps me see how the Western world lives.”
“And I’ve learned so much more about your culture.”
“I’ve watched you. Always alert. Your habits are teaching me to look for danger. I’ve seen how you get up in the night and stare out the window. Check the outer door to make sure it’s locked. Even tiptoe to our rooms. I’d like to learn self-defense.”
Monica’s eyes pooled. Such a rare girl moment. She’d sensed Fatima was awake during those times she rose to ensure all was well. Monica took steps forward and hugged Fatima, and the young woman embraced her.
“Women must stick together to take our place in the world of men,” Fatima said. “Thank you for taking the time with me and my sister to offer friendship.”
Monica nodded. “If we don’t have our breakfast, it will be cold.”
“And all we’ll have are our tears.”
“Sometimes those are the most satisfying.”
Yasmine stayed within the walls of her bedroom. Perhaps she’d think about Monica’s words and make a positive decision. Most of what she’d said to the young woman was what she kept telling herself about Liam.
MONICA STARED AT THE SUPERSTRUCTURESof the medical center jutting up against the sky as if reaching for God to notice them. Castles with fountains, blooming flowers, and expertly maintained landscaping. Those in the business of healing weren’t the only ones who needed wisdom.
The limos waited to turn into the hospital entrance. A car with two FBI agents followed close behind, and four HPD motorcycles flanked them. Monica wore an earbud to remain in contact with Kord and Ali. The morning looked fresh and typical, obscuring the reality of why she carried a weapon.
Medical personnel of all nationalities hurried inside the hospital, some wearing white jackets and others in scrubs. Plain-clothed people made their entrance too, and they received Monica’s inspection. She scrutinized everyone. Those who donned sunglasses, were alone, or looked Middle Eastern or Hispanic took double notice.
With armed guards on every side of the limo, only an idiotwould open fire. But a suicide bomber could step onto the scene and nothing would be left of the royal family and other innocent bystanders. The killer had already proven her daring. How soon before her successor took over?
The Mercedes limos parked in front of MD Anderson, and the prince exited in full Saudi dress. Kord had requested him to avoid the regalia, but the prince refused and wore his culture’s clothing as a symbol of pride—setting himself up as a target. As long as the pride didn’t get all of them killed. Prince Omar repeatedly put himself, his family, and those around him in danger. Monica couldn’t seem to wrap her head around that concept when it looked selfish. Self-sacrifice she understood.
Behind a fence of police officers, reporters snapped pics and shouted questions. She assumed they’d be missing out on the private, invitation-only press conference scheduled for later this afternoon.
Once inside the hospital, they waited for an elevator large enough to hold the entire group. She tapped her foot, watching. Always watching. Kord and Ali bored their gazes into every passerby.
“Miss Alden,” Prince Omar said, “would you pick up flowers for my mother? They’re at the Park Flower and Gift Shop. Ali arranged it, and his name is on the order.” Lines deepened across the prince’s forehead. His mother’s health must weigh heavily on his mind.
She breathed a silent prayer for him and his sisters. “Of course. Do you need anything else?”
“Not at this time.” Formal. Monotone.
“I’ll escort her,” Ali said. “It’s a large arrangement.”
No point in arguing. The elevator door opened and the group entered, except for Ali and Monica. They walked to the second floor of the main building.
“You look lovely,” Ali said.
She was wearing black pants, a high-necked blouse, and a black jacket. “Thank you.”
If Kord were in the elevator alone with Prince Omar, he’d sympathize with the prince’s apparent worry over his mother. Perhaps later when they were alone.
The elevator dinged at their floor. Prince Omar clenched his jaw, the anxiety of his mother’s deteriorating health combined with the crimes of late showing on his face.
“Fatima, can I use your phone?” Prince Omar said. “I left mine in the limo.” She handed him her phone. “I need to glue it to my clothes.” He laughed nervously.
“Amir, would you like me to retrieve it?” Wasi said.
