“So, we’ll talk later,” Mikhail promised. Not caring what the guests milling around thought, he wrapped Kamar into his arms. Squeezing him, he pressed his lips to Kamar’s ear. “We’ll get through this. Don’t worry.”

Moving back, he brushed his lips against Kamar’s cool cheek and then he turned to follow General Ishmael into their waiting car. Kamar had arrived with his father, and there was no point of him leaving now with Mikhail. Besides, it was better they spent the night apart. Mikhail had a plan, and he’d rather not have Kamar lingering by to dissuade him from it.

“General, may I have a word with you?”

Without glancing back at him from the front seat, Ishmael said, “Sure. We’ll enjoy a little snack at my home.”

They arrived at the General’s home. It, too, was gated. However, it wasn’t as ostentatiously built as Kofi’s residence or the Prime Minister’s. There was a subtle wealth to it. Right now Mikhail appreciated their having a secure place to speak. Also a place that didn’t remind him of Kofi and his smarmy, secretive half-smiles…

“Wine?” Ishmael offered.

Mikhail declined. He needed a clear head for what he had to tell him. “I need your help, General.”

“Of course you do, Malik. Or is it safe to call you Mikhail now?” Ishmael’s gaze was warm, reminding Mikhail he’d chosen the right person to confide in. Just like he sensed something was off about Kofi, his gut had told him to trust in General Ishmael. “How is your brother, by the way?”

“Good. Actually, that’s why I wanted to speak with you, and so urgently.” Mikhail glanced around the cozy office. Ishmael had led him in here as soon as they entered his home. He had closed the door after them. Save for the butler who had entered with a plate of steaming, sweetly-smelling samosas, they were left to converse in private.

Elbows propped on his arm rests, Ishmael leaned back into the high, cushioned back of his snow white recliner. A fire crackled in the hearth to their left. The fire glow illuminated Ishmael’s softening gaze as Mikhail spilled his guts to him. It took some time, but Mikhail finally rounded out to make his point.

“And that’s why we need the weapons,” he said, elbows balancing on his knees and fingers locking together in between his legs. “Can you help us?”

For someone who was just told that there was a rebellion under his defense department’s supervision, General Ishmael maintained his calming air. He sipped at his wine, his hand reaching for his fourth—or was that fifth?—samosa since the start of Mikhail’s long-winded explanation.

“If what you say is true about Kofi’s being assigned to round up the thieves, then you’re all in trouble.” The General popped his samosa in his mouth, he chewed languidly, and swallowing noisily then, he licked his fingers. Seeing that it wasn’t what Mikhail wanted to hear, he said, “That is, unless I take you up on your offer.”

“Will you?” Mikhail heard the pleading note in his voice. Usually he’d be wary about showing his interest when making a deal, but all he could see at the moment was Kamar’s worried face as they left Kofi’s house.

Nodding, Ishmael said, “I’ll help. It won’t be easy though.”

Mikhail sagged back with relief.

He was so elated that he almost missed what Ishmael was saying. “Kofi didn’t get his fast promotion to the top without earning it. He’s dedicated to his work,” the General told him. “That sort of dedication leads a man to do dangerous things. It’s not unlike what you’ve done here tonight.”

“I…This means a lot to Kamar,” Mikhail confessed. “So, it means a lot to me too. I’m in your debt, General.”

“Another few crates of fruit should do it,” the General said, eyes twinkling. “What is your plan to get your weapons over?”

Mikhail massaged his jaw. “Actually, I’m thinking of using the fruit as cover. I get deliveries every week, and the crates are never too much to cause suspicion. It should be easy to do. Slow and steady.”

“I’ll make sure you’re covered at the border then.”

Standing, the General and Mikhail shook hands. Mikhail departed, refusing a ride to the inn. What he wanted now was the cool night air biting his face as he walked home. Passively admiring the stillness of the midnight hour in Zhebair’s capital, Mikhail tipped his head and took in the sight of the silver moon.

Wishing he could enjoy this view with Kamar, he promised he would make that happen soon. Once this whole ordeal with the Prime Minister’s witch hunt of the thieving rebels ended, Mikhail would confess to Kamar. He would bare his heart and wait for Kamar to crush it…or love him back.

On the way to the inn, Mikhail stopped by his stall.

He stopped because he noticed a figure lurking in the dark behind his shop.

“Who’s there?” Mikhail called; his voice sharp and clear in the still night.

The figure froze, prompting Mikhail to stop moving in the direction of the stall. His hands closing into fists at his side, Mikhail waited with bated breath. It was this intruder’s first move.

And he moved, all right. He moved too fast. One second he was farther back in the stall, the next he was a black blur leaping over the tarp-covered table where Mikhail and Ali arrayed their fruit. Landing like a cat, the black-clad figure unsheathed a machete and held it at the ready in front of his chest.

Mikhail couldn’t believe it. It was the rider from the desert. The same man Mikhail had knocked out before escaping with Kamar.

Realizing he had nothing on him in way of arms, and doubtful that he’d let him near enough before slashing off a limb with that machete, Mikhail fell back.

“I don’t want trouble,” he warned.

The black-clad rider stalked forward, his light brown eyes glowing in the silver-light of the moon. Clearly trouble was exactly what he had in his mind as he cornered Mikhail with the mean-looking machete.

Darting to the side, Mikhail flinched as the air whistled from the machete. The rider had swung it fiercely, the blade scraping and gouging the wall of the building Mikhail had been leaning on. Like a professional, the rider spun and lunged, leaping forward like an agile dancer.

Mikhail had enough time to duck and roll, his side smashing into the stall of the spice merchant beside his fruit stall. The table wobbled with the blow, but it remained upright. At least it did until the rider lunged again.

Grunting, Mikhail pushed the table over. He went down too, but it gave him enough space on the floor. For a second he was senseless, wondering how he’d survive.

Then the rider loomed over him and Mikhail struck out, the bottom of his boot smashing into his assailant’s shin. With a loud pained groan, the rider bore the machete down, his palm on the tip of the pommel giving him momentum. Mikhail lifted his leg and aimed just right, his foot colliding with the rider’s hand.

The blade cracked out of his hold, sailing to the side and clattering on the pavement by Mikhail’s fruit stall.

Clutching his injured hands and groaning loudly, the rider backed away. They stared each other down, Mikhail slowly standing to level the field. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Mikhail spat.

“I told you I don’t want trouble,” Mikhail said.

“Pack up and leave, merchant,” the rider’s gravelly voice broke off for a growl. At first, Mikhail didn’t think he heard right. By the time he processed that the rider had, indeed, spoken, the standoff ended.

With a parting hateful glare, the rider dropped his hands and sprinted to his machete. Once again he agilely hopped over Mikhail’s table into his stall. Not liking that he’d headed that way, Mikhail followed him. Finding neither hide nor hair of his assailant, and surmising that he must have slipped through the alleys and out of sight, Mikhail surveyed the mess all around him.

The stall had been ransacked. His safe tampered with and opened, and his business papers scattered about the floor.

“Shit,” Mikhail muttered. As he stooped down to clean up the mess, he winced and clutched his side. Lifting his suit jacket and drawing out his tucked-in dress shirt, Mikhail’s cool fingers skimmed the sensitive, inflamed flesh above his hip hinting at the beginnings of bad bruising.

“Shit,” he said again, the only word befitting the crap storm that had just touched down.