A Sultan's Ransom

His eyes flashed violently. He gripped her hands so fast and tightly she dropped the jar of ointment.

“Paige.” His voice was rough, low. “I will get you out. I promise you that. On my life.”

She swallowed, suddenly unable to speak. The passion and ferocity in his grip, the brilliance in his eyes wrapped around her, flowed through her, sparked a hot thrill deep in her belly.

He pulled her to him. Shock and heat rippled through her as his lips moved over hers, hard, hungry, possessive.

A loud banging sounded on the door and he pulled back, his eyes flashing, breathing ragged. “Paige—” he touched her cheek “—before everything changes…” His eyes bored into hers. “No matter what happens, I will keep you safe. Believe in me.”

As a child in Africa, when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, Loreth said a spy…or a psychologist, or maybe marine biologist, archaeologist or lawyer. Instead she fell in love, traveled the world and had a baby. When she looked up again she was back in Africa, writing and editing news and features for a large chain of community newspapers. But those childhood dreams never died. It took another decade, another baby and a move across continents before the lightbulb finally went on. She didn’t have to grow up. She could be them all—the spy, the psychologist and all the rest—through her characters. She sat down to pen her first novel…and fell in love.

She currently lives with her husband, two daughters and their cats in a ski resort in the rugged Coast Mountains of British Columbia, where there is no shortage of inspiration for larger-than-life characters and adventure.

To Jo for her tireless support and inspiration.

To Irene for hauling me out onto the trails for much-needed breaks.

And as always, to my wise and wonderful editor,

Susan Litman.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

01:03 Charlie, Hamn, Thursday, October 2

Stars glittered in the vast Arabian sky, giving Rafiq Zayed just enough light to work without night scopes. Flint chinked against his shovel as he scraped sand from beneath the electrified perimeter fence that guarded the 12,000-acre laboratory compound.

The night had cooled, but he could smell the residual warmth of the day’s sun trapped in the deeper layers of desert sand. He could feel it rise softly against the skin he’d left exposed around his eyes. The rest of his face was hidden by a black turban he’d wound around his head, Bedouin-style. The camel he’d hobbled behind him snorted softly as it tugged at sparse tufts of dead grass.

A dog barked suddenly in the distance.

Rafiq stilled, listened. Waited.

A car door slammed somewhere and an engine started, the sound gradually dying into the distance. Then all was quiet again—that expansive hush peculiar to the desert, marred only by the distant murmur of ocean waves against sandstone cliffs.

He quickly secured the shovel to his camel bag, ready to refill the hole on his return. He could leave no sign that he had ever been here. The slightest mistake would alert the enemy and instantly trigger a biological attack on the United States. Millions would fall ill within hours, and then the violence would spread—people killing each other in a wave of pure murderous terror.

And it would only be a precursor, the first in a series of events designed to topple the U.S. government and seize control of the global economy.

He narrowed his eyes as he studied the massive black Nexus Research and Development Corporation laboratory complex in the distance. The antidote, the answer to it all, lay somewhere in those buildings in this secure U.S. corporate compound on Ham

He squashed himself flat, wriggled through the hole. Once on the other side, he dusted sand from his tunic and consulted his watch. The soft green glow showed he had about three hours of complete darkness left, max.

He hunkered down and ran low over the sand, his hand primed to grasp the jambiya at his waist at the slightest sign of movement in the night shadows.

Dr. Paige Sterling worked with customary slow and calculated movements, air hissing gently through the yellow hose that plugged into the back of her bright blue biohazard suit. The inside of her suit smelled faintly like the inside of a new plastic bucket, and her flexible helmet restricted her peripheral vision. But she was in her comfort zone—the Biosafety Level 4 lab where she routinely handled pathogens for which there was no known cure. Here, no task could be rushed. Every action had to be measured, because one slip would mean death.

This was her kind of science, gut-checking, high-stakes work that required a level head and laser focus at all times. This is where Paige did preemptive research that she hoped would help save lives one day, and it took a particular personality to work regularly in maximum containment like this, an ability that far exceeded mere scientific competence. Paige prided herself in being such a personality, and her knack for maintaining her cool in the hot zone was a trait she carried well beyond the lab and into her personal life.