Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
“Fuck her.” Noor squeals, clawing frantically behind her, yet powerless at fetching the hammer gouging her spine. “Fuck herrrr!”
“Yeah, fuck her,” I mutter. Then, with more conviction, I shout, “Still, I gave my word! A royal to a commoner, and now she’s dead because I’m in control, and I didn’t say she could harm either of you.” I reach down and unhook the hammer from Noor’s flesh. “No, no, your death will be on my hands only.”
“Fu-fuck you,” Noor groans, turning her face in the sand to spit up blood. The vehicle’s lights fan out in this area, and I relish the sight of how her life source stains the pure-white sand.
“I intended to shoot you first, then her.” I run a hand over my face. “Albeit, that’s mercy. You’d not deserve mercy even if you spent the next decade tossing all your riches to the poor.”
I fall to my knees next to Noor as her father screams, “Do not touch my daughter!”
Holding the steel of the hammer in my fist, I poke the torn flesh of Noor’s vertebrae.
Having myself a laugh, I retort, “Tell your father the truth, Noor. I never touched you. Even after you sucked my cock so enthusiastically.” I push the soiled handle to her lips, painting the thick curve of her mouth red.
“Don’t you fucking touch my daughter,” the sheikh shouts, continuing to labor his forearms into the sand to slither over.
I hold my hands up. “See, Al Rafi? I’ve no desire to place a single digit on this lying cunt.”
“Noor . . . Noor . . .” Though his legs are crushed, Al Rafi desperately calls to his daughter, snaking closer a mere inch at a time.
The girl who only loved herself whimpers in pain.
A short while later, the first light of morning severs the dark bonds of night. I sit on the ground next to Noor, observing the streams of tears that run rivers through the sand caked on her face.
Her father has finally slithered his way to her. A red trail is left in his wake. He hooks an arm around her waist. While he prays and asks me for forgiveness and their lives, there’s no crack in her facade.
The vile creature cries her poisonous tears with a mouth pinched in fury.
I run my knuckles against my mouth. “Al Rafi, I do believe you’re the lesser of two evils.”
“Please, please, spare us.”
I second guess insulting him, captivated by a flurry of buzzards collecting off in the distance. They squawk, awaiting my leave.
I rise.
“Victor,” Al Rafi snarls. “Save my daughter. At least her.”
“Save my child,” I mutter.
His brows tug in confusion.
“You can’t. You don’t have the capital or the power. I’m not God. You’re not either.” I salute him and back up a few paces.
The space prompts the vultures to close the distance between themselves and the two harpies. Once the screaming commences, I head back toward the truck.
Something compels me to view the harrowing and graphic scene through my rifle.
I pull it out of the trunk, dragging the two bodies out, then head back over.
“You’re so loud!” I shout.
The birds turn their heads, momentarily caught off guard, then they’re engrossed in tearing the flesh of Al Rafi and Noor.
Like I had as a young lad with my father, I glimpse through the scope. Silas had a black eye for me anytime I was too fascinated with nature to address his designated mark.
“Wow,” I mutter as a buzzard tosses a piece of skin in the air, only to open its beak and devour it whole.
Where I had painted Noor’s mouth in her own blood, a bird caws at her there. Through the sniper rifle, I observe its neb puncturing her top lip. Its beak shears the area clear off, delighting in the taste of her.
Soon, both the princess’s and her father’s cries run dry from exhaustion, dehydration, or death. I pick them off with my sniper rifle—clean, marvelous shots straight through their eyes.
26
Luxury
I don’t sleep. Not anymore. Insomnia has rid me of nightmares. I spend this time in contemplation and harassing Burt when another idea comes to fruition, such as inputting Victor’s photo in some sort of facial recognition software or hacking all the satellites in Saudi Arabia.
He shoots every suggestion down.
“What if Al Rafi becomes aware that someone’s searching for Victor in his territory? It would put Victor in danger.” All of Burt’s what-ifs vastly diverge from mine.
My what-ifs are hopeful.
What if Victor’s somewhere with amnesia.
What if Vic has moved on and this house was a peace offering.
At least, that what-if spares his life.
Tonight, I’ve holed myself up in the bedroom that Victor and I shared for a brief time. A gorgeous room where neither of us touched each other.
Not once.
I locked myself in tonight and placed the dresser in front of the door. Pathetic. Yup. Convenient. Yes, definitely. It will stop me from ruining Burt’s sleep with another what-if. Or interrupting calls with his great-aunt. He hung up quickly during one instance.