Sandstorm

12:13 P.M.

OMAHA HUNCHEDlow in his seat and kicked again at the divider that separated him from the taxi driver. His heels struck with no effect. It was like kicking steel. Bulletproof glass. He slammed an elbow against the side window in frustration.

Trapped. Kidnapped.

“They’re still following us,” Danny said, nodding behind them to the trailing BWM sedan, fifty yards back. Shadowy figures could be seen filling the front and rear seats.

The taxi rode through a residential area of stucco-and-stone homes, all painted in various shades of white. The sun’s reflection was blinding.

The other car kept pace behind them.

Omaha faced forward again. “Leyh?” he spat out in Arabic. “Why?”

The driver continued to ignore them, stoic and silent, wending his way through the narrow streets with deft skill.

“We need to get out of here,” Omaha said. “Take our chances in the streets.”

Danny had turned his attention to his door, staring at the side panel. “ Ton coup-ongles ? Omaha.” His brother was speaking French-clearly attempting to keep the driver from eavesdropping. Danny held out his hand, low, away from the direct view of the driver.

Omaha fished in a pocket. What did Danny think to accomplish with his coupe-ongles ? Fingernail clippers? He asked in French, “You planning on clipping your way out of here?”

Danny did not look back, only cocked his head forward. “That bastard up there has us locked in by using the child protection feature of the car. Meant to keep kids from opening the back door.”

“So?”

“So we’re going to use the same safety features to get us out.”

Omaha pulled out the fingernail clipper from his pocket. It hung from his keys. He passed it to Danny, who palmed it.

“What are you-”

Danny shushed him, flipped open the clippers, and extracted the tiny nail file. “Magazines reported on the sensitivity of the Mercedes’s safety systems. Had to be careful even when removing the access panel.”

Access panel?

Before he could ask aloud, Danny turned to him. “How soon do you want to make a break for it?”

Right now would be good, Omaha thought. But then up ahead, a large open-air souk, or market, appeared. He motioned low. “Up there would be perfect. We could get lost in the shops. Shake loose the others following in the BMW.”

Danny nodded. “Be ready.” He leaned back, straightening. The nail file poised under three imprinted letters on the sill of the passenger window:SRS

Safety restraint system

“Air bags?” Omaha asked, forgetting to speak in French this time.

“Side air bags,” Danny concurred. “When any of the bags deploy, as a safety feature, all the locks disengage to allow outside emergency rescuers access to the vehicle.”

“So you’re going to-”

“We’re almost at the souk,” Danny hissed.

The driver slowed the Mercedes as it passed the entrance to the market, cautious of the bustle of midday shoppers.

“Now,” Omaha murmured.

Danny jabbed the nail file under the SRS panel and savagely dug around, like a dentist struggling with a stubborn molar.

Nothing happened.

The sedan slid past the souk, picking up speed.

Danny leaned in closer, swearing under his breath. A mistake. With a pop of a firecracker, the side air bag ejected, smacking Danny in the face and knocking his head back with its sucker punch.

An alarm sounded in the car. The driver braked.

Danny blinked, holding his nose. Blood dripped from under his fingers.

Omaha did not have time to check further. He reached past his brother and yanked the door handle. It fell open, the lock releasing. Thank God for fine German engineering.

Omaha shoved. “Out!” he yelled.

Dazed, Danny half rolled and half fell out of the backseat, Omaha pushing from behind. They landed on the pavement and tumbled a few feet. The slowing car slipped on ahead, then slammed to a stop.

Omaha scrambled to his feet, hauling Danny up with one arm, his strength fueled by fear. They were only steps from the market’s entrance.

But the BMW sped forward-then fishtailed as it braked at the market.

Omaha sprinted, Danny in tow.

Three doors popped open. Dark figures, masks pulled over their heads, jammed out. Pistols appeared in flashes of polished platinum. One rifle swung through the air.

Omaha reached the edge of the souk and bounced aside a woman bearing a basket full of bread and fruit. Loaves and dates flew high.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and danced into the market. Danny kept to his heels, his face bloody from the nose down. Broken?

They fled down the center aisle. The souk spread out in a labyrinthine maze. Reed roofs sheltered carts and booths, laden with bolts of silk and Kashmiri cotton, bushels of pomegranates and pistachio nuts, iced bins of crab and whitefish, barrels of pickles and coffee beans, swaths of fresh-cut flowers, flats of breads, slabs of dried meats. The air steamed from grease stoves, sizzling with spices that burned the eyes. Alleyways reeked of goat and sweat. Others were redolent with a cloying sweetness. Incense and honey.

And crowded within this maze pressed throngs of folk from throughout Arabia and beyond. Faces of every shade flashed past, eyes wide, some behind veils, most not. Voices chased them in dialects of Arabic, Hindu, and English.

Omaha fled with Danny through the rainbow and the noise, darting right and left, serpentine, then straight. Were the pursuers behind them? In front? He had no way of knowing. All he could do was keep moving.

In the distance, the ah-woo, ah-woo of the Omani police force crested over the cacophony of the crowd. Help was coming…but could they last long enough to take advantage?

Omaha glanced behind him as they danced down a long straight narrow bazaar. At the other end, a masked gunman appeared, head radar-dishing around. He was easy to spot as folk fled in all directions, opening space around him. He seemed to hear the police. Time was running out for him, too.

Omaha was not going to make it easy. He dragged Danny, flowing with the rush of the crowd. They rounded a corner and ducked into a booth selling reed baskets and clay pots. The robed proprietor took one look at Danny’s bloody face and waved them out, barking in Arabic.

It would take some skill in communication to gain sanctuary here.

Omaha yanked out his wallet and laid out a row of fifty-rial bills. Ten in all. The salesman glanced down the line, one eye squinted. To barter or not to barter? Omaha reached to gather the bills back up, but a hand stopped him.

“Khalas!” the old man declared, waving them down. Deal done!

Omaha crouched behind a stack of baskets. Danny took a position in the shadow of a large red earthenware pot. It was large enough for his brother to hide inside of. Danny pinched his nose, trying to stop the bleeding.

Omaha peered out into the alleyway. The patter of sandals and swish of robes ebbed after a few breaths. A man stepped to the corner, his masked face hurriedly searching all four points of the compass. The police sirens closed toward the souk. The gunman’s head cocked, tracking them. He would have to abandon the search or risk being caught.

Omaha felt a surge of confidence.

Until his brother sneezed.