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received news that she had vanished. They would probably never find out what had happened to her.
    Her sister’s death had nearly broken their parents. Her own disappearance was sure to finish the job.
     
    THEIR TRUCK WAS second to last. Spike surveyed the men. They were underfed and tired. He figured at least a good hour’s ride to the foothills, then however long it would take them to get to camp. Not that he planned to allow things to go that far.
    Were he alone, he would have been tempted to let them take him to their caves, talk them into holding him for ransom, stick around until he could determine whether they had any ties to the terrorists. But he wasn’t alone, and he could see no positive outcome for Abigail once they reached the bandits’ camp. And he didn’t really have time to pursue a tenuous lead such as this, anyhow. Jamal Hareb was their best chance. They couldn’t afford any detours.
    He waited about twenty minutes, until the night and the rhythmic rattle of the truck over the sand soothed the men into complacency. He took a deep breath, ignoring the stench of unwashed bodies, and bent to scratch his ankle, retrieving a switchblade hidden in the sole of his ordinary-looking sandal.
    He straightened and leaned back in his seat, letting his eyelids drift closed. Two of the six men were sleeping; the rest were on the brink. Without opening his eyes, he put his arm on the back of the seat, as if trying to make himself more comfortable. He struck with the next big bump in the road, barely moving his hand. The man sitting between him and Abigail slumped down in his seat with a small groan that sounded like a snort. Nobody else moved. He pulled his blade from the man’s heart, mumbled as if in his sleep and turned toward his other side.
    That one made more noise than the first. Spike coughed, then held his breath as he watched the man’s head fall on the sleeping bandit’s shoulder next to him. He didn’t wake up. Nobody stirred in the near pitch dark.
    Two down, four to go. He wanted to take care of the ones who were awake first. They sat side by side, across from Abigail. Spike leaned toward them.
    “I have to relieve myself,” he said in a voice low enough not to wake the sleepers.
    “We’ll be there soon enough,” one of the men responded. He leaned forward as if he hadn’t caught the words.
    Then, before either of the men knew what was happening, he had his knife buried in the chest of one, the neck of the other broken in the crook of his arm. One of the rifles fell to the floor with a thud before he could catch it and woke the rest. Too late. He reached them in two steps.
    When he was done with the last man, he picked up one of the rifles and stepped over the bodies to get back to Abigail. “Get down.”
    No time to reassure her. She’d just have to deal with the situation. To her credit, she had stayed quiet the whole time and was now obeying his order, though her eyes were as round as a pair of quarters as she stared at him in shock.
    He shot through the cab’s back window, hitting the guy in the passenger seat first, then the driver. The truck veered sharply to the right but kept on going full speed, the dead man’s foot heavy on the gas pedal.
    “Hang on. Stay where you are.” He pulled the canvas aside, grabbed the metal bar then climbed out.
    A bullet went by so close, it moved his hair. More shots. He hoped none of them hit Abigail. He yanked the driver-side door open and pulled the man out. The truck slowed momentarily, but then he was in the seat, his feet shoved hard against the gas pedal.
    Yeah, baby. He grinned; he was in his element at last and loving the challenge of it. He kept his eyes on the road, what little of it he could see by his lone headlight and the half moon above.
    He managed to gain some distance from the truckload of bandits behind them, but not enough to be out of rifle range. The bandits were shooting up their vehicle as if they were in competition. And