Down Range. Lindsay McKenna

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      Saafir hated secret meetings. They reeked of corruption and backroom deals that had no place in Qamsar’s government. At least, not anymore. Saafir’s brother, the former emir, had abdicated the throne when it was revealed that his fiancée was allied with a terrorist network. As the second oldest male of his father’s recognized lineage, Saafir was next in line for the throne. He’d been thrown into the position of emir, and he had made it his policy to be open and honest. Anything less and he would break the already shaky faith of his countrymen and be ousted.

      “These are the files you requested, your excellency,” Frederick said, handing Saafir a folder thick with its contents. “There are a number of them to go through.”

      Saafir opened the folder. His advisor and friend’s assessment was an understatement. Dozens of profiles to review, and he had to pick the right one.

      Saafir’s position was precarious, holding together the three political factions of the Assembly with the Conservatives, the Progressives and the Loyalists. The Conservatives, with Rabah Wasam leading them, believed Saafir and his entire family should be cast out of the ruling seat they had held for over two hundred years for taking a reformist stance on culture and the economy. Saafir’s personal history with Wasam didn’t help matters.

      The Progressives were distrustful of Saafir, viewing him as no better than his brother, who’d tried to keep social change from taking hold in Qamsar. Only members of the Loyalists party stood steadfast at his side, although Saafir had heard murmurs of dissension. Threats of violent revolution were a weekly occurrence. Saafir didn’t want civil war, and he was working against extreme rhetoric, polarizing positions and unrealistic demands.

      Saafir had never wanted to be the emir. He had been raised to believe that position would belong to Mikhail. Saafir had made decisions about his life based on not being in the spotlight. But the laws of Qamsar were clear. Saafir had inherited the throne, the title and the responsibilities.

      He sat in his private library inside his compound in Qamsar with two of the country’s most powerful men, both members of the Loyalist party, discussing a bizarre and uncomfortable topic: his wife. Or lack thereof. His lack of wife presented a political opportunity. Once a trade agreement with America was in place, a marriage to one of the daughters of a leader of the Conservative party would seal the trust between them and the royal family. With the Loyalists and Conservatives united, and if Saafir could forge a successful trade agreement with America to please the Progressives, they’d move the small desert Middle Eastern country in a forward direction and give the economy and the culture a chance for growth.

      The candidate list was long, and the profiles were detailed. Frederick laid out each one, a photograph and a written profile, like resumes from job applicants. Each was pretty and from a prominent Qamsarian family. Saafir hated to choose a wife this way. A picture and resume spoke nothing of who each woman was, only of what they had done and their credentials, as if being his wife were a job. In some ways, he supposed it was. He hoped whoever was chosen was happy with the match. Being the emir’s wife came with benefits—wealth, power and prestige—but in the current environment, many drawbacks. The uncertainty swirling around the royal family, a husband who was busy and traveled often and little privacy weren’t part of the hopes and dreams of many women.

      Saafir didn’t know a single one of them, and he knew none of them would have his heart. Frederick pressed on, oblivious to Saafir’s discomfort and unhappiness.

      “We’ve arranged the women in order of preference. Some women provide benefits over the others,” Frederick said.

      Benefits. Not love. Never love. As long as he could form an amicable, mutually beneficial relationship with a woman and they could tolerate each other long enough to have children, it didn’t matter to Saafir who was selected. The best woman for the position was the one who provided something his flailing country needed.

      “You don’t have to do this, Saafir,” the third man said. “You should not do this.”

      The third man did not sit at the table with Saafir and Frederick. He stood in the shadows near the doorway, leaning against the wall with a lazy sense of ease. Saafir knew nothing was further from the truth. Saafir had known Adham since their time together in the military, and his head of security was anything but lazy and never at ease. He could explode into action at a moment’s notice. He’d already thwarted four assassination attempts on Saafir’s life since Saafir had become the emir.

      “I have to do this,” Saafir said. “Qamsar needs me to do this.”

      Frederick nodded his agreement. “The people want to see a married emir with a growing brood of children. It will give them a sense of security and clarify the line of succession.”

      “Only a fool marries for anything other than love,” Adham said. “You will resent any woman you choose for not loving you. She will resent you for using her as a political tool. You will only find sorrow in this.”

      “I will remind you that you are speaking to the emir,” Frederick said to Adham, glaring at the larger man, trying to silence him. Saafir gave Frederick points for courage. Few had the mettle to openly disagree with Adham.

      “I am glad Adham speaks his mind, but in this case, it doesn’t change the facts. Love is a luxury an emir cannot afford,” Saafir said.

      “Did your father love your mother?” Adham asked.

      The words were daggers to Saafir’s chest. His parents’ arranged marriage had resulted in a love match that had lasted until his father’s death. His mother and father had been lucky to be given to each other.

      Saafir’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shattering glass. Something had been hurled through the large window on the far side of the room. Saafir dropped to the ground, pulling Frederick with him.

      Adham raced to Saafir’s side. He and Saafir turned the table on its side to create a barrier against whatever may follow. In the process, Frederick’s organized files scattered like party confetti. Adham covered Saafir with his body.

      Saafir craned his neck to look at the object that had come through his study window.

      It was a brick, not a bomb. “Move, Adham,” Saafir said, pushing his friend aside.

      Adham was speaking commands into his comm device as he moved to investigate the brick that had come through the window, peeling a piece of paper from around it. “Nibal, take the south side. See if you can catch the perpetrator. Jafar, check the security footage.”

      Saafir raced to the window, taking cover to the side, and peered out. A black hooded figure was racing across the grounds. Adham reached for his gun and Saafir touched Adham’s arm, stopping him. “We will not respond with lethal force.” Escalating the situation by killing the perpetrator, likely a member of the Conservative party, netted them nothing but higher tensions and added more fuel to the fire.

      “We have to strike back and show strength,” Adham said.

      “I have no interest in starting a war,” Saafir said.

      “Then let me start it,” Adham said.

      Adham’s response time was fast, but he needed to let cooler heads prevail. Striving for peace wasn’t a weakness. “Let me see the note,” Saafir said.

      Adham handed it to him. What was it this time?

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