The vehicle drove away.
I finished and admired my work. The weld was smooth—almost too smooth—and mated the two pieces of tie rod in an unbreakable union. Much better than any weld Dmitri ever produced. Of course, my packmate Dmitri hadn’t had magic to help.
I listened for another vehicle, but nothing was coming. I scooted out from under the SUV and stood. A rain of dust and dirt dropped from my frame. Sweat made my T-shirt cling to my body.
Manny gaped for a second, then turned away. He was learning not to stare at the alpha.
Mike smiled as I handed him back his sunglasses. “We’ll change the tire. You rest for a minute and clean up.”
“Clean up? With what?” asked Manny. “She needs a long soak in degreaser.”
I pulled my magic cleaning cloth from my purse. “I have some wet wipes here.”
I wiped off my hands and arms, the cloth eating up every bit of dirt, grease, and grime. A swish through my hair dislodged most of the sand, grit, and sweat.
For Manny’s sake, I turned away as I lifted the T-shirt up to wipe down my torso.
In seconds, except for the T-shirt and pants, I was clean. Manny gaped in disbelief.
By the time I was done, Mike had changed the tire and lowered the SUV. He made quick work of putting the ruined tire and the tools away.
Mike held out his hand. “Can I use that cloth?”
“Sure. But be careful, it’s tough on clothes.”
Mike nodded and used the cloth to clean his hands and arms. When he finished, he snapped it open as if shaking out dirt. The pristine white cloth gleamed.
“That’s not possible,” said Manny. His voice was pitched higher and he spoke too quickly. Seeing too many unbelievable things at once tended to panic humans.
“Sure it is, Manny,” said Mike. “It’s magi—”
11
“It’s called Magic Cloth,” I interrupted. Forcing Manny to confront magic might send him screaming into the desert. “It’s brand new in the US. Impregnated with some kind of super-soap.”
“Magic Cloth,” said Mike. “Yes, that’s what it’s called. Very handy.”
Mike finished his wipe-down and started to hand the cloth back.
“Hey, you missed a spot,” he said, then raised the cloth to wipe my face. He froze at my glare.
I tamped down the anger at being treated like a child. He was just trying to help. “I’ve got it, thanks,” I said as I grabbed the cloth.
While I wiped my face again, Manny and Mike began to argue quietly about who would drive. It was obvious Manny was having difficulty seeing at night.
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll drive.”
Both Mike and Manny shook their heads violently. “No way,” said Manny.
“Why not? I’m a good driver, I have excellent night vision, and I’m not tired.”
“It’s not that, Luna,” said Manny. “Women can’t drive in this country. Putting you in the driver’s seat will ensure we get pulled over. It’s either me or Mike.”
“This mission is getting harder and harder to handle,” I said. “Okay, Mike. You’re the driver.”
“You’re the boss,” said Mike.
“Boss?” echoed Manny. At my glare, he shut up and climbed into the passenger side of the Suburban.
Finally, we were on the road again. Manny pulled down the visor on the passenger side, revealing a built-in mirror. He stared at my reversed image.
“You need to get dressed, boss,” he said sarcastically. “There’ll be a lot more traffic once we get close to Riyadh.”
I gave him a nasty look, but he was right. I pulled the abaya over my head and squirmed around until it covered my body.
“Put the headpiece on too. Make sure none of your hair is visible.”
A few more minutes of fumbling with the strange garments and I had the head-cover on. I pulled the attached veil up and started to tuck it in.
Manny said, “No, leave your face uncovered. Western women aren’t supposed to cover their faces here.”
“They want to see my face, but not my hair or body?”
“That’s right.”
Manny rummaged in the center console and pulled out some documents. “When Mike messaged me, I got these made up for you.”
He handed back a small passport-sized booklet with a maroon cover. “That’s your Iqama. You have to have it with you at all times.”
I opened the booklet and found a photo of me, wearing a head-covering. All the writing was in Arabic. At my puzzled expression, Manny clarified, “Every foreigner in the country has to have one of these. They’re like internal passports.”
“Where did you get my photo?”
“Mike sent it and my guy photoshopped it onto the document,” he replied.
He handed another Iqama of the same color to Mike, and I slid mine into my invisible purse for safekeeping.
Manny pulled out a larger document and showed it to Mike.
“What’s that?” Mike asked.
Manny took it back and unfurled the paper. It was covered in Arabic writing with a lot of colorful embellishments.
“Mike, Luna, I now pronounce you man and wife,” Manny said with a laugh. “Welcome to a life of servitude.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I asked. “Mike and I aren’t married.”
“Maybe not, but women aren’t allowed to travel alone in Saudi Arabia,” said Manny. “A woman must always have a man from her family with her. So we get these certificates made. We call them ‘desert marriages.’”
Mike had caught my tone. “It’s all fake,” he said, “but they’re real enough to avoid trouble. Try to think of these documents as part of our cover story.”
“Okay, it’s an act. Just remember, I’m definitely not a method actor.”
Manny looked at Mike, who gave him a head shake to indicate this was a sore point with me. Manny shrugged and turned his attention to the dark desert.
I fastened my seatbelt and tried to rest. It was hard to calm my racing thoughts in this new place. Every new scent drew my attention, every new sound jerked me awake, and the difference in the
