The peace of the woods had soon become shadowed by the growing frustration within him. Asadullah had been walking for an hour now - his Louis Vuitton shoes were tainted a moss green while his hands had small prick marks from the nettles. Making quick judgments was not his style, but it was fair to say that he already hated this place.

GPS had failed him and his mobile phone was nothing, but a wasteful gadget in this rebellious place. His father had definitely set him up - knowing Asadullah's lightning-fast temper was sure to be tried in a place that refused to accommodate someone like him. And he had been a fool - taking a job off his father's hands without doing his own research first. What an amateur mistake on his part.

The sweet sound of an engine drifted to his ears and he lifted his onyx colored eyes to the sky. A plane - chartered, no doubt was gliding beautifully through the slightly cloudy horizon. Asadullah caught the logo - the black panther stood out as he did in these lush green woods and only then did realization dawn upon him.

His father had not only set him up but had also sent competition his way. One of his half-brothers, no doubt Khalid - would be attempting to steal the deal with these bumpkins before he could. And then he would win favor with his father and the Black Panther Mafias . . . like hell, he would let anyone steal what was his.

Taking a sharp turn, Asadullah began to head back to the Forbidden Valley. At this point, he could not trust Fahad and Imad to do the job. No, they were far too lax - they would never understand the importance and the burden of taking this shoddy piece of land. They had never faced rivalry as he had - they had not become competitors with their own kin as he had.

Flocks of sheep bleated loudly halting him in his hurried trek. Two girls - dressed oddly and no doubt in the custom clothing of the tribe guided the sheep down the ridge by the side of the valley. For a few moments, he watched with mild fascination at the expert handling of the task, but then upturned his nose in repulsion when the smell of dung exploded the comforting smell of leaves and petrichor in the woods. Goddamn farmers.

"I wonder what happened now!" The whiny blonde commented. She seemed young - he estimated to have at least eight years on her. "Why must they signal the bells over something small? It always disturbs our chores!"

The other one did not comment - her face obscured by her golden halo of hair. Asadullah had traveled extensively throughout Pakistan, yet never had he come across such distinct features on his fellow countrymen. This place was full of surprises, it seemed.

"First it was the plane, now it is the bell! I think something is up, Nazli!"

Asadullah smirked knowingly. Of course - Fahad and Imad were likely causing a scene back in their pathetic shack-like houses. No doubt about it, although he secretly hoped that they had not done too much collateral damage. One or two would have done the job into scaring these oafs into handing over their land.

"Ruko! Nazli, who are those men? And by Allah, they have rifles in their hands!" Fear was practically emitting from her like a scent and he was evermore relieved. Once upon a time seeing fear on the faces of men as they would yield before him would bring him ecstasy like pleasure, but over the years that feeling had been snubbed down. The death of his mother had returned some of his humanity back.

"Jaldi! We should go straight to the stables! Hamza and Sikandar will be ready with our guns!" He watched eagle-eyed as they disappeared off to the side of the valley, stumbling over their long dresses. Hmm, so the yokels had rejected every other modern invention except guns. Asadullah couldn't help, but be slightly impressed. This meant they would not be easy and while that did not help his cause, he always loved a challenge. And on a plus side, Khalid would have little chance of winning them over anyway.

Fahad spotted him first - his aggressive turn of lips flattening into a confused frown. "Asad?"

He only held up a hand, his other reaching for his Colt handgun. "Salam!" He greeted with fake enthusiasm that was caught by the old man with a pakol hat. He stood before them - alone, but tall and strong - his shotgun poised perfectly in his withering hands. Again, Asadullah found himself impressed. His father had never partaken in a single battle of his own - always sending his sons to their death, yet this man . . .

"Kon ho tum? (Who are you?)" Deep baritone voice and smoldering dark navy eyes bared onto the three young men. Imad and Fahad exchanged wary glances, but their cousin stood with an equally challenging look on his face. Asadullah had been right to come back.

"Apko nahi pata? (Don't you know?)" With deliberation, he reloaded his handgun - an old tactic of instilling fear within his opponents. It did little in the case of this man, but Asadullah caught him shooting a worried glance towards the two girls who emerged from the stables - small guns in their hands too. Women and children, Asadullah thought, were always a source of weakness for a strong man.

"Mera Baba apko milne ayey thay. (My father came to visit you.)" He shifted slightly, itching threateningly in the direction of the two girls from before. The man became noticeably alarmed at his actions when he cocked his shotgun with a warning.

"Aur maine unhe inkaar kar diya tha! Aur tumhe bi inkaar kar raha hoon! (And I rejected his offer. And I am rejecting yours too!" Then the girl - the talkative ocean eyed one ran up to him - fire erupting in her orbs. When she stood beside the man, Asadullah caught the common resemblance.

"Get out of our land! Who the hell are you?" The other golden-haired one stood uncertainly off to a distance - less confident about approaching them. Asadullah waited like a panther for the momentary distraction that flittered on the old man's face at the girl's arrival before he swiped his hand around the petite caramel-haired girl.

"NAZLI!" She boomed, stepping forward in his direction before her grandfather could. Fahad, like his given birth name, was quick on his reflexes too. And as Asadullah expected, he imitated his actions when he captured the girl and placed his kukri knife on her pale neck.

The golden-haired girl or Nazli had not tensed as much when he had put his gun to her temple as she did now. She had struggled slightly before going still, but now her fighting spirit was emerging. Her jabs of the elbow were hardly painful as they hit him in the abs and he had an insane urge to laugh. He had earned an infamous reputation for being merciless that no one dared to show resistance before him anymore. Except for these peculiar nomads. Soon they will know of him too.

"Choro mujhe, harami khanzeer! (Leave me, bastard pig!)" Asadullah chuckled internally at the offended look that crossed Fahad's face. Beside him, his spitting image that went by the name Imad looked completely intrigued. An urge to suddenly drag out this whole ordeal enticed him, but his archenemy was waiting back at the hotel - no doubt waiting to spring upon his hard work.

"Akhri dafa soch lo. Main kal phir aata hoon. (Last chance to think again. I will come again tomorrow.)" The tribal leader merely narrowed his eyes at him, but indecision now clouded his visible anger from before. Good, Asadullah thought, the man was not like his father to put business before family. He would easily yield.

And just to show how serious he was, he dug his pistol into the girl's dainty temple. Breath whooshed out from her chest as she stiffened completely under his arm. "Mazaaq nahi hai yeh, mohtram. Mere das aadmi hi apke poore gaaon keh liye kaafi hain. (This is not a joke, mister. My ten men alone are enough to take care of your entire village.)"

With those final words, Asadullah shoved the girl away from him with disdain. She went crashing on the ground and to his surprise was not helped up by the old man. Instead, Asadullah watched with interest while walking away from them that he made a beeline for the loudmouthed brat when Fahad released her. Interestingly, he noted, as men and women emerged from within the small houses and crowded around the man and his granddaughter.

The other girl stood off to the side . . . forgotten. Somewhat like himself.