“What do you want?” Dr. Phillips says, his tone devoid of the authority it usually carries. His fear ratchets up my own, and I squeeze my hands hard enough to leave little crescent-shaped indentations in my palms.
The tent flap opens as a single shot pierces the night, and behind a man clad all in brown holding an AK-47, Dr. Phillips crumples to the ground, blood streaming from his head, his eyes open and fixed on me.
No. Ray. We’re dead. We’re all dead.
“You. Up,” the man with the gun says, gesturing at me. “Now.”
I can’t move. Mia and Ivy tremble on either side of me. The scent of blood fills my nose, and my vision wavers as the man strides forward, grabs my arm, and yanks me to my feet.
“Please!” I cry. “Don’t hurt us! We’re doctors! We just want to help!”
He propels me out of the tent where four other men—each holding one of the massive guns—wait. One of them takes the flaps of my white vest and rips them open, spinning me around and jerking it down my arms before tossing it away. A second man approaches with a bunch of dark blue fabric clutched in his massive hands, and he throws something at me. “Put this on or we do it for you.”
No, no, no…. I can hear Jefe’s voice in my head as he forces me to the ground in that railcar all those years ago, and my inability to move in the present earns me a smack to the face.
“Now!”
Ivy and Mia are dragged from the tent behind me, still holding on to one another. The men whisper amongst themselves, gesturing to them as I pull the dark abaya over my head. It hides my body from my neck to my feet, the sleeves easily four inches too long.
Our attackers pull two more abayas from a duffel bag and thrust them at Ivy and Mia. The girls look to me, and I wish I could offer them some sort of comfort. But I can’t. “Do what they say.”
One by one, they grab our hands and secure our wrists in front of us with duct tape, then tug the sleeves of our abayas lower so no one can see the dark gray bindings. Tears stream down my cheeks, and the tallest of our attackers uses a thick strip of scratchy, black material to gag me, then covers my entire head with a full-face scarf. The boshiya’s material is only sheer enough to see through over my eyes, and to anyone looking, I’m nothing more than a native woman in full, traditional dress. One who’s unable to talk or move her arms.
They’re hiding us. So no one will know we’re in trouble.
Dr. Philips, Mark, one of the physician’s assistants, and our two bodyguards lie dead, bullet wounds to their heads and chests leaving dark pools of blood oozing into the sandy soil.
As I’m dragged down the road away from our makeshift camp, my sobs and my heartbeat roaring in my ears obliterate all other sounds.
My thoughts race all the way to a waiting van, a good two kilometers away.
They didn’t kill us. Because we’re women. Because…they’re going to sell us.
Panic locks my muscles, and as I’m shoved onto a bench in the back, I can do nothing but cry silently, and wonder if this time, I could find a way to die rather than endure the horrors of being brutalized yet again.
I don’t know how long we’ve been in this van. Sun streams through the front windshield now, high in the sky, so we’ve been driving for at least eight or nine hours.
Ivy and Mia are huddled together across from me. We’ve all stopped crying—though the occasional sob breaks through the drone of the engine. One of our captors is next to me, the other next to Ivy, and the last two in the front seats.
My bladder sends sharp pains from my stomach down my legs, my shoulders ache, and my eyes are swollen and gritty. There’s no air conditioning, but the front windows are open, so at least there’s a hint of a breeze. I’m covered in sweat, dehydrated, and dizzy. Ivy and Mia wriggle, apparently also desperate to relieve themselves, and whimper softly.
The man in the passenger seat says something in a language I don’t understand, and the driver grunts an agreement. It’s not Turkmen. I think…maybe it’s Pashto, which given that we’re driving south, probably means they’re from Afghanistan.
A few minutes later, the van rolls to a stop, and the man at my side gets to his feet, opens the back door, and motions to me to exit.
Oh God.
So many different possibilities run through my mind as I scoot to the edge of the bench and try not to fall on my face as I climb out. Ivy and Mia follow. Full-Beard—what I’ve named the man—yanks my sleeves up and then cuts the tape around my wrists. He points to a stand of sad trees maybe fifty feet away. “Piss. You run, they die.” No-Beard, the driver, holds a pistol to Ivy’s head—at least I think that’s Ivy. With their faces covered, I can’t be sure. They’re almost the same height.
Stumbling over the rocks and dried grasses, I make it to the trees, hike up my abaya, pull down my pants, and squat. My God, I’ve never felt anything so wonderful except maybe my first shower after the police rescued me from Jefe.
But when I get back to the road, Full-Beard tapes my wrists again before letting Ivy, then Mia visit the tree. As they usher us back towards the van, I pantomime water—or try—and Full-Beard grumbles something to No-Beard, who rummages up front and returns with three bottles.
“In the back,” Full Beard says. He doesn’t say another word until we’re all seated again and the doors have sealed us inside. Only then does he pull off my boshiya, remove my gag, and hand me the bottle. “Quick, quick, quick.”
Afraid this is the only chance I’ll have to drink for another half a day, I suck down the whole bottle. It’s warm, but I don’t care. Please don’t let me get sick, I pray as Full-Beard slaps the empty bottle out of my bound hands, gags me again, and re-covers my head. The van doesn’t start moving until Ivy and Mia have had their water, and then we’re bouncing down the rutted road, and I can only focus on one question.
What happens when we get to where we’re going?
Not more than an hour later, we reach some sort of checkpoint. The van slows to a stop, and No-Beard exchanges words with someone out the driver’s side window. Their voices turn angry, and next to me, Full-Beard jabs a pistol into my side. “You make a sound, you will pay.”
The back doors open, and a man in a light brown uniform with a pistol strapped to his hip peers inside. “Who are they?” he asks in Turkmen, gesturing to us.
Full-Beard replies with a string of words I don’t understand, and I wish the uniformed man could see my eyes. I’m pleading silently with him to realize something is off. In English, probably to reinforce just how helpless we are in this state, Full-Beard announces that we are on our way to arranged marriages with village elders near Batash. The uniformed man nods, accepting Full-Beard’s words immediately, and the doors slam shut.
If they hadn’t gagged us…if they hadn’t forced these dark boshiyas over our heads…if we’d just all screamed… My tears start anew, and I dig my fingernails into my palms. I want to break the skin. To feel something besides pure terror. But then the van starts to move again, and I’m too scared to move at all.
Night brings pure terror. I’m practically hyperventilating around the gag, and my heart feels like it’s about to explode out of my chest. Or stop beating entirely. We’re up in the mountains now, and it’s cold. Or maybe that’s just the adrenaline crash.
Ivy fell asleep against Mia a few hours ago, but I can’t rest. Can’t even close my eyes. If I do, I won’t be able to prepare myself for anything that’s coming. Full-Beard keeps leering at me, and he’s gradually moved closer.
A few lights—small houses, I think, brighten the interior of the van through the windshield, and we make several turns, then stop. The barrel of a pistol presses to my side, and I yelp, which only makes Full-Beard jab me harder. “Quiet.”
Nodding, I swallow my whimpers, and then they drag us out of the van and into a small, clay-walled house. We move so quickly, the rooms are a blur until a trapdoor in the floor opens, and we’re shoved down a set of stairs into total darkness. But it doesn’t stay dark fo
r long. Full-Beard brings a small, bare-bulb lamp, and once he’s plugged the light in, I get my first good look at our surroundings.
No windows. No other way out but the stairs. A toilet and sink in one corner. Dirty mattresses in the other. No-Beard pulls out a pocket knife. “Hands. Now.”
With our bindings cut, No-Beard motions to our boshiyas. “You can take off. This is where you stay for now.”
I struggle to remove the gag. My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, but before he turns, I croak out, “How long?”
“Until we say.”
Another man, older, almost elderly, shuffles down the stairs carrying a tray with bowls and bottles of water. “I am Hassan. You eat. You sleep. You stay quiet. If you scream, no more food or water or light. Understand?”
The three of us nod, and he sets the tray down on the floor. And then…they all leave, the trap door shuts, and something heavy scrapes against the ceiling.
I run up the stairs as quietly as I can and push at the wood. It doesn’t budge. We’re trapped, and from what little of the house and the village I saw through my boshiya, no one will ever be able to find us here.
2
Joey
I jerk awake, hitting my head on the wall behind me. It’s stuffy. The mattresses are stained and smell like urine, so we’re sleeping on the floor. Well, Mia and Ivy are sleeping on the floor. I’m pressed against the wall opposite the stairs, my knees drawn up to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible. I can’t let them sneak up on me. Or catch me unawares.
Jefe grabs my hair and yanks me off the floor, waking me from an exhausted sleep. I scream, but the other girls are powerless to help me. Emmie raises her head from where she lies across the railcar, in too much pain to move. She does what she can…holds my gaze while Jefe shoves my dirty, ripped skirt up over my ass. I try to send myself somewhere else. Somewhere safe and warm where no one hurts me. But like every other time…I fail.
I stifle a sob, fully back in the here and now, watching the stairs again. Across the room, Mia shoots me a sympathetic look. “Sleep a while, Joey,” she whispers, trying not to wake Ivy. “I’ll keep watch.”
“Can’t. Not now.” I hug myself tightly, digging my fingers hard enough into my sides to leave bruises. I need to feel something other than abject terror and hopelessness. We’re God knows where, the rest of our team murdered, and they’ve locked us away where no one will find us. I won’t cry. Not in front of Ivy and Mia. They’re so young. I remember how strong Emmie was—in the beginning—and how much I loved her for it. Now…she’s dead. Her demons took her life, and inadvertently saved mine.
“How long have we been here?” Mia asks when Ivy sits up and rubs her eyes.
I shrug. “We’ve had two meals, but I’m so hungry, I don’t think they’re feeding us more than once a day.” The bowls of stew with some sort of meat—goat I think—don’t come with utensils, and we have to eat with our hands. The tiny sink only supplies brownish water, and we’re all dirty, exhausted, and weak.
Ivy wrings her hands. “What are they going to do to us?”
I don’t want to tell her. All I want to do is close my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere else. Like…back in San Diego before everything went to hell.
“When will you be back?” I ask Ford as we lie in bed together, naked, his hand stroking gently up and down my arm.
“Six months. I’ll be able to call sometimes, but letters will always get to me.” He presses a kiss to my temple, and I fight not to cry.
“I’ll miss you. Promise me you won’t do anything too stupid out there, Marine.”
“Never, buttercup. I’m yours, and as soon as you graduate, we’re going to make it official.”
But we never got that chance. Never made love again. Only ever had one more night together before…my entire life turned into a nightmare. I focus on Mia and Ivy. Twenty-one and twenty-two. The age I was. Their eyes are swollen, their cheeks stained with tears.
“Listen…” I say softly, hoping my gentle tone will make the harsh words easier. “We’re…women. In a country where many…consider us property. Whatever happens, be smart. Don’t fight when there’s no hope. Save your strength for any chance you have to get free. And if you see an opportunity, take it. Even if you have to go alone.”
Heavy footsteps thud above us, and I snap my gaze to the top of the stairs. Ivy and Mia press deeper into the corner. After the scraping of whatever they use to cover the trapdoor, sunlight spills into the basement. Daytime. It doesn’t last long, though. Two hulking forms lumber down the stairs. I don’t know these men. They aren’t the ones who took us. Bigger, meaner looking.
The lead one points at Ivy and Mia. “You two, up. You are coming with us.”
I push to my feet, blinking hard to clear the dizziness threatening. As terrified as I am, I have to protect Ivy and Mia if I can, so they’re going to take me first. But the man who appears to be in charge shakes his head. “Not you.”
“Why not? Where are you taking them?”
“Away.” The man shoves me back against the wall. “You make trouble, you get hurt.”
Ivy and Mia haven’t moved, and the other man strides over to them, grabs Mia’s arm, and drags her towards the stairs as she screams and hits him with her free hand.
“Wait!” I beg. “Please. Give me a minute with them.” I look up at the man looming over me, praying he’ll relent. But he just knocks me to the side with a bulky arm and laughs as I fall to the floor. Mia’s already up the stairs, and suddenly, her screams die down, and that’s so much worse.
Ivy doesn’t fight as she follows, just looks back at me. “Joey? What do we do?”
“Be strong,” I say quietly as I rub my shoulder.
And when the trapdoor shuts and I’m alone, I realize what utter bullshit that advice is and start to cry.
Ford
From my corner office on the sixth floor, I look out over the Boston skyline. The morning sun is just about to peek over the horizon, and I lean back in my chair, waiting.
I used to love sunrise. My best memory—the one I pull up when everything else goes to shit—is of dawn on Pacific Beach, down on one knee with Joey practically glowing in the morning sun.
“I know it’s only been a year, buttercup. And I’m leaving in a month. But…you’re my sunshine. Marry me?”
The past few weeks, I can’t stop thinking about her. Maybe it’s knowing Wren found her forever. Her other half. Even if the guy is a brooding asshole.
Hell…what do I know? I’ve met him three times. But Ryker McCabe ghosted my best friend and boss, Dax, when he needed the guy most. I just don’t know if I can forgive him for that.
Pulling up my email, I find a message from Wren. Good. My current client, the director of the Boston Museum of Art, suspects her husband is embezzling money from his brokerage firm, and while I’ve found plenty of shady behavior on the guy’s part, I’m shit at the computer angle. That’s all Wren.
Ford, here’s everything I could find on Barry Martin. He’s good—or has someone good covering his tracks—but no one has this many offshore accounts unless they’re hiding something. Still digging. I have a line on a shell corporation I think I can trace to him. More this afternoon. How’s things? Miss you. Seattle’s great, though. It’s actually a lot like Boston. All neighborhoods and traffic. You’d like it. Take care of Dax, will you? He’s been…well… I can’t tell him to call Ry. But maybe you can? -Wren
Dammit. When Ryker and Wren got back from Russia, Dax decided to forgive the guy for ghosting on him for six years after they both escaped Hell—a system of caves deep under a mountain in the Hindu Kush where the two of them were tortured. Fifteen months they spent there until Ryker escaped. The asshole in charge of Hell blinded Dax in revenge for the escape, and when Ryker came back to rescue him and found him unable to see, he couldn’t deal with his guilt.
Dax’s shocked swear booms down the hall, and I push away from my desk and take off at a run as Trevo
r starts frantically apologizing for something. Now what?
“Oh, shit.” Sheer packing tape stretches from one side of the front office door to the other—except where it’s stuck to Dax’s face, hands, and arms. “Trev, what the hell were you thinking?” I ask as I start peeling the tape from Dax’s glasses.
“That Clive needed payback for putting lube on my desk chair last week. I called Dax to warn him…”
“Thirty seconds before I walked into…what is this? Packing tape? It’s not like I can see the damn stuff. No more pranks at the office. Period,” Dax growls.
After a few minutes and lots of excuses, I manage to free my boss from the tape and press his cane back into his hand. He grunts something unintelligible, stalks off towards his office, and slams the door.
“You know you screwed up big time, right?” I ask Trevor.
His green eyes darken, and he drops his gaze to the floor, a huge wad of tape in his hands. “I called to warn him.”
“Look, I know you and Clive always try to outdo one another. I get it. I used to pull that shit when I was enlisted. But you gotta think, man. Keep the pranks to ones Dax can avoid.”
He offers me a wry smile. “So you’re saying I should fight dirty?”
“No!” Trevor may be one of the scariest and deadliest men I’ve ever met—outside of Dax and Ryker—but he’s only thirty-three. Practically a kid. And today, I’ve had about enough of his shit. “I’m saying keep it localized to Clive’s office. No public areas. Ever again. Got it?”
His expression sobers, and he nods. “Understood. Sorry.”
“I’m not the one you need to apologize to. But give him an hour or two. Otherwise you might not get out of his office alive.” With a sigh, I head for the coffee pot as Trevor rushes back to his dark, windowless space next to the kitchen. As I pass Wren’s old office, I frown. She was always the peacekeeper. Always the one who could make Dax stop and take a step back. Without her, it feels like we’re all walking on eggshells.
By Lethal Force Page 3
