By Lethal Force

by Patricia D. Eddy

  Pain explodes down my legs and across my scalp as Zaman grabs my hair and kicks me in the back of the knees to send me to the floor. “Please,” I beg, holding up my bound hands. “You can’t just make me disappear!”

  “I can. Very easily,” Faruk says with a smile that makes my skin crawl. “Your friends will be sold in two days. They are being prepared for auction as we speak. You, however, are too valuable to let go.“

  Sold. Trafficked. Used. I want to throw up. Isaad stares at me, pain welling in the depths of his eyes, then lowers his gaze to the floor, turns, and rushes from the room.

  I suck in a breath through my teeth, trying to chase the dizziness away. My stomach flips and twists as I wobble to my feet. “Wh-why…? They were helping save lives. They’re good kids. But they’re just…kids. Twenty-three and twenty-four. Please, don’t—”

  “Lisette!” Faruk calls, all patience now gone from his tone. “Bring my son.”

  A woman—beautiful, but with fear in her dark green eyes—hurries into the room with a child trailing behind her. He looks to be around six or seven, and his skin is pale—almost yellow—his wispy hair sticking to his sweaty forehead and his free arm wrapped around his stomach.

  “This is my son. Mateen has what is known as Alpha Thalassemia. You will attend to him. He needs regular blood transfusions, among other treatments, until you are able to cure him.”

  Shock slackens my jaw. He kidnapped me to help a child? “H-he needs to be in a hospital.”

  Faruk spits at my feet. “No. You will care for him. Here. He is my only son and the doctors in Kandahar do not specialize in this disease. You do.”

  “Clearly—sir—you’ve done your research on Alpha Thalassemia. So you know how serious it can be.” I focus on Mateen. He moans quietly, his face pressed to his mother’s arm, but his bloodshot and red-rimmed eyes peeking up at me. Alpha Thalassemia can be fatal, and by the looks of the boy, he hasn’t been receiving proper treatment. I straighten my spine and force strength into my voice. “Blood transfusions will only keep the disease from getting worse. He needs a bone marrow transplant.”

  Snapping his fingers at Zaman, Faruk says something I don’t understand. After he digs in his satchel for a moment, Zaman passes me a thin sheaf of papers.

  “I have your research, doctor. You wrote about a drug cocktail that can cure this disease without a transplant. I have secured an ample supply of everything you will need, and enough O negative blood to keep Mateen from worsening while you concoct the cure.”

  “I wrote this seven years ago,” I protest. “It’s all theory. No one’s ever tested this. It’s too risky. There’s a reason this never went beyond the paper stage. A bone marrow transplant is safe. This…if anything goes wrong—even if everything goes right—the treatment could kill Mateen!”

  “No,” Faruk shouts. “There will be no transplant. You will treat him, and you will cure him. Or you will die.” With a nod to Zaman, he barks out an order to Lisette, who flees from the room with Mateen.

  I’m grabbed from behind, spun around, and pushed towards the door we entered through.

  Struggling to free myself from Zaman’s painful grip does me no good. He steers me down a set of stairs, through several turns and a long hallway, and into a small suite with a bed, a nightstand, a single lamp, and a tiny bathroom.

  Several sets of folded clothes sit on top of the woven blankets on the bed, and an alarm clock, four bottles of water, and three granola bars rest on the nightstand. My stomach twists in on itself. I’m so hungry, the sight of food makes me dizzy.

  Zaman pushes me down onto the bed, takes my hands, and cuts the duct tape from my wrists. Before I can rise, Faruk enters the room, blocking the doorway. “Tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m., Zaman will come to collect you. If you are not ready to start work on the cure, you will suffer the consequences.”

  I’m too shocked to say a word as he and Zaman leave, but when the door slams, I race for it, slapping the wood with my palms as a heavy lock thunks. There’s no handle, and I sink to the ground, tears burning my eyes. Ivy and Mia…they’re going to be sold. And me? My research was all theoretical. There’s no way a drug cocktail can cure Mateen. He’ll die, and Faruk will kill me.

  5

  Joey

  I don’t know how long I stay curled on the floor, but eventually, I push myself to my knees. Despite my exhaustion and hunger, I force myself to scour the room for any sort of weapon.

  Nothing. Well, except for the toothbrush, but after days trapped with nothing but a sputtering sink offering brackish water, I’m so desperate to have clean teeth again, I abandon my search and spend ten minutes brushing until my gums bleed.

  Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I quickly avert my eyes. I’ve lost at least ten pounds. My hair looks like the world’s worst wig, and my eyes are sunken and bruised from all the crying.

  The desire for a shower is almost overwhelming, but I’m so tired. So hungry. So scared. A quick check of the clock tells me it’s close to midnight, and apparently I have to be ready at 9:00 a.m. in the morning, so I sink down onto the mattress and rip into the first granola bar. It’s stale, but it tastes better than anything I’ve ever eaten.

  It takes all the willpower I have not to eat through the whole stash. With how little they’ve fed me, if I have more than one, I’ll probably be sick. And who knows how long I need to make three remaining bars last. So instead, I wash the dry crumbs down with half a bottle of water, then take the pillow and move to the door.

  I want to lie down in that bed. To sleep like a normal person. But…I can’t. I can’t let anyone sneak up on me. In the dark place…the place before the police came, the traffickers’ favorite trick was to wait until one of us was sleeping, then grab us by the hair and force themselves on us. I won’t let that happen again. If Faruk or his men try to use me, I’ll fight with everything I have—even if it kills me. And I’m damn sure going to see it coming.

  With my back to the door, I set the alarm for seven and close my eyes. The pillow feels so nice, and it’s been so long since I’ve slept, but every half an hour or so, I jerk awake, convinced someone’s coming for me. Footsteps outside, the odd creak of the walls or the slamming of a door somewhere above me…each sound could be the last I hear.

  At least I’m not in the dark. The lamp by the bed casts a yellowish glow and the bathroom tiles almost shine in the light of the harsh, naked bulb hanging over the sink. The barest hint of comfort in this terrifying new reality.

  Staring at the clock only makes me feel worse, so I turn it face down and give up trying to be strong. Hot tears stain my cheeks, and I pray for just an hour of sleep where my nightmares won’t find me.

  The alarm jolts me out of a nightmare—a large blob coming towards me, shapeless, faceless, absorbing me until there’s nothing left. No emotion. No fight. No will to live.

  I have two hours before they come—if Faruk was telling the truth. On edge, but more awake than I’ve been in several days, I re-examine the room, looking for cameras. Nothing obvious, but the ceiling is made of wooden planks, and there are small gaps between a few of them.

  In the bathroom, I find two rough towels and use one to cover the mirror. I’m filthy, and so desperate to be clean again. The water is only lukewarm, but it’s mostly clear, and with one last look around the tiny room, I screw up my courage and discard my stained and ripped clothing before stepping under the flow.

  The shampoo smells like flowers—not totally unpleasant—and I lather my hair three times before I feel like I’ve finally removed the dirt, sweat, and blood from the past…however long it’s been.

  The new scratches on my arm and inner thigh are mostly healed, but one of them still stings, and the pain helps me focus.

  Survive. Fight. Find a way out.

  I brush my teeth again and wrap myself in the second towel before checking out the clothes. Three sets: a burnt orange, a dark brown, and a garish yellow. I swallow my tears as I put on the plain, servic
eable white bra and panties. I want to go home. But I’m terrified I’ll never see the United States again. Choosing the orange, the least awful color, I pull on the pants. They’re loose from my unintentional weight loss, but otherwise fit almost perfectly. As does the long-sleeved tunic. Even the soft slippers are the right size. Of course they are. He planned this. Planned to grab me.

  My hospital published a news story about my trip—noteworthy because Turkmenistan hasn’t allowed an aid mission in more than ten years. Faruk knew I’d be there, knew I’d be vulnerable.

  Somehow, when I thought this was all a case of wrong place/wrong time, it was easier to handle. I didn’t realize until just now how tightly I was clinging to the idea that maybe I’d be ransomed. That perhaps the government would intervene. But Faruk planned everything. And from the little I saw of the compound last night, it’s huge—and well-guarded.

  The clothes feel so much nicer than I want against my skin. I should hate everything about this place. But after a week in the same cotton t-shirt and rough black pants, the abaya and boshiya smothering me, this is like heaven.

  Several dull-tipped hairpins rest on top of the black hijab, and I arrange the material to hide my damp locks and secure it in place.

  My paperclip! I can’t lose it, and I don’t trust Faruk not to take my old clothes. They should probably be burned anyway given how dirty they are. Tucking the paperclip into my bra, I tear into one of the granola bars and down another bottle of water just as the clock ticks over to nine.

  My heart leaps into my throat at the heavy footsteps in the hall, and when the lock thunks open, I press myself against the bed. Zaman looms in the doorway. “Follow me,” he says, his dark eyes cold.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  Lunging forward, he grabs my arm in a vise grip, dragging me down the hall. “Where I say. If you make trouble, all of those nice things in your room will disappear very quickly.”

  Nice things?

  Panic steals my focus until we reach the stairs and he releases my arm. The muscle throbs, and I try to rub the ache away as I trail meekly behind him. Down another corridor, he turns to the left and enters a large, sunny room filled with half a dozen women, including Lisette.

  The high windows and glimpse of clear, blue sky send longing flooding through my limbs. Besides the few minutes spent outside the van to pee, I haven’t seen the sun since we were taken.

  Zaman points to a cushion positioned at the far corner of a large, rectangular tablecloth spread out on the floor. “Sit.”

  His harsh voice leaves me little hope he’ll tolerate any questions without hurting me, so I press my lips together before I get myself in more trouble. Mirroring the other women’s positions, I sink down onto the thin pillow and cross my legs. A tiny slip of a girl dressed all in black scurries into the room and offers me a plate with several thin rounds of bread on it, then gestures to several bowls on the tablecloth filled with what looks like thick pudding.

  “Dip,” she says quietly before rushing off.

  “That is Asal,” Lisette says. “She cooks for us. Eat. He will come soon.”

  The other women talk in hushed tones, sneaking glances at me, and I at them. Using one of the rounds of bread as a scoop, I try the pudding, which is vaguely lemony. Some sort of curd, perhaps.

  What I see in the gazes all around me twists my stomach into a knot.

  They’re broken. Afraid. One has a black eye, another’s cheek is swollen and purple in a mirror to my own. Dressed richly, most with jewels on their fingers and stacks of gold bangles on their wrists, they take small portions from a handful of different dishes. Eggs, rice, fruits… It’s surreal. We’re surrounded by luxury, but I think these women are just as trapped as I am.

  I can only manage a few bites before I start to feel nauseous and push the plate away. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

  Lisette tenses with a sharp intake of breath, my only warning before Zaman appears at my side and wraps his rough fingers around my arm. I yelp as he hauls me up, his tight grip bruising my already swollen flesh.

  “Pay attention,” he grunts as he marches me out of the room, down another hallway, and through the lavish foyer to a set of ornate double doors. Releasing my arm, he throws the doors open and gestures for me to step outside.

  Sun. A few moments in the open air. If Faruk weren’t waiting for me in the center of the courtyard, his hands clasped behind his back, I’d relish this. Instead, I’m rooted to the spot until Zaman shoves me forward.

  “Josephine,” Faruk says, arching a brow, “I am not a man who likes to be kept waiting.”

  I glare at him as I approach. “I told you last night, I can’t just manufacture a cure—”

  He holds up his hand. “I am not an unreasonable man. I do, however, expect complete and immediate compliance with my orders. As you are new to my household, I will forgive this one infraction.”

  “Infraction?”

  The strike catches me by surprise, and I fall to my hands and knees, my cheek throbbing with each beat of my heart. “Only one. No more,” Faruk says sharply. “Now get up.”

  My entire body aches from too little activity and too many blows, but I stagger upright and straighten my shoulders.

  “Better.” With a sweep of his arm, he gestures to a stone wall more than twelve feet high with razor wire along the top. Four guard towers mark the corners, each with two men—AK-47s slung over their shoulders. “Before you begin treating my son, I wanted to show you some of your new home,” he says with a fake smile. “I protect what is mine. Nothing and no one comes in or out without my knowledge. That,” he points to a large metal door on a thick rolling track, “is the only exit.”

  My heart thumps so hard in my chest I worry I’m going to pass out, but I force myself to take a few deep breaths. I’m outside. In the sun. And no one’s currently hurting me. But those small blessings don’t make up for what I’ve just learned. There’s no way I can escape.

  “Walk with me, Josephine. There is something I would like to show you.” Faruk starts to stroll away, and Zaman arches a brow at me, as if asking, “Are you going to behave?”

  “I’m sorry, Amir Faruk,” I say when I catch up to him. The soft slippers provide little protection against the rocky ground, and I wince as he spares me a brief glance. “I can’t cure your son. I wish I could—”

  “Choose your next words carefully, woman.” We stop by a dark hole in the ground, and Zaman unrolls a long, thick rope ladder, hooks the last rung on a metal spike driven into the ground, and throws the bulk of it into the hole.

  I inch backward, but Faruk stops me with a cold stare. “Your circumstances are quite good at present. They could be so much worse. Please,” he says as he points to the ladder, “see for yourself.”

  No. Not down there.

  I can’t move, but when Zaman’s hands clasp my shoulders, and he forces me to my knees, I start to panic. “I’ll go. Just…don’t push me over the edge!”

  Rung by rung, I descend, wheezing, dizzy, terrified I’ll lose my grip and fall to my death. I don’t want to die. Even here. Trapped, afraid…I don’t want to die. Tears burn my eyes, and when my feet touch bottom, Faruk orders me to let go of the ladder, and it slithers up the side, just out of my reach. All I can see is the very top of Faruk’s head. I must be at least twenty feet down, and the walls are smooth, dark concrete. No hand-holds. No way to climb.

  Hyperventilating, I brace my arm on the side of what might have been a well at one point, and then see the bucket next to me. An empty, dirty water bottle. The bloody handprint barely visible in the semi-darkness. The scratches on the wall. Lines. Hashes. Someone counting days. At least…shit. At least a hundred of them. Oh God. He keeps people down here.

  “If you refuse to help Mateen,” Faruk calls from high above, “you will be moved here. At night, the scorpions come out. The particular species we have in this part of the desert are not deadly, but their venom is quite painful.”

 
“P-please,” I sob, reaching for the bottom of the ladder like my life depends on it. Because I’m afraid it does. “Let me up. I’ll…do whatever you want. I’ll make the drug. I’ll take care of Mateen.”

  Digging my short nails into my palms to stop myself from screaming, I wait for the sweet relief of breaking skin. But it doesn’t come. I’m shaking too badly. Too weak. Too afraid.

  And then the heavy rope ladder hits the top of my head. When I reach the last rung, I collapse on the rocky ground, sucking air in through my teeth and peering up at the clear, blue sky.

  Zaman orders me to get up, and I push to my hands and knees, then to my feet, but still trapped in the throes of my panic attack, the world spins around me, until an arm wraps around my waist and I sink against a man who smells like incense and mint.

  “Breathe,” he says quietly.

  The man from last night. The one Faruk ordered to erase my identity.

  “Isaad!” Faruk snaps. “Step away from the woman. Now. Go back to your work.”

  “Do not give him reason to throw you into the hole,” Isaad whispers before letting me go and hurrying around a corner to the far side of the compound.

  Faruk heads back to the house, and I force myself to move, one foot in front of the other, following him until he stops in front of a room painted bright yellow.

  Inside, a lab table lines one wall, complete with medical texts, notebooks, pens, and a copy of my research paper. On the other side of the room, a small bed is made up with bright blue sheets covered with soccer balls, an IV pole bolted to the headboard.

  As he skims his hand over the lab bench, he looks almost proud. “This is where you will do your work. Some of the items you require are already in the refrigerator. The rest will arrive tomorrow. After midday prayers, Lisette will bring Mateen to you for a transfusion. I expect a report at the end of each day with your progress. Do you understand?”