Knight of Paradise Island

by J. L. Campbell

As Camilla’s distended stomach appeared on screen before the rest of her, Ayanna scrambled to his other side to escape. “Little girl, I’m not playing with you,” she said.

  “Hey, Camilla.”

  She focused on the screen, then laid a hand on her belly. “Hey yourself. Everything good?”

  Her words brought back the heavy matter Shaz dropped on him. “Yeah, we’re fine over here.”

  “Talk to you later,” she said, and guided Ayanna to the floor. “Come baby, let Daddy get back to what he was doing.”

  Ryan focused on the legal pad where he’d jotted notes for the report he was about to write on the lost-and-found guest. When he looked up, Shaz said, “Don’t go anywhere.”

  Ryan nodded, already planning his next steps. He’d have to advise the hotel that he’d be away, perhaps for an indefinite period.

  Chapter Three

  “Ahhh.”

  Some evil person was beating cymbals inside her head.

  Aziza struggled to open her eyes, but they refused to cooperate. A man spoke in harsh Arabic, which she hadn’t yet learned beyond basic words. Her eyes flicked open when a metal gate clanged nearby. The thunder in her head and the throbbing that came and went in waves wouldn’t allow her to focus. The semi darkness didn’t help. Where the hell was she?

  Someone groaned close by and wailed in a language Aziza had never heard before. She wanted to tell the woman to shut up, but couldn’t work up the energy needed. Instead, she kept her eyes closed. The last thing she remembered was feeling a little light-headed and Akbar speaking with her in the corridor leading to the bathrooms at Encounters. After that, her memory failed, coming in snatches—a building here, rough hands there, and feeling nauseous as she did now.

  The woman next to her sobbed, and Aziza’s attention settled on her. She couldn’t be over thirty, but it was hard to tell with the puffy eyes and ravaged features. She wore braids and was model thin.

  “What’s your name?” Aziza asked, looking at her sideways.

  “Naima.”

  Frowning, Aziza scanned the narrow space. “Where are we? Why are you crying?”

  Naima broke into tears again. “You do not understand.”

  Her words came out muffled as she sobbed into her hands.

  Impatient, Aziza raised her arm to push the hair out of her face. That’s when she realized someone had shackled her to a pallet covered by a flimsy mattress. Other women surrounded them, their wide eyes conveying varying degrees of fright. Aside from that common feature, all of them wore identical hospital gowns. A second look confirmed they were house dresses with buttons down the front. Aziza wanted to drop someone. Who had dared to treat her like a rag doll and remove her clothes? And to replace her dress with the ugly dishrag she now wore? She needed answers.

  “We are prisoners,” Naima said, sniffling.

  Aziza sat up too fast, and put a hand to her head. When the room stopped wobbling, she turned to the other woman. “Did you say we’re prisoners?”

  She nodded as her eyes filled again. With one end of the scarf covering her braids, she dried her tears. “They captured me yesterday. When I got here, you were unconscious.”

  Either the woman was on drugs, or Aziza had woken up in a horror movie. The handcuff that kept her tethered to the bed said this was her reality. But what happened between happy hour at the club and this moment was a mystery.

  Around them, other women groaned as they woke. The sounds of despair and misery escalated. As far as Aziza could tell, at least twenty women were confined in the space. The metal walls around them told her they were inside a double-wide container, which grew hotter by the moment. Ventilation was almost non-existent, but she took comfort in the fact that an air-conditioning unit sat on metal brackets high above them. With the rising heat, she swore she inhaled the women’s fear into her nostrils, but this was no time to be afraid. The hum of the cooling unit starting up brought relief.

  Then clanging noises came from the far end of the container, and she craned her neck.

  The lights came on and two men, each wearing a keffiyeh, or head covering, stood in the doorway. The material also shielded their faces. Only their eyes were visible. The stouter of the two carried a gun and locked the door when they stepped inside. From this distance, Aziza couldn’t see his eyes to gauge his temperament. The second man was slight in build and carried a tray with foil boxes she assumed contained food. He placed one on each bed as his companion watched with a keen gaze. When he reached the back end of the unit, Aziza threw a glance toward the entrance and asked in English, “Can you tell me what day it is?”

  She figured today was Saturday or Sunday, but needed to know for sure. Also, she wanted to be certain whether he spoke English.

  He looked at her, his eyes black as midnight, but didn’t act as if he understood her words.

  “‘Ayn nahn.” Where are we? She asked in Arabic.

  Surprise flickered in his gaze, and he turned his head to where the other man stood. The moment he opened his mouth, the gunman took heavy steps toward them. He spoke in rapid-fire Arabic, which went over Aziza’s head. When he glared at her, she knew he’d heard her words.

  He pointed the rifle at her and growled. “Kun hadyaan.”

  Aziza understood that he was telling her to shut up, and didn’t need him to say it twice. She was deeply disturbed by everything happening around her. Panicking, in fact. Why had they imprisoned her when she had committed no crime?

  Chapter Four

  “You have all the information Shaz provided.” Ryan’s gaze settled on the man across from him at the tiny café table. “What else can you tell me?”

  Bashir Farooq, one of the Sheikh Kamran’s trusted assistants, laid an envelope on the tabletop. “This details Miss Hampton’s movements up to the time she disappeared.”

  “How did you collect this data?” Ryan asked, opening the sealed envelope and scanning the sheets that outlined Aziza’s daily routine.

  The aide squared his shoulders under his expensive jacket. “My position gives me access to information that wouldn’t be available to ordinary men.”

  Ryan considered that, then tipped his head to one side, “Thank you. Give me a minute to go over it.”

  The bearded, olive-skinned man nodded once and sipped from the cup of black coffee he’d ordered.

  Ryan glanced at his watch, impatient to meet with the hotel security, but Roger Blythe, the extraction expert, advised against what he called knocking at the front door of the establishment. She had been housed in a residential unit owned by the hotel and if her disappearance potentially involved anyone on staff, Ryan needed a subtle plan of action rather than raising an immediate alarm. Roger’s mention of “human trafficking” had made Ryan’s blood run cold.

  He wanted Roger to accompany him, but he’d just gotten married and was in the Bahamas on his honeymoon. Shaz enlisted the help of the Kings—his brothers who managed The Castle, a philanthropic organization in Wilmette, a far north suburb of Chicago—and they agreed he would travel directly to Durabia and investigate, then make contact from there. He expected at least two or three of them to arrive within days. The rest would follow later, if needed. He hoped that wouldn’t be the case.

  “Are you sure you’re up for doing this?” Shaz had asked on Sunday.

  “I won’t be able to rest if I don’t.”

  The pictures he’d revealed of a young African-American woman with her belly slit open deeply disturbed Ryan and he refused to consider, even for one moment, that Aziza would have that kind of luck. The graphic display made the trip more urgent.

  After his talk with Shaz, he had a meeting with Myles to cover important contract points. They also planned to have Ryan attend meetings online, as necessary.

  He boarded a plane on Sunday evening and landed in Durabia seventeen hours later. Arriving when he did, meant he could go straight to work.

  Myles would say that without sleep, Ryan was running on fumes. The job sometimes meant going for d
ays with little to no shut-eye. He had tonight to rest. Now, he had a mission.

  The ring in his luggage was a reminder of his mother’s favorite expression. Never put off for tomorrow what you can do today. He’d done exactly that with Aziza, and now he was paying the price.

  He raised his head from the sheets of paper to find Bashir watching him over the rim of his cup. Ryan didn’t yet know what to make of him. He had watchful eyes and didn’t speak much. They were evenly matched in terms of height and physique. As far as Ryan was concerned, anyone who gained his trust had to earn it. For all he knew, Bashir was assigned to him to be in a position to cover up anything the authorities in Durabia didn’t want made public.

  As he sifted his thoughts, he swallowed a mouthful of coffee. Laying the papers on the table, he said, “Thanks for your help. If I need anything, I’ll contact you later today. I’m going to check in and get a few winks.”

  Ryan stood and waited for Bashir to do the same. When he did, they shook hands. The micro expressions that crossed his face revealed that Bashir expected to be with him longer than an hour. He wasn’t discounting any help the man could give, but he’d handle today’s business on his own.

  He wheeled his suitcase to the entrance of the alcove that served the café and crossed the marble tiles in the elegant lobby. At reception he checked in for five nights, hoping he’d wouldn’t need to lengthen his stay. The longer he took to find Aziza, the more unlikely it was that he’d get her back alive.

  Inside his room, he pulled the curtain aside. The stretch of blue sky was endless and the sand below, dotted by lounge chairs and vacationers. And yet, inside he was empty. The inability to pinpoint Aziza’s location, plus not knowing what condition she was in, left him reeling. This minute, he didn’t have the words to voice a prayer.

  He turned away from the modern skyscrapers in the distance, opened his suitcase, and unpacked in ten minutes. He didn’t intend to get comfortable. Ryan simply couldn’t stand looking untidy, even in casual wear. Another glance at his watch confirmed it was time to be downstairs, back in the café he left minutes ago. He stored the laptop but took an iPad with him.

  The moment he entered La Palma, he spotted the first person he needed to interrogate. She wore jeans with a tank top and sat with her chin propped on her hand. As he slid into the seat opposite her, she leaned away from the table as if startled.

  “Deirdre?”

  She nodded while studying him with curiosity shining from her eyes. “Ryan?”

  “Yes, thanks for meeting me.”

  They shook hands. She quickly withdrew hers and sat back in the seat, studying him.

  “How did you get my cell number?” she asked, letting her gaze slide to the Bahari Bahamas logo on his t-shirt.

  “It’s not a secret. Information is always readily available.” He smiled to put her at ease. “You simply have to know how to find it.”

  Deirdre didn’t look away from him, but the tense set of her shoulders spoke volumes.

  Ryan offered a reassuring smile. “I understand you were one of the last persons to see Aziza before she disappeared.”

  After sucking one side of her lip into her mouth, Deirdre nodded. “Yes, we went out on Friday evening. For happy hour.”

  “Is this something you did regularly?”

  “Me? Yes.” With one finger, she brushed the hair off her forehead. “Aziza mostly kept to herself. She’d go out with the rest of us maybe once each month.”

  That was in line with what Aziza had shared with him. Deirdre was also telling the truth. The dossier Bashir provided included dates, times, and photos of the persons thought to be involved in her disappearance. He wasn’t yet looking at Julene, the woman with whom Aziza shared the apartment. He’d already been in touch with her and was satisfied that she knew nothing more than she’d already told him. They had spoken several times during his Skype sessions with Aziza, and his instincts told him Julene was a decent human being. Also, Aziza liked her and that was good enough for him.

  A waiter came to take their order, and Deirdre declined to have anything.

  Ryan settled on a cheese croissant and bottled water.

  “Are there many Americans working in this hotel?” he asked when the man walked away.

  She shook her head and the sleek bob danced, then settled around her mahogany skin. “Maybe ten of us, including Aziza.” She leaned across the table and spoke in a hushed tone. “Are you here to investigate what happened to her?”

  “I’m here to find her.”

  Laughter intruded on their conversation. Several groups of businessmen sat at other tables.

  She sighed and focused on her hands, which trembled. “I hope you do. Aziza is good people.”

  Frowning, Ryan asked. “Do you know if the hotel is doing anything about locating her?”

  Deirdre shrugged. “They’ve questioned all of us who went out that evening, and they’ve searched her apartment and questioned Julene, who also lives there. I’m also sure they must have reported her missing.”

  “Do you know that for a fact?”

  She nibbled on a thumbnail, then met his gaze. “If they thought she left on her own, then they might not try too hard to find her. But she was on contract, so she wouldn’t up and leave without notice.”

  “Were the police called in to investigate?”

  “The police interviewed us earlier today, but you might want to check out that place we went for happy hour. It’s legit, but you never know.” Her gaze shifted when she added, “Some of these men are always trying to pick up Black girls and that’s how some go missing.”

  Ryan’s eyebrows gathered in a frown. “Some?”

  Deirdre glanced around them, then at her watch. “Surely you don’t think Aziza is the first of our kind to disappear. It is a problem here, which is why the hotel tells us to always travel with company. In pairs, at least. It’s not stated as a warning, more as cautionary advice.”

  The waiter returned with Ryan’s order, which he moved to one side. “Is there anyone in particular you think I should talk with at Encounters?”

  She stared through the glass at the tourists going past, then looked directly at him. “Try the bartenders. They know everything, even if they try to tell you otherwise. Also Akbar, who’s employed here, might be able to tell you something. He works at reception, and he’s thick with the barmen.”

  Shifting sideways on the seat, Deirdre said, “I have to go now. I’m on duty in an hour.”

  “Thanks for talking to me.”

  She smiled as she stood. “I’m glad someone’s looking for Aziza.”

  Ryan bit into the croissant and followed her with his eyes as she exited the café. He made a mental note to find out more about Deirdre before the day was out. She was saying all the right things, but her energy was off, as his mother would say.

  Chapter Five

  The clanging of the lock warned them of the men’s approach before they appeared. Either they were back with more substandard food or they were coming for other nefarious reasons.

  In halting English, Naima, who turned out to be Senegalese, told Aziza she was sure they would all be trafficked. Aziza had tried to make sense of her situation as she followed the sequence of events that brought her to the present moment.

  Naima turned frightened eyes on her. “Don’t say anything,” she pleaded. “That way they might pass over us.”

  In the doorway, their jailors stood in front of a tall, bearded man wearing a cream linen tunic. His authority was obvious as the other two nearly fell over themselves to get out of his way. Strolling, he went past the row of cots, coming closer to the back of the container. He pointed to one woman, then stopped a foot from where Aziza lay and pointed at an East Indian girl. She was little more than a child and shrank into a ball, sobbing.

  The stout jailer shook his head and pointed to the entrance. As they jabbered back and forth, Aziza gathered that they were encouraging the man to take one of the other girls, who were closer
to the front. From the looks of it, they had some kind of system.

  When their jailor wouldn’t give in to the visitor, he stomped his foot and strode back the way he came. The door banged shut behind them, and the women breathed a collective sigh, then whispered to each other.

  Earlier in the day, another visitor came. He brought two others with him, and they dragged two girls screaming from the container. Their cries chilled Aziza’s soul, and when the man she assumed was a buyer backhanded them across their cheeks, she wanted to get in his face. But what could she do while shackled like a slave?

  As the day wore on she felt a tad better, but needed water, which seemed to be rationed. She ignored the food they provided but drank the bottled water when she couldn’t hold out any longer. Thankfully, it didn’t make her feel any worse. She wasn’t sure how many hours had passed since she regained consciousness. Someone had taken the watch Ryan gave her on her birthday. Her handbag, containing her phone and keys, was also missing.

  At the thought of Ryan, her eyes smarted. Did he know what happened to her? And if he did, would he come halfway around the world to find her? A cloud of depression threatened to swamp her, but she kicked her chin into the air, then sat up. “Aye!”

  “Are you crazy?” Naima whispered, her eyes round and red from her tears.

  “Aye!” This time, Aziza banged on the wall behind her. She continued until the door opened and Hamid, the young jailor, stepped inside. He frowned and glanced over his shoulder at the gunman, who sent a glare in Aziza’s direction.

  “What you want?” His words surprised her because she’d assumed he didn’t speak English.

  “Bathroom. I need to use it again.”

  He turned toward his partner, and they threw words back and forth until he sailed a set of keys through the air, which Hamid caught with one hand. He uncuffed Aziza and helped her stand.

  The gunman pointed his rifle at her and though she didn’t understand what he said, his intent was clear. He’d shoot Aziza if she made any wrong moves.