Knight of Paradise Island

by J. L. Campbell

  Nicco’s call to alert them that the bartender’s accomplice was on the move, forced Ryan to drive with a leaden foot on the gas to get them to the warehouse before Daron’s departure.

  Dro got out of the vehicle and stood at the ready when Ryan opened the trunk.

  The man inside was disheveled—clothes rumpled, hair falling into his eyes, and his skin drenched with sweat. His eyes popped wide as he tried talking through the tape. No doubt, he thought he was about to be murdered.

  They ignored his protests while Dro informed Daron they had arrived.

  As the door slid open, Daron said, “Good timing. We need to move. Be sure you all grab a helmet, just in case.”

  They shunted their prisoner inside, sat him in a chair at the opposite end of the building, and secured him to it with another pair of handcuffs. Then, they did as Daron instructed.

  Jahani watched them, but didn’t move or speak.

  Their new prisoner continued making noises through the tape as they walked toward the door. They stopped and Ryan strode back to the man.

  “You have something to say?” He ripped the tape away.

  The man howled, then grimaced. A patch of hair was missing from his mustache. He spat words Ryan was sure were curses. The man’s tirade didn’t move him. He was more upset because they had nothing to show after chasing greedy, ruthless people.

  “I am a member of the security forces. You will be in serious trouble for your actions.”

  “Maybe you should take your own advice.” Ryan replaced the tape over his mouth. “While we’re gone, think about the reason you came to my room to harm me.”

  The man’s eyes flashed, and he lapsed into silence.

  From the other side of the warehouse came the echo of the rattling chains on Jahani’s hands and feet as he shifted.

  When they sat in the car, Daron said, “That other man tried to get away, but Nicco and Angela have him cornered. By the time he realized they were following him, he was already at their half-way hub.”

  Ryan frowned and glanced into the mirror. “I hope he didn’t hurt the woman he took from the club.”

  “He hauled her into the building with him.” Daron said from the back seat, “Nicco suspects there are other women inside, so he and Angela are weighing their options before going in. We’re supposed to be there to provide backup.”

  Ryan spoke over his shoulder as his foot depressed the gas pedal. “Say no more.”

  “So about these items … ” Vikkas pointed to the bag between Daron and Dro.

  Dro peeled back the zipper. “Now would be a good time to check what we have, in case we run into trouble tonight.”

  Following Daron’s direction, they reached the building in ten minutes. Along the way, Nicco had asked them to get Bashir en route with any other personnel the royal family could make available to assist. Someone would need to organize the movement of the women when they left for their secondary target.

  Ryan hoped the man they were after would tell them where they needed to head next, without trying to be a hero. After chasing shadows and mirrors for days, Ryan was running short on patience. He wondered whether Aziza would be at that location, but didn’t want to get his hopes up for nothing.

  The squat gray structure sat on its own lot and as they pulled in front of it, Angela met them outside under the street lights in the parking lot. She pointed behind her while she updated Daron. “I left Nicco trying some gentle persuasion to get him to say where he was headed next. Another blow or two will soften him up, but we already have an idea from what he admitted.”

  “How many women?” he asked.

  “Five, including the woman from Encounters. Apparently, this is where they keep them until the drugs wear out of their system and they’re lucid again.”

  “Was Aziza one … ”

  Angela’s dark eyes were sympathetic as she said, “None of these women fit her description or resemble the photos we received.”

  Disappointment soured Ryan’s stomach, but he reassured himself their search would not be in vain.

  The headlights from two SUVs swept past them. The drivers parked a few feet away, then Bashir approached with a couple men, who resembled Jai and Vikkas. They were in the middle of introductions when Nicco strode through the door, highlighted by beams from inside the building.

  He nodded to the group, then held up a set of keys and dropped them into Bashir’s hand. “Glad you’re here. The women need medical attention, and Jai is expecting them. We have to move now.”

  As they separated according to the vehicles they would be riding in, Nicco added, “Our guy inside is out of it. Let him sleep until we circle back to him. He’ll need to answer some more questions.”

  Bashir nodded and walked into the building, followed by his companions.

  As he gripped the wheel, Ryan said a prayer that when they got to their next stop, Aziza would be there. He’d be disappointed, not to mention frustrated, if they had to follow more clues. The longer she was missing, the less likely it was that they’d find her. He shook off his negative thoughts and reminded himself that he’d get the results he expected.

  On the way to where the other kidnap victims were being held, Daron, Dro, Vikkas, Nicco, and Angela spoke via Daron’s cellular and formulated a plan in the event that they were met with hostility.

  An hour’s worth of driving into the desert brought them close to a settlement with one container placed adjacent to a double-wide unit. A small brick and mortar building was in close proximity. Flashes of light cut the darkness, along with the sound of gunfire.

  Ryan slowed to a crawl and switched off the lights, same as Nicco had done. The SUV ahead of him stopped, and Ryan also pulled off the road. A dark SUV was parked close to the fence.

  Daron ascertained there was no one inside.

  “Someone else got here before us,” Nicco said, standing outside Vikkas’ window. “Everybody has a helmet?” he asked, while handing him a tiny radio that crackled to life.

  Angela’s voice emitted from the device. “Testing. Testing.”

  “We’re hearing you loud and clear,” Vikkas replied.

  They left the vehicles carrying the duffle and crept toward the containers, where the gunfire had ceased. When they came to a low fence surrounding the property, one of the unseen men caught wind of their movement and shouted in Arabic.

  They came under gunfire and hunkered behind the fence until the assault subsided.

  “Sounds like they have semi-automatic weapons,” Ryan whispered.

  “Didn’t expect anything else,” Daron said. “The people on this side of the world like their guns as much as we do in America.”

  “We need to get closer,” Ryan said, “otherwise we’ll be pinned down here all night and exposed when daylight comes.”

  “I have a plan,” Daron said, beckoning Nicco closer. “Dro and I will move in on one side. Nicco and Angela will attack from the other. Vikkas, you and Ryan cover us from here until we get into position. Use whatever means necessary.”

  “Got it.”

  As they melted into the darkness, Vikkas lifted a pair of tear gas grenades from the bag on the ground between them.

  “You all aren’t playing.” Ryan said in a hushed tone. “I can help with that. I’ve been told I have a good pitching arm.”

  “Have at it,” Vikkas said, handing him one of the round containers as the gunfire started again.

  Ryan kneeled to scope out the place closest to where the gunshots originated. At the next ceasefire, he backed up a few steps, released the safety lever, pulled the pin, and lobbed the grenade toward the building.

  A man screamed, then sobbed as the tear gas took effect. But that didn’t stop the guns’ barking for long. As the night wore on the attack continued, and Ryan wondered if their supply of ammunition would ever run out. The men put up a sustained fight, shooting at them from the building.

  As they returned the fire, Ryan decided that if Aziza was inside the container, he�
�d fight to his last breath to free her. The crimson fingers of dawn lit the sky before Nicco picked off the last man with a bullet to the forehead.

  That’s when they approached the container.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Aziza woke to a keening cry. She raised her head, searching among the women sleeping on the floor in a cluster. None of them stirred, so the wails weren’t coming from inside. Her grainy eyes attested to her lack of sleep during the night just past.

  The men outside had bombarded the container, but were unsuccessful in getting inside. Apparently, the panels were reinforced. The bullet that hit Hamid entered through a section of the metal that had rusted.

  At the thought of him, Aziza felt sick. One woman, who confirmed she was a nurse, bandaged his shoulder where the bullet pierced him. Thankfully, it was a flesh wound. The sight of the blood unnerved most of the females, but they didn’t unravel. Fact was, they had no way out while the men continued their assault.

  Aziza rested her head on her folded arms. The combined odor of anxiety and sweat was not pleasant, but she refused to be distracted. Their funk was the least of her problems.

  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that three-quarters of a day had passed since she’d eaten. Neither had any of the women, but nobody complained.

  The wailing continued outside, along with gunfire. While she wondered what was happening, her heart sank. Most likely, the battle was between factions intent on capturing them. The thought depressed her, and she breathed in deeply to calm her nerves.

  She had led the women into this revolt, and she would see it to the end, no matter what happened. Her mother had always told her that giving up in the middle of her struggle was never a solution. The sage advice stiffened her spine, and she inched to a sitting position.

  Aziza sat still, knowing she was at risk. Especially if there was a bullet out there destined to hit her. The metal box imprisoning them might have been secure, but like her dad used to say, if you were born to hang you couldn’t drown. Still, she changed position and propped herself on one elbow.

  Eyes closed, she tried to separate the voices. Panic echoed from the persons speaking in Arabic. Then her ears picked up the familiar cadence of the English language.

  Her heart took off at a gallop. What if the men speaking English had come to save them? Until she found herself in the middle of a horror story, being a victim of human trafficking was only a figment of Aziza’s imagination. Something that made her stomach turn when she heard about such incidents on social media or watched news on television.

  The enormity of what they were facing swept over her, and her grandmother’s face swam before her eyes. Odd that she should think of her now, but it wasn’t all that strange. Evelyn Hampton was one of Aziza’s heroes. She’d been in awe of the small woman she met when she was twelve and her father first took her to Jamaica to visit. Her grandmother, a feminine version her father, had enfolded her in a hug. They stood eye to eye, but Aunt Evelyn—as everybody called her—was a powerhouse in terms of her personality. After being widowed in her thirties, she raised five sons on her own. She lived at the top of a hill in the parish of Westmoreland and to this day, Aunt Evelyn refused to move in with any of her three sons, who still lived on the island. And she was seventy-five.

  When Aziza thought about the tough conditions her grandmother survived and her mantra, God helps those who help themselves, she knew quitting was not one of the choices open to her. Aside from that, she wanted to lay eyes on her family. Giving up wouldn’t accomplish that wish.

  She desperately wanted to know what was happening outside, but there was no way ... unless she could see through the glass paneling at the top of their prison. Whoever came up with the design knew exactly what they were doing because none of the glass had shattered. Everyone in the forty-foot housing was sealed away, as if in a tomb. Except for that rusted section near the bed Hamid occupied.

  Next to her, Naima stirred and her thoughts changed direction.

  “I do not think they will give up,” she said. “What are we going to do?”

  “What we’re not going to do,” Aziza hissed, “is give up.”

  On Naima’s other side, Ahaba sniffled.

  “You don’t have time for that now,” Naima said in a gentle voice. “We need you to focus on what’s going on out there. Can you do that?”

  In the haze that signaled dawn, Aziza caught the girl’s nod.

  “Do you understand what’s being said?” Naima asked, “and why they’re screeching like that?”

  A few more seconds went by as Ahaba changed position and tipped her head closer to the wall. After a moment, she said, “I think the men who were trying to get us are still out there. And there are some others.”

  Aziza bit down on her lip to contain her impatience. She had figured that out already. “Tell us what the crying is about.” She swallowed the for-heaven’s-sake part of the sentence.

  “One of them is saying that he is blind, the other is saying that he is not willing to die for these ... “ She hesitated. “He just used a nasty word to describe us.”

  “We need to figure out who those other men are,” Aziza whispered to Naima. “I’m hoping they are friends and not foes.”

  “Do you have friends on this side of the world?” Naima asked. “We are in desperate need of some right now.”

  The gunfire continued, punctuated by intermittent screams. A few more women raised their heads. Others sat up, wrapped their arms around their knees, and rocked backward and forward, comforting themselves.

  The cot across from them creaked as Hamid stirred and groaned. His head fell back to the bed and he sobbed.

  Naima looked away, because he was little more than a boy. A boy in agony, as evidenced by his continued cries. Since she hit him, things kept getting progressively worse for him. But he had made his choice. She closed the door on her sympathy and turned her attention to Ahaba.

  One more burst of gunfire came before a man bellowed in Arabic.

  “What is he saying?” Aziza all but yelled.

  Ahaba’s voice quivered, but she continued, “He said, ‘I surrender.’”

  Aziza smiled, then whispered, “Dear God, let their enemies be my friends.”

  She contained her excitement, and reached for the gun. No matter who was outside, they still needed to stay alert.

  The attack on the door was nothing compared to the previous assault. Her fellow prisoners scooted toward the back and huddled together in a shivering clump.

  “What are we going to do if they break down the door?” Naima asked, her eyes wild in her narrow face.

  “Let’s think about that bridge when we’re ready to cross it.”

  As the pounding continued, Ahaba covered both her ears. Naima went to her side and hugged her.

  Aziza positioned herself in front of the women. She was no Superwoman, but she would do what she could to protect the more vulnerable among them, especially the young girls. Yesterday evening while they waited out the men, the youngest girl, Sunita—almost a baby at ten years old—had broken down sobbing. Her tale of repeated assault, after her father sold her, made Aziza’s eyes sprout tears of anger while her blood boiled.

  The silence, when it descended, was almost deafening. Hamid’s moaning was the only noise interrupting the early morning calm. Aziza could almost believe everybody outside had left. The lack of movement stretched her frayed nerves as she waited, for what, she didn’t know.

  Abdul chose that moment to start shouting.

  “He is telling them how many of us are in here.” Ahaba’s voice reeked of desperation.

  Throwing aside caution, Aziza got to her feet. Propelled by anger, she thumped Abdul’s forehead and yanked the fabric back over his mouth. Leaning in close, she said, “We don’t know who is out there, but you better pray to God it’s your people and not mine.”

  His yellow-brown eyes flashed hatred, but that was the least of her concern.

  She didn’t know why she was wa
rning him, but the snatches of English stirred the hope that somehow they would be delivered out of this hellhole where they’d been imprisoned for nearly a week. Her focus returned to Abdul, and she kept her voice even. “You better shut it before I punch you again.”

  She flexed her sore fist, then dashed back to where she left the rifle leaning against the wall. Ignoring the pain in her hand and the tension pulling at the back of her neck, she hefted the rifle.

  A husky and commanding voice rang through the air. “If you can hear me, my name is Nicco Wolfe and my team and I are here to help you.”

  Aziza’s gaze shot to Naima, who stared back at her. Then a grin split her face. She sprang to her feet but Aziza pulled her back down. “We don’t know for sure he is who he says he is.”

  Despite her doubt, Aziza stood and took unsteady steps toward the entrance.

  “Did you hear me?” he asked.

  Aziza stumbled and stopped herself from retreating to the safety of the group. Instead, she threw out a dare. “How do we know you’re not trying to trick us?”

  “We risked our lives to free you,” he yelled. “You have to trust us. Please.”

  “Give us a reason to open this door,” she challenged.

  “The royal family hired us to find you.” The man’s voice took on a coaxing edge. “I understand your reluctance, but we really are here to help.”

  Aziza glanced over her shoulder as excitement spread, and the women shot to their feet. Even Sunita stood. The hope shining from her eyes made Aziza weepy.

  “Aziza, is that you?”

  She frowned as her knees threatened to leave her without support. When she recovered, Aziza rushed toward the pile of metal that lay between them and the desert. Tears streamed down her face, and she could barely get her words out. “Ryan, it’s me.”

  With the back of one hand, she wiped the tears away from her cheeks. She swallowed the wad of emotion blocking her throat, and tried again in a stronger voice. “Ryan, it’s Aziza.”

  An unnatural pause occurred where nothing moved. She believed her heart forgot its pace, too. Then, it took off at a gallop as Ryan’s smooth tenor flowed over her again, “Woman, you’d better open this door before we flatten it.”