by Ann Walker
"Clara—"
"Roll over," I ordered, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him toward me. "I know I can get it this time."
"No."
I exhaled irritably, "Stop being dramatic."
"Wanting you to live isn't dramatic!" He shot back.
"Hey!"
We both fell silent when a third voice joined the conversation, and fear gripped my heart as one of our captors left the bonfire's warmth. He stalked over to us, and instinctively I crawled away. But it was too late. There was no way I could outrun him. Instead, I cried out when the man's boot collided with Grant's face.
"Leave him alone!" I shrieked, finding my courage for just long enough to throw myself at the man. He caught me, of course, and my weak body folded when he pushed me back down to the ground.
"How did you get loose, eh?" he demanded. It was the same man who'd pressed a gun to my throat when we'd run into the search party. His cold eyes glinted as he rolled me onto my stomach and pressed a foot to my back. Finally the tears started to roll, and it took a second man to keep Grant still while my hands were retied.
"How about you come keep us company?" one of the men suggested, and I almost upchucked what little food was in my stomach at the thought. "Nice and warm by the fire."
Grant eventually had to be gagged to stop the threats and profanities that spilled from his mouth as they pulled me away. Helpless, I just… let it happen. I'd missed my opportunity. I'd failed us—both of us.
My handler pushed me into the dirt, then returned to his spot around the bonfire. Now that I was under their watchful eye, it was like none of them could be bothered with me. Their conversation resumed, their laughter continued, and I felt my fight dwindling. Grant stayed in the dark, left on the blanket alone, his hands bound. I watched him over my shoulder, my lips trembling, and he seemed almost as resigned as I did.
But his eyes glimmered in the light of the fire, staying on mine, fueling me to keep going. I offered him a small smile, one I hoped he could see, then settled down on the ground. Curled up on my side, I stared into the flames, numb, hoping that tomorrow would present another opportunity to escape.
Praying that I hadn't just killed us.
Chapter Three
"Are you okay?"
For the first time since my three-day trek had started, someone other than Grant inquired about my wellbeing. It was the man who'd held a gun to my throat a few days prior—he'd been with me for the rest of my forced stroll through the Togolese mountain-side jungle, and I didn't even know his name.
And, weirder than that, he actually seemed concerned. As we neared what I could only assume was a gated compound—the gates loomed before me, black and high and metal, intimidating in every sense of the word—my walking companion and captor placed a hand on my shoulder to steady me. His eyes narrowed as he observed my features, his frown increasing.
"You are pale," he noted, and I winced when he pinched my cheek. I'd yet to place his accent, though he spoke impeccable English, and I was under the impression he wasn't from Togo. Nodding, I bit back the first sarcastic comment that came to mind. It wouldn't do me or Grant any good if I got sassy with anyone, and we'd been so well-behaved since my failed escape attempt a few nights ago.
"I feel a little dizzy," I admitted, though that was an understatement. Our food portions hadn't increased for the duration of the hike, and I hadn't spoken to Grant since I'd fought with him over untying his bonds and escaping together. He was always kept at the front, nestled between two big men with guns, and I was forced to walk at the back of the group. Several times an hour, he'd turn back to look at me, probably to make sure I was still there.
Despite forcing us to walk for days on end with little food and barely much more water, our kidnappers had been… neutral toward us. Grant and I collectively held ourselves together during the hike, both of us undoubtedly knowing that we'd get nothing but a beating for speaking out or trying to run. Because of that, our captors didn't really pay us much attention. Oh, sure, they kept a close eye on us after dark to avoid a repeat of the other night's escape attempt, but otherwise, they mostly chatted amongst themselves.
Sure, my warden had threatened to kill me when the search party neared us, but since then, no one had made a single threat. No one leered at me, no one touched me inappropriately. My bruises were on the mend, and my body wasn't quite as stiff—instead, it was weak beyond belief. I was continuously surprised that I was able to put one foot in front of the other, though I had no interest in anyone carrying me.
"The food and drink rations will be higher inside," my captor told me, nodding to the compound up ahead. Grant and his guards were already at the gate, and I noticed a small window open, a man's face appearing in it to speak with those outside. "I will keep an eye on you."
I swallowed thickly, my eyes struggling to stay open. Great. Just what I needed, someone taking a special interest in me. Hiding the disgust that shot through me, I offered him a small smile, one I hoped he'd perceive as grateful, and then sighed.
"I appreciate that," I assured him. While I did not welcome any extra attention, maybe he could get me more food than whatever we'd be allowed to eat. Maybe if I played it up, made him think I was really ill, I'd get some special secret treatment. My eyes darted to Grant. He'd be annoyed that the man who'd held a gun to my throat might actually feel something for me, and I didn't want him to react in a way that would make things worse for him. I'd have to let him in on the plan, should I go through with it.
He grunted his acknowledgement of my words, then used the hand on my shoulder to push me toward the gate. As we approached, it opened slowly, the hinges creaking, shrieking, the noise painful to my ears. No one waited for us to catch up, and my heart quickened when Grant disappeared behind the black doors, gone from my sight for no more than a minute—but it was one of the more stressful minutes of this whole ordeal.
And that in itself was pretty damn depressing.
Thankfully that awful moment wasn't around for long. Once I was through the gate, my stare sought out Grant first, finding him easily amongst the men in camouflage and military garb. He seemed to be doing the same—searching—and when our eyes met, we exchanged relieved, though weary, smiles. I dropped mine quickly, not wanting any of the other men to see me happy, and then took a moment to study the compound itself.
Much to my surprise, there were a number of mud huts that reminded me immediately of the volunteer structures we'd been housed in. Circular and wide, they were scattered across the open space, their roofs constructed of straw and other plant material. Men moved to and fro, none of them showing much interest in us. What I found most interesting was that none of the men inside the gate had a gun. Oh, there were still plenty circulating to put the fear of God in me, but it was… odd that no one else was armed.
There were a few military cruisers parked, along with more pristine SUVs. Here I thought we'd be walking into a Bond villain fortress, and yet for now, things looked incredibly ordinary. In fact, if I wasn't here as a captive, my arms bound and my body failing, I might have thought this was simply another village in the Togolese countryside.
But then again, I suppose Togolese villages don't necessarily have an abundance of Europeans strolling around. The men there, the ones that weren't in camouflage, seemed one step above hippies, and I had to wonder, fleetingly, what kind of terrorist organization this actually was.
My captor's grip on my shoulder tightened now that we were in new company, and I tried to hold back my whimper. Marching me forward, he pushed me behind Grant and his kidnappers, leading us toward one of the mud huts in silence. I didn't ask where we were going, as much as I desperately wanted to, and tried not to stagger up the wooden steps that led to the door. When my toe caught on the edge of the stair, my captor caught me, though I could tell he was trying not to look like he had caught me.
Inside there were two single beds, a dresser, and a desk with no chair. Everything was all drab, broken, old, but I almost cri
ed at the sight of a mattress—a genuine, real mattress. It didn't matter how thin it might have been. I wouldn't care if metal springs pushed into my back all night: anything was better than sleeping on the ground.
"Up against the wall! Now! Move!"
Where it was once silent, there was now chaos. All our captors started screaming at us, guns up, their baritone voices penetrating me down to my very bones. I scrambled forward, pressing myself up against the far wall as fast as I could. Grant fell in line beside me, our shoulders and arms touching.
I dared glance up for only a moment, horrified that they might see, and Grant's reassuring gaze was all that I needed. I held his stare, forcing myself to as someone roughly untied my hands. They all continued to scream at us, ordering us to stay in place, to not turn around until we heard the door shut.
And when it did, when the noise finally stopped, my knees buckled and I crumbled to the floor, my emotions spent, my body trembling. Grant crouched down beside me, his large hand splayed across my back. I slowed my breathing, taking easy, steady breaths as he rubbed his hand up and down, and I looked up when it finally came to rest on my neck.
"How are you doing?" he asked gently, and I forced a smile.
"All things considered?"
His nod was a grim one at best, but there was a flicker of humor in his bright eyes. "Yeah. All things considered."
I shrugged, twisting around so that I could sit back against the wall, my legs flopping out in front of me.
"I could be worse, I guess," I managed to get out, a little baffled that those were the words I chose to respond with. I mean, it could be worse. Much worse. I could be worse: beaten, bloodied, broken. While I might have been a little broken, I was in relatively good condition.
All things considered.
"What about you?" I asked, caressing my fingers over his chin. His stubble had come back over the last few days as a result of not shaving, and despite the circumstances, I realized I liked the stubble—he was quite handsome with a bit of well-placed scruff.
Well, he was quite handsome all the time, but the scruff definitely wasn't hurting him.
He leaned in to my touch, his eyes closing for a moment, his whole body swaying as he balanced on the balls of his feet.
"Tired," he croaked, and his eyes opened slowly for me. He didn't need to tell me he was tired—I could see it just fine. While his face might have been bruised, there were deep bags under his eyes, and he seemed to struggle to keep a smile for long. He was just as broken as I was here, but somehow we'd made it this far.
"Let me have a look at your leg," I ordered, weakly gesturing toward the bed. He drew a breath, but his voice caught in his throat—maybe it was a protest of some kind, but it was something I wouldn't listen to today. I hadn't looked at his wound in days, and there was no telling what it had turned into in the meantime.
Wordlessly, we both rose to our feet, leaning on one another as we made our way to the nearest of the two beds. Grant settled on it with a grimace, his bad leg outstretched, and I instantly started to fear what I might find. We were both dirty beyond belief, coated in sweat, starving… Not ideal conditions for someone in recovery.
Settling on my knees, I brought his foot to me and rested it on my chest, not caring about the dry bits of dirt and grime that fell on me in the process. His only saving grace, I figured, was that he'd changed into pants before we set off for the village. While I'd been content to ruin the upholstery of his "borrowed" car, Grant had changed from his sodden shorts into something more comfortable: loose cotton trousers. They were probably the only barrier to the rest of the world at this point.
"Does it hurt?" I asked, carefully rolling the fabric up to his knees. He tensed under the touch, but denied the pain. Typical. I almost rolled my eyes. His bandage was dirty, as I expected, but as I peeled the white layer off, I was stunned to see the wound was relatively clean.
"It's mostly healed anyway," he muttered, running a hand through his shaggy hair when I glanced up at him. "The bandage was just a precaution for the falls."
"We should let it breathe," I mused, tossing the dressings aside and folding his pants so that they'd stay up around his knees. "I doubt these guys will let us use the shower anytime soon."
We shared a chuckle at the thought, and before long, I was in his arms. Neither of us minded that the other smelled like the jungle. Never mind that I hadn't used deodorant for days, or that there was dirt on my face and in my hair and smeared over my clothes. My wrists ached from the ropes that held them together, and my shoulders were in desperate need of a deep-tissue massage after being contorted and pulled back for a number of long, tedious days.
But laying with him there, squished together on that tiny bed, made things just a little bit better. If I closed my eyes, it was almost like we were back in our volunteer huts after a long day at work, both of us exhausted, but happy.
"Clara?"
His voice broke our lengthy silence, and I actually jumped, startled out of the dreamy state I'd been steadily falling into.
"Yeah?"
"I think I love you," he said. With my head and hand resting on his chest, I smiled, exhaling slowly. The words sent a tingle through my body, and the damn butterflies in my stomach had suddenly found a renewed zest for life.
Sitting up on my elbow, I raised an eyebrow at him. "You think you love me?"
Grant chuckled, then reached out to cup my face, holding my gaze evenly.
"I know I love you," he clarified, and a warm flush of happiness flooded through me, no doubt coloring my skin with a very pronounced blush.
"Well," I sighed, pausing only to kiss the palm of his dirty hand—and not caring in the slightest, "I think I love you too."
"Think?" He mimicked my eyebrow raise, and I pursed my lips.
"Know," I said after a dramatic pause.
We grinned at one another, and then fell into a kiss that would last an eternity in my mind. I wasn't sure why we had to share our love now, but perhaps it was because we both knew there might not be a chance to do it in the future. It was a horrifying thought, of course, to suddenly never be able to tell him that I loved him again, to never hear him say the words to me, but it was the crushing reality of the situation.
So, I said it every chance I got, speaking it between kisses as we held one another, both still fearful for what was to come in the near and uncertain future.
Chapter Four
Two days after my arrival at our captor's base camp, I suddenly found myself dragged outside our newest prison cell and into the blistering sunlight. Squinting, I wanted nothing more than to raise both hands and shield my eyes from the brightness, my orbs assaulted after days inside a dimly lit room. However, my wrists were once more bound behind my back, and I just had to suffer through, my anxiety about what was about to happen at an all-time high.
My belly was probably half-full at this point, which was better than totally empty, and we'd been fortunate enough to discover a small—horrible smelling—bathroom attached to our hut, which meant we didn't need to put in a request for bathroom times. So, while neither of us were comfortable, it seemed our captors had put in a little more effort to keeping Grant and I in semi-good condition. No showers as of yet, but since we spent the last two days inside, we hadn't really needed them. Our room would have been an oven had they not added an electrical fan the same day we arrived, and Grant and I spent most of our time sitting in the steady cool air stream, counting down the minutes between mealtimes.
At first, I'd expected this to be another mealtime. It was roughly midday, and this was usually when we'd get our lunch: a bowl of watery porridge (the same as what we had for breakfast) and a small dinner roll to dip in it. We were also lucky enough to get a glass of cold, clear water each, which we nursed as though it was the most precious thing on the planet. After all, that single glass usually had to last us until dinner.
There was a routine now that Grant and I begrudgingly followed, knowing full-well that if we did
n't, we'd lose what limited privileges we had. At the sound of three knocks at our door, we were to move against the farthest wall and place our foreheads against the rough surface, hands behind our backs. Men would then slip in, guns up, and bind our hands. It was clear they weren't taking any chances with us: even though we were probably a fraction of our former collective strength and we didn't have enough energy for much, they wanted to ensure there'd be no issues delivering our meals.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I was hauled out of the room. I'd been waiting for the familiar sounds of trays being set down on the floor, but was instead greeted with heavy footfalls and an iron grip around my forearm. I'd cried out, surprised, and the other two men had to restrain Grant as I was dragged out of the smelly little room that had become our sanctuary in all this chaos.
The man who'd hauled me out was unfamiliar, and I suddenly found myself wishing for the guy who'd held a gun to my throat on our jungle trek. While it was obvious he'd have no problem blowing my head off should the proverbial shit hit the fan, at least he was almost starting to show some kindness the last time we'd interact. This guy… This guy was completely stone-faced. As I studied him, my eyes wandering up and down his body, hovering on his huge rifle for longer than necessary, I guessed he might have been Eastern European, given his complexion.
"What's going on?" I asked, attempting to sound as innocent and collected as I could. He shot me nothing more than a raised eyebrow, his gaze hard and aloof. Okay. So talking might not be his strong suit.
Just as before, there was a cluster of activity around the camp. Men moved to and fro, most of them not paying me and my handler much attention. Some were in military garb, but again, the majority of people the more traditional dress of the locals, even those who weren't seemingly native to the country.
If this were a James Bond movie, there'd be people rolling missiles across the base, and a lot of tech. But this was reality, and everything looked… normal. I saw men laugh with one another, slap a friend on the arm, share cigarettes. I had no sympathy or compassion for any of them, but it was touching, in a strange way, to see such normalcy in such an abnormal situation.
