by Tia Fanning
A soft knock sounded at my door. “Come in."
My captor entered and upon seeing me, seemed relieved.
"What?"
"Do you want me to be honest?"
I turned around to face him. “Go ahead."
"I thought you'd fight me on this."
"Why?"
"Most American women would object to being forced to wear the hijab."
"I didn't know I had a choice,” I remarked.
"You didn't. I just expected more of a fuss. I appreciate that you're being so accommodating."
I shrugged. “Whatever, it's just clothing. Are you ready?"
Honestly, I was just sick of fighting with him about petty shit. I had decided to pick my battles. Plus, the more relaxed he was around me, the better my chances for escape.
"One last thing.” He went to my wardrobe and pulled out yet another black scarf.
"I need another layer?"
"Not quite,” he said as approached me.
When he brought the fabric near my face, I leaned back, not sure of his intention.
"Do you trust me?"
Trust. It was always about trust with him. Images from my erotic dreams came to mind, and I realized that somewhere, somehow, I did come to trust him on a certain level.
Eyeing the scarf warily, I slowly nodded.
He placed the cloth over my eyes and tied it behind my head. The whole time that I had been here, they, for the most part, had treated me like a guest, but things like this reminded me that I was still simply a prisoner.
"Do you plan on executing me?” I asked lightly.
Though I couldn't see his expression, I felt him tense up. “No."
I guess he didn't appreciate the joke.
His hand clasped over mine and he led me out. It was disorienting to not see where I was going, and I faltered with hesitant steps.
"I won't let you run into anything, Brenna."
"I know, I know, just trust you."
"You seem kind of cold today. Is something wrong?"
Among the things I had learned since my capture, and there were many lessons I'd learned, the big one was that there was little use lying to him. He always managed to get the truth from me in one way or another.
Pick my battles.
"I guess I'm just very confused, and that confusion has made me moody."
I heard the font door close behind us. “How so?"
"Because I want to believe in you. Desperately. Against all that is right, honorable, and just plain good common sense, I trust you. I find you sincere. I feel for you in ways that I should not be feeling for you. And then you ruin it all by doing some fucked-up shit like blindfolding me. You want me to trust you, but it's obvious you don't trust me."
The beep of an elevator, doors sliding open. He guided me and we stopped, doors closing. “I do trust you. How could I not? You have my heart."
"You always speak pretty words. Are you saying that you're in love with me?"
Sandalwood.
Though I couldn't see him, I could smell him, feel the heat radiating off his body. He was close to me, so very close.
"If I hadn't made you that promise, the one that said I would not kiss you again while you were here, I would show you how much you mean to me,” he murmured in my ear. “But if you want to hear those words, you'll have to hold up your end of the bargain."
"Why are you doing this to me?” I whispered.
"I can't help myself. I know I shouldn't be saying these things to you. Every time I'm with you, I step over the line, or cross some boundary I should not be crossing. But the moment we met, I felt something. I know you felt it too. We were drawn to each other. You would have been brought here regardless of how I felt personally, but now that you're here, I can't let it go. Time is precious. I can't ignore it. I can't pretend there's nothing between us. And I don't want to."
He moved away, and then I heard a soft click. The elevator began moving up.
What was this? Fate being cruel? A star-crossed destiny?
Had I always been in love with him?
No. It would never work between us.
I shook my head. “You're going to break my heart in the end."
"Never that, Brenna. If you'll let me, I'll make up for all of this. I swear. Please be patient, keep trusting me."
The elevator slowed to a stop, I swayed on feet, my body still unaccustomed to the loss of a vital sense. He pulled me close, his solid body steadying me. I heard the elevator doors slide open and we disembarked.
"How big is this place?” I asked as he led me to our destination.
"Three levels, six apartments on each floor. Courtyard, lobby, gym, pool, roof."
Wow, how surprising. He actually told me. Maybe my little ‘trust’ confession actually moved him.
I felt the change in the air the moment we stepped into the new place, the door quietly shutting behind us. I heard whispering, the clicking of a keyboard, a muffled speaker broadcasting in Arabic. He led me deeper in the oppressive room, then moved me around and untied the blindfold.
It was an apartment ... but not. Instead of the things you'd expect, like home furniture, it was more like some computer geek's basement. There was a long table against the wall with computers, security monitors, printers, and all sorts of office technology. Two men sat with their backs to me, headphones over their ears, intently watching a monitor showing a guy in a room.
"Brenna, look at me."
I turned to my captor, noticing he held a large EMT bag.
"I need you to treat a prisoner."
Another prisoner?
Some poor, young wounded US soldier came to mind.
"Listen, this is very important,” he whispered. “Do not speak, do not make eye contact, and do not touch the prisoner more than you have to. Work quickly so we can get you out of there. Do you understand?"
I nodded absently. I understood what he was saying, but I didn't understand. Something was off here.
"I can't go in there, but there will be armed guards to protect you. Do you think you can do this?"
Armed guards ... torture?
Had they tortured the prisoner? I glanced around at all the monitoring equipment. Was that why they had kidnapped me and brought me here? To heal their victims for the next round of interrogation?
My stomach turned, my eyes seeing my enemy in a whole new light.
"If the prisoner won't let you treat him, don't press it,” he continued.
I just stared in disbelief, his words meaning nothing. Had everything he'd ever said to me been a lie? God! How could I have been so stupid? How could I have ever trusted someone I met at gunpoint?
My captor turned and knocked on a bedroom door. “If things go wrong, leave immediately. I'll be waiting for you right here. Don't worry. I'll be watching,” he said, indicating the grainy monitor screen.
A man came out, said something in Arabic, took the medical bag and signaled me to follow.
My feet automatically moved, though my mind was numb. Be it fear, curiosity, or the doctor in me forcing me to comply because someone was suffering and needed my help—I'm not exactly sure what prompted me forward.
I followed the man into the dim room, looking over my shoulder when the door closed behind me, and thus noticed the first armed guard stood beside it. I turned back and assessed my surroundings. The glass on the window had been painted black. Like a scene from some copper movie, a single light bulb illuminated the room, hanging over a simple table with three chairs. The man with the medical bag moved toward the prisoner sitting on a cot against the wall, explaining something to him.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
The prisoner was young, but he wasn't American.
Another guard stepped out of the shadows and approached the cot. My escort? He glanced at me, or actually through me, as though we had never met.
The man put the med bag on the floor, said one last thing, then walked away. He didn't even acknowledge me when he passed by a
nd exited the room, leaving me alone with the prisoner and his two guards.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Fourteen
I stood there, waiting for an indication that I could proceed. Tense moments passed, but not a word, not a signal, nothing.
The prisoner, who couldn't be older than twenty-four, sat on his low Army-style cot with his back against the wall, staring at me like I was spawned from the bowels of hell. My armed escort, or guard in this case, looked at me blandly, as if he was regarding a plant. I didn't even bother to glance around at the door guard. I didn't have to. I could feel his eyes boring into my back.
Lowering my gaze, I moved forward, slowly approaching until I came upon the medical bag resting at the base of the bed. Not wanting to bend over, I got on my knees and opened it, shocked at how comprehensive it was. It was like a souped-up Paramedic kit and then some, complete with prescription medications not normally allotted to EMTs such as antibiotics.
After disinfecting my hands with a sterilizing foam, I slipped on a pair of latex gloves and shuffled closer, dragging the heavy bag with me.
The prisoner continued to glower.
I wished the cot wasn't so damn low.
Should I kneel on the floor, stand and lean, or sit next to him on the mattress?
I debated the safest course of action, considering the hostile looks the prisoner was giving me. Being on the floor left me open to being kicked, but leaning over the prisoner was just as dangerous. Fuck, it was all dangerous. Sitting next to him didn't guarantee my safety either. However, at least on the cot, we would be on an equal level. Hopefully, if he did decide to attack, he wouldn't grab me and snap my neck before I could get away.
Avoiding direct eye contact as I was ordered, I moved onto the thin mattress, riding the edge and keeping as much distance between us as I could and still be able to examine him properly. Automatically, I could see he was feverish, his pallid skin clammy looking, his cheeks rosy. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his dark eyes were glazed. Abrasions covered his forehead, and his forearm had a makeshift bandage of sorts, like a handkerchief tied over a wound.
I reached for his injured arm, but he leaned away and muttered something that, despite the language barrier, was obviously meant to warn me off. He then gave a response that obviously pissed off my escort, because my escort suddenly kicked the cot, jarring both me and the prisoner.
Rattled, I wasn't sure how to proceed. My captor had told me not to press the treatment issue, but the guy was undoubtedly suffering. I really wished I could talk to him. Maybe he was in a great deal of pain and didn't want me touching his injured arm? Or maybe he didn't know my intent and was scared of me?
Maybe the other man didn't tell him I was a doctor?
Thinking it would be best to show him that I was there to help, I pulled the stethoscope and the sphygmomanometer out to measure his blood pressure. These were universal medical instruments. He couldn't mistake my intent.
I reach for his good arm, but he pulled back, objecting. I followed his retreat, undeterred. He wasn't the first difficult—
"I will kill you if you touch me."
I was so shocked by the outburst being in English, I forgot the ‘no eye contact’ rule.
"Yes, bitch, you understand now,” he hissed, then spat in my face.
The next thing I knew, my escort had his fists on the prisoner's shirt and was hauling him off the bed.
"Don't,” I cried, shooting to my feet as the injured prisoner was slammed against the wall.
My escort turned and gave me a warning look, but remained silent.
"I do not want a whore's hands on me,” the prisoner snarled.
"I'm not a whore. I'm a doctor,” I explained curtly, wiping his spittle from my veil.
"You work for these American pigs."
It took a moment for his statement to sink in.
I looked up. “American? Are you sure?"
Deafening silence was my only reply.
I shook my head. “I wouldn't know. I'm just a prisoner here, too,” I remarked dryly, pulling off my head cover.
The prisoner stared up at my escort. “Pigs. You even steal your own women from their families."
A commotion sounded, just beyond the closed door.
I glanced over my shoulder. “What's happening?"
The guard pressed on his ear as if he had a radio ear-piece in, nodded, and moved in front of the entrance, blocking it. But never offered an answer.
"One says you leave, the other says you stay,” the prisoner translated.
Shit. I didn't need to be told which one wanted me pulled out of the room.
I turned back. “Can I treat you now? Yes or no?"
When the prisoner nodded, my escort dragged him back to the cot and shoved him down.
I sat and resumed my exam. After taking his blood pressure, which was good, and his temperature, which was a little high at 101, I unraveled his makeshift bandage.
"They let you stay because I talk now."
The warning about me not speaking to the prisoner came to mind. Ha. I only broke two of the three requests. My captor shouldn't be too pissed off.
Yeah, right.
"I not talk before you come."
His injury would require stitches. It was an angry gash, filled with foreign matter and showed signs of setting infection. I pulled out my supplies to treat the wound.
"What is your name?” the prisoner asked.
The way they were about names around here, I'm sure my captor would have a heart attack if I gave my real one.
"Bee,” I offered.
"Like the honey?"
I smiled. “Yes."
Taking a deep breath, I caught myself before asking the prisoner what his name was. There was no need to piss my captor off any more than I probably already had. I'd talk enough to keep the patient happy, and nothing more.
After preparing the area, I pulled out a few needles and began inserting a series of interrupted sutures. As I tied and pulled, and pulled and tied, I thought more on my captor. He probably wanted to throttle me. For all I knew, he might actually do it.
I felt a giggle bubble up. It was a cross between a nervous reaction of things to come and a bratty ‘ha-ha’ gloating cynicism.
Why should I gloat?
I guess because my captor didn't get what he wanted. I was still in the room, I was not wearing my headscarf, I was making eye contact with the prisoner, I was talking to the prisoner, and I found out something about my captor that he didn't want me to discover.
Childish, I know.
But nervousness stemmed from the fact that I'd have to deal with the consequences of these actions later. When he got me alone. And I was quite sure there'd be hell to pay.
I was snatched from my musings by the prisoner's next question. “Why are you here?"
Telling this guy you were in Iraq with the military will probably not go over well.
I played ignorant, as if he meant how I ended up a prisoner too. “I guess the same reason you are. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
He chuckled. “I like you."
I finished sewing up the gash, impressed with my own handiwork. “You'll need to have these stitches removed in 10 to 14 days. Do you have allergies to any medications?” I asked. When he shook his head no, I smiled. “Then I'll leave you some medicines with the guards."
All I had left to attend to were the minor abrasions on his head. I opened an antiseptic packet and began treating the scratches.
"You have beauty and kind hands. I will remember you."
I gave a small smile, continuing with my ministrations. It was always nice to be appreciated as well as complimented.
"You should not be here,” the prisoner said softly.
No shit. “I know."
"Find a way to leave, my friend."
Squinting at a cut on his ear, I nodded my concurrence. Yeah, I'm working on that.
I must have missed seeing the small lace
ration during my initial examination, being that it was on the far side from where I sat. It appeared deep and jagged, but was now crusting over and no longer bleeding.
"They underestimate us,” he muttered. “We are not without ways..."
I leaned in to take a closer look, testing the flesh around the wound with my fingers.
"We know who they are,” he whispered, “and we are coming for them."
I froze and stared at him.
He had said it so softly, I wasn't sure I had heard him right. We know who they are ... we are coming for them...
Even as my escort's rough fingers snaked under my arm and jerked me to my feet, I never stopped gazing into the prisoner's eyes, my mind finally digesting all of his words. He was warning me, telling me to escape when I could—while I could. He didn't want to see me hurt.
The prisoner nodded. “Soon, insha'allah."
Suddenly, I was dragged away.
My escort's biting grip never loosened, but I was too stunned to care. I kept looking back until finally we exited and the guard slammed the door shut, cutting off my view of the prisoner.
I was brought up short and spun about, only to meet the intense glare of my captor. Anger didn't describe what I saw there. Rage was more like it.
Fear sliced through my gut and cut off my breath.
"What did the prisoner whisper to you?” he bit out.
"I'm not sure—"
"Tell me. Now!"
I jumped. “I'm not sure I heard him corr—"
Abruptly, my captor moved forward, forcing his heated breath against my face. He was less than an inch away. I tried to step back, but my escort was the proverbial hard place to the rock before me.
"Don't you dare stand there and lie to protect him."
"I-I'm not. I'm just saying...” I tried to collect my scattered thoughts. But I was panicky, my legs trembling.
My captor was trying to intimidate me. Scare me. And though the tactic was working, it was not needed—and the insult to my integrity was definitely uncalled for. I wasn't trying to hide anything from him. If he wouldn't keep interrupting me, he'd already have his damn information.
"What did he say, Brenna?"
As he continued to stare me down, his anger seemed to be escalating. I almost expected to hear the threats of torture tumble out of his mouth.
