by Pamela Clare
Kuti stepped back. “You have reason to boast, Mr. Jones. You are a skilled fighter. But my expertise is the use of pain to make people talk.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I want to know who helped you rescue your wife—and I want to know what you did with Jidda’s nephew, Obi.”
Fuck.
That’s not what Malik had expected him to say, and it raised the stakes. Malik couldn’t betray David, and he would rather die than let these fuckers get their hands on Obi again. He would have to keep his teeth together, no matter what they did to him.
“I was alone out there. Your men were distracted by murdering one of their own. They made it easy for me to scare them with the drone and get my wife.”
“Mr. Jones, our tracker found two different kinds of shell casings and four sets of footprints.”
Son of a bitch.
“Your tracker is full of shit. Ask the men I didn’t kill how many men they saw.”
Kuti laughed, pointed to one corner of the room. “String him up.”
Malik took the scene in. Kuti with no weapon in his hands. Four men with rifles on their shoulders moving toward him. The bar hanging from the ceiling by a rope-and-pulley system. The two men standing near the bay door, talking, rifles in hand.
He drew a breath, focused his mind, then jumped up and caught Kuti in the face with his heel, knocking him to the floor.
One of Kuti’s men came at him, but Malik dropped him with a scissor kick to the jaw, the man’s rifle clattering to the concrete.
Malik leapt, rolled, and came up holding the rifle. But his wrists were bound, making it impossible for him to hold it properly and sight his shot. Holding the AK like a pistol, he aimed as best he could and fired at the two men by the door, killing one of them. But before he could fire again, the rifle was knocked from his grasp, the butt of an AK striking him hard in the temple.
Pain exploded inside his cranium. He staggered back, tried to give himself room to recover, but it was over. Another blow from the AK, this time to his gut, knocking the breath from his lungs.
Two men dragged him, doubled-over, to the corner and began to bind his arms just above the elbows.
“Make it tight.” Kuti got to his feet, holding a handkerchief over his bloody nose. “You are strong and clever, Mr. Jones, but what do you know about tabay?”
He gave a nod to his men, who pulled on the rope, hoisting Malik off his feet, leaving him to hang in mid-air.
Geezus.
He sucked in a breath at the pain, his body weight hanging entirely from his shoulders, which had been forced into an unnatural angle by the ropes that bound his elbows. He gritted his teeth, looked Kuti straight in the eyes. “Fuck you, motherfucker.”
19
Kristi was shoved into a dark room, the door locked behind her. For a moment, she stood there, paralyzed by fear, the thrumming of her pulse in her ears the only sound she could hear. She took one breath, then another, trying to rein in her panic.
It wasn’t working.
They were going to torture Malik. They were going to kill him. Malik was only here because of her, and now they were going to kill him.
Cobra will come for us.
He was so certain.
But what if Kristi had screwed up sending that text message? Or their work on their other mission wasn’t done? Or the GPS tags had stopped working and they didn’t know where to find them? Even if Shields had gotten the message and the GPS tags worked, how long would it take for Cobra to get here?
Kristi didn’t know.
Until they arrived, she and Malik were alone.
You can’t just stand here in the dark freaking out.
Kristi turned and walked back toward the door, a seam of light coming through the crack around it. She reached with her hands, searching the wall for a light switch.
There.
She flipped it, and fluorescent lights flickered on, revealing her prison.
An old wooden table. Two chairs. A pile of discarded cardboard boxes.
She glanced inside the boxes, found them empty. There was no phone, no water, no comforts of any kind, apart from the chairs.
She sat, despair and dread heavy in her chest.
Malik.
Unless Cobra got here in a big, fat hurry…
Oh, God.
Kristi had worked her entire adult life to alleviate suffering. She’d seen people in terrible pain for all kinds of reasons—gunshot wounds, diseases, car crashes, fires—and had done all she could to take their pain away. She couldn’t bear to think of anyone deliberately inflicting suffering on another person, especially not the man she loved.
He loved her—she knew he did. She loved him, too, but she hadn’t told him, not yet, not with words. She’d thought there would be time to tell him how she felt later, when they weren’t on the run, maybe over a candlelight dinner in Denver.
Now, she might never get that chance.
Tears blurred her vision, fear for him overwhelming her.
An hour went by, then two. She didn’t have a watch or her phone, so she couldn’t be sure. Each moment was unbearable. Horrible possibilities flashed through her mind, all the terrible things they could be doing to Malik, what they might do to her.
God, help us.
Rage. It hit her hard.
No! No, Malik’s life could not end in this dirty warehouse in Lagos. The man who had fought his way through dozens of battles and survived two wars could not die at the hands of criminals.
When you’re part of something, like the Rangers or even Cobra, you’re fighting for your team, not just for yourself. You keep fighting until you can’t fight any longer.
Well, Malik was her team. She would fight for him. But how? She had no combat skills, no idea how to use a gun. She’d never even struck another person.
Restless, desperate, she stood, her hip hitting the table, making a small drawer slide out. She hadn’t noticed it before, maybe because it was tucked beneath the table. But there, in the drawer, was a utility knife, the kind used to open cardboard boxes.
Men’s voices, a key in the lock.
She slid the drawer shut and sat just as the door opened.
The two men who’d locked her in here stepped inside with a man in a bright blue tailored business suit. He was young and well-dressed, an expensive watch on his wrist, a thick gold chain around his neck, designer sunglasses concealing his eyes.
Kristi glared up at him, her fear becoming rage. “You must be one of those fucking Sky Kings.”
He jerked as if he’d been struck.
One of Kuti’s minions stepped forward, hand raised as if to strike her. “You should kneel to him!”
“Kneel?” She laughed. “Never.”
The man in the blue suit stopped him with a wave of his hand. He drew off his sunglasses. “Miss Chang.”
“That’s Mrs. Jones to you.”
He gave her a tight smile. “Mrs. Jones, then. I am Captain Jonathan Bello.”
“Captain of what—sex traffickers?”
He laughed, his gaze moving over her. “I heard that you are spirited and beautiful.”
He spoke English well.
“I am angry—and married.”
“I understand you made an agreement with Jidda—your nursing care in exchange for his protection.”
“I agreed to help him in exchange for my safety and freedom.”
“Yes, I understand. Unfortunately, Jidda would never have been able to release you. I’m sorry he did not make that clear. But he did his best in offering you his protection. We are prepared to honor that agreement. We will offer you our protection in exchange for your medical skills and your company.”
“You want me to be your nurse whore?”
“There is no reason to put it into such crude language. You would live in comfort, caring for me, my elderly father, and our fellow Sky Kings, and we would visit your bed as we choose.”
Her answer came straight from her gu
t. “I would rather die. I will not live my life as a glorified sex slave.”
He screwed up his face as if she’d just said something ridiculous. “Come now, Mrs. Jones. You would want for nothing. You would have children—”
“Have children—with you?” She laughed, grateful once more for her IUD. “Not a chance. Do you think it’s a small thing to force a woman to have sex with men she doesn’t desire and doesn’t love? It’s rape.”
“You would get used to it, even learn to enjoy it.”
She shook her head. “No, I would hate you even more than I do now. I would bide my time and try to escape—or kill you in your sleep.”
The shock on the minions’ faces made her laugh.
“Does no one talk to him like this? Do you all bow and scrape and kiss his ass? These so-called Sky Kings make millions, while you live off the crumbs that fall from their tables and die fighting their battles. They’re not kings. They’re not royalty. They’re nothing but a cartel, a crime ring, crooks who profit off the misery—”
One of the minions struck her—hard. “Shut your mouth!”
“I will leave you here to think about my offer, Mrs. Jones. You must decide what matters more to you—your life or your pride.” He turned to the minions, and they walked out the door together. “Leave her here. She could be useful later. Mr. Kuti tells me that her husband hasn’t yet given him the name of his accomplice or told him what he did with Jidda’s boy.”
They were torturing Malik to get him to betray David and Obi.
Hearing them speak of Malik like this… knowing they would torture him until he shattered… knowing they would kill him…
To hell with them.
She opened the drawer, grabbed the utility knife, and cut the ropes that bound her wrists.
Never shall I fail my comrades. I will always keep myself mentally alert, physically strong and morally straight, and I will shoulder more than my share of the task, whatever it may be, one-hundred-percent and then some.
Cold sweat ran down Malik’s temples, trickled down his forehead, and into his eyes, the pain in his shoulders, upper back, neck, arms, and hands unbearable. He’d long since learned not to kick or struggle. It only made the pain worse.
Christ!
He gritted his teeth, reciting snippets of the Ranger Creed to keep his mind focused. He could not break. He could not betray David or his family. He could not give up Obi and turn him over to be the Sky Kings’ pawn.
Stay strong. Stay strong.
Cobra knew where they were. They would come.
Kuti had walked away a few minutes ago, leaving him with a few of his grunts, who alternately threatened him and found petty ways to hurt him. They had lowered him so that his feet barely touched the floor—then raised him up again. They’d grabbed his legs and had taken turns hanging on him, their weight amplifying his pain.
One pointed his AK at Malik’s crotch. When they quit laughing about that, the other flicked his lighter and moved the flame close to Malik’s bare feet.
Malik saw his chance. He grabbed the bastard by the neck with his legs, and lifted him off the ground with a jerk, breaking his neck and letting him fall to the concrete.
Fuck, it hurt, but it was worth it.
Malik taunted the other one. “Come here, fucker. Bring your AK. Get closer.”
The guy backed off and kept his distance.
Malik remained as he was, hanging, his arms tied together at the elbows, reciting the Creed, for another ten minutes—or had it been an hour?
Then Kuti walked in with some guy dressed in a neon blue suit.
The man with the AK lay face down on the floor to greet him, then clambered to his feet, pointed to his dead friend, and explained what had happened, Malik catching only catch bits and pieces.
Kuti walked over to the dead man, knelt down.
Malik rubbed it in, rage giving him strength. “Twenty-one.”
The bastard he’d kicked in the jaw had died, too.
Kuti glared up at Malik, but made way for the man in the peacock suit.
“Let him down. Bring us chairs.”
Malik was lowered to the floor, the relief in his shoulders and upper back so intense he almost moaned, though his arms still ached from lack of circulation. “Who the hell are you?”
“I am Captain Jonathan Bello. I just spoke with your lovely and spirited wife.”
“Stay the fuck away from Kristi.”
“As much as it pains me that you two are in this situation, we want information from you, information you refuse to give. The man who helped you raid our camp and steal your wife back—I’m certain he’s Nigerian or we would have caught him trying to escape with you.”
“Maybe—or maybe not.”
“And the boy Obi. Where is he? He was Jidda’s nephew, and Jidda worked for me. Obi must carry on in Jidda’s place. He has seen too much to leave us now.”
“I don’t know where Obi is.” Malik tried to shrug and rotate his shoulders, but the motion sent pain shooting down his arms. “We freed him and let him go.”
“That is what you keep telling Samuel. Three hours of tabay is almost always enough to get the truth from a man, but I think you are still holding out on us. You are too defiant, Mr. Jones, as is your wife. I offered her a life serving me in bed and out, and she chose to die.”
Malik’s heart hit his sternum, driving the breath from his lungs. “You … killed her? You fucking son of—”
“Oh, she’s safe for now. I’m giving her time to rethink her choice.” Bello stood, motioned for Samuel to raise Malik up again.
Malik tried to prepare himself, but the pain stunned him as they hoisted him up again. He clenched his teeth, afraid that if he opened his mouth he’d scream.
“I asked Samuel not to do any permanent harm until I got here and had a chance to speak with you. I made your wife an offer, and now I’ll do the same for you. Tell us what we want to know, and we’ll kill you with a single shot to the head. Fast, painless. All of this will end, and you can rest.”
When Malik said nothing, Bello went on.
“If you don’t, Samuel can do whatever he likes with you. He enjoys lighting fires beneath people and burning them slowly. They can’t help but kick and twist as they try to escape the heat, but that greatly increases their pain. In the end, they always break. You will break, Mr. Jones, and you will die horribly. Why not make it easier on yourself and your wife? If we must, we can get the information from her. I don’t think Kristi would last as long as you have.”
The thought of Kristi suffering torture put terror in Malik’s chest. “Fuck you, Bello! Stay away from her, or you’ll be the one who dies today.”
Bello and Kuti laughed and walked away, speaking quietly together.
But Malik overheard them.
“We use them against each other, see? Light one of your fires. We’ll bring her to watch. When she sees him burning, she’ll tell us what we want to know.”
Fire.
Chills slid down Malik’s spine.
If he could just hold out a little longer.
Never shall I fail my comrades…
Kristi inched her way along the dusty ventilation shaft, flat on her belly, trying not to sneeze, dust making her skin itch. She thought she understood where she was going now, having taken some wrong turns. If she followed the shaft along the back of the building, it ought to take her to the big garage-like room where they’d last had Malik.
She’d cut through her ropes and looked for a way out of her prison, thinking at first that she could climb into the ceiling. Fear that it wouldn’t hold her made her give up that idea. Then she’d discovered the ventilation shaft in the back wall. It was barely large enough for her to pass, but it was her only way out. She’d pried the screen loose, crawled inside, and had crept her way along, looking into each room as she passed.
What if they’d moved him? What if he was too hurt to fight? What would she do if she found him?
Don’t think ab
out that now.
She inched her way along, grateful she wasn’t claustrophobic, the utility knife in her pocket. Then up ahead, she saw light.
Carefully, quietly, she moved forward and looked through the screen. It was a small room, like a closet. The lights were on, but she didn’t see anyone. A box of whisky. A bag of rice. Bags of dried beans. A carton of cigarettes. Matches. And there in the corner were her backpack and Malik’s duffel bag, their contents dumped out.
The first aid kit. One of Malik’s pistols. The knife he’d worn around his ankle.
Oh, how she would love to get her hands on those. All she would have to do is crawl out, put what she needed into her backpack, and then disappear again—before anyone walked in or spotted her.
Sure. Easy. Piece of cake.
Pulse racing, she pushed out the screen, crept out, and grabbed the first aid kit and stuck it and the knife and one of his pistols into her backpack.
Voices.
She was about to crawl back into the shaft when her gaze fell on the matches and the whisky again, and an idea came to her. If she could create a distraction…
She grabbed a bottle of whisky and the matches and tucked them into her backpack. She stuck her backpack inside the shaft, then slid in feet-first and pulled the screen back into position.
The voices came closer.
A man walked in, grabbed a pack of cigarettes, and left again.
For a moment, she lay there, heart pounding.
Pushing her backpack in front of her, she moved steadily down the shaft. A dark room. A room where two men sat cleaning guns.
There was only about twenty feet left of ventilation shaft. God, what if it didn’t go all the way to that garage? What if she couldn’t find him?
Keep going.
She inched along toward the end of the shaft. But as she drew nearer, she saw that it didn’t end there, but turned to the left where a large screen opened into the garage.
A man’s shouts. More shouts.
A groan.
Malik!
She crept forward until she reached the screen—and her blood went cold.
