by Tony Lavely
“Something about his hair…” Mike said. “For what it’s worth, Lissa says he looks a lot better now than he did then.”
Beckie dredged up what memories she could. “He wasn’t all that bad looking, then. I hope I’m remembering the right guy!”
“He’s the only guy you dated,” Mike said. Beckie winced at the derision in his voice. “Senior prom, right? A few inches taller? Light brown hair? Maybe a little… heavy?”
“Yeah, though the heavy thing, not sure that’s right.”
“We wrestled together. He was a little heavy. Not much and he carried it pretty well.” When she nodded, he continued, “Well, he got his growth spurt; he’s six feet now. He dyes his hair dark red, like, not as long as yours, but long. And with all the running, he’s pretty trim. Excellent condition. I’m not surprised you wouldn’t recognize him, especially if you weren’t looking for him.”
“Wow.” It was Beckie’s turn to fall back on the mattress and think.
The sun was beginning to lighten whatever lay beyond the closed shutters when the doorknob shook, the lock scraped and the door opened.
A portly woman stepped through, allowing a short man to follow her in. Beckie had been saying something to Mike, but whatever it was went out of her head, leaving her mouth open, mid-syllable.
It was the man she’d fired shots over his head on the way out of Syria with Solène. And Sam and his team. “What…” she finally managed to squeak out. Out of the corner of her eye, Mike was staring at her. We’re right, this is on me.
The woman listened, maybe to see what other words Beckie might be able to produce, but when Beckie remained silent, wondering about her sanity, she made a rude gesture and said something in French. Sure sounds derogatory, Beckie thought as her mind began to work. Dalila was gonna take care of him. Maybe that doesn’t mean what I intended… he’s not been shot in the head!
The man was pressing the woman to the door, speaking all the while in French, but in a placating tone. She was allowing herself to be shunted out, but not without returning his words with invective of her own.
He pushed the door to behind her and turned back to walk to the window. The sun behind the slits made it difficult to distinguish his features, or, Beckie realized, his expressions.
“She worries that you two will… have the advantage of me.” His English, not bad. Wonder which English school he went to, that he’s willing to ride out, to kill, to steal a girl for his harem.
Mike gave her another glance, but she shook her head. Let him do the talking for now. He must have understood; he faced the man but remained unspeaking.
“It must bother you, being here. And I understand, headaches? But I was assured that no other side-effects will bother you. Any of you.” He patted his belly as he gazed at Beckie.
She felt a swell of relief as his words came clear. Well, guess I was more worried about that that I admitted.
“I hope that your information is correct,” she said.
“As do I; your value would be incalculably diminished were the… fetus, I think is correct, to have suffered. I would be forced to have my retribution.
“We anticipate that this is not the case however. To items which are the case, then. I require from you the return of my property. Then, as recompense for your earlier behavior, I will accept offers for you and your child from a select group of… Shall we just say, a select group.”
Beckie decided that this wasn’t the big surprise the man thought it would be. What else would he want, given our introduction over the barrel of an AK-47? “And Mike?”
“The boy?” He waved in Mike’s approximate direction. “He has a different purpose. Now, however, we shall enjoy a morning repast. You will walk to the table in the far room. Guards will secure your legs. Any… silliness will result in… Shall we say, unhappiness?”
Breakfast was quiet, somber even, but both Beckie and Mike ate their fill. “No telling when his highness will deign to feed us again,” she said under her breath. Since he was interested in keeping at least the baby healthy, and the food came from serving dishes, she felt confident that Mike’s wouldn’t be dangerous to him.
“Now,” the man said once the dishes had been cleared, “we must discuss the near future.” He pulled a chair out and set it to face Beckie. “I require the return of my property, which you thieved a few months ago.”
“You said that before. What ‘property’ did you have that I took from you?”
“The girl, Solène Dalila.”
“Cannot be property; she is a person. When will you Neanderthals learn that!”
“Your beliefs are not mine. I purchased her in good faith; she has not been delivered according to the terms of the sales agreement. The contract is in breach.”
“The contract is invalid, unenforceable!”
“Not while I have you. I think it quite enforceable.”
Fuck! He has the upper hand; that’s certain. “Show me the proof, then. This ‘contract’ you claim.”
He took a small sheaf of papers from his pocket and dropped them on the table in front of her.
She picked them up and quickly scanned each of the three sheets. “You know, I’ve always admired Arabic calligraphers; their works, the beauty of Arabic writing is difficult to duplicate in other languages. Perhaps, Chinese,” she mused. “But art is all this is. I don’t read Arabic, uneducated provincial that I am. It does not prove your position.” She handed them back.
“You may rest assured that any translation—any honest translation—will support my position.”
“And have you made payment on the anticipated delivery?”
“The contract requires ten percent on delivery and the balance once… once her value is proved.”
“Her value?” Mike stumbled on the two words.
It’s okay, Mike, I can guess what that means.
Bakir clarified it. “Once she has been proven a virgin, unused by a man.”
“But a woman? No way to see that.”
“True.” He stopped to give her an appraising look. “Do you think that likely? You have spent considerable time with her.”
Rather than explode in outrage, Beckie grabbed her anger by the throat and pushed it back. Almost calm again, she said, “No more than gentlemen discuss such things, do gentlewomen.” She smiled as intriguing a smile as she could. “But I suppose that nuance of civility is beyond you.” Her smile was more mocking now. “That is the first of your plan, I suppose. The rest? Is there more? How do you anticipate ‘recovering’ Solène while keeping control of me?”
“I think not to give you any more details. All will be revealed.” He came to the table and grabbed Mike’s arm. “This one is of no value to me. He will return to your people and give them the message. We will also provide a copy of the contract that your people may have translated, so you will know I speak the truth.” He pulled Mike up and one of the guards came to untie his legs. “You may wait here or in your room.”
There was no food left on the table, and there was a bulky guard who would probably remain. She pushed herself up and waited to be freed. “I’ll wait in the room. Mike, be careful. Do what he asks. Willie can help.”
In the room, she tried to make sense of the scene beyond the shutters, thinking at the same time, wondering if allowing Mike to go on his own could be considered a ‘right’ thing to do. Wondering if she’d had any choice in the matter, she decided, no, and fighting that no-win cause wouldn’t have helped her position. Or Mike’s. Bakir knows me; he watched me fire over his head. I have no idea where or why he thinks he can sell us, patting her abdomen, but there’s a lot of strangeness in the world. Damn! I should have asked how much. Could I buy her back? Or rather, to get away from the ‘buying of people’ thing, buy the contract from him? That’s not the same as buying her, I don’t think. But it has the same effect, admitting that the contract is valid, when it’s not, dammit! So that won’t work.
She sat on the mattress, hoping that something…
anything, was going right.
After some time berating herself, Beckie stood and examined everything in the room again. She didn’t bother with the door out; she knew it was unlocked with two guards on the other side. The bathroom didn’t offer more promise. All the ceilings were plaster; no breaking through them or pushing a panel up. Lack of alternatives left her at the window.
A closer examination pretty well eliminated that path as viable for escape. Even if she got the window open—and there was no guarantee she could—there was no balcony. With no balcony, the drop to the ground—actually a paved driveway or street—looked to be twenty or more feet with nothing to break her fall except perhaps a three foot stone wall. Nothing going on around here, no cars, nothing. Across the street stood a bit of forest, so if I can get out, maybe that’s the way to head.
Okay. Standing here looking out this window does no good at all. I don’t know what Mike’s gonna be able to do, but if I can get out, it will only make Willie’s job easier.
She knocked on the door, then opened it enough to see out without giving the impression she was going to rush anyone she saw. The two men who had stood by while they ate breakfast were both in the room, seated on the chairs. With a smile, she said, “Water… uh… aqua, uh, s’il vous plaît.”
They both gaped at her, but the taller one then smiled and said what sounded like ‘low’ before he left by the far door. The other man held up a finger. She nodded and entered the room. Without much of a plan, and not knowing how long she had, her steps quickened into a run; the soccer style kick she landed against the side of the man’s head laid him out. The ‘Thump!’ he made hitting first the floor and then the wall sounded like thunder to her. Sure that anyone in the house would have heard it, her trip to the door was hurried indeed.
She glanced back at the man she’d felled; he was beginning to rouse himself, so she cracked open the door. Cool! No one! She glided through into an upstairs hallway. Footsteps below motivated her to find a hiding place upstairs. Preferably one with an exit!
At the end of the hall away from the steps, she found a door standing half-ajar. She dropped to a knee to peek in. When she found nothing, she stood and peeked again. It remained empty; she scurried in and closed the door. The room was fresh and cool. The breeze led her to the window; it was open to the outside. She refused to believe it when, a couple of feet below the sill, a roof extended another ten or so feet, sinking most of that distance toward the ground. In the hallway, a yell provided impetus she hadn’t really needed; she threw herself out the window and rolled down the shake shingles.
At the edge, her body flew off; just as she began to curl herself up, she hit a small bush.
“Oof! Ooh.” Her back and left side had borne the brunt of the impact; her shirt was torn and dried leaves were all over her. She rolled into a ditch under the eave of the roof.
She gathered her wits from among the leaves they’d scattered and raised her head to the ground level. The branches covered her, for the most part at least, but the ditch had an inch or so of muddy water. When she looked into the sky, the sun had given up for the day; the clouds of yesterday had returned bringing with them the light rain they’d seen every day since stepping out of Charles De Gaulle.
No activity. She lay back in the water and took stock. Not dressed for this. Shirt, now torn from the branches, a sheer cami and a bra up top. Under her tweed slacks, she wore tights and underwear. Definitely not good even for walking in a thirty-five degree rain, let alone lying in a drainage ditch in that same rain. “Pfaugh!” But her shoes were good, serviceable leather flats with wooden heels.
Her musings were cut off by the sound of a door opening, then slamming closed. Voices, words not in English. Damn. A car door slammed; a second one closed more quietly. When the engine started, she raised her head enough to see it backing away. Two heads were visible through the rain-streaked windows. Looks like the guards. Why are they— A rustle close by arrested her rising motion; she slowly turned her head. Bakir was peering into the wood shed, not ten feet from her ditch.
Is he going to continue around? Damn well should, if he’s really interested in finding me. But why send his men off? Where can they go that… Maybe to bring back help?
Quiet as a mouse watching a cat, Beckie inched her way up the side of the ditch while watching Bakir fool around with the piled wood. She curled up under the branches, then, when she liked her position, she took a deep breath, shivered from a stream of freezing water running from the tree above down her back, and moaned, very quietly.
Nothing! The man’s not only a heathen but incompetent. She moaned again.
This vocalization drew his attention. His head turned and he took a careful step to the corner of the shed. Beckie held her breath watching his calf—the only part of him she could see. He needs two more steps.
He sidestepped along the edge of the ditch into the place Beckie hoped. Before he moved again, he started to lean down. Nope, don’t need that!
She unwound her coiled body, smashing her feet into the side of his knee. She’d wedged herself against the ground; all her energy pushed through his leg. The snap was more than loud enough; his scream, even louder. She whipped off one of her shoes and slammed it against his temple once, twice; he lay still.
In case the brief scream had been heard, she dragged his body into the ditch about six feet back from the corner of the shed. With a quick look around—Yeah, who’s gonna be peeking here?—she removed her other shoe and pants. Quickly—damn cold!—the tights came off; even before pulling the pants back on, she used the nylons to tie first, Bakir’s hands and then his ankles. Then she drew the soaked pants back up her icy legs.
She caught her breath, checked around her little world, then sat on Bakir’s belly. No reason to sit in the mud when a warm seat’s available.
Now, plan, Beck. No matter where those guys went, they will return. And the woman; haven’t seen or heard from her. And anyone else he’s got in there. But first, dummy, what have you been doing? Elena would be so mad… Beckie rolled onto her knees and began a search of Bakir’s pockets. Encouraging! Her smile grew even wider as her hand touched the butt of a handgun. Dragging it out, she read Beretta, but more importantly, the magazine was full. Into her waistband it went; not gonna risk it getting stuck in my pocket. No, you can’t have it, when the baby kicked just where the cold steel touched her belly.
I need my phone.
Crab-walking back to the corner of the shed was uncomfortable, but it kept her feet out of the mud at the bottom of the ditch. When her involuntary reaction was to brush the detritus from her shirt and pants, she stifled a laugh and gave it up, settling for making sure her shirt was tucked in, but still bloused over the gun’s butt. A through survey of the area showed nothing to concern her; she went to the door.
A curtain blocked the view inside, but shadows from the light inside proved that someone was present. Faintly, a radio? Music player? TV? She could hear a song, then mumbled words.
Using her gentlest touch, she turned the handle to its stop and leaned into the door. It opened easily. The room was warm, and the odor of fresh rolls or bread wafted out to please Beckie’s nose. When it had opened sufficiently, Beckie peered around into the room.
An entry, which led to the kitchen on the left and a dining room straight ahead. The good odors and the music both drifted out from the kitchen; an occasional clatter told Beckie someone was there. By all appearances, the dining room was unlit and empty. She worked the gun free of her pants and stepped inside, closing the door before a draft could bring attention.
Okay, let’s try the empty room. If the phone’s not there, we’ll brace whoever it is over there. Little sneak steps took her though to the dining room. A glance every other second made sure she didn’t wander into the sightlines from the kitchen door. There! A pile of things that Beckie recognized lay on the sideboard across the room. Fucking great! she groused. All the way around.
On her knees, she crept under the l
ip of the table and around to the far side. She raised her head enough to see the two phones; she snatched them one at a time. Ignoring the other things Bakir had taken from her pockets, and Mike’s, she turned to creep back to the doorway. Now she noticed the wet trail her dripping pants had left, but, oh well. Not like they’re gonna wonder about who was here, or why.
Stealthily, she returned to the outside. Just as she began to heave a sigh of relief, the sound of a car approaching thrust her heart back into her throat. She scrambled around the corner of the shed and threw herself into the muddy water. A glance showed that Bakir was still unmoving; the car stopped by the door Beckie’d just exited. Two slams promised the car had emptied… maybe, so Beckie slithered along the ditch toward the front, then, seeing no one, she broke into a run away from the house, into the border of bushes and small trees that ended at the woodshed.
A slam of the door and Beckie pitched herself into the cover of another bush. She’d made about seventy-five yards; she hoped it would be enough.
One door on the car slammed and the car backed out, then shot away. She squirmed until her head was clear of the branches; the man who’d been left was poking in the wood shed. Well, won’t be long before he finds Bakir. Go? Or use the phone and hope someone can find me?
That seemed an easy decision; do both, idiot!
She inched the rest of the way out. The man was still obsessed with the wood, so she kept low, though it made running awkward. After five minutes with no alarming noises from behind her, she stopped.
A road and a building were just ahead, another ten minutes walk, half that, running. But in the parking lot… was that the car from the house? Unsure is not the right answer.
The border ended about halfway to the road; Beckie ran that far, then ducked into the last bush that could hide her.
