by Ward, Steve
Christina started feeling guilty. She didn’t believe in casual sex, and she had no intention of being trapped into a long term relationship. Michael was a great guy and a good friend, but that was it. What the hell did I do?
He let his hands slide down the front of her sweater and softly kissed the nape of her neck.
“Michael! Michael, we need to talk.”
“I thought we were talking,” he cocked his head like a bewildered puppy.
“It’s just not right.”
“What?”
“What we did last night. It wasn’t right.”
“Are you nuts? It was so right, downright perfect. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Yeah, the sex was great and all, but it was out of lust, not love. I couldn’t help myself.”
“Why should you? We’re just two adults caught up in the middle of an undeclared war, and we have feelings for each other. What’s so bad about that?”
“I don’t know exactly how to say this, Michael.” She really didn’t. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Uh. . .it’s not you, it’s. . .uh. . .it’s me.” She cringed as it slipped out of her mouth. It sounded so lame, like a million movies she had seen. Not you but me. . .what a bunch of crap!
“We’re breaking up already? That’s what everyone says at the breakup. I’m not stupid, you know.”
“No, that’s not it, it’s just. . .I don’t want. . .”
“Can’t be. Don’t tell me you’re a lesbian. You were married for Christ’s sake.”
“Damn it to hell, Michael, I’m not gay. Why would you even think such a thing?”
“Well, what is it then, some kind of disease?”
She saw red. She was so enraged she turned and stomped toward the front door. She had every intention of going for a long walk to cool off.
“What?” he yelled. “I can’t read your goddam mind. Why is it women always expect you to be a friggin’ mind reader? Why is that?”
She stopped in her tracks and turned on him. “Okay I’ll spell it out. Michael you’re a nice guy and a great friend, but I’m not in love with you. And I’m sure as hell not ready for any kind of commitment.”
“But I love you.”
Now she felt even worse. He loves me, what’s so bad about that? “I know you do, and that’s the rub. I should’ve never slept with you. It wasn’t right.”
“Well, it was right for me. I was hoping maybe, you were beginning to step out of mourning and act like a real person. You know, it’s not healthy to be in love with a. . .” He hesitated but couldn’t help blurting it out, “Lazer’s dead.”
“Shut up Michael!”
“He’s dead for Christ’s sake!”
“Yeah, he died for me. . .I was the target.”
“You’re in love with a dead man. That’s sick.”
She didn’t need to hear that. “I’ve had it with you, Michael. I think we should go our own way. Besides it’s much too dangerous for you to hang with me.”
His face turned bright red, and his cheeks puffed out. It looked like he was about blow.
Crunch. It was a strange little noise. She was about to take a swing at him when she heard it. She held her breath and, crunch, she heard it again. Her ears tried to focus as she held up her hand and whispered, “Michael.”
“What?” he shouted.
She put her index finger up to her lips and shushed like a librarian admonishing an overzealous child. She said, “Didn’t you hear that?” Her eyes tried to lead his gaze upward.
“The ceiling? What?” Now, he was whispering.
She pointed up. “On the roof.”
Michael’s eyes lit up. He appeared happy to change the subject. “Probably just a squirrel. The place is crawling in ‘em.”
“Well, the squirrel I just heard must weigh a couple-a-hundred pounds. Were we expecting any roof workers?”
Two more noises, crunch, Crunch, accompanied the squeak of straining timbers. Michael heard it too, and his expression changed from frolic to fright. A thin stream of dust trickled down from the ceiling right between them. Their eyes opened as wide as saucers. They stared at the ceiling as though they both expected the sudden emergence of Bad Santa. Christina turned and ran to the front window carefully peeling back the curtains.
“My God!” she gasped. She could hardly believe her eyes. The darkness came alive.
“What?”
“They’re onto us. Crawling in commandos. Now what?”
Michael rubbed his head and whispered, “The boat.” He scrambled over to the kitchen grabbing some keys hanging by the refrigerator. “Slip out the basement and get to the dock. . .get away in the boat.” He motioned for her to follow.
They grabbed coats on the fly and pulled them on as they shuffled down the stairs. The back door opened to a pathway down the hill through thick woods. She peered out the window, scanning the blackness. There was hope. A thin sliver of Moon lit the pathway, and it was clear all the way to the dock. She hesitated, looking for any sign of movement. There was none.
“Clear.”
Michael fumbled around in the dark trying to unlock the door. As soon as he twisted the knob, there was a loud crash upstairs. Apparently an upper window had exploded, and hazy fumes poured down the stairs. It looked like an old horror movie with ground fog. Almost instantly there was a noxious smell.
“Teargas. Let’s go!” He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her through the doorway. They took no more than two or three steps when all hell broke loose.
“Get ‘em!” someone yelled.
They were quickly surrounded by several dark figures, masked and dressed to the hilt in black combat gear. Christina tried to struggle free, but it was no use. She was instantly overpowered by armed personnel who seemed to know exactly what they were doing. Several hands grabbed her, and she was knocked to the ground by what felt like an Uzi poked in her ribs. She screamed when some kind of sackcloth was forced over her head, hands quickly bound with duct-tape.
This is it, her heart pounded, they’re gonna kill me. She tensed her entire body waiting for the shot that never came. They started dragging her across the lumpy ground. She could feel rocks and stumps pounding her back.
“What do ya think you’re. . .” Michael shouted, trying to mount a protest before there was a loud Crack.
Christina heard him fall to the ground in a lifeless thud. God no, they killed him. She could hear the static of a two-way radio and a helicopter approaching off in the distance. No amateurs, she thought. More like Navy seals. But who. . .why?
The radio crackled, “Charlie Company One. . .Charlie, how do you read?”
“Five by. Standby Mother. Mission joy. Repeat, we have joy, securing objective.”
“Roger.”
“Back to base; ETA twenty-three-hundred.”
She couldn’t see anything, but she felt so helpless when a huge person threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. There wasn’t much banter, but she sensed a great deal of excitement among the perpetrators as they hustled up the hill to an idling van. She could smell the fumes and hear a sliding door. The sound of Michael’s limp body being tossed in the vehicle was clear.
It was chaos, and there was a great deal of pain, but she did her best to stay calm and listen. Definitely military, but who are they and where are they headed? She first noticed how they smelled, all clean like new laundry. The best she could tell they were red-blooded Americans, military and quite professional. No hint of foreign accents. If they were terrorists, they were home grown, more than likely some type of special-forces. If Wallace was behind it, that would be the Air Force Special Ops. She had read about them. They provided the air component of the U.S. Special Operations Command, an elite combat division for unconventional warfare and counter-terrorism.
Christina heard a moan as she was strapped to her seat. Thank God, Michael’s alive! The van door slammed shut, and she was pressed back in her seat as the vehicle sped away. Her mind raced with pu
zzlement. How could they track us to the lake house? Our trail was covered. She began to wonder if Wallace had somehow planted a homing beacon in her briefcase, or maybe they were using GPS assisted satellite imagery. Why all the firepower, she wondered, and all the secrecy?
She listened for any kind of clue, but time for speculating was over. Someone from the backseat forced something around her neck and yanked her back against the headrest. She wrenched her head side to side trying to resist, but she couldn’t breathe and started to panic. This is it! As the air ran out, the rope slackened and a gloved hand covered her nose and mouth with force. She breathed in a huge gulp, but there was a strong, acrid smell, and she started to cough. In a matter of seconds she went black.
* * *
It was like a bad dream, all the action muddled in a thick fog. Barely conscious, she was surrounded by darkness and a peaceful feeling. It wouldn’t last. Suddenly, out of the blackness came an assault on the senses. First there was a huge explosion, then a smaller one, then the swoosh of a rocket, then the rat a tat tat of automatic gunfire. Even though she wasn’t quite awake, she instinctively snapped to attention and listened for some sense of awareness.
Orders were shouted in English, then in some other language and car doors opened and slammed shut. A fierce confrontation which could only be heard and not seen raged all around. Plinkety-pling plunk, she could hear bullets crashing into the vehicle, and she tried to duck low without success. She was a sitting duck. All she could do was tense every muscle and wait for the one bullet that would end her life. Plinkety-pling plunk. She heard someone scream and fall to the ground. It was all so confusing. Who’s fighting whom, and for what?
Christina began to regain consciousness realizing the nightmare was real. Through her black mask there were flashes of light, and it was clear she was in the middle of a fierce battle. Glass was breaking, people screaming and bullets ripping through everything. The English faded away, and there were shouts of excitement in a muddled tongue. She could feel people pouring into the van. Suddenly there was an awful smell of garlic-breath and body odor. She could hear bodies being pulled out of the van and slammed to the ground. A feeling of sheer terror gripped her when she finally realized what it was. She had heard it before. It was no less than a death sentence: Arabic!
Men were jabbering a thousand miles a minute as she was unstrapped and hauled out. She heard them laughing as they swung her back and forth and tossed her into the air. She landed head and shoulders first onto a rippled, metallic platform. Still blinded by the mask, she screamed in agony, blood pouring from her forehead into her eyes. She struggled to move when tires squealed, and she sensed acceleration. What must have been a pickup carried her away.
Christina felt so helpless and alone rolling around in the bed of that truck. The driver raced around corners like a madman.
Oh, my Lord! she prayed. What did they do with Michael?
Chapter Eleven
Hands tied, Christina awoke in a small room devoid of furniture. It had a concrete floor and walls. Every bone in her body ached, and her forehead throbbed. There was nothing but an exposed light bulb on the ceiling and a metal bucket. No chair, no bed, no blanket.
Nice accommodations, she thought. Somebody call room service.
There was dried blood all over her clothes, and her head pulsed like a New Year’s day hangover. She stood up and limped for the metal door. It was locked. There were two slots, one at the bottom and one at the top. She poked at them trying to see through, but there was nothing. Since her bladder was about to explode, she had to use the bucket before she could even think. It was a clumsy affair, but she got the job done. She sat back on the floor and put her face in her hands.
She tried to think of something funny, but nothing came. Reality began to sink in. Not good, she thought, not good at all. Arabs? Muslims? Not known for treating women kindly. Abducted from the abductors? She recalled the commotion. What will they do? Rape? Torture? Why haven’t they killed me? Trying to clear her mind, her first thoughts were of Michael. God almighty, why did I have to shoot my mouth off? Great guy, the kind of guy any girl could fall for. Damn, wish he were here. She started to cry.
A gaggle of footsteps approached as she steeled herself. Be tough girl, be tough! She turned toward a noise at the door. The upper slot cracked to a pair of black eyes shifting side to side. A loud bang echoed as the door blew open and four men scrambled in. They looked like decent fellows, but the turbans and beards gave them away. As they chattered to each other in Arabic, one stepped forward and looked in her eyes. She had studied conversational Arabic and recognized one word of slang which translated to “whore.”
“Who are you?” she demanded defiantly trying to hold her own.
The man squinted, raised his hand and slapped her across the face. She felt the sting of calloused digits, and her knees buckled. In broken English he barked, “No speak! Whore!”
She began to fear what might happen next as two men grabbed her arms and another knocked her to the cold floor. They took her feet and drug her out the door, down the hallway and into another room, much larger. As she looked around, it was her worst nightmare. There was electrical equipment, wires and a large meat-hook hanging from the ceiling. A pungent smell filled the room. It smelled familiar. The odor summoned images of an exploding car. She cowered at the smell.
Oh God, no! she screamed silently.
The man motioned for her to sit in the wooden chair as he stood in front. “You talk. No worry, we no rape bacon-eating pigs. We, what do you call, torture? No dogs, no water-boards, no music, just ‘lectricity! Ha ha, lots of ‘lectricity in the bad places.” He roared with laughter as he stared between her legs. The other men shuffled around trying to get a good view.
She struggled to force her knees together.
“‘Lectric push. . .” he didn’t seem to know the word, so he used his hands to show something shooting out from the face. He pointed at the meat-hook with a big grin. “See?”
He was obviously trying to scare her, and it was working. Totally constrained, she was at their mercy, and they didn’t look like merciful types. She looked around the best she could, but there were no obvious means of escape.
She tried to speak, “Who are. . .”
He slapped her again and knocked her silly. She prayed to God that she might pass out, but consciousness remained.
“What ‘bout Rhani?” he yelled at her.
She squinted defiantly through swollen eyelids and said, “Rhani who?”
He slapped her again, and she could feel blood trickling from her nose and over her lips. She welcomed it. Vision impaired by large patches of blackness, she was on the edge. One more punch and I’m out of here.
“What ‘bout Soyuz two-three. . .Jihad-one?”
“Nothing,” she almost screamed, her whole body twitched at its own pace. “C’mon, hit me again, you little bastard, and harder this time. What are you, a pussy?” She had never been trained in interrogation resistance. She knew it was just a matter of time, so she decided to spill her guts and see how he reacted.
He raised his hand again and asked, “What know ‘bout the drod?”
“Drod? You stupid son of a bitch, you mean DROID? I know everything about it,” she said. “I designed the goddam thing.” She wasn’t at all sure he understood her English, but all of a sudden his expression changed; he looked pleased.
“What do?”
“It’s a robot, a docking platform, you piece of shit. It’s used to capture and repair satellites stranded in orbit, that’s all.”
“Why you send drod against Jihad-one?”
“Jihad 1?”
He slapped her again, and her ears started to ring. He screamed, “Why?”
“Take it easy buddy. We wanted to get a look at that piece of crap satellite of yours.”
“Why look at weather satellite?”
“Because we didn’t know what it was. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? DROID blew up. We didn�
�t see anything.”
All three men looked at each other and laughed. Yacking back and forth, it looked like at least one understood and translated to the other two. The slapper repeated an earlier question, “Rhani?”
