“What if she straight-up accuses me of killing her brother?” Cristy asked. “I should just agree with that?”
“You must not allow her to get to that point where she asks the question.”
“Easy for you to say, snuggled in your cozy cabin.”
Rizaak had shifted against her, exhaling in a way that betrayed a deep concern, a profound uneasiness, almost a desperate fear born out of some primal instinct to protect her . . . a fear that in some way made Cristy feel more secure, even though she would have to face this test alone.
“I’m kidding,” she whispered softly into him. “I know this gives us our best chance of surviving. Go on.”
Rizaak stayed serious, his eyes focused and shining in the dark, his voice urgent. “What time does she come to take you to the bathroom?”
Cristy shrugged. “Couple hours after the sun comes up. Something like that.”
“So it is before Malone comes to bring you food, yes?”
“Yeah.”
Rizaak exhaled. “Good. So there is a chance she does not realize Malone is missing at that point. Which means that you have a chance to set yourself up as innocent before Jane even knows that anything has gone wrong. So when Jane later finds out Malone is gone, it will be hard for her to backtrack on her own subconscious decision. Do you see?”
“Not really,” Cristy had said. “I don’t see how it changes anything.”
“It does, because a psychopath is actually a very logical, calculating person who does not have the emotional depth of a normal human being. And so once her logical brain decides that you could not have harmed Malone, it is unlikely that she will change that conclusion. Trust me, in the military we come into contact with all degrees of psychopaths, and there are volumes of information on how to deal with such people. What is important is to set yourself up as a person who could not have harmed Malone.”
“How?” Cristy had asked, even as the answer dawned on her.
“By setting yourself up as the victim. As Malone’s victim.”
Cristy nodded against his chest as she began to understand. “Because in her cold, logical mind, if I am a victim, then I cannot be the perpetrator. A person can’t be predator and prey at the same time. It’s almost like a yes-no switch that gets flipped in her peanut-sized, psycho brain, yeah?”
Rizaak had laughed out loud as he pulled her close, and she had snuggled into his warm, heavy body, that feeling of safety and comfort coming back, that sense that everything was in balance, in harmony, in equilibrium.
But now, as Cristy sat alone in her cage, that squeaky fan sucking out the last of Rizaak’s smell, the aroma of what they had shared last night, she felt a chill go through her even though it was hot and humid inside that enclosed space. She looked down at herself now, at her blouse with most of the buttons ripped out, the left sleeve in tatters. She shrugged and tried to smile when she reminded herself that Rizaak had done that in the heat of passion, and so at least that would add some realism to the scene.
Now she glanced over towards the door, to where she had carefully placed her panties after Rizaak had left and drawn the deadbolt. Cristy wanted there to be no doubt about what had happened here, about what Malone had done, about who was the victim in the room. At some level it bothered Cristy, and as she went over it again and again she did wonder if she should just be herself, stand up for herself, fight for herself if she had to.
But thankfully that fire dissipated as the morning wore on, and by the time Cristy heard the metal deadbolt slide open, she was exhausted, drained, worn out as hell, and she realized that shit, she was a hostage in a goddamn cage! Hell, she WAS a victim right now, so it shouldn’t be that hard to ACT like one for a bit, yeah?
“Oh, God,” she cried, her voice sounding melodramatic to her but she couldn’t stop now. “Oh, please, Malone! I’ll do what you ask! I won’t resist, Malone! Just please . . . please don’t hurt me like you did last night. Oh, God, Malone, please . . .”
She cowered against the back wall like a beaten-down animal, drawing her knees up into her body, hugging herself as she turned away from the light streaming in through the open doors. Finally she peeked through the gap between her knees, wondering if Jane was buying it, and her breath caught in her throat so sharply that she almost choked.
Because the silhouette in the doorway was not that of a slender woman in jeans and ankle-boots, long hair swirling, cheap trinkets clinking. No, the shadowy figure was short, stocky, and bald, with what looked like a soiled white bandage on its nose.
“Hello,” he said as he closed the door behind him with a metallic finality that chilled Cristy to the soles of her bare feet. Now Harry smiled, wincing as his bandage pulled on his nose. “Hello, Miss Piggy.”
18
“Where is she?” Jane snarled as she stepped through the doorway of Rizaak’s cabin. Tom stood behind her, his gun drawn and ready in his right hand.
Rizaak hadn’t been asleep but he was certainly confused as all hell right now as he stared at Jane, his mind struggling to figure out what could have happened even as he tried to control his panic, pull back his rage, hold back that fierce protective instinct that made him want to RIP this woman’s throat out, BLAST through anyone else in his way, and turn this ship inside out to find Cristy. But how the hell would she have gotten out of that container in the past four hours?!
“Who?” he said, pretending to be more confused than he actually was as he tried to buy some time and figure out what the hell was going on.
“You damn well know who,” Tom said from behind Jane.
Now Jane came close to Rizaak, raising her gun. She held the gun to Rizaak’s head, her lips tight and drawn. Rizaak coolly looked her in the eye, taking in the soulless blue of her dilated pupils, the dark circles beneath her eyes. She had not slept, he could tell. Perhaps she had taken some uppers—amphetamines maybe. Maybe just so much caffeine her head was spinning. Good, because even without looking directly at the gun, Rizaak could tell that the safety lock was on, and that gave him the hint of a chance. Still, Jane was on edge, close to losing control, and very, very dangerous right now.
Rizaak glanced quickly at Tom for a moment, and he could see that Tom was keeping his distance. The body language was subtle, but it was unmistakable—Tom himself was scared of her! Ya, Allah, this man is scared of his own woman!
The realization gave Rizaak a sudden confidence that yes, given the chance, he could indeed get inside this woman’s head, manipulate her even as she tried to manipulate him, control her just enough to give him and Cristy a chance to get out of this thing alive. But that would have to come later. Right now this woman had to be handled. Calming her down was not an option, so perhaps he should take it to the other extreme.
“Jane,” Rizaak said now, his voice slow, deep, calm. Now he let some anger show in his eyes, in his voice. It was time to challenge Jane, he knew. Question her authority in a way no one else has. Show her that you are more powerful than she is. It is your only chance to control this madwoman. “Are you saying you cannot find Cristy?” Rizaak said, his voice rising as his eyes narrowed. “Is that what you are saying to me? Listen, you damned woman. By Allah, you will listen to me. If anyone has harmed one hair on her head, I will kill everyone on this goddamn ship. And you, Jane, I will kill first, looking you right in those blue eyes, a smile on my face as I choke the life out of you.”
Rizaak could see her eyes go wide now, and he glared at her, holding the eye contact, knowing she was about to snap, and he kept going, threatening her, making it clear that he cared for nothing but Cristy’s safety, that his rage would know no bounds if Cristy were harmed, that HE was in control not she, and Rizaak knew he was close to breaking this woman, so close, and he flashed just the smallest of smiles, a smile that said “You don’t scare me. You are inconsequential and powerless.”
And that was it, and suddenly Jane SCREAMED and pulled the trigger, but the gun didn't fire and Rizaak moved like lightning and SEIZED her wrist,
twisting it until she screamed again and dropped the gun onto the bunk, and Rizaak caught the howling, thrashing woman in a neckhold, locking her down with one arm as he grabbed the gun with the other, snapping off the safety and pointing it at Jane’s temple as he calmly looked Tom in the eye.
“Put your gun on that table. Close the door. And sit down on the floor, my friend Tom,” Rizaak said. Now he smiled pleasantly as that wonderful adrenaline coursed through his system, giving him that feeling of being truly alive. And as he watched Tom literally shake in his boots from uncertainty before placing the gun on the table and closing the door, Rizaak felt that strange calm descend over him, that feeling that the stars were aligning, that the universe was turning, that perhaps every action was in fact taking him closer to achieving that cosmic balance his mother had promised him was out there . . . just like his woman was out there.
His woman.
19
“In here,” Harry grunted as he pulled open a rusty metal door that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. He touched his broken nose tenderly, wincing again as he looked at Cristy before motioning for her to go through the door.
Harry had led her to the front of the ship, past the towering rows of semi-truck sized containers that looked like multicolored skyscrapers. It still wasn’t fully clear to Cristy why Harry was doing this. What was clear, however, was that as messed up as it seemed, Harry was someone she pretty much had to trust at that moment.
“Jane’s on the warpath, and it’s your head she wants,” Harry had said as he stepped into the container and looked around. “And when she comes here and sees you but no Malone . . . hell, you’ll be lucky if she kills you quick with two bullets in the head. Man, I’ve seen that woman do things that still keep me up at night.”
Cristy had managed to control her spiraling fear well enough to realize that Harry wasn’t there to pin her down in that cot and do what Malone almost did. And she quickly figured out that Malone’s disappearance was common knowledge now, which meant that psycho Jane had already decided to blame Cristy, which meant that nothing was going to change the woman’s mind.
“How . . . how did you find me,” Cristy said, quickly straightening her legs and getting up off the cot and standing up. She glanced at her panties on the floor by Harry’s feet, and looked away and blinked. She pulled that torn blouse tight around her chest, finally daring to look Harry in the eye. “How did you find me?”
Harry grunted as he turned and peered outside the container, glancing in either direction before turning back. He smiled a half-wicked smile and then shrugged. “I followed Jane back out here when I saw her take you to the bathroom one morning. Wasn’t hard.” He sniffled now, touching the bandage on his nose. “Would’ve come for a private visit that night—hell, every night—but your goddamn boyfriend put me out of commission for a couple of days.”
Cristy blinked as she took one step forward. “Rizaak did that?”
“Damn right. He doesn’t like me calling you Miss Piggy. Jesus Christ! Talk about priorities! Guy’s a hostage and he gives a shit about name-calling! You got yourself a chival . . . a chivalric . . . what’s that word? Whatever. It’s psycho, is what it is! Would’ve put one between his goddamn eyes, but I ain’t stupid enough to kill the guy with the money. Malone had our guns at the time anyway.” Harry had patted his hip just then, pointing out the bulge beneath his untucked shirt. “Got ‘em back now, though, honey. So just trust me and no funny stuff, yeah?”
It took Cristy all of three seconds to realize she didn’t have a goddamn choice right then. If Jane had already decided that Cristy was to blame, it was too late to play the victim card, to play innocent. Jane wouldn’t change her mind. But what about Harry? Wasn’t he wondering what happened to Malone? Didn’t he suspect her? Why would he help her?
As she slowly walked out into the sunlight, Harry two steps behind her as he pointed towards the front of the ship, it occurred to Cristy that perhaps Harry simply didn’t give a shit about Malone, didn’t care if he had been murdered, fallen overboard, or simply been sucked right into hell by Satan himself. Harry cared about getting the money, and that was it. And if Rizaak seriously had the guts to break this guy’s nose just for calling her that name, which, to be honest, even she didn’t give a shit about . . . well, maybe Harry figured that Rizaak was “psycho” enough to simply refuse to pay them a cent if they hurt her, no matter what they did to him!
And sure enough, Harry confirmed her thought as the two of them walked along the narrow metal corridor along the side of the ship, the roaring sea to their left, the bow looming large in front of them as the headwind blew Cristy’s hair back in a way that almost felt nice.
“Yeah,” Harry had said. “That’s when I figured that you’re probably as important as he is right now. Anything happens to you, and I don’t think your Arab boyfriend is going to give us shit. He’s probably psycho enough to just say, 'Kill me,' or some shit if we threaten him. I saw it in him, you know. I seen it before in some folks in the Army way back when. No fear, you know. Not afraid to die. Can’t break a man like that with pain or even torture. Nope.” He had snorted then, sniffing quickly and then sputtering as he tried to hold back a sneeze. “Fact is, you’re the only leverage we have over that guy. Others don’t see it yet, I don’t think. But I do. Yeah. Yeah, honey. The only thing that can break a man like that is you, Miss Piggy. What do you make of that?”
Cristy felt her heart jump as she listened to this gruff, despicable man talk. Now she was glad she had her back to him, because even though she hated the idea of him staring at her ass in that skirt, Cristy certainly didn’t want him to see how her face had lit up, how her skin felt fresh and glowing, how her lips trembled as she tried her best to hold back a smile.
Oh, God, she thought for a wonderful, desperately hopeful moment as she looked across the endless sea, the boundless sky, breathed deep as she took in the clean, salty air of the open ocean. Oh, God, why do I feel like everything is going to work out just fine? Why do I feel like all this was planned, in a way. Like what’s happening is . . . what’s happening is . . .
WE are happening, came Rizaak’s voice in her head. WE are happening, Cristy!
Now it felt like he was there with her, his strong arms holding her steady, his will power joining her inner strength to make them both stronger, their combination giving each of them a balance, perhaps giving the entire universe its balance.
What is happening, Cristy felt herself asking as she smiled into the wind, her eyes narrowing as the breeze whipped her brown hair across her face. Why do I feel this way?
But she wasn’t really questioning it, just as she hadn’t really questioned what had happened last night in that metal box, on that tiny cot. No, all of it just seemed . . . just seemed . . . natural! It seemed right! It seemed to . . . seemed to make sense!
And by the time she reached the front of the ship, the focsle, the triangular deck that peaked in the gigantic bow of the ship, Cristy felt a strange lightness, almost an excitement, a confidence that things were going to work out just fine.
But then Harry walked down that narrow flight of metal stairs, pushed open that rusty metal door that looked thick enough to stop a bullet, and gestured towards the inside:
“In here,” he said. “Nobody’s going to find you here. And if anyone does come in here, there’s places you can hide.”
“What . . . what is this place?” Cristy asked as she peered into the darkness, scrunching up her nose as a musty, stale smell wafted out to her. It smelled like old seawater with a metallic aftertaste, but at least there wasn’t an organic odor to it. “It’s really dark.”
“Used to be for the extra crew in the old days,” Harry said. “This ship just carries containers now, but it was probably built to carry bulk cargo in its holds. You need a lot more crew to handle bulk cargo, so this here was the quarters for when they carried a hundred or more people on board. Hasn’t been used in maybe ten years.”
Cristy hesitat
ed at the threshold. The lightness she had felt seemed like a distant memory now, and reality was settling back in at an alarmingly dismal rate.
“But Jane’s going to be looking for me, yeah? Eventually she’ll come out here and find this place. And then what—”
“You leave that up to me, Miss Piggy,” Harry said, tapping on the metal door with his gun now. “I’ll make sure I’m the one who searches this part of the ship, all right? So don’t you worry about that. There’s a bathroom down there, and I’ll bring you food and water once a day. You’ll be just fine here. Don’t you worry now, Miss Piggy. Don’t you worry.”
Now Cristy took a deep breath and took one step into the darkness. But before stepping all the way in, she exhaled and turned halfway, looking right at Harry, her eyes narrowed, her voice strong and confident, like she was in charge, even though it made no damn sense.
“Don’t call me that again, Harry,” she said quietly. “Don’t call me that again. OK?”
Harry just stared back at her, and in his eyes Cristy could see the hesitation, like he was backing down to her defiance, acknowledging—whether he knew it or not—that he was just a pawn in this game, just a side player in what was really happening here.
“WE are happening,” Cristy whispered into the darkness as she took three steps in and stopped and swallowed hard, trying to control the rising panic as the metal door clanged shut and the deadbolt screeched across the outside, locking her into a new cage, a new prison, a new nightmare.
“WE are happening,” she whispered again as she desperately felt the walls for a light switch. Finally she found it, and a white tubelight flickered on against the far wall, giving her the first view of her new digs.
She surveyed the large room. It was lined with bare wooden bunks stacked three levels high, a bathroom at the far end, two long wooden tables with adjoining benches running down the middle of the room. It seemed like a dormitory and mess hall combined into one, and in the harsh white light it actually looked reasonably clean.
Hostage for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 3) Page 9
