by Dana Marton
The nasty thing skittered toward the wall. She moved, too, to keep the largest possible distance between them at all times. She tried to calm herself with the thought that scorpions were probably scared of people. Few animals attacked without being provoked.
She mirrored its movements as the scorpion ran along the perimeter of the room. She had to get rid of it. Now. She glanced at the hole. If one came in, so could another. That freaked her out so badly she couldn’t even think about it.
She took off her veil and moved toward the animal, bent at the waist, and standing as far from him as possible, lowered the end of the cloth to the ground in front of him. The animal backed away from the black material. Excellent. All she had to do was to herd the damn thing outside.
For an insane moment she felt infinitely grateful to her captors that they had left her light on. Spike had been in the dark. She shuddered at the thought of that happening to her, scorpions crawling over her body.
She shooed the animal back, but it bolted sideways. She jumped away, her heart clamoring in her chest. Scorpions and humans had coexisted in these regions for thousands of years, she told herself. It didn’t make an iota of difference to her frantic mind.
She had to get it out.
She moved forward, pushing the veil toward the animal. It stared at the cloth. Would it attack? She stopped. The scorpion backed away. Toward the hole, thank God. She took a cautious step. The scorpion skittered back to the wall. Almost at the hole. Her hands trembled. Just a little more. She shook the veil and, holding her breath, watched the animal back out of the room. She jammed the cloth in the hole with trembling hands, blocking it from any other intruder, and sank into the farthest corner.
She was breathing heavily, her blood rushing through her veins, the picture of the nasty thing still in front of her. Rubbing her arms didn’t help. She seemed to have permanent goose bumps.
She cringed when she heard footsteps outside the door. They couldn’t possibly interrogate her again. Not now. She couldn’t take it. She had had all that she could bear for one day.
When the door opened, the man who came in didn’t grab her, but set a plate of food and a flask of water on the floor instead. He stared at her hair, the veil jammed into the hole in the wall, but he didn’t say anything as he left.
She fell on the food, starving all of a sudden, as if her body were just now remembering how hungry it was. She could barely taste the round noodles and sauce as she shoveled the meal down, breaking only for greedy swallows of water now and then. Then it was gone, too soon, and she felt slightly sick to her stomach. She’d eaten too fast.
She lay down, pressed a hand to her abdomen. After a while, the nausea passed. They’d given her food. The significance of it hit her finally. They wanted to keep her alive, at least for a while yet. A day or two? More? Hopefully long enough for someone to figure out where Spike and she had disappeared to and to come get them. She didn’t want to die. Not this way. Not here.
“WHAT DO THEY say?” El Jafar tapped his gold-ringed finger on the desk.
“Nothing.”
He nodded. “I think the woman is just a pawn, but Thornton—he wasn’t in that cellar by accident.”
“We’ll get him to talk.”
“Do.” He shot the man a level look. “Then get rid of them. I want no trace left of either one.”
“It will be done.”
“By tomorrow night. I’m going to need every man. I don’t want the distraction of prisoners. I can’t spare enough people to guard them.”
The man bowed and backed out of the room.
Damn the Americans. He tapped his fingers on the desk. How much did they know about him? It couldn’t be a lot. He’d gone to extraordinary measures on security. He’d been careful. The two at camp were an irritation, but hardly a threat to him. He worried more about the ones who had sent them.
What had “Gerald Thornton” seen at the house, and had he been able to report back any of it? He would have given anything to know. Allah willing, his men would get the answers from the prisoners. They knew what they were doing and were not the squeamish kind.
THE DOOR OPENED. Spike pulled up his knees to protect himself and watched as a guard shoved Abigail into the room. This time, the man turned the light on. Probably so Spike could see the pitiful shape she was in. She looked thinner than ever, her hair unruly-she had lost her veil. Her eyes were swimming in tears. Damn. She looked like she was at the end of her rope.
The door slammed closed and they were alone.
“Hang in there,” he said, feeling like a bastard.
The look she shot him told him she was of the same opinion. She was trembling slightly, her nerves and her body pushed to the edge.
He had to calm her down, distract her, boost her spirits somehow. If he found a way to escape, she had to be ready and strong enough in both body and spirit to go with him.
“Tell me about Uganda.”
She looked at him as if not comprehending his words. But then, after a while, the clouds cleared from her eyes and she nodded.
“I was there with the Peace Corps.”
“Working with war orphans?” He knew what she’d been working on, but wanted to get her talking.
“Some, but not all of them. I worked with young women who escaped from or were returned by the rebels. A lot of young people had been captured and taken into slavery.”
He waited, hoping she would go on.
“I helped them locate their families, worked with the local governments. Just talked to them. Tried to make them understand that what happened to them was not their fault, that their families still loved them and wanted them back. They’d survived terrible abuse.”
“Some of the strongest people I’ve met in my life are women. If you don’t lose hope, you can survive anything,” he said, relieved when she nodded at his words.
“We held some classes, too. I taught English, another woman from Michigan gave sewing lessons. We got a dozen sewing machines donated. They had this amazing spirit. Both the volunteers and the girls.” A little bit of spark returned to her eyes. “Like anything was possible.”
“Weren’t you scared? It’s not the safest of countries.”
She pulled her lips into a flat smile. “I was frightened out of my mind every single day. I’m such a coward. I kept expecting that the government would be overthrown again and we’d be all murdered in our beds.”
“But you stuck with it.”
“How could I not? I couldn’t leave them.” “And then you came here.”
“I found out about the grant from the Barnsley Foundation, that they wanted to do something in Beharrain. I did a little research and what I found… I don’t know.” She looked away. “It just broke my heart.”
“And then you came. Alone.”
She blew out a puff of air. “That decision might have been a little too rash.”
Yeah. It had sure sent the CIA scampering. He grinned despite the pain that even the small movement caused. “You’re going to be fine.”
She looked at him and slowly squared her shoulders, as if pulling strength from deep within. She was the most extraordinary woman he’d ever met.
“You promise?” she asked, holding his gaze.
He reached for her hand, ignoring the pain, savoring the feel of her fingers intertwined with his. She didn’t pull away.
He took a deep breath. “Promise.”
He’d break them out of there or die trying.
HE PROMISED. AND she wanted to believe him. But considering that most everything that had come out of his mouth since they’d met had been a lie, it wasn’t easy.
The door banged open and four men came in. One of them pulled her up by the arm and led her out. The others stayed with Spike. She had a pretty good idea what they were going to do to him.
He looked as if he’d been beaten savagely. She wondered how much more he c
ould take.
The guard led her down the hall, then outside. She held her breath as they walked past the largest of the buildings where she knew the electrodes waited. She didn’t dare breathe until they were past it, heading toward the smaller structure that contained her cell.
The man opened the door, shoved her inside. His eyes stopped on her veil, stuffed into the hole in the wall. He grabbed it and threw it at her. She did not protest, but covered her head, said nothing about the scorpion. If they knew she was scared of them, for sure they’d use that against her.
He left without a word, but she wasn’t alone long. The young man who’d questioned her before walked into the cell. Her spirits sunk. He was bad news. Although he’d never hit her, when pain had come, it’d been always on his order. She cringed away from him, pressing her body into the far corner.
“Dr. Abigail DiMatteo. You say you came here to save children.” He watched her face closely. “Are you a spy?”
“No,” she said, although she knew he wouldn’t believe her. “I’m not a spy. I don’t know how to convince you.”
He sucked in his lower lip, let it go. “Your husband is.”
“I don’t know anything about this. We’ve only just met.”
“In my country, men would protect their families with their lives. They do not put them in danger.”
She hung her head, having no idea where this was going.
“You don’t have to die with him.” His voice was nonthreatening, even friendly.
“I don’t know anything,” she said to the floor.
“I’ll come back in a little while. Maybe you remember. I hope you will. Hamid is going to help you.”
He walked out the door, gave some orders outside, presumably to Hamid. She eyed with apprehension the stocky man who came in a minute later. He carried a three-foot steel chain in his scarred hands. Her stomach contracted into a hard ball at the sight.
He grabbed her roughly by her bound wrists and dragged her out of the room and out of the building. She stumbled after him. Fear-hot, visceral panic-flooded her body and mind. Then her thoughts cleared somewhat. Should she fight him? Her gaze settled on the chain. He could do considerably more damage to her than she could do to him. But she had to try something. She threw her weight back, trying to stop the man.
He yanked hard on her wrists in response, the ropes bruising her skin. She struggled despite the pain. He didn’t even slow. She fought on, dragging her weight, pulling back. He was taking her away from the buildings, outside the giant camouflage netting that stretched over them.
She had to close her eyes for a moment when they stepped out into the full sun, its merciless rays blinding as they reflected off the white sand. The bottom of her feet burned. “Stop, please, stop,” she said in her best Arabic. “I didn’t do anything.”
Hamid walked on. She could see his destination now, a tall post dug into the sand about ten yards in front of them. She struggled harder, putting all her strength into it, but he pulled her along as easily as if she were a child.
When they reached the post, he threaded the chain through the loop of her tied arms, then yanked her wrists high above her head and slipped the ends of the chain onto a thick nail driven in the post at an angle.
“You speak, get water,” he said in heavily accented English and, with a last look at his handiwork, left her tied out in the full sun.
She wondered how long it’d be before he came back to see if the heat had broken her resistance yet, and hoped he didn’t overestimate her and she’d be still alive.
The soles of her feet burned on the hot sand. She dug in a few inches to find relief in the cooler layer beneath, bent her head forward, making sure the sun didn’t reach the unprotected skin of her face. The black abayah soaked up the heat. Her mouth was already as dry as the desolate landscape around her. How long would it be before her tongue began to swell? Her wrists hurt where the rope cut into her skin. She straightened her spine to stand taller and ease the pull of the chain. She felt marginally better, but how long could she keep that up?
How long before the sun sucked out the last of her strength?
Chapter Seven
Steel scraped against cement. Spike opened his left eye and tried forcing open the right, but couldn’t make it work. It was still swollen shut. A guard entered the cell, making him instinctively curl up on the floor, tuck his head in and prepare himself psychologically for the beating. His body was strong, his mind ready; he could take it. They could not break him. He waited.
Something clinked against the floor, then the door closed and he was alone again. He let his muscles relax as he looked around, his eyes settling on a small metal bowl of unrecognizable food and a goatskin water pouch by the wall. He inched over and smiled, just as wide as his cracked lips allowed. This was what he’d been waiting for-a single mistake he could take advantage of. And they had finally made one.
The strap had been removed from the water pouch and they didn’t give him a spoon-smart precautions, but not enough. He drank first, then ate, enough adrenaline rushing through his veins to dull the pain of chewing. When both the food and water were gone, he dragged himself into the far corner and sat with his back to the door.
He scraped the edge of the bowl against the rough concrete. It didn’t seem to make much of a noise, but he couldn’t be sure. His hearing was far from recovered. He waited a few minutes and when no one came in, continued. Soon enough, the bowl’s edge was sufficiently sharp to cut the rope; but the cutting itself, the slow sawing of fibers, took time. He worked on his feet first, then his hands, not severing the ropes completely but enough so that a good tug would finish them. He didn’t cut in the middle, but instead on the inside of his left wrist, to make the damage as unnoticeable as he could.
When he was done, he turned the bowl over and pushed it into the comer, the sharpened edge hidden, then he lay down to wait. He didn’t have to wait long before Suhaib entered the room, along with another man who was dragging Abigail behind him. Two more guys came in. They pulled Spike from the floor. Every movement hurt, and he let it show, refusing to lock his knees to stand. Let them think he was too weak to hold up himself.
He lifted his head enough to take a good look at Abigail, gritted his teeth as he damned the bastards to hell. She looked worse than before, weak, on the brink of giving up. Fear filled her eyes. And she didn’t even know what was coming. He did. Another favorite interrogation technique-they were going to torture her in front of him.
Two men held him by one wall, while Abigail was led to the opposite corner. Suhaib paced the room but a few feet from her, a handgun tucked into his belt.
“I’ve been very patient with you, he addressed his words to Spike. “But I’m afraid we’re running out of time. I’m going to ask you one more time who sent you. If you choose to lie again, your wife will pay the price.” The man stopped in front of Abigail.
He could not reach Suhaib in one leap from where he was and didn’t dare risk the man pulling the gun.
“I already told you everything I know,” he said, hoping to provoke the man into moving closer to him.
Instead, Suhaib pulled a curved dagger from his belt and lay the blade against Abigail’s throat.
“No,” Spike roared, but even as he did, the man hooked the dagger into the front of her clothes and sliced down to her waist, baring her skin for all to see.
He was going to rape her.
Rage welled, pumping through Spike’s veins, pushing him to jump, choke, pummel. He held back. Not yet. Not yet. If Suhaib moved just two steps in his direction…
Abigail struggled against the man who held her, slipped an arm free and elbowed him hard in the stomach. Suhaib swore, then pulled his gun and placed the barrel against her temple.
They had pushed Suhaib too far. “Wait,” Spike yelled, and lurched forward, hard enough to make the guards holding him pay attention, but not strong enough to b
reak free.
They threw him back against the wall, as he had expected. He let his head hit. “I work for the United States government,” he mumbled as he rolled his eyes back and slowly slid to the floor, then went completely limp.
Suhaib swore again.
Pain exploded in Spike’s ribs when somebody kicked him, but he didn’t move, not even when they threw water into his face.
Then he heard the words he had been hoping for. “Get me when he comes to.” The door opened and closed.
He waited a good fifteen minutes, giving Suhaib time to get out of hearing distance before he stirred without opening his eyes. One of the guards bent over him, blocking the light. The next second his hands were on the man’s head, his ropes dangling, as he smashed the man’s skull into the concrete floor with full force. He kicked the legs out from under the other guy simultaneously, then he was on his feet, his heel crushing the man’s windpipe in one good kick.
The guard holding Abigail went for his gun, but it was too late. Spike was on him in a split second. With his ears still ringing, he didn’t even hear the guy’s neck snap.
Abigail stared at him with wide-eyed horror, trembling, grabbing for the front of her clothes to hold the fabric together.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he searched the bodies.
His search yielded two knives and three guns. Not bad. He cut her ropes, handed her one of the guns. It slipped from her fingers, her hand was shaking so badly.
“Let’s go.” He swung the straps of his two rifles over his shoulder, picked up hers and kept it at the ready.
She didn’t move. He grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him. They had no time to wait until she came out of shock. He found the narrow hall empty and windowless, but riddled with enough bullet holes to see through. Only a couple of men were outside, the heat already merciless.
He turned to Abigail, rage bubbling up inside him again. They’d done a number on her. He made sure his voice was soft when he spoke. “Where did they keep you?”
