By Lethal Force

by Patricia D. Eddy

  With flushed cheeks, I step back, staring down at the floor. “Can I…um…buy you…another… Oh, I hope you weren’t on your way somewhere important.”

  “Just lunch. Alone,” he says. “Though I was hoping to drink soda rather than wear it.”

  The smile in his voice encourages me enough to meet his gaze, and…wow. Hazel eyes flecked with green. Strong cheekbones. A little bit of a light brown scruff dusting his chin. And that grin. That full bottom lip.

  “Coca-Cola brown is a good color on you.”

  The man laughs, and my God if that doesn’t make him even more handsome. “Ford,” he says, holding out his hand.

  As our fingers brush, a spark races up my arm, quickening my heartbeat. “Josephine. Joey.”

  Playing the memory like a movie on repeat, I close my eyes, run my fingers over the ring I never could force myself to send back to him, and pray this time when I drift off, I’ll dream of a time I felt…normal.

  The door swings open, and Zaman’s boot connects with my back a moment before he falls, landing on his hands and knees, his big body pressing down on me. I scream, the last vestiges of my nightmare melding with my reality, and start to thrash and claw at him.

  “Get off me! Get off! Oh, God. Please!”

  Zaman grunts and pushes to his feet. “Up. Now. You are needed.”

  His words barely register, and I scramble back until I hit the bed. “Don’t touch me!”

  As if he’d listen. Grabbing my arm, he drags me to my feet and then shoves the headscarf at me. “Cover yourself.”

  My hands shake as I tuck the scarf around my hair and slide my feet into the slippers. He curls his thick fingers around my bicep and pulls me down the hall, up the stairs, and out into the courtyard. On a prayer mat, Mateen moans softly while Lisette kneels next to him, smoothing his hair.

  Faruk looms over both of them, and when he sees me, he strides over and slaps me across the face. “You are making him worse, not better!”

  “No!” I cry. “All of his numbers were better last night. You saw the report!”

  Shoving me to the ground, Faruk grabs the back of my neck and holds my head close to the boy. “Does he look better to you? He fell over during morning prayers and he will not get up.”

  The pressure of his grip makes me tremble. He could snap my neck in a heartbeat. But I check Mateen’s pulse, then palpate his belly and his lymph nodes. “It’s just barely sunrise,” I say, unable to keep the harsh edge from my voice. “He needs to rest. He shouldn’t be up this early. And what did he eat for dinner last night?”

  “My son will be with me for prayers. Always. He ate the same as the rest of the men. Liver kebabs and lentil stew.”

  Jerking out of Faruk’s grip, I glare up at him. “I told you he needed fresh fruits and vegetables, bland food, and only the bare minimum of meat. Liver? It’s full of iron—something he does not need more of. You just set him back weeks!”

  The kick to my stomach makes me retch, and I double over, desperate to catch my breath and keep down whatever’s left of the few bites of dinner I managed to eat last night. Curling into a ball, I absorb the blows to my back, his fists landing time and time again, until a man’s voice calls out, “Amir Faruk, sir. The doctor cannot cure your son if you…break her.”

  When Faruk steps back, panting, I risk peeking up at the other man. Isaad. Every time I see him, I’m more and more certain that he’s not Middle Eastern. Once in a while, he almost sounds like he’s from Texas. Blue eyes stare down at me, something uncertain swimming in his gaze. With a barely imperceptible nod, I thank him for saving me, though I’m not sure whether he’s truly done so or just given me a stay of execution.

  “Take her to the lab along with my son,” Faruk grits out. As Zaman drags me along the ground by the back of my tunic, my captor spits in my direction. “I expect my son to join me for prayers by nightfall, Josephine. If he does not, I will hold you responsible.”

  9

  Ford

  It takes everything I have in me to sit, unmoving, as Nomar’s camera broadcasts that asshole kicking and punching Joey as she curls into a ball on the ground. But, she’s alive. And before he started in on her, she looked almost defiant. Strong. He hasn’t broken her yet.

  One man drags Joey back inside and another picks up Faruk’s son. His wife, Lisette, a French national whose parents reported her missing ten years ago, trails after them, swiping at her cheeks.

  Faruk and another man head for the other side of the courtyard, and Nomar whispers, “I’m going to try to find out where they took Joey.”

  On the tablet screen in Trevor’s hands, the shaky video shows hallways, plush rugs, antiques, and heavy draperies. The signal cuts out when he starts down a narrow stairwell, and Trev switches to tracking Nomar’s GPS signal. A small, red dot moves within the outlines of the compound, pausing here and there, occasionally speeding up. Clenching my hands hard enough to leave bruises, I replay the whole scene in my head over and over again.

  Joey being dragged outside, the way she immediately focused on the boy, checked on him, protected him.

  “Do we have any intel on Faruk’s son?” I whisper. “Joey’s a big deal in pediatric medicine, and that kid looked pretty sick. He’s what? Seven? Eight?”

  With a glare, Trevor warns me to be quiet, then points up at the guards in the tower fifty feet away. If we can’t get in there soon, I’m going to implode.

  Over comms, Nomar’s harsh whisper sets me on edge. “I found her. The kid’s hooked up to an IV. I couldn’t stick around. Guards and cameras all around here. Give me twenty minutes to map the rest of the place, then I’ll meet you back at the barn. We’ll infiltrate tonight.”

  Hunching over the tablet, I try to hunt and peck my way through the massive file Trev compiled on Amir Abdul Faruk. “His son has something called thalassemia. He’s been in the hospital in Kabul four times in the past two years.”

  Trevor runs a hand through his hair and then tugs at his black tunic. “I hate this fucking thing. When I quit the CIA, I swore I’d never set foot in this country again.”

  “I can’t pay you back for this, man.”

  He shakes his head and takes a swig from his canteen. “Second Sight is a family, Ford. You told me that when you hired me. I know I haven’t exactly been the best member of that family, sticking to myself, staying away from social hours and company events, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. We don’t abandon one another. And your Joey looks like a fighter. If we can get her out alive…I think she’ll be okay.”

  “I hope so.” The truth hits me hard, and I sink down on an old crate. I don’t know her at all anymore. Is she as strong as she looked this morning? Or on the verge of shattering into pieces? “The last time I talked to her, she said we’d never survive if I didn’t trust her. And because I was such a dumbfuck, I didn’t listen. After that…she went through some shit. It was bad, Trev. Worse than…well, anything I could imagine. It changed her. In a way I couldn’t understand. Or she didn’t think I could understand. Hell, she was probably right.”

  “Sounds like a fighter to me.” Trevor pulls up the footage from Nomar’s camera and taps the tablet screen. Zooming in on Joey’s face, he stops the playback when she glares up at Faruk. “Look at her, Ford. She’s scared. But she’s not backing down.”

  The video quality isn’t the best, but he’s right. Her shoulders are thrown back and her hands clenched at her sides.

  Nomar knocks twice at the barn door, then slips inside. “That place is a fucking fortress. There are cameras in every hallway, one in the room where Joey was treating the kid, and I counted twenty-two other guards. No idea how many stay on at night, but this isn’t going to be easy.”

  I swallow hard. “I can call Ryker, but he won’t be here until tomorrow at the earliest.”

  “Not only that,” Nomar says, “but he’d probably go in there guns blazing.”

  “You have a better idea?”

  “I do,” Trevor says q
uietly. “But you’re not going to like it.”

  “The CIA has all the good toys,” I mutter as I weave the high-grade plastic lock picks into the waistband of my black pants. They rest at the small of my back. In my shoe, a retractable knife the size of my little finger is embedded in the lining, and I wear the same type of belt Trevor used in Kabul.

  Trevor chuckles. “You have no idea, man. All the state-of-the-art tech you can think of? The government’s had it for at least three to five years longer than you’d imagine.”

  “You ready?” Nomar asks.

  “No.” Trev was right. I hate this plan. But it’s also our best chance to get in and find Joey. Blowing out a single, focusing breath, I close my eyes. “Do it.” Nomar’s right hook catches me in the jaw, and I taste blood. The next is higher…closer to my eye. “You do realize I need to be able to see to get the fuck out of there?”

  “On the ground. Got to make this look real,” Trevor orders.

  Sinking to my knees, I let Nomar push me into the dirt, then plant his boot in the center of my back. Trevor holds my left arm and slices through the dark brown tunic, opening up a shallow cut along my bicep. I barely notice the pain, but it’ll bleed enough to look like I’m more injured than I am.

  After the two men grind a little more dirt into my clothes, Nomar offers me his hand. “Thanks, asshole.” I don’t have to fake my groan when I get to my feet. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I tense my muscles and angle my hands slightly as Trevor ties the rope around my wrists, tight enough to fool most people, but loose enough I can still move if I relax a bit. I’d much rather he be the one going in as a prisoner, but since I don’t speak more than a couple of words of Pashto and Trev and Nomar do, this is the only way.

  When we’re almost in sight of the guard towers, Trevor takes my arm. “You trust me, right?”

  I meet his gaze in the last dim light of dusk. His green eyes usually give nothing away. Training, or some damage he won’t talk about, I don’t know. But the guy’s scary. Unnerving. I swear half the time he doesn’t feel any emotion—except maybe anger. But now…? He’s as worried as I am about this plan.

  Bound, I can’t do anything more than look him in the eyes. “I trust you with my life. But more than that, I’m trusting you with Joey’s life. She’s the priority. You get her out. Even if you have to leave me behind.”

  “Not leaving you behind,” he mutters, but when I half-growl his name, he sighs. “I promise you, Ford. We’ll get Joey out. No matter what.”

  My nod seals the vow, and he digs a hood out of his back pocket. “Look broken.”

  Not much of a problem there. I’ve been broken for twenty years. But when he shoves the dark cloth down over my head, my heart starts to pound, and my palms dampen.

  By the time we reach the gate, I’ve fallen four different times, and my chin and knees are bleeding. Every time I trip, I curse under my breath, but we have to sell the act. I’m their prisoner and they can’t show me any consideration.

  A harsh voice calls out from just in front of me, and Nomar answers back in Pashto. Trevor leans in and whispers, “He’s asking what business we have here.”

  After a few minutes of angry negotiations, metal screeches, and I’m tugged forward. I trip once more on the metal tracks, and this time, stronger, rougher hands yank me up. Not Trev or Nomar.

  “You think you can steal from Amir Faruk? That auction brought in hundreds of thousands of American dollars every month. You will learn the meaning of pain for killing our men.”

  Something hard impacts my skull, and the darkness behind the hood turns soft before I fade away completely.

  My shoulders ache, and the pain in my wrists snaps me to full awareness. With my arms stretched above my head, so tight that my boots barely touch the floor, even if they didn’t find my hidden tools and weapons, I won’t be able to use them.

  Bright lights shine in my face, and with a groan, I raise my head and squint, hoping Nomar’s around here somewhere.

  “Hey, fucker. Show your face,” I grunt as breathing registers from behind the lights. A dark shadow moves slowly, as if sizing me up. “I don’t know what those assholes told you, but I’m innocent. I was just walking by this restaurant in Kabul when the place went crazy.”

  “According to my sources,” the refined, accented voice says as a knife presses to my windpipe, “you not only set the explosion, but killed several of my men—including Aazar.”

  “I don’t…know…who the fuck…that is.” The blade makes it hard to swallow, and panic sets in. I can’t let myself thrash or even move. I’ll end up with my throat slit.

  “He used the name Mr. Black in public. Perhaps that will help your memory?”

  “Nope. Never…heard of him.” I can almost see his face, he’s so close, but my vision’s still a little blurry. Blinking hard, I try to focus. Faruk.

  “I should cut your throat as you cut his.”

  “I’d…prefer…not. Kind of like…living.” I can’t move my head back any further that it already is, but the knife vanishes, and a punch to my side drives the air from my lungs.

  “You are American.”

  “Sort of. Haven’t been back since ‘03.” I try to keep sight of the haloed outline of the man moving in front of me, but my head is pounding, and the stress position strains my breathing. “Listen…cut me down. I was just looking for an open restaurant. My wife’s pregnant with our fourth kid, and she was having these killer cravings. My mother-in-law made me go out to find her some shit called Bolani.”

  “Your wife and children…they are in Afghanistan?” I’ve piqued his interest now—or at least given him something he can verify. Assuming any of it were true.

  “If they…weren’t…would I have…been going out…for food, asshole? Seven people in a two bedroom apartment.” Adding another groan for emphasis, I try to push up on my toes to relieve the pressure in my wrists. “Please, man. I didn’t do anything. Let me sit down.”

  “Address,” he snaps. “Of your family.”

  “Hell no.” Another punch to the gut is followed quickly by a kick to the backs of my knees, and my wrists take all my weight, the metal cuffs cutting into my skin.

  “I can do this all night, infidel.”

  I get my feet under me and straighten as much as I can. “So…can…I. Your…sources are…wrong, fuckwit. I protect my family.”

  “My sources do not lie.” An alarm, like something on a watch, beeps, and Faruk sighs. “Perhaps a few hours thinking about your predicament will leave you more willing to talk.” His footsteps echo on the stone floors, the lights go out, and a heavy door slams shut.

  Shit. This wasn’t the plan. And bound like this, I don’t know how the hell I’m going to get out of here.

  10

  Joey

  Mateen’s eyes widen, and he calls out, “Papa!” Less than a breath later, Faruk’s presence registers at my back, and I jerk, whirling around to face him and knocking over the little tray of equipment next to me.

  “Is my son ready for prayers?” he asks. Before I can answer, he focuses on the bruises covering Mateen’s arms and chest. “What have you done to him?” He stalks closer, forcing me up against the wall, his gray eyes blazing.

  “N-nothing! His treatment…requires multiple IVs. And the medications I’ve started him on can be hard on the veins. He needs to be in a hospital. They could insert a central line. It would make all these repeated IVs and injections so much easier. Less bruising.” I can’t move. Fear keeps my muscles locked. “Less…pain,” I wheeze.

  Faruk looks over at his son. “Did she hurt you?”

  The boy’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “No, Papa. Dr. Joey tells me funny stories every time she gives me medicine. Look!” He pokes at one of the darkened patches of skin and smiles. “It doesn’t hurt.”

  “He is very…brave,” I say, offering Mateen a weak smile. “He’s a strong young man.”

  Faruk steps back, relaxing a fractio
n. “Very well. Come, Mateen. It is time for prayers.”

  “Wait!” I fumble around for a bandage with soccer balls on it, then press it to his arm where I last drew a vial of blood a few minutes ago. It’s almost stopped bleeding, but the bright colors always make the kid smile. “There you are, Mateen. All done, okay?”

  “Okay, Dr. Joey.” He gives me a high-five and hops off the bed, then follows his father out of the room.

  Lisette, seated on the other side of the bed, drops her head into her hands. “You are braver than I am. Standing up to my husband?”

  With a shaky sigh, I start cleaning and resetting my instrument tray. “I don’t feel brave.” I glance up at the camera in the corner of the room, then lower my voice. “Mateen needs to be in a hospital, Lisette. I can keep the disease from getting worse, but I’m scared the drug cocktail won’t work—or worse—that it’ll kill him. And then…Faruk will kill me too.”

  She stifles a sob. “He will kill us all. Because Mateen is part French, there are no local matches for bone marrow. Faruk refuses to let a non-believer donate. And he blames me for my son’s disease.”

  My heart breaks for her, and I wish I had some words of comfort I could offer. But I know she’s right.

  As Zaman comes into the room, I set the last instrument on the tray. The guard pulls out his notebook and inventories all of the sharp objects while I stand against the wall—his nightly routine—then orders me back to my room.

  “But…I haven’t eaten today,” I protest when he takes my arm. “I didn’t get breakfast or supper—”

  “Amir Faruk says you will not eat until morning. You injured his son. This is your punishment.”

  I sink down onto the bed as soon as Zaman locks the door. I’m so hungry, my stomach is in knots. Faruk is reminding me that he owns me. That he controls whether I live or die. Whether I eat, have clothes, a bed, a door… Will he throw me down in that deep, dark hole next?