She walked ahead of Hamid to a door a few feet away. He opened it, and they entered another container equipped with bathroom facilities. A toilet, basin, and shower occupied the clustered space. She faced the door and met Hamid’s gaze. “I’m not using the toilet with you watching.”
Aziza pushed the door, but Hamid slid his toe in the opening.
She yanked the flimsy, wooden panel toward her. “You better not spy on me while I’m in here.”
His foot stayed in the doorway, which didn’t leave her any choice but to do her business with him in earshot. Same as last time. As she washed her hands, the reality of her situation hit, and she scanned the small space for anything that might help her in a crisis. The primitive shower rail wouldn’t do her any good, but when her gaze landed on a curtain hook, Aziza smiled.
She unhooked one of the metal clips from the middle, hiked up her dress, and slid it into the side of her underwear. Thank goodness they hadn’t stripped her to the bone. She grabbed a bit of tissue, then moved back into Hamid’s line of sight to dry her hands. The dirt in the bottom of the shower stall told her it wasn’t used regularly, so with luck they wouldn’t notice anything amiss.
Aziza stepped past Hamid to the sound of the other jailor grousing. He eyed her from top to bottom, as if he suspected her of something. He barked angry words to Hamid, then as if to make a point, rammed her in the back. Pain lanced through her spine and buckled her knees. She held on to the wall until the agony subsided. When she stood straight, she glared at her attacker. “Does it make you feel good to beat up a woman?”
He snarled and raised the rifle. When the butt connected with her face, pain splintered outward from her jaw, and she crumpled to the floor.
Chapter Six
Vikkas Maharaj, international lawyer and Shaz’s fellow director of The Castle, frowned at the police chief. “You still haven’t told us exactly what you have done about finding Miss Hampton, and we’ve been sitting here for a half-hour already.”
Someone rapped on the door and entered the room, when invited to do so. The man did not wear a uniform and from his aura, Ryan assumed he had some authority. He nodded toward the visitors, his gaze sweeping over them, then addressed the Assistant Commissioner in Arabic.
They exchanged several sentences, while the visitor stroked his mustache. In another minute, he withdrew from the office, carrying a file the portly officer handed to him.
Durabia’s top law officer was slender to the point of emaciation. Ryan guessed his sleek, black hair had been styled by a professional. The Commissioner shot a glance at his second-in-command, the physical opposite of himself. After clearing his throat, he said, “The case only came to our attention on Sunday.”
“And today is Wednesday.” Vikkas lifted the thin file he’d received and let it fall to the desk. “The size of this tells me nobody has done anything to find Miss Hampton.”
“Things are not the way they look.” The police deputy protested, raising thick hands with stubby fingers. His gaze slid to a thicker file on the marble desk. “There are other cases that demand our attention.”
Ryan pointed to the file at the deputy’s elbow. “Do they relate to the same thing?”
“Well, if you mean—”
“You still haven’t told us anything that can help us find the woman we’re seeking.” He looked sideways at Bashir, who accompanied them thanks to Sheikh Kamran’s generosity. “If you can’t help us, then maybe we have to take things from a different angle.”
The police chief frowned. “What do you mean?”
Ryan let his gaze rest on the expensive African Blackwood desk, the sleek furnishings that he’d never seen in any police station anywhere else, and finally, the heavy folder on the desktop that he suspected would help their investigation. “The fact is, you are stone-walling us.”
When the two officers frowned, he added. “You are messing us around, yanking our chain, putting up roadblocks, obfuscating.”
With each word, Ryan’s voice grew louder. “The longer you pussyfoot around, the less chance we have of finding Miss Hampton.” He stabbed the edge of the desk with one finger. “Now, we need your cooperation, and we need it fast.”
The Assistant Commissioner blustered, sitting taller in his seat. “It is not proper protocol for you to force our hand in an investigation—”
“On which you’ve done nothing.”
Vikkas gripped Ryan’s arm, which stalled his outburst. The man’s calm demeanor and silent message were clear. Let me handle this.
“What Mr. Bostwick is trying to say is that we will achieve what we came here for … one way or another.” Vikkas released Ryan’s arm. “It’s up to you how we carry out our mission.”
Ryan drew a calming breath. “Let me put it to you this way. Your Sheikh has been kind enough to help us, and you are blocking the process. I wonder what he’d have to say about that. I’m thinking he’ll want to know what interest you have in standing in the way of us finding this woman.”
Now, the two shared a concerned look and again, the stout man’s attention went to the thick folder on the desk.
“Does the information in that file include data on other women who have gone missing in Durabia?”
The two officials eyeballed each other again, but neither answered the question.
“These cases are of a different nature,” the chief supplied.
“How different?” Ryan asked.
“Sir, that is not information you need,” the Assistant Commission spat.
“If I may ask,” Vikkas said, “What percentage of women who go missing in Durabia are found?”
“Five percent,” Ryan supplied through his teeth.
His research netted him that information. He was sure his blood pressure would skyrocket if the fools in front of him didn’t stop wasting his time. While he was sitting in an air-conditioned office being fed a load of bull, his woman was somewhere in Durabia, being kept under God knew what conditions. At the thought of what she might be going through, Ryan wanted to grab the scrawny man across the desk and choke the air out of him.
Vikkas sighed, a reflection of Ryan’s impatience. With his fingers steepled under his chin, Vikkas said, “The fact is, if you do not provide us with the information we need, we can always get it in a way you will not like. Things can be clean and clear-cut … ”
“Or they can be uncomfortable and messy. You decide.” Ryan raised his brows, waiting for the officers’ response. “I think there’s a simple way to resolve this issue.”
Every man in the room focused on Ryan. A slow smile spread over his face as he said, “I’m very short on patience, especially when someone’s life is at risk. So here’s the deal. Since you’re refusing to give us what we need, we must find another way to uncover exactly what happened to the woman we’re trying to find. The international media is always looking to pick up news items, especially human interest stories.” He waited a moment before adding, “In places that have a reputation for condoning atrocities against women.”
The Commissioner’s eyes bulged as he flung a panicked look at his deputy.
Ryan lowered his voice, so they had to strain to hear him. “I’m not sure how you would deal with having media houses calling you at all hours of the day. And how would it look to have news teams pouring into Durabia to report on the American woman who’s missing. And from the look of things, others have gone before. Maybe think about that for a bit.”
“And there is something else.” Bashir inclined his head toward Ryan and Vikkas. “You need to consider what you will say when it’s time to explain to Sheikh Kamran why you did not show these men every courtesy that could be extended by the Durabian Constabulary Force.”
Chapter Seven
“So, your agent just gave you up once you got here?” Aziza asked, frowning.
The Senegalese woman sighed, and her eyes filled with tears. She shifted onto her side to face Aziza. “I thought the modeling agency knew about the trip to Durabia. We w
ere already in the air when confirmation came that it was something he arranged to benefit himself. I did model in the show, but how could I have known he planned to sell me into slavery when it was over?”
More tears escaped from her eyes, making Aziza blink hard. The reality of their situation settled deeper in her soul with every hour that passed. A grapefruit-sized lump blocked her throat, and it was a moment before she controlled her emotions. Crying wouldn’t help them, nor would wallowing in their misery.
In the four days since her capture, several girls and women disappeared in ones and twos each time their jailors visited. Aziza’s stomach somersaulted at the image of the hideous, frog-like man who ran his pudgy hand over her leg a day ago. She rubbed her calf where he cruelly wrung her flesh just because he could. The kick she flung at him by reflex earned her another whack across the head from the man she now knew as Abdul.
Naima’s intense stare brought Aziza back to the conversation. “This girl isn’t cut out to be anybody’s slave, so we have to find a way to escape.”
“It is impossible,” Naima declared, sniveling into her headscarf, while her braids spread around her like a black tide on the dirty sheet.
“So you plan to go quietly with them when they sell you to some fat sheikh who will abuse you?”
“We do not have options,” she said in a monotone.
“Yes, we do.”
When Naima lifted her head off the cot, Aziza continued, “We just don’t know what they are as yet.”
“And time is not on our side.” Despair filled Naima’s voice, and she waved at the empty beds.
The women who originally occupied them had vanished, and Aziza estimated that their time would come in another day or two. They didn’t have the luxury of lying around acting like damsels in distress.
When the sound of metal grating together reached them, Aziza’s heart pumped hard. So far, they had been fortunate the men who came wanted young girls. The ones interested in them had cruel eyes, which confirmed they were masochists, who wanted them as playthings rather than as sexual partners. Only eleven females remained in the beds coming down to theirs. Thankfully, they were teenagers. A pang of shame hit Aziza for hoping other women would suffer instead of her.
Her gaze shot to the entrance, where the door creaked open. The effect was eerie and prolonged, like something from a horror movie. When only Abdul and Hamid appeared, she sighed. No buyers this time. Hamid flicked the light switch, bathing the back of the container with light.
Carefully balancing the tray he carried, Hamid distributed the soupy mess of bread and vegetables. At meal time, Aziza forced down a portion of the cold, unappetizing glop to keep up her strength. They left all the lights on while they ate, and Aziza studied the other women. She didn’t have to worry about Naima. She was docile and would do what she was told, if it helped her situation. The youngest of them was a thin, East Indian girl with matted hair and huge eyes.
The others were a mixture of races—Black, Caucasian, Indian, and Middle Eastern.
“Hey,” Aziza called. “Do any of you speak English?”
At least five of them nodded. She scooted to the side of the cot to get closer. “We need a plan to get out of here. Who’s with me?”
One woman shrank away, but after a whispered exchange with the female in the next bed, they both nodded and sat straighter.
“Who else?” Aziza asked.
A few hands went up, and the women’s eyes lit with hope. A small girl huddled on the cot nearest to the doorway continued sobbing. Her misery pulled at Aziza, but she couldn’t afford the distraction. If they were going to get out of this container, they needed a strategy and they needed it fast. She motioned for them to come closer and whispered as loudly as she could so they all heard what action she thought could work.
Naima frowned at the food in her container, then said, “So, for now, you want to use some kind of diversion, but after that how are we going to get out of here? What about when we are outside?”
“I don’t have all the answers. If we can disarm Abdul, that will be a first step, don’t you think?”
An ominous squeaking from the direction of the door signaled that they had company. The women’s head swung in that direction, their default reaction. Abdul and Hamid appeared, and the prisoners’ relief was palpable. This time, none of them were destined for parts unknown.
Abdul studied each female, his eyes dark with suspicion. When his attention turned to her, Aziza willed herself to drop her gaze. Challenging him wouldn’t win her any favors, plus her face was still stiff from yesterday’s blow. If he’d used any more force, he would have dislocated her jaw.
While in a haze of pain, she’d been aware of someone picking her up and laying her on the cot. She mumbled and grabbed hold of his clothing, but he gently disengaged her fingers while harsh commands in Arabic rang in her ears.
When she raised her head, Abdul was still staring at her. Aziza told herself to relax. He couldn’t see inside her mind. His gaze shifted to Naima, and her blood chilled.
The lust in his eyes was unmistakable.
She hid her disgust, praying he wouldn’t act on his base nature. He looked like a man who wouldn’t deny himself anything he wanted.
Abdul couldn’t seem to make himself look away. His intensity made Aziza’s insipid lunch almost come back in the wrong direction.
He pointed to Hamid, then motioned to Naima.
Aziza exchanged a worried glance with Naima as her stomach plummeted.
Chapter Eight
The cool air-conditioning was exactly what Ryan needed to de-stress, never mind that he was still on Aziza’s trail. He now sat inside Encounters with Bashir. Although it was the middle of the week, the place was hopping. The décor looked like something out of an IKEA store, and the crowd included a mixture of races, which wasn’t surprising. Durabia’s capital city was a metropolis that attracted people from all corners of the world. The standard of living was good, and professionals came in droves, seeking opportunities to advance their life goals.
“I think I’m turning into an old man,” Ryan muttered. “This crowd is unreal.”
Beside him, Bashir sipped from a bottle of water while he scanned the lower level of the club. “And it is like this most days of the week.”
Across from him, Alejandro Reyes—called Dro by his fellow Kings—tapped a finger against his glass of soda water. “It’s a jungle.”
He, too, focused on the floor below them. Ryan was interested in one of the bartenders, Jahani Bahar. After interviewing the man Aziza’s coworker mentioned, Ryan was unsettled. Akbar seemed to be open and honest, but there was something about his eyes. He wouldn’t look at Ryan for more than a few seconds at a time.
Shaz had asked Dro, the crisis management expert on the board of the Kings of the Castle, to make the trip to Durabia a priority. If anyone could bring some clarity to the situation, this man would. That was the assurance Shaz provided. Daron, a security and technological expert, would follow in another twenty-four hours.
Dro had landed an hour ago. They had a secure tele-conference on his way from the airport and agreed to meet and survey the activities at Encounters. If this was where Aziza disappeared, then it stood to reason that she wouldn’t have been the first or last woman to fall victim to whatever scam was in play.
A disturbance below pulled Ryan from his thoughts. A Black woman got up from her seat at a table with two young men, who looked like natives. She spat some words at them, then with her drink in hand, she marched to another seat a few feet away.
The men she left behind sat with their heads together, deep in conversation. After a moment, they gestured to the bartender, Jahani, then looked in her direction. He nodded once, and by the time Ryan focused on her again, another man stood at her table. He took the seat when she waved a hand toward an empty chair.
“What has you so interested?” Dro asked, training his dark-brown eyes in the same direction.
Bashir’s gaze fol
lowed, and he leaned forward to see better.
“I’m not sure if it’s something or nothing, but that woman left these two guys over here.” Ryan pointed with his chin to where the men watched the same female as if they were security personnel. “And no sooner does she land than another man is homing in on her. Almost like it’s a setup.”
“Why the suspicion?” Despite the doubtful note in Dro’s voice, he hadn’t taken his attention off the woman, who shot to her feet. She stumbled and put a hand to her head before moving away from the table.
The man followed.
Ryan and Dro exchanged a knowing look and stood at the same time.
“What do you need me to do?” Bashir asked, getting to his feet.
“Watch the bartender,” Ryan said over his shoulder as they headed downstairs. “If he moves, you’re his shadow.”
On the ground floor, Ryan made a beeline for the woman, who was unsteady on her feet but continued moving toward the entrance.
“I’ll watch her,” Ryan said, leaning toward Dro to be heard over the latest Rihanna release.
“Those two knuckleheads are mine.” Dro’s dimples flashed in a sharkish grin.
Ryan followed the woman dressed in a snug wraparound dress, but kept his distance to see if his suspicions would play out as expected.
She left the club and walked across the sidewalk as if she wasn’t sure of her destination.
The man who’d been sitting at her table slid up beside her and cupped her elbow. When she tried to escape his grip, he held on tighter and pulled a fob out of his pocket, which he used to unlock a car further up the sidewalk.
Ryan took it as his cue to move, and eased up on the woman’s other side.
Alarm spread over her face when their eyes met. Hers were out of focus and her pupils dilated. The traffic and the persons passing them on the sidewalk served to make her more confused.
“Do you know this man?” Ryan asked.
Knight of Paradise Island Page 3