Keep Me

by Anna Zaires

  “Yes, I’m sure I could,” Peter says slowly, looking at me with something resembling respect. “I don’t know if he’ll know where they might go next, but it’s worth a shot. I will fly out to Moscow immediately and see what I can find out.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  His reaction is immediate. “No, you’re not,” he says, frowning at me. “I’m under explicit orders to keep you safe here, Nora.”

  “Your boss has just been captured and is about to be tortured and killed.” My voice is sharp and biting as I enunciate every word. “And you think my safety is a priority right now? Your orders no longer apply because they have Julian. They no longer need me for leverage over him.”

  “Well, actually, they would love to have you for leverage over him. They could break him much faster if they had you as well.” Peter shakes his head, his expression regretful but determined. “I’m sorry, Nora, but you need to stay here. If we do end up rescuing your husband, he would be very displeased to learn that I allowed you to be in danger.”

  I turn away, shaking, terror and frustration mingling together and feeding on each other until it feels like I will burst from it all. I feel helpless. Utterly and completely useless. When I had been taken, Julian came for me. He rescued me—but I can’t do the same for him.

  I can’t even get off the estate.

  “Nora . . .” It’s Rosa. I can feel her hand on my arm as I blindly stare out the window, my mind running through all the dead ends like a rat in a maze. “Nora, please . . . Come, let’s get you a bite to eat . . .”

  I shake my head in curt denial and pull my arm away, keeping my gaze trained on the green lawn outside. There’s something nibbling at the edge of my brain, some errant, half-formed thought that I can’t quite grasp. It has to do with something Peter said, something he mentioned in passing . . . I hear him leaving the room, his footsteps quiet in the hallway, and suddenly it hits me.

  Spinning around, I sprint after him, ignoring the shock on Rosa’s face as I push her out of the way. “Peter! Peter, wait!”

  He stops in the hallway, giving me a cool look as I skid to a stop next to him. “What is it?”

  “I know,” I gasp out. “Peter, I know exactly what to do. I know how to get Julian back.”

  His expression doesn’t change. “What are you talking about?”

  I draw in a gulping breath and begin to explain my plan, speaking so fast I’m tripping over the words. I can see him shaking his head as I speak, but I persist anyway, driven by a sense of urgency more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced. I need to convince Peter that I’m right. Julian’s life depends on it.

  “No,” he says when I’m done. “This is insane. Julian would kill me—”

  “But he might be alive to kill you,” I interrupt. “There’s no other option. You know that as well as I do.”

  He shakes his head, and the look he gives me is genuinely regretful. “I’m sorry, Nora—”

  “I will give you the list,” I blurt out, grasping at the only straw I can think of. “I will give you the list of names before your three years are up if you do this. Julian will hand it over as soon as he gets it into his hands.”

  Peter stares at me, his expression changing for the first time. “You know about the list?” he asks, his voice pulsing with such anger that I have to fight the urge to step back. “The list Esguerra promised me?”

  I nod. “I do.” Under any other circumstances, I would be terrified to provoke this man, but I’m beyond fear at the moment. A recklessness born of desperation drives me now, giving me uncharacteristic courage. “And I know that you won’t get it if Julian dies,” I continue, pressing my point. “All this time you’ve been working for him will be in vain. You’ll never be able to get revenge on the people who killed your family.”

  His impassive look disappears completely, his face transforming into a mask of blazing fury. “You don’t know shit about my family,” he roars, and this time I do take a step back, my self-preservation instinct belatedly kicking in as I see his hands tightening into fists. “You fucking dare taunt me with them?”

  He takes a step toward me as I back away, my heart hammering in my chest. Then, with a sharp, violent motion, he twists and punches the wall, his fist breaking through the drywall. I flinch, jumping back, and he punches the wall again, taking his rage out on it as he undoubtedly wants to do on me.

  “Peter . . .” My voice is low and soothing, like I’m talking to a wild animal. I can see Rosa and Ana in the doorway, looking terrified, and I try to diffuse the situation. “Peter, I’m not taunting you—I’m just pointing out the facts. I want to help you, but first you need to help me.”

  He glares at me, his chest heaving with rage, and I see him struggling to regain control. I’m shaking on the inside, but I keep my gaze steady on his face. Don’t show fear. Whatever you do, don’t show fear. To my intense relief, his breathing gradually begins to slow, the fury twisting his features ebbing as he brings himself back from whatever dark place his mind was in.

  “I’m sorry,” he says after a few moments, his voice strained. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that.” He takes one deep breath, then another, and I see his usual controlled mask sliding into place. “How do I know you’ll be able to keep your promise about the list?” he says in a more normal tone of voice, his anger seemingly gone. “You’re asking me to do something that Esguerra will hate. How do I know he’ll come through with the list if I do this?”

  “I will make him give it to you.” I have no idea how I can make Julian do anything, but I don’t let any of my doubts show. “I swear to you, Peter. Help me with this, and you can have your revenge before your three years here are up.”

  He stares at me, and I can practically feel his internal debate. He knows my arguments are sound. If he does what I ask, he stands a chance of getting that list of names sooner. If Julian dies, he won’t get the list at all.

  “Fine,” he says, apparently reaching a decision. “Get ready then. We’re leaving in an hour.”

  * * *

  When we land in a small airport near Chicago, there is a thick layer of snow on the ground, making me grateful that I decided to wear my old Uggs. It’s already evening, and the wind is bitterly cold, biting through my winter coat. I barely register the discomfort, however, all my thoughts consumed by the ordeal to come.

  There is no bulletproof car waiting for us. Nothing to draw attention to our arrival. Peter calls a taxi for me, and I get into the back of the car by myself, while he heads back to the plane.

  The driver, a kindly middle-aged man, tries to chat me up, likely in the hopes of figuring out who I am. I’m sure he thinks I’m a celebrity of some kind, arriving on a private jet like that. I give monosyllabic responses to all his questions, and he quickly catches on to my desire to be left alone. The rest of the drive passes in silence as I stare out the window at the night-darkened roads. My head pounds from stress and jet lag, and my stomach roils with nausea. If I hadn’t forced myself to eat a sandwich on the plane, I would probably be passing out from exhaustion.

  When we get to Oak Lawn, I direct the taxi to my parents’ house. They’re not expecting me, but that’s for the best. It makes the whole thing look more authentic, less like a setup.

  The driver helps me unload a small suitcase I packed for the occasion, and I pay him, tipping him an extra twenty bucks for my earlier rudeness. He drives off, and I wheel my suitcase to the door of my childhood home.

  Stopping in front of the familiar brown door, I ring the doorbell. I know my parents are home because I see the lights in the living room. It takes them a couple of minutes to get to the door—a couple of minutes that feel like an hour in my exhausted state.

  My mom opens the door, and her jaw goes slack with astonishment as she sees me standing there, my hand resting on the handle of the suitcase.

  “Hi Mom,” I say, my voice shaking. “Can I come in?”

  Chapter 25

  Julian />
  At first, there is only darkness and pain. Pain that tears at me. Pain that shreds me from within. The darkness is easier. There is no pain in that, only oblivion. Still, I hate the nothingness that consumes me when I’m in that dark void. Hate the blankness of non-existence. As time passes, I come to crave the pain because it’s the opposite of that blankness—because feeling something is better than feeling nothing.

  Gradually, the dark void recedes, lessens its hold on me. Now, alongside the pain, there are memories. Some good, some bad—they come at me in waves. My mother’s gentle smile as she reads me a bedtime story. My father’s hard voice and harder fists. Running through the jungle after a colorful butterfly, as happy and carefree as only a child can be. Killing my first man in that jungle. Playing with my cat Lola, then fishing and laughing with a bright-eyed, twelve-year-old girl . . . with Maria.

  Maria’s body broken and violated, her light and innocence forever destroyed.

  Blood on my hands, the satisfaction of hearing her murderers’ screams. Eating sushi in the best restaurant in Tokyo. Flies buzzing over my mother’s corpse. The thrill of closing my first deal, the lure of money pouring in. More death and violence. Death I cause, death I revel in.

  And then there is her.

  My Nora. The girl I stole because she reminded me of Maria.

  The girl who is now my reason for existing.

  I hold the image of her in my mind, letting all the other memories fade into the background. She’s all I want to think about, all I want to focus on. She makes the hurt go away, makes the darkness disappear. I may have brought her suffering, but she’s brought me the only happiness I’ve known since my early years.

  As time crawls by, I become aware of other things. Besides the pain, there are sounds and sensations. I hear voices and feel a cold breeze on my face. My left shoulder burns, my broken arm throbs, and I’m dying of thirst. Still, I seem to be alive.

  I twitch my fingers to verify that fact. Yes, alive. Almost too weak to move, but alive.

  Fuck. The rest of the memories flood in, and before I even open my eyes, I know where I am, and I know I probably shouldn’t have fought the darkness. Oblivion would’ve been better than this.

  “Welcome back,” a man’s voice says softly, and I open my eyes to see Majid’s smiling face hovering over me. “You’ve been under long enough. It’s time for us to begin.”

  * * *

  They drag me along a hard cement floor of what appears to be some kind of a construction site. From the looks of it, it’s going to be an industrial building, and the room they haul me into has no windows, only a doorway. I think about fighting, but I’m too weak from my injuries to have any chance of success, so I decide to bide my time and conserve what little strength I have left. I’m guessing I will need it to cope with what they have in store for me.

  They begin by stripping me naked and stringing me up with a rope that they loop over a beam in the unfinished ceiling. They’re not gentle about it, and the cast on my left arm breaks as they tie my wrists together and draw my bound arms up over my head. The agonizing pain in my injured arm and shoulder makes me pass out, and it’s not until they throw ice-cold water on my face that I regain consciousness again.

  In a way, I admire their methods. They know what they’re doing. Take away a man’s clothes, and he immediately feels more vulnerable. Keep him cold, weak, and injured, and he’s already at a disadvantage, his psyche as battered as his body. They are starting off on the right foot. If I hadn’t put others through this myself, I would’ve been begging and pleading right about now.

  As it is, my body is in a complete fight-or-flight mode. The knowledge that I’m so close to death—or at least to excruciating pain—makes my heart pound with a sickeningly fast rhythm. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me shake, but I can feel small tremors running over my skin, both from the cold water they poured on me in an already-freezing room and from a surfeit of adrenaline. They’ve strung me up so high that only the tips of my toes touch the ground, and with the majority of my weight being supported by my tied wrists, my wounded arm and shoulder are already screaming in agony.

  As I hang there, trying to breathe through the pain, Majid approaches me, a smug smile creasing his face. “Well, if it isn’t Esguerra himself,” he drawls, his British accent making him sound like some Middle Eastern version of James Bond. “How nice of you to pay our corner of the world a visit.”

  I don’t say anything, just gaze at him contemptuously, knowing that will irritate him more than anything. I know what he’s going to demand, and I have no intention of giving it to him—not when he’s going to kill me in the most painful way possible anyway.

  Sure enough, my lack of response provokes him. I can see the flare of rage in his eyes. Majid Ben-Harid thrives on the fear and misery of others. I understand that about him because I’m the same way. And because we’re such kindred souls, I know how to spoil the fun for him. He’s going to destroy my body, but he won’t enjoy it quite as much as he’d like.

  I won’t let him.

  It’s small consolation for the fact that I’m going to die a torturous death, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment.

  His smug smile gone, Majid steps toward me. “I see you’re not up for chitchat,” he says, bringing a large butcher knife up to my face. “Let’s cut to the chase then.” He runs the tip of the blade down my cheek, cutting just deep enough for blood to run down my chin in a thin trickle. “You give me the location of your explosive factory, as well as all the security details, and I—” he leans so close that I can see the black of his pupils in the mud-brown irises of his eyes, “—I will make your death quick. If you don’t . . . well, I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate on the alternative. What do you say? Do you want to make it easy for us or hard? Because the outcome will be the same either way.”

  I don’t respond, and I don’t flinch away, not even when that blade continues its painful, cutting journey down my neck, chest, and stomach, leaving a bloody trail wherever it touches my skin.

  It doesn’t matter what I choose because Majid has no intention of honoring any promises he makes to me. He’ll never give me a quick death—not even if I hand-deliver the explosive to him tomorrow. I’ve caused too much damage to Al-Quadar over the past few months, foiled too many of their plans. As soon as I give him what he wants, he’ll take me apart in the most excruciating manner possible, just to show his troops how he metes out punishment to those who cross him.

  That’s what I would do in his place, at least.

  The knife stops just below my ribs, the sharp point digging into my flesh, and I can see Majid’s eyes gleaming with vicious pleasure. “Well?” he whispers, pressing it in a fraction of an inch. “Play or no play, Esguerra? It’s really up to you. I can begin by harvesting some organs, just to make it extra profitable for us—or if you’d prefer, I can start lower, with your wife’s favorite part . . .”

  I suppress an instinctive male urge to shudder at that last bit and keep my expression calm, almost amused. I know he won’t do anything too damaging at first—because if he did, I would bleed out right away. I’ve already lost too much blood, so it won’t take much to send me under. The last thing Majid would want is to deprive himself of a conscious victim. If he’s serious about getting that explosive, he’ll have to start small and work up to the brutality he just threatened me with.

  “Go ahead,” I say coolly. “Do your best.”

  And giving him a mocking smile, I wait for the torture to begin.

  Chapter 26

  Nora

  The evening of my arrival home is a nonstop stream of crying, hugs, and questions about what happened and how I managed to come back.

  I tell my parents as much of the truth as I can, explaining about the plane crash in Uzbekistan and Julian’s subsequent capture by the terrorist group he’s been fighting. As I speak, I can see them battling shock and disbelief. Terrorists and planes downed by missiles are so far out
side of the normal paradigm of their lives that I know it’s hard for them to process. It was difficult for me once, too.

  “Oh, Nora, honey . . .” My mom’s voice is soft and sympathetic. “I’m so sorry—I know you loved him, despite everything. Do you know what’s going to happen now?”

  I shake my head, trying to avoid looking at my dad. He thinks this is a good development; I can see it on his face. He’s relieved that I’m most likely rid of the man he considers to be my abuser. I’m certain both of my parents think Julian deserves this, but my mom is at least attempting to be sensitive to my feelings. My dad, though, can hardly hide his satisfaction at this turn of events.

  “Well, whatever happens, I’m glad you came home.” My mom reaches out to take my hand. Her dark eyes are swimming with fresh tears as she gazes at me. “We’re here for you, honey, you know that, right?”

  “I do, Mom,” I whisper, my throat tight with emotion. “That’s why I came back. Because I missed you . . . and because I couldn’t be alone on that estate.”

  That much is true, but that’s not the real reason I’m here. I can’t tell my parents the real reason.

  If they knew I came home to get kidnapped by Al-Quadar, they would never forgive me for that.

  * * *

  Despite my exhaustion, I barely sleep that night. I know it’ll take some time for Al-Quadar to respond to my presence in town, but I’m still consumed by dread and nervous anticipation. Every time I drift off, I have nightmares, only in these dreams it’s not Beth who’s being cut into pieces—it’s Julian. The bloody images are so vivid that I wake up nauseated and shaking, my bedsheets drenched with sweat. Finally, I give up on sleep altogether and pull out the art supplies I brought with me in my suitcase. I’m hoping that painting will prevent me from dwelling on the fact that my nightmares may be playing out at this very moment in some Al-Quadar hideout thousands of miles away.