Laynie suddenly got it.
Like the old woman, these must be “virtuous” and acceptable women. Most likely soldiers’ wives. The other women didn’t acknowledge these girls because “Alyona” and “Not Alyona” are kafir women—tainted unbelievers.
The image of the two girls being led in on a leash crystallized. Their eyes downcast. Their body language passive.
Oh, dear Jesus. These girls are slaves.
Chapter 16
WOLFE, SERAPHIM, TOBIN, and Jaz met with the FBI Hostage Rescue Team commander to plan and coordinate the rescue of Sherman’s family. After discussion, they agreed to the commander’s decision that his team would breach the house where the kidnappers held Sherman’s family just before dawn the following day.
Moments prior to HRT’s “go” order, Jaz would turn off the kidnappers’ burner phone, removing the kidnappers’ ability to call and alert Rosenberg. When the hostages were safely in hand, she would send the spoofed text to Rosenberg’s Burner Two.
After the team commander left, they worked on the wording of the text. Agreement wasn’t easy to reach. They argued over it, parsing it back and forth, until they reached a consensus. Then they hit a real impasse.
Seraphim watched the battle of wills between Wolfe and Jaz and chewed the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing aloud.
Wolfe frowned. “Not to say that your suggestion lacks, er, color or merit, Miss Jessup—”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“You expect me to tell our FBI counterparts that we’re calling our joint venture ‘Operation Whack-a-Mole’? That’s not a problem to you? Really?”
Jaz crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. “Nope.”
“It’s undignified.”
“It fits like a glove. Frankly, the team feels it’s inspired.”
Wolfe rubbed his jaw. “Why am I not surprised.”
Seraphim studied Jaz, seeing something new in her. The woman had come to the task force as a valued but one-dimensional resource. In the gap left first by Seraphim’s injury, then by Bella’s abduction, Jaz had demonstrated leadership abilities even she had not known she possessed. But the rough edges of her personality, the subtle (and not-so-subtle) lack of deference and proper respect for authority, and her stubbornness when she was determined to have her way were . . . problematic.
Seraphim found herself asking, Is that such a bad thing?
The “old” Seraphim, the career intelligence officer who demanded strict discipline and professionalism from her people had died in the hospital parking lot when shrapnel from the car bomb struck her. The woman had suffered a near-fatal brain injury and had lived to tell the tale, but the experience had changed her. Her former expectations didn’t matter nearly as much as the people around her did. People like Jaz and Tobin and the rest of the team who got results despite their unorthodox methods, and who had a binding, unfaltering loyalty that Seraphim envied.
She cleared her throat. “Operation Whack-a-Mole is a go for me . . . sir.”
Jaz cracked her gum and lifted one brow in Wolfe’s direction.
“I’m sending you on sabbatical when this is over, Patrice,” Wolfe sniped.
Seraphim lifted her chin. “Perhaps, sir. So, are we settled on operation name and the wording of the text?”
“Yah,” Jaz said around the wad in her mouth.
“I’m good,” Tobin replied.
Wolfe threw up his hands.
Jaz grinned and Seraphim had to grin back.
Tobin, as was his custom, kept his expression carefully unexpressive . . . but perhaps one side of his mouth twitched. Just a little.
BULA RETURNED TO THE cavern and shouted for the old woman. Rattled off orders and pointed at the young kafir women. They hurried to finish their work to Bula’s satisfaction. “Alyona” stood in front of Laynie to scrutinize her, while “Not Alyona” waited close by, fidgeting and blocking the young guard’s view.
Laynie took that opportunity to reach for “Alyona’s” hand. The girl jerked away, fearful. Laynie was weak, and the effort cost her, but she reached for her hand again. Gently squeezed it.
“Thank you for your kindness.” She spoke the words in soft, scarcely audible Russian. It had been both a sincere gesture and a test—did the girls speak or understand Russian?
Laynie saw no sign of comprehension in the girl’s eyes, only a confused frown. Laynie decided neither of the girls spoke Russian . . . until she glanced at “Not Alyona.” She stared at Laynie, her dark lashes unblinking.
Laynie lifted her brows a fraction. A question.
The girl dipped her chin. Once.
Laynie did the same, then turned her focus elsewhere.
A moment later, Bula waved the girls away and called to the young guard. Laynie thought he called the boy Doku.
Doku it is, Laynie decided.
While Bula examined Laynie, Doku strung the girls to the leash and led them away.
“You will cover yourself,” Bula ordered Laynie.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
Bula pointed to the two folded garments near her. She picked the first up and unfolded it. A veil of old, threadbare cloth. Another, the same. She was to use them to make a niqab, the head and face covering the girls wore. She put them on as best she could.
“Can you stand?”
“With help, perhaps. May I have more water?”
“Someone will bring you food and water later. Stand up now.”
Laynie tried. She shook from the effort.
“Get up, I said.”
“I want to. I am trying.”
She couldn’t do it. Bula lost patience with her and jerked her to her feet. Laynie’s legs collapsed under her. Fuming, Bula again swept her up in his arms, carried her out of the cavern, and at the junction turned left, down the other branch of the tunnel. The branch narrowed and darkened—the weak bulbs illuminating the passage were fewer and farther apart than in the cavern or the previous part of the tunnel.
Bula stopped, kicked open a tall, barred gate, and carried Laynie into a narrow, niche-like room. He dropped her on a slatted wooden bench.
Her landing was rough, and Laynie struggled not to topple onto her side. When she got her balance, she took quick stock of where she was. A cell, chiseled into the passageway wall. Cold, bare rock walls, floor, and ceiling. A gate of vertical bars—the cell’s entrance and only view into the tunnel. No light except from the dim bulbs in the passageway.
“You will receive food and water after the men have eaten.”
Bula locked the cell gate behind him.
Laynie looked around the cell, shivering, already missing the comforting warmth of the furnace. She saw a wadded blanket on the other end of the bench. The slatted bench itself—the only furniture in the room—looked to have been made from shipping pallets. The wood was unfinished and rough to the touch, but at least it was off the floor.
The floor? Laynie caught the outline of dark, dried stains on the stone floor, but the light was too low to determine what they were. They could have been blood or vomit or both. A covered bucket in the corner was the last item in the cell. Its reek announced its purpose.
Laynie slowly pulled herself toward the blanket until she could reach it without falling over. It was dirty and stank, but that didn’t matter. She spread its folds around her shoulders and felt her body warm beneath it. A small laugh left her mouth. She was suddenly and inexplicably grateful for the full-length abaya and the veils that covered her head and face—as shabby as they were.
“One veil to warm my head, the other to serve as a pillow, a place to sit or lie down rather than the stone floor? Lord, I am blessed. Thank you.”
She tightened the blanket around her shoulder and leaned against the rock behind her bed, surprised that the cell wasn’t as cold as she expected. A random factoid about caves floated up from her memory, something about how the temperature in a cave was usually close to the average annual temperature for the regio
n where it was located. Depth mattered, too. Deeper caves could be colder than those closer to the surface, cool in summer and warm—relatively—in winter.
Can’t be too far underground. Feels like 64-66° in here. If I die in this cell, it won’t be because I froze to death.
Even so, away from the wonderful warmth of the furnace in the communal area, Laynie’s body began to announce little problems she hadn’t yet acknowledged. Like the aching of her right hand. She peered at the top of it in the little light she had and thought a patch of skin was dark. Bruised. It was certainly tender.
Oh, right. The doctor removed an IV from this hand. For however long I have been missing, whoever was caring for me must have used an IV to feed me fluids and keep me sedated. No wonder my hand is bruised.
A spot on her left buttock was sore. Raw to the touch. Her hips hurt, too, over her hip bones.
I have bruises on my hips?
Sayed’s voice played in her mind. “You took many precautions and more time than necessary in bringing her here, Bula . . .”
“How much time? How long have they had me?”
Not knowing the date, not knowing where she was or how long she’d been kept unconscious, and a million other unknowns assaulted her—until reason asserted itself.
Stop that. You know enough for now. You know you were sedated—and if you were unconscious, you would have lain in the same prone position for hours . . . until someone turned you. Like a bird on a spit.
“So,” she whispered, “long enough that these tender spots are the beginnings of bedsores. I must be careful to let the deep tissues heal, not worsen. An open wound in a place like this . . .”
Would likely be deadly.
“I was told she is quite a beauty and am saddened to see that she has not fared well. Have two kafir women bathe and clothe her. Feed her and care for her needs. I will see her again after the recovery period, say, four mornings from now.”
“Four mornings from today, huh? Guess I’ll lounge about and enjoy the five-star accommodations until then.”
I need my strength back, but I will have to work for it.
She had three days to prepare.
Laynie relaxed against the rock wall behind her bed. Let herself doze off.
SHE ROUSED WHEN THE rusty barred gate creaked open. The young guard Bula had called Doku stood in the doorway holding a platter and a corked jug. When he set the jug on the bench, she heard its contents slosh inside—and Laynie’s thirst roared back to life.
Doku placed the platter on the bench next to the jug and considered Laynie, sizing her up. She knew the look—oh, how she knew it! She stared back at him, daring him to make a move. He flushed and twitched his trousers in an obscene gesture.
Young and already sadistic.
Laynie pretended not to notice his vulgar threat. Instead, she kept her eyes on his and spoke a single word. Said it loud enough that Doku knew exactly what she meant. “Sayed.”
He jumped back and glanced behind him, his reaction guilty and afraid.
Laynie laughed softly. You know full well that the big boss has already “claimed” me. Do you have a death wish?
Doku scowled and reddened. He retreated, slammed the cell gate behind him, and locked it. Laynie listened for the sound of the key after it left the lock. Would he pocket it? Or . . . no, she wasn’t certain, but she thought she heard a metallic clink against the passageway rock wall.
Did he just hang the key outside my cell?
Her question was derailed when she smelled warm food. She half-lifted, half-dragged the platter onto her lap. Stared at the little covered pot and a fist-sized lump wrapped in a faded cloth. She lifted the lid on the pot. Soup! Unwrapped the lump. And bread.
Laynie took a worn spoon in hand and dug it into the pot. Brought it, shaking and trembling, to her lips. The broth she sucked into her mouth was nectar. Every taste bud in her body sang for joy. She looked at what remained on the spoon after sucking off the broth. Barley. Meager, limp vegetables. A scrap of some kind of meat. Her stomach twisted.
Careful, Laynie. You need every one of these calories. You cannot afford to throw up what you’ve eaten, so go easy.
Laynie put the spoon back into the bowl and broke off a bite of bread. She dipped it into the bowl and let it absorb the broth, then brought it to her mouth. Nibbled on it.
Wonderful . . .
But she felt the caution her body spoke. She finished the bite of bread, then rewrapped the small loaf and put the lid on the pot. Reached for the jug. She estimated it held close to two liters of water—and she didn’t know if or when they would refill it. She also could not remember the last time she’d urinated.
If I don’t get fluids moving, my kidneys will shut down, but I also need to be wise. Restrict myself.
She managed to uncork and lift the heavy jug to her mouth. Took three sips, lowered it to her lap, then waited a full minute. She repeated her disciplined actions—Three sips. A full minute’s wait. Again. And again.
When she shook the jug, she figured she’d downed ten to twelve ounces—and she was exhausted. She set the jug aside, wrapped herself in the blanket, and leaned back.
Instantly asleep.
She spent the next hours following the same routine. A few bites of bread soaked in broth, a cup or more of water. Sleep.
THE CREAK OF THE CELL gate dragged her from sleep—but not as quickly as before. She’d been deep into a REM cycle when the noise set off her internal alarms. It took her a minute to clear her mind.
What woke me?
Doku again stood in her cell, staring. Glowering and resolute.
Laynie was in no shape to repel him.
Her hand crept out from under her blanket and slithered toward the water jug. Doku did not notice. His attention was fixed on her face. The blanket. What he imagined lay beneath the blanket and the abaya.
This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you, little boy. Laynie was neither proud of nor happy with her next move. She was taking a risk, but she figured it was the soundest play . . . for her long-term safety.
Mustering her strength and sending it down her arm, she pushed the jug. It slid off the bench, fell to the stone floor. Cracked open. Her precious water poured out. Doku’s eyes jerked toward his wet shoes and the pieces of the jug, first surprised, then angered. He reached for the blanket to rip it from her—
Laynie held on to the fabric and called aloud, “I belong to Jesus.” She spoke in English. She said it again—not screaming, not protesting, not fearfully, but a simple declaration.
“Listen to me,” she said, staring him down. “I said, I belong to Jesus.”
Her volume increased. “I belong to Jesus. I belong to Jesus. I belong to Jesus! I belong to Jesus!”
Doku let go of the blanket tug-of-war. He seemed confused. He cast a wary look over his shoulders at the gate.
Laynie leaned toward him. “I. Belong. To. Jesus.”
She smiled. “I rebuke you in his mighty name, the name that is above every name, the name at which every knee will bow. THE NAME OF JESUS.”
Doku’s eyes went wide. He stepped back. Onto a piece of broken pottery. It crackled under his foot. Jumping like he’d been bit, he ran out, slammed the gate shut, and locked it.
This time Laynie was certain she heard the key scrape on the rock wall outside her cell. She sighed and leaned back, closing her eyes. The confrontation had sapped what little strength she had.
“Thank you, Lord. I belong to you. I love you, and I trust you. Whatever comes, I will always love you.”
When Laynie opened her eyes, she looked down at the shattered jug. She almost sighed with regret until she remembered why she had sacrificed it—and that she had soup left in the little pot.
“So what if the soup is cold? My stomach feels stable. Maybe I could try a bite or two of the barley and meat.”
She was right—the soup had cooled and congealed. She scooped out a small bite, smeared it on her bread, and nibbled at it. Finish
ed it and ate more. When she felt she couldn’t eat another bite, she put the remains aside. The food seemed to settle in her stomach, and she felt some strength return.
Her thirst returned, too.
I must ignore it. Eventually, they will give me more water.
Calling on the bit of energy and strength the food had produced, Laynie worked her right leg and foot. She stretched her foot, starting with her toes, working her way up to her cramping and sore calf and thigh muscles. She switched to her left leg and foot and did the same.
The wound on the outside of her leg above her ankle pulled as she stretched. It looked healthy enough, but the skin around it was tight and puckered. She gently massaged and worked the tight skin. Then, from her sitting position on the bench, she attempted some simple leg lifts.
“Eight, nine, ten. Switch. One, two, three,” she counted.
Two sets of ten lifts for each leg winded her—but she wasn’t done. After counting off three minutes of rest, she scooted forward, tenuously placed her weight on her legs, and levered herself up to standing.
The cell whirled around her. She came close to falling, but she had fixed her eyes on the wall across from her. She stared at a point on the wall until the world righted itself. Her equilibrium steadied, and she exhaled in relief.
“Whew. Thank you, Lord. I’d rather not become closely acquainted with whatever that is puddled and dried on the floor.”
Some hours later, another guard appeared at her cell gate. By then, Laynie had finished the food from breakfast and repeated her leg stretches and lifts twice. Although she’d napped once between the sets, she was still fatigued and, by then, craving water. She was also stronger than she’d been that morning.
The guard frowned at the pieces of the ruined jug on the floor, but he said nothing. He put a plate on the bed and left, removing the platter with its empty soup pot.
Laynie examined the plate. Two slices of bread spread with honey. She didn’t try to regulate how she ate this time. She devoured the bread, one slice following the other, savoring each bite.
Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected Page 19