by Ronie Kendig
No!
The barrier ahead dropped. The driver pulled out of the corral.
No no no! They couldn’t—she had to warn them. Zahrah whimpered. The gun poked against her ribs.
She didn’t care. She bucked. Wiggled. Tried to shout around the tape. A futile effort, but she couldn’t just sit here. Couldn’t just—
“Shut her up,” Kamran hissed.
Through the tape, she shrieked.
Music, loud and clanking, blasted from the radio, deafening her scream for help. Tears streaming down her face, she banged her head back. Writhed.
A fist slammed into her face. The world slid away with momentum that dragged her beneath its gloom.
CHAPTER 29
Residence Somewhere in Afghanistan
Ah, Tahir!” Hands extended, a short, round man glided toward them with a welcoming smile beaming past his thick beard. “Assalaam alaikum, my friend.”
The tall, broad-shouldered man holding her leash gave a slight nod. “Wa ‘alaikum assalaam, Kamran.”
Dark eyes flicked to Zahrah, who waited in a courtyard amid trees, shrubs, a water fountain that made her parched tongue ache for water, and a tiled mosaic that rivaled anything seen in a museum or palace. Two men, their meaty hands clutching her upper arms tightly, lowered their heads as the short man considered them.
Zahrah did not. She kept her head up. Her father long taught her that showing your enemy weakness was handing them the victory. Though with the burqa, the man could see nothing, definitely not the fear in her eyes. Or the determination not to give up that she undoubtedly wore on her face.
“That’s her?” he asked, almost breathless.
Kamran’s eyes slowly skidded toward Zahrah before he gave a slow nod.
“Ya Allah.” The older man touched both sides of his head. “I told you not to bring her here.”
“I have need of your home for a day or two.”
“No!” He waved his hands frantically. “No, you cannot do this. I told you, I will help you with money and supplies, but not … not this. You cannot bring her to my home. What would they say if someone saw?” A servant approached with a silver tray, but the man dismissed her with a wave.
“We must.” Kamran led them farther into the house.
No doubt away from my ears and eyes.
“I have guests. Preparations for the event in two weeks.”
“You want this as much as I do.”
“Take her there now. It’s too dangerous to leave her here when I have guests. I must not be tangled in this, Kamran. My position is tenable!”
“It is impossible to move her until tonight.” Kamran strode back into view.
“I forbid—”
“It must be done!” Kamran’s ferocity moved in like a storm cloud. “It must,” he said, much quieter. He motioned to her captors. “Bring her.”
The older man threw his arms up and spun around, hurrying out of sight. “Do not let her be seen!”
Kamran stalked down a wide hall decorated with murals and adorned with live plants. The men hauling her after their leader gave little care for the treatment, how they wielded her. They dragged her onward, her feet slipping on the slick marble floor. Such extravagance! Whoever he was, Kamran’s friend had wealth. And probably a good deal of power, with the servants and the way even Kamran, who yielded to no one, had responded to him. In the time since she’d encountered the giant of a man, she’d not seen him yield to one person.
If they were that powerful, if they were revered, hope was trickling through her fingers as she grasped for a lifeline.
Through the kitchen and around a massive room that resembled a small store rather than one family’s food pantry, Kamran continued. Moving without concern that his henchmen would haul her through the house. Moving with such confidence that said no one would dare interrupt or question him.
With her mouth still taped, her hands still bound, there was little for Zahrah to do but make sure the men did not rip her arms from their sockets. If that happened, she could not escape. Could not fight back.
Down they went. One flight. Another. Right into the pit. Past large barrels of wine and other items that needed to be kept cool. A chill scampered across her shoulders as they turned a corner. Kamran stopped before a door, produced a key, and unlocked it.
Something in her recoiled. The room wasn’t just a room. It was a dungeon. She’d never emerge from here. This is where they’d kill her. Where she’d vanish forever and never be seen again. She tugged back, her feet scraping against the dirt floor as two men wrestled her through the doorway. From behind, she was lifted off her feet.
Zahrah kicked and writhed, screaming against the gag and tape. She went sailing through the air. Braced herself. Thud! She dropped hard onto the ground. Her teeth clattered. Ears ringing from the jolt, she struggled onto her knees.
But again, hands pawed at her. Pulled her to her feet.
Hair pinched as they grabbed at her head. The burqa headdress yanked off. She found herself staring into eyes of hate and fury. Kamran. He produced a knife and held it to her cheek. Pressed it against her bone.
Zahrah drew up straight, hissing as a fire lit through her flesh.
Lip curled and nostril flared, he leered. “I will not hesitate to give you a lasting reminder of what will happen if you try that again.” He stepped back and spun her around. Pinned her to the wall.
Zahrah pushed back, revolted at his proximity. Feeling his body against hers.
He shoved her forward. Her cheek collided with the wall. He leaned on her, tugging at her arms, straining ligaments and tendons in their sockets. The pain plied out a whimper.
With a rip, her hands went free.
Zahrah clutched her hands to her chest, leaning against the wall. Cowering. Even as she noticed them moving away in her periphery, she kept her chin down. She watched as they stepped into the semidarkened passage. Kamran stood with his arms over his chest as the two men pulled the door closed, and with that, darkness swung victorious over the cell. Pushed Zahrah against the wall, where the vestiges of her strength seemed to leak out and puddle on the floor.
Father, have I not been obedient? Did I not stay as You prompted me? Why … why are You letting this happen?
She slumped to the floor and curled in on herself, hot tears slipping down her cheeks as she buried her face in her knees.
Zahrah’s Flat, Mazar-e Sharif, Afghansitan
“Wondered if you were going to show.”
Ignoring Lieutenant Hastings’s jibe, Dean stepped into the one-bedroom apartment. A small sofa and even smaller table served as the living room. A plant dangling from a three-pronged hanger seemed to be the only soft touch happening in the Spartan decorating. Four steps in and he could see every corner of the apartment—kitchen, living room, and straight into the bedroom with two beds pushed up against opposite walls.
“They said you found something.” Dean didn’t belong here. Not in her private place. Though he considered the fabrics, the spotless kitchen, and he saw nothing of Zahrah in this apartment. “How long did they live here?”
“Less than a week.” Hastings walked to the kitchen counter, retrieved something, then returned and handed it to him. “We found this under the couch.”
Her phone. Dean shrugged.
“Last two calls.”
Dean tore his gaze from Burnett’s aide to the dark gray phone. He flipped it open, took a minute to figure out the device, then accessed the last calls. His heart thumped against his chest. “Wait …”
Brie’s blue eyes brightened as she grinned at him. “Thought you might recognize that, Romeo.”
“I didn’t get any calls from her though.” Dean dug his secure phone from his tac belt holster. Checked. “Huh.” Two calls. One a voice mail. One a text. A smile wormed into his face at her text. It’d been stupid, their banter about being alive, but he could tell she appreciated it. He accessed the voice mail and put the phone to his ear.
Finely arched brows r
ose as Hastings said, “You have a voice mail from her?”
Dean shifted around her and moved to the window with a sheer curtain and blind. The static of the voice mail carried. He hit the speaker button. Nothing but—
“Who are you?”
Dean stilled, staring at the phone. Feeling a surge of adrenaline and anger.
“I’m a teacher.”
“No! Do not think I am stupid!”
A clatter of noises … probably the phone dropping.
“Why did she have your phone number, Captain Watters?”
He considered the lieutenant. “Need to know.”
“We’ll need that message.”
Dean wanted to laugh. “You already have it.” He knew they could access his phone at any time, that all calls were recorded and monitored. He checked the other call. It was made … while I was in Majorca. He clamped his jaw tight and returned the phone. “Anything else?”
“Nothing.” She motioned around the room. “CID and DIA are sending agents out, but I’ve found nothing else.”
“Mind if I take a look around?” He moved into the kitchen, not waiting for her permission.
“I think you should.”
Her comment surprised him and drew his gaze back to the petite brunette.
“Hey, come on. Everyone knows you had a soft spot for her.”
Dean ground his teeth as he opened the fridge.
“And she called you when she was in trouble.”
Saying anything at this point would only feed the frenzy, strengthen the erroneous belief that he had a soft spot for Zahrah Zarrick. “Has her cousin been back?”
“She said she returned yesterday morning.”
“And she didn’t find it unusual that Zahrah wasn’t here?” A small corkboard bulletin area hung over a desk unit. Pinned to it, a photograph of General Zarrick and Zahrah. But not just everyday Zahrah. Zahrah was on the arm of her father at a military ball. A stunning, dolled-up adult Zahrah in a sparkling navy gown that hugged curves he hadn’t noticed before.
Not true. They were noted. But not noticeable like they were in that dress.
Behind him, someone whistled at the picture.
Dean glowered at Hawk. “Be respectful.” Titanis turned, his back to the kitchen, took two steps, and walked right into the—
“Titanis, watch—”
Too late. The big guy thwacked his head against the hanging plant. A green light winked through the leaves.
“Hold up!” Dean rushed across the room and nudged aside Titanis. He used his lamplight to trace the plastic prongs of the plant hanger.
“What the …?”
“Bingo!” An electrical cord snaked up out of the plant and ran along a small ledge. Around the corner. Dean hopped over a half bar as he followed the cord into a cabinet above the microwave. He opened the door. Stacks of canned goods stared back. But he tracked the wire. Shoved aside the cans. And felt a punch of relief as his beam struck a silver laptop.
“Atta girl,” he muttered as he lifted the computer out and handed it off to Hawk.
“Sweet,” Hawk said. “The only loaded program is a security program—it’ll crack easy under my skills—and the video software.” Grinning, the guy seemed giddy. “That girl is wicked smart—her own personal security system?” Now he laughed. “I’m impressed!”
When Hawk opened the video program, a dozen or more videos filled the icon list. “It’s on an auto-feed loop. The girl’s a genius. Here.” Within seconds, he had a video up and running. He stood back as the team and SEALs grouped up. He set it to fast-forward and played an entire twenty-four-hour period in a few minutes.
“This is a little creepy,” Hawk said. “It’s like stalking them.”
It was. Dean had to admit. But it was nice, too. To see her alive, walking around. Being normal. She couldn’t do that now that she’d been taken. And she looked so comfortable, but several times her gaze hit the hidden camera. Though she looked comfortable, she was aware her every move was being recorded. What would she be like without knowing? Was she always laid back? Always so confident and … beautiful?
Hawk queued up the third vid. Thirty seconds in, things went berserk.
“That’s it,” Falcon said.
Hawk hit the PAUSE button. “The dude from the school, the big one who’d hit them.”
Dean nodded. Eyed Hastings. “Get on that. We need to know who he is and, more important, where.”
Dean watched as they made copies. But that’s not what he watched. He studied the way the guy moved. The way they beat Zahrah and put her in a burqa. “Put a call out to all checkpoints.”
“You crazy?” Riordan laughed. “We try to search women in burqas, we’ll have the fury of every conservative Muslim on us, the UN climbing down our throats, and the CIC decrying our actions. We’ll end up at Leavenworth!”
“And if we don’t,” Dean said, blood rushing through his ears, “she dies.”
CHAPTER 30
Somewhere in Afghanistan
Time alone gave her entirely too much time to think, to wonder, to fear. And that fear, the paralyzing, haunting fear, kept her wake. Forbid her from sleeping. Though it was June, the cool earth bled coldness into her bones and veins as she sat on the hard-packed ground. Head against a barrel, she kept her eyes closed. The storage room, chilled and black as a moonless night, became her enemy, holding her hostage. Preventing escape.
And yet. She was a general’s daughter. One who’d taught her to never give up. That there was always hope as long as one breathed. That … that was what pushed her once more to her feet. Stomach rumbling, she paused. How many meals had she missed? No matter. If she remained a captive, she would miss a lot more. Though her captors had mentioned moving her at night, it’d been much longer. Days? She wasn’t sure.
Zahrah trudged across the room, blindly stumbling around the stacked crates and barrels. Her fingers slid along the wood surfaces as she made her way to the door. It’d be the sixth time she’d checked it for some fault. Some cooperation in aiding her escape. Her fingers traced the earthen wall. Cool and a bit damp. Smooth in a grainy sort of way. Along the wall to where the softness gave away to the knotty texture of wood. And steel braces. She dug her fingers into the arrow-like hinges that strapped the door in a firm hold. Pulled. Tugged. The uppermost one had no give.
She traced down to the middle one. About a hand span from where it stopped, a hole—no knob to grip or tug—gaped for a key. Cramming her fingernails between the steel support and the wood, she felt the familiar prick of a splinter slide beneath her nail.
She hissed but didn’t stop. There had to be a way out. Had to be.
But still, just as the previous five times, she found no leverage with which to pull the brace off. She went to her knees, thinking how much like defeat it seemed to do this. But one more brace waited for her testing. Maybe to mock her. Laugh at her vain attempts to pry it from its position.
Warm stickiness against her fingertips warned her the splinters were aggravated. “Yeah, well me too.” She stuck the tip of her finger in her mouth and sucked the blood off. I am not defeated. I am not defeated.
Her hand slid back up to the keyhole. She tried to jiggle it away. Tried to stick her fingers in—maybe the slick blood would make it easier for her to jam in and nudge the lock back.
Right. Like trying to cram a camel through the eye of the needle. She sighed. Dropped her forehead against the door. Slapped the wood.
Panic swirled around her. I don’t want to die. She pounded her fist against it. Her father … she’d never see him again. He’d be disappointed. His little soldier wasn’t so brave and strong after all.
And Dean. Fierce, handsome Captain Watters, who couldn’t see beyond his mission. Never saw that she admired him. So very much. Yes, she’d been attracted to the intense soldier. He’d been so much like her father. So strong, in a quiet but powerful way. He wasn’t a mound of muscles, but he was well built. It’d been so silly to even entertain thoughts t
hat he might notice her. He had missions. The most important thing to him was the military. He wouldn’t leave that for her. And she wouldn’t leave her mission—teaching children.
But there’d always been more than that to her purpose in being back in Afghanistan after her mother’s death. She’d come with conviction to teach children, but something else, something she’d never been able to pinpoint, kept her here.
A pair of greenish-brown eyes?
She turned, her cheek against the wood, quiet tears slipping free. “God,” she whispered raggedly. “Please … let me see him again.” Selfish and maybe a bit schoolgirlish, but if she got to see him, then it’d mean she wasn’t dead.
The odds were not in her favor. She knew the history of terrorists. Back home, hope existed that those held captive would be found alive.
Not here. Not when held by Taliban.
The Taliban took captives to make examples. Dead examples.
Voices skidded into her awareness, breaking through her grief and depression. Zahrah stilled, listening as thuds of boots approached. She scuttled back to her spot and tucked herself against the barrels.
A beam of light shot through the keyhole.
Metal jangled against the lock.
Light shattered the darkness. Zahrah shielded her eyes as the beams of light hit her.
“Get up!” Kamran’s voice boomed against the silence that had cocooned her.
Hand in front of her eyes, she climbed to her feet.
Someone grabbed her wrist and yanked.
“No,” Kamran said. “She’ll need her hands.”
The words surprised Zahrah.
“B–but …” The heftier of the two men shifted. “She’ll escape.”
“She won’t.” Gaze steadfast, Kamran stared at her. Hard. “Not where we are going.”
They hauled her out of the cellar and half pushed, half dragged her back toward the main house. Up five steps. Across the kitchen with an enormous stove and many refrigerators. Glossy counters glinting in … moonlight!