by Ronie Kendig
It was then Dean asked a question he didn’t even know existed within him. “What if you don’t want to change?” He was sure Sergeant Elliott would come down hard on him. Reject him. Those were bad thoughts.
“Why don’t you want to change, son?”
“Because—they’re doing wrong. And getting away with it. That’s wrong, too.”
That’s when Sergeant Elliott said the words that changed Dean’s life. “There’s a warrior in you, Dean. God only gives that gift to a rare few.”
“Being a soldier like you?” Dean’s heart raced at the thought back then—he’d wanted nothing more than to be like his hero, his mentor, who’d served as an Army Ranger. “Is that what you mean?”
With a smile as he stood to leave, Sergeant Elliott turned to him. “I know you’ll work hard to be worthy of that gift.”
And Dean had. A year later with Sergeant Elliott at his side, Dean signed up at seventeen for the Army. The Monday after his graduation, he was on a bus headed to Fort Benning for Basic.
If only he had Sergeant Elliott with him now. To give him some sage advice. But Dean was alone. And defeated.
A warrior …
If only.
CHAPTER 46
Somewhere in Afghanistan
The Lord is my rock, and my f–fortress …” Zahrah sobbed through her words as the bindings were cut from her wrists. The verse. How did it go next? She strained to focus on a comfort in her soul when her body screamed in agony. For God to make the words true. “A–nd m–my deliverer—yes. My deliverer.” Please deliver me!
Hand on the wall, Zahrah gingerly made her way back to the cell following the guard and praying God would block the event from her mind. That she’d stop hearing his grunts. Smelling his smell. His stink. His sweat. Please …
They turned right, down the long, anorexic corridor that led to the cell. To Dean.
She stumbled.
The guard turned with a scowl. “Hurry!” He motioned her onward. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t go forward. Couldn’t return to Dean. Her shame hung like a water-drenched wool pashmina around her shoulders. He’d know.
Four guards crowded into the passage with them. As one worked the lock, the others took up positions. The door flung back. Shouts echoed through the hall, “Hands up, hands up! On the ground. On the ground!”
A short burst of gunfire made Zahrah jerk.
Blinking through her tears, her shame, she waited, propped against the wall. The guards parted and ordered her inside.
Zahrah couldn’t move. Remained in the shadows with her shame. She’d argued with Dean. He’d be angry. And now … now what would he think of her?
“Go,” the guard beside her said.
She shook her head.
A guard by the door stomped toward her. Grabbed her arm.
“No,” Zahrah snapped. Wrestled.
Another joined the rough one.
“No!”
They dragged her, her feet tangling with theirs. They tossed her into the cell. Scrabbling onto her knees even as the door groaned and squeaked shut, Zahrah snapped her gaze to the ground. Held herself tight. Ignored the pain between her legs as she knelt there.
It was so quiet. Felt so empty in the cell. Was Dean even here? Her gaze darted to the wall, to the side. There. To her left, just beyond her visual reach, she saw his knees.
Her courage—what was left of it—crumbled. She covered her face and a gut-birthed sob ripped away her last vestige of strength.
His last words to her had been mean, defensive. Panicked. And now … now she bore the marks of a man possessed by lust. A fury unlike anything Dean had ever experienced coursed through his veins, hot and virulent. He’d kill Kamran when he saw him again.
Face shielded behind her hands, Zahrah’s sobs pummeled Dean.
It took two squatted walks to reach her. He caught her shoulders. “Z …” What was there to say?
With a strangled cry, she seesawed her shoulders away.
He recognized the evasive move for what it was—reactionary from being raped. He wasn’t letting go. Wouldn’t go away. He held firm and tugged her to himself.
After brief resistance, Zahrah collapsed into his arms, face against his chest. Dean folded his arms around her shoulders, bouncing from the sobs. With one hand cupping the back of her head and the other tight across her upper back, Dean fought the urge to break something. Like the guy’s neck. Her torso convulsed beneath her grief and pain. Dean braced against it, feeling every ounce of her agony.
He’d sworn—sworn—to never be in this position again. But he was. That angered him, but something more, bigger, battered him. Before when he’d made that vow, he told himself it wouldn’t matter who else was involved. It shouldn’t matter that it was Zahrah. It mattered that a wrong against a human had been perpetrated.
But he was wrong. It did matter that it was Zahrah weeping in his arms. It did matter that he’d not just failed—but failed her. This whole situation was somehow darker, bigger, worse. Why, he didn’t know. Only that it was. That was enough.
Head tucked against hers, he searched for something to say. Something to make it right. But there was nothing to say. “I’m sorry.” About the rape. About so much more.
Zahrah pushed her face center mass, curling into his hold.
“Shh,” Dean said, leaning against the stone wall. His pain nothing compared to hers. He worked through the anger. This was what they wanted. For him to care. For him to convince her to do what they wanted. Anything to stop the pain, the trauma.
Fingers dug into his triceps and biceps as she clung to him, crying harder.
Deafening music screamed through the facility. An explosion of blinding light shot across his corneas. Zahrah curled more—if that was possible—into his arms, and Dean squeezed her securely in his embrace. Half afraid he’d hurt her, but more afraid she’d think he didn’t care.
In a way, he was glad for the metal music. Glad for the inability to talk, to reveal his gaping inadequacy. There wasn’t anything to say.
How many times had he reminded himself of that? And yet, he wanted to say something—do something to make her better.
Idealistic fantasy.
Though he could no longer hear her cries, he felt them in her shuddering diaphragm, bouncing shoulders, and the tears soaking his shirt. Dean drew up his left leg and used it to support her when his arms grew heavy. With no clock and the blinding light, there was no way to gauge how long they sat there. Him propped against the wall, her in his arms.
When the lights snapped off and darkness once again gripped them in its powerful talons, Dean closed his eyes. Attuned to her. To the fact the shudders were spaced between minutes of deafening silence. She’d fallen asleep, he guessed.
And he liked that. Liked that she felt safe enough with him to let down her guard. Liked that he could actually do something to give her even a small piece of comfort. Funny how sleeping on a cot or in a sleeping bag now seemed like a luxury when all they had was the floor.
Exhaustion dragged him down a dark hole. So fast that he blinked and once again the lone bulb overhead glowed. He lifted his head off the wall and glanced down at her. Eyes puffing from the earlier crying, lip cut, her cheekbone red and swollen.
“You knew,” she said, her voice catching on a dry, parched throat at the end. She shifted, her head tilting back, but she made no effort to climb out of his hold. “You knew what he was going to do.”
Dean gritted his teeth, remembering that leering look. Hated that she was right—he did know, and there wasn’t a thing he could’ve done to stop it.
“I think”—she shuddered—“I’ve known since the first time I saw him.” She drew in a ragged breath. “Just as I knew the first time I saw you that I’m safe with you. That you’d protect me.”
Ineptitude squirmed against her declaration. “But I didn’t. Couldn’t.”
Zahrah pushed up, her hand on the ground to his left. “You nearly killed yourself trying.”
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Breathing burned. “I failed.”
“Dean,” Zahrah said, her hand on his chest now. “You did everything you could.”
He looked away.
“God put you in here to keep me going.”
“God.” He hated his condescension, but the anger at God for letting Zahrah get raped seared his better judgment. “A lot of good He did while that man—” Jaw clamped, he bit down on the words. Shifted direction. “How you can even mention God at this—?”
Her battered face glowed with sweat and a little something he didn’t understand. Something … serene. “ ‘For none of us lives for ourselves alone, and none of us dies for ourselves alone. If we live, we live for the Lord; and if we die, we die for the Lord. So, whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord.’ ”
There she went again with that faith he couldn’t fight. “You’re one of the best people I know. Why would He let you be here, get raped and beaten?”
Zahrah’s gaze slid down. “I … I don’t know.” She looked sad, grieved.
Dean felt like a jerk for even talking about this. “I’m sorry.”
She smiled and looked down again. “I … I don’t understand, and yes—I’m hurt, maybe even crushed.” Her lip quivered. “But Dean, He gave me something very beautiful in all this, something I couldn’t have imagined.”
He cut his eyes to her, daring her to sway his opinion with some revelation.
“You.”
Dean breathed a snort. “Lot of good I did. Where was God in that?”
“If I got angry with you for not protecting me—would that be fair?”
“Different ball game, Z.”
“How?”
“Because—because I’m not all-powerful. I’m not omniscient.”
“That’s right.” She held her piece for a minute. “You’re not. So, can you just stop flinging mud at God, who is? Who knows the future, knows what is coming?”
“How can you be so calm—he raped you! I want to rip the guy’s throat out, and given half a chance—”
“Calm?” She shook her head. “I’m not calm. I’m—” Her voice pitched. “I’m hurting in ways I never dreamed. He stole something from me I can never get back. I feel dirty and …” She shuddered. Blinked away tears—but it didn’t work. They slipped free. “God knew what I’d face here. For whatever reason He didn’t remove me from this situation. He gave me you.” Tears glossed her eyes. “That means … so much.” She cried more. “Let me … let me just enjoy that gift.” Tears raced down her bruised cheek. “Please?”
Without thinking, he tugged her closer, and Zahrah collapsed into his embrace once more.
I so don’t deserve this….
“Thank you,” she whispered, her words strangely warm against the now-chilled tear stain on his shirt.
Hand around the back of her head and arm essentially shielding her, he squeezed. Resisted the urge to kiss the top of her head. But he wanted to. With that came other promises. Ones he couldn’t fulfill.
Or could he?
His brain buzzed with the thought. If they got out of here …
That wall, that vault where he’d stored his heart sent up a frozen steel barrier, preventing him from exploring those thoughts.
But could it work?
How? She was a missionary teacher. After her resolve just now, he couldn’t imagine she’d go back to the States with her tail between her legs. Which meant she’d stay in country.
That might work.
No. He couldn’t protect her.
Can’t protect her if she’s in the States.
“That’s not your job, Dean. It belongs to God.” Zahrah’s words haunted him.
Steel hinges groaned as the door squawked open. In stepped Lee Nianzu. Dean swept Zahrah aside and punched to his feet, defenses and anger drawn.
CHAPTER 47
Somewhere in Afghanistan
26 July
It would do you well not to fight me,” Zmaray said, his Chinese accent thickening his words as he held up a hand to Dean.
Hands stretched out behind him, Dean held Zahrah close to him. Like a shield.
She could tell the words had the opposite effect on Dean.
“Miss Zarrick.” Zmaray’s almond-shaped eyes came to her, spiking her pulse. “I apologize for the awful things Kamran did in my absence.” He seemed to pout. “Perhaps this would not have happened, had you agreed to cooperate. Because that would mean we’d be elsewhere.”
“Bull!” Dean charged.
Zmaray, faster than a strike of lightning, whipped up and around, and drove his heel into Dean’s chest. He flew backward. A crack echoed through the room. He braced himself, shook his head, which had hit the wall, then crouched, ready to stop Zmaray.
In the space of the two seconds it took for Dean to pounce, Zahrah saw it. Saw the fanatical determination to get out of here. To stop at nothing to free them. To protect her, even if meant his own death. But then, where would she be? Alone?
Zahrah lunged forward. “Dean. Stop!” His mad fury scared her. She moved into his path, holding up her hands. “Please.”
He barreled into her.
Zahrah held on, pushing back. “Please, please, Dean.”
His touch to her back was warm, protective. Absently, he looked at her. “You hurt her again—”
“Dean.” She kept her voice quiet, touched his face, once again bringing his gaze to hers. “It’s okay.”
“No. No it’s not.” To Zmaray, he snarled, “You act without honor, Nianzu. No matter what you say—if you cannot control your men, even in your absence, then you have no honor, no respect.”
“Miss Zarrick.” Zmaray’s voice cracked like a whip.
“I’ll be okay,” she said to Dean.
“Z.” He caught her hand at the last minute. Tortured hazel eyes held hers, hard and fast. It felt an eternity as he stood there, staring into her eyes. As if he wanted to say something. Again, his gaze struck Zmaray. Then hers. “You’re the strongest woman I know. Stay strong.”
Heart quickened by his words, she nodded. Turned and shuffled out of the cell. The clanking of the locks and the thud of the door brushed a cold chill down her spine. She glanced back, the emptiness of being separated from Dean acute.
A guard poked her in the back with his weapon.
Zahrah followed Zmaray to a room where he’d set up the system. He strolled to the table as if this were a walk in the park. He circled the table, his hand coming to rest on the tamperproof box. Hip propped against the table, he eyed her and smiled, his eyes narrowing closed. “I’m afraid things have become a bit dark for you here.”
Zahrah lifted her chin and locked her gaze on the blackened window across the room.
“You are a very intelligent woman to have such an advanced degree, to understand things I cannot begin to comprehend.” Zmaray came to the front and slumped back against the table, sitting on it with his hands on either side, so he was almost perfectly within her line of sight now.
She kept her gaze above his hairline.
“But what I cannot comprehend is how a woman with a gentle heart like yours can knowingly commit brutal acts against those you love.”
Zahrah frowned. “What?”
A howl erupted from somewhere in the prison, the sound scraping down her spine like a cold blade. A gargling scream followed next.
Though she knew it’s what Zmaray wanted and she shouldn’t, Zahrah looked over her shoulder. Visualized back down the hall, to the right, to the left … Dean.
“He must be punished for killing my men, for fighting back. We will break him.”
Zahrah swung her attention back to the Chinese man. “Stay strong.” Dean’s admonishment flooded her senses. Zmaray was saying things to sway her willingness to cooperate.
“I thought you might doubt me.” He returned to the other side of the table, tapped in a few keystrokes, and then turned the monitor around. With one finger, he pushed a button. Sound drenched the room. Hands back in his pockets
, he watched.
Zahrah didn’t. She refused to.
“I’ve told them to break his fingers. One … by … one.” Though she wasn’t looking right at him, she could tell he was smiling. “I’m afraid they got a little carried away, it seems.”
Her gaze betrayed her.
Arms stretched out in front, tied across a table, Dean strained not to scream. Not to howl. Even at the distance the camera stood back, the veins on his temples were visibly bulging. His face red. Spittle along the sides of his mouth as he gritted through the torture. The emblazoned wings on his back seemed especially pronounced in the video feed. “He shall give his angels charge over you….”
A hammer swung down. Crack! Thud! Blended with his mangled cry.
Zahrah flinched. Bile rose in her throat, the crushing of his bones ringing in her ears.
“See? I knew you were not calloused the way Kamran said.” Zmaray again returned to the front, where he sat beside the monitor. “This man who held you with such tenderness after you were brutalized—you see him in pain and already you’re crying.”
Zahrah’s hand went to her cheek, startled to discover he was right.
“How much can you stand, Miss Zarrick? All you have to do is help us unlock the network. Just a few hours’ work to buy his freedom, your freedom.” He folded his arms. “I think you know the time is drawing near to find a compromise, yes?”
He stood and crossed the room to her. Stood before her, almost eye to eye. His spiced cologne tickled her nose. Or maybe it was the hair gel that smoothed back his hair. “In the cell, you saw that Captain Watters has lost his focus. He is in a rage. He does not think clearly. Your hope for escape, which solely depended on him”—he lifted her hand and unfurled her fingers—“now rests solely in your delicate fingers, Miss Zarrick.”
It sounded like he was offering her a way out, a way to save Dean. “That’s what evil men say—’do what we want and you can go free.’ ” She tried to keep her voice steady. “But then they kill you anyway.”
“You are far more valuable to me alive.”