“I’m not in service for many years. No longer used to being commanded, especially from child. Why are you here and not in school?”
“I need to hit something,” growled Maddie.
“That is your default mood. How is today different? Why is excuse to leave school?”
Maddie pulled off one of her gloves, then stomped over to her bag to get her phone. She pulled up the photo Rhee had sent her and handed her phone to Vaska when she reached him.
“What is this?”
“It’s a map that plots out all the areas near here where a woman has gone missing in the last three or four months. All the stars are the areas. Have you heard or seen it on the news?”
“One or two, but this is more than that. How did you get this from the police?”
“As you can see, there are more than have been reported. The police don’t have this. They could if they bothered looking. They haven’t bothered.” Now that she was out of the school environment, Maddie felt free to let her frustration show.
“How did you get it?”
Feeling no reason to quell her impertinence, Maddie unceremoniously grabbed her phone and returned it to her bag. “Don’t worry about that. All that matters is that there is a pattern, and that pattern leads to this area as a pending target. You need to let your female students know and make sure they can handle themselves.”
Maddie slipped her glove back on, then shifted into a fighter’s stance. Her message was simple: She was here to train or spar, but not talk.
Vaska nodded then stepped onto the floor. “And what will you do if the school calls your mother?”
“The same thing I’m going to do when I call her later: not worry about it.”
Vaska rubbed his temples in frustration. Maddie was maddening and a bit petulant. He knew he should not be training her in secret at all, let alone allow her to talk him into not calling her mother. “Madison, last time your mother was here to talk to me—”
“She didn’t tell you that the fight I got into was because I saw an old man about to get attacked and I hit the person who assaulted him.”
Vaska considered the confession. He did wonder why her mother would be as angry as she had been when she related the event to him, but he did not doubt what Maddie was telling him. It was exactly the type of thing she would do.
He sighed and stepped onto the dance floor. “We will call your mother in two hours.”
“Fine,” said Maddie. She threw a jab at Vaska. He slapped the punch away like he was brushing aside a stray tree branch.
“No, stop,” said Vaska. “If you are concerned, we will work on the real-world situation. The person is probably bigger and stronger than you. I will show how to handle the situation. Come stand with back toward me.”
For the next two hours, Vaska walked Maddie through various evasion techniques, how to use her lower center of gravity and leverage to bring attackers to the ground, and which punches and kicks to use. Then, he put on protective gear and told her to attack without holding back.
Trained and seasoned as he was, he still found himself surprised at the degree of zest Maddie put into the sparring session. She pulled no punches or kicks. If he had not been a trainer of soldiers in the past, he was sure she would have injured him. As it was, he could block most of her strikes and handle the ones that got through.
Her robust fighting showed she was not afraid to attack. In civilian life, avoidance of a fight or a quick escape were still the best options. When neither of those options presented themselves, most people had problems committing to an attack one hundred percent. Maddie had no such problem, which did not surprise Vaska. But her strikes seemed to be based on what she wanted to do or how she wanted to hurt the opponent. Vaska decided to test the theory.
As she threw a low sidekick, Vaska shuffled out of the way, then closed the distance between them. The move negated Maddie’s ability to throw a kick with any sort of power in it. So, she threw punches at him instead—first a jab, then an attempted straight punch toward his side. When he moved over, she reversed her arm and attempted to strike him in the head with her elbow. He caught her arm, then hip-checked her into a flip. He still had a hold of her arm when she struck the ground. Without missing a beat, she attempted to kick her foot up toward his face. He slapped it to the side and stood back.
“Enough. Stop.”
Maddie got up from the floor. “What did I do wrong?”
“Stop deciding how you wish to attack. Effective offense is choosing attack based on what your opponent is trying to do. When I stepped closer to you, you should have pulled me toward you and used your knees. Everyone thinks you evade, duck, or retreat. They do not think you pull in the direction they are trying to move themselves. Even a larger opponent will feel a sharp knee to the pelvis bone or their jaw if they are short and stocky.”
“Isn’t that defensive fighting? Letting your opponent set the tempo?”
“Da! In a competition. You not train for competition. This is real world. Not some fifteen-minute Hollywood-style fight. You must end it quick and decisive. You must choose best offensive attack, based on your opponent’s stance, punches, kicks, or weapon they are wielding. Which brings me to two things: One, this can only go so far. You are fierce girl, but small. You must use weapons: keys slipped between your fingers, a knife if you have one, or stick. If your opponent has one, disarm them and use own weapon against them.”
Maddie nodded her understanding. Vaska nodded in return, then got on his knees.
“A body can be strong but will always have weak points, even for someone my size. If you strike me between the legs, I will slow down. That is a given. But there are places that if you strike correctly, you will stop an opponent in an instant.”
Vaska tilted his head to the side, stretching the space between an ear and shoulder. He grabbed Maddie’s hand and moved it to a spot on his neck. “This is hypoglossal nerve. I want you to slap it. Hard. Don’t try to break my shoulder, but do not hold back.”
The request puzzled Maddie, but she complied and sent her hand down in a slanted chop to the spot Vaska had pointed to a moment before. The second her hand landed on the large man, he collapsed to the floor.
“Vaska!”
Maddie just stared at his limp form, unsure what to do. She reached down to prop him up but could not lift his dead weight. Another minute passed before he began to stir. Maddie began to sweat. She did not want someone to walk into the studio with Vaska struggling on the floor like he was on the back end of a weekend bender.
After another couple of minutes, he gave her a weak grin and wiggled his shoulders to rouse himself. “That was very good,” he finally said.
“Good? I thought I was going to have to call 9-1-1. Did I hit you too hard?”
“No, in fact in fight, you must hit harder. The strike instantly interrupts body’s neural processes. Size will not save person if you hit there. They will drop—always.”
Maddie nodded her understanding as her phone began ringing. “I guess I won’t have to call my mom after all.” She walked over and answered it.
“Where the hell are you?”
Vaska could hear the demand clear across the room. Maddie’s tone was impatient and angst ridden. “I’m at the dance studio. I got tired of all the teasing at school over my dancing. I needed . . . I have to be ready for the big game, Mom. I can’t humiliate myself by screwing up! I know I’m grounded, but I don’t care. I have to get this right.”
Much to Vaska’s surprise, the words seemed to work as the volume of Tina Jennings’s response lowered to a level that kept him from hearing her. He watched as Maddie nodded once, twice, then hung up the phone and tossed it over to her bag.
“I’ve got two more hours. Do you have time?”
Vaska shook his head in bewilderment but nodded his assent. “I cannot believe that your mother would believe you are afraid.”
“She believed me because it’s true. I am afraid of looking like a wooden dummy on Fri
day. And she knows I would do something extreme to get it right. The best lies are surrounded by the truth.”
Maddie’s bluntness snapped Vaska’s head back. “And you expect me to go along with this?”
Maddie gave Vaska a pointed stare before answering in a flat tone, “Yes, I do.”
It took a moment, but eventually, he directed her to step back onto the dance floor. “Come. I want to see something. Give me your hand.”
Maddie held it out. Vaska took it, then twisted it into some sort of wristlock. “Do you feel anything?” he asked.
The position of her hand and wrist was awkward, but she felt no pain. Maddie shook her head in the negative.
“OK, OK, this is good.” Vaska then switched the hold into a different position. “Try to break away from my hand,” he said.
Maddie first tried a straight pull backward. When that did not work, she twisted her wrists around until it became clear that Vaska’s extreme strength was the only reason her leverage did not break his grip.
“Aah, is very good.”
“What is?”
“You are double-jointed. Very useful for eluding wristlocks, holds, and hand restraints. Gives you more options.”
“Does that mean I can break out of handcuffs?” Hope sprang from Maddie’s eyes.
Vaska frowned. “I’m sure you will get a chance to try. I see bright blue and red lights in your future.”
Maddie stuck out her tongue.
Vaska laughed then motioned toward the back changing room. “Now, go put on dance clothes. Enough fighting. We work on dance moves.”
“Why?” asked Maddie, her tone incredulous. She had a good workout, but she did not feel ready in the least for fighting off a kidnapper.
“Because me and son come to big game to see you dance and cheer. I cannot have you look, as you say, like a wooden dummy. Is bad for school reputation.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Ihtisham entered the house in a foul mood. Though he had lived among Westerners for years, he now found their impertinence and rudeness abrasive. The only silver lining was that being among them allowed him, at least for a few hours, to be himself—not something he could be often and not within the confines of the house.
The home was located in an outlying suburb in a cookie-cutter neighborhood. It was the type of home millions of Americans raised their families in for decades on end. There was nothing spectacular about it, the street it was on, or the surrounding community. These facts made it the best place for the operation.
Ihtisham walked through the foyer and entered a wide space perfect for family activities, like watching television or playing board games and video games—or perfect if a family lived here. The current occupants of the dwelling were the three men sitting like lumps on a log in chairs and couches watching a show being cast to the television from a tablet. They sat engrossed, their attention never wavering from the screen. Ihtisham took a couple of steps into the main portion of the room to see what they were watching. He rolled his eyes when he got a look. It was yet another documentary—underwritten by the network Al Jazeera—about the evils of Zionists. Ihtisham twisted his lips in distaste. He was trying to become a better Muslim. He felt, despite setbacks, he was redeeming himself in the eyes of Allah and his family. Still, Ihtisham did not believe the stories portrayed in the documentaries that the others watched regularly. The Zionists were many things—stealers of children in order to eat them was not one. How anyone could believe these stories was beyond Ihtisham’s ability to understand.
Without anyone present acknowledging his arrival, he left the room and headed to the entrance to the basement, where the home’s secret and temporary residents were housed. Halfway down the stairwell, a smell fouler than his mood hit him like a freight train: the scent of discarded fast food mixed with urine and human waste. The aroma of vomit overlayed that scent, no doubt caused by the miasma of the first three. Ihtisham covered his nose as he continued his descent into the basement and finally walked into the open-space room.
Empty food wrappers lay in all the cells except for the two awaiting occupants. The thinly clothed women stood in the back of their cells as far from the doors as possible. Several cells were spoiled with the contents of their lunches.
As Ihtisham walked down the space separating two lines of steel cages, he could see that a few of the cell’s buckets were full of the women’s waste. His stomach roiled, threatening to join the lunch party spread across the floors of the cells. Ihtisham muttered a curse, headed back upstairs, and slammed the door shut when he reached the top floor. In the living area, one of the men looked at him, then leaned over to whisper in the ear of a much larger man seated next to him on the couch. Both men chuckled but continued looking at the TV.
Ihtisham stomped over to them. He trained his attention on the large man, Rashad. “What happened downstairs?” he demanded.
“Quiet, bakri. The men are busy,” said Rashad. Mocking laughter followed his words.
Ihtisham’s nostrils flared at the insult. The slur was a favorite of theirs, hurled at Ihtisham whenever Maleek was absent or they thought Maleek could not hear them. Ihtisham responded by walking over to the power outlet in the wall and yanking the TV cord out of it.
The screen now dark, everyone surged to their feet and screamed. Rashad headed for Ihtisham like a charging bull. Ihtisham readied himself for a fight. Even as the thought sprang into his mind, he felt himself reeling sideways from an openhanded strike to the side of the face.
The blow had come so fast, Ihtisham thought that someone else had hit him. He flung his hand backward to strike Rashad. He felt his hand hit something that ignored the contact. Rashad grabbed Ihtisham’s shirt just under his neck and shoved him against the wall. Ihtisham struck out again, this time hitting Rashad in the face. Ihtisham received another hard slap to the face for his trouble. Undeterred, he grabbed at the hand holding him and raked his long nails into it. He dug in like he was peeling an orange, and a wave of satisfaction filled him as warm liquid gathered under his fingers. It was short-lived. Another blow struck him in the face, leaving him senseless. The hand holding him let go, and Ihtisham dropped like a sack to the floor.
Rashad placed a booted foot on Ihtisham’s chest. “You would claw at me like a woman.”
“Fuck you,” said Ihtisham, uncowed. “You were supposed to clean the buckets. It smells like a toilet down there. Maleek will not be pleased.”
“Maleek is not here. He is off doing the work of men—work I should be doing rather than being stuck here babysitting because of you.”
The pressure on Ihtisham’s chest increased as the speaker leaned in on the foot he had placed there. Ihtisham slapped and pulled at the foot with little effect. Breathing was becoming difficult.
Rashad’s evil-clown smile shone bright as he watched Ihtisham flop around on the floor like a fish on a hook. His companions watched like visitors on a museum tour. “Maleek will find the buckets cleaned and the cages fresh when he arrives back here . . . or he will find his long-haired pet beaten like a disobedient dog. Don’t worry—we’ll be sure to leave your delicately created face alone.”
The threat was stupid, but not idle. Maleek was a fastidious man. If he arrived to find the holding area in its current state, he would punish all the men. He had left Rashad responsible for keeping the holding area clean, but that would not help Ihtisham now. His own weakness was the only reason Rashad had been assigned the disgusting task. Rashad was making it clear he had no intention of carrying out the duty.
Anger and frustration warred with Ihtisham’s need for oxygen. The outcome was never in question. Grimacing, he nodded up and down frantically. The pressure on his chest eased a little.
Rashad cupped a hand behind his ear as he bent his head down toward Ihtisham. “What was that? I could not hear you.”
“I, I will clean it up.”
The foot lifted from his chest. “Excellent. Now, plug that television back in. And don’t you dare say a wo
rd to Maleek. I promise you, if you do, I will kill you. Don’t think for a moment we need you for the plan.”
Ihtisham rubbed his chest but said nothing. The plan was almost at its conclusion. Rashad was correct. He was no longer critical to its success. The only purpose he had left now was redemption and atonement. He was ready to be a martyr; the fear of death had left him long ago. Only duty to Allah and bringing honor back to his family mattered now.
He rolled over and plugged the television cord into the outlet. Then he stood and gimped his way toward the basement door. Rashad watched him limp away like a beaten dog before speaking again.
“Wait. Clean and bandage my hand first.”
Ihtisham gritted his teeth but said nothing. Changing direction, he headed for the kitchen, where they kept the medical supplies. An image of him grabbing one of the knives and coming back to chop Rashad into pieces fluttered through his mind. He allowed himself to revel in the walking dream but left the knives in the kitchen.
Rashad and the group gave him about as much attention as a gnat while he cleaned the clawed cuts left in Rashad’s hand. When he was finished, Rashad uttered a dismissive, “Go,” like a father would speak to a daughter.
Ihtisham knew the reason why but was powerless to do anything about it. Dutifully, he rose and headed for the basement.
Chapter Sixty
Cleaning up the mess left by Rashad took close to three hours. Each captive had to be handcuffed to one side of the cell before Ihtisham entered to gather the mucked-up waste buckets. He then had to walk down the corridor that extended from the basement and under the house to the shower. Next to the shower was a small room with a large dumping toilet and a janitorial sink set into the floor beside it.
Ihtisham had asked why they did not just take the captives to the bathroom to relieve themselves; as an answer, he had received a slap to the face. No more questions had been asked after that.
The Madison Jennings Series Box Set Page 34