On the screen is a live feed of Grace Okafor, bound to a chair, sobbing. Her face is swollen from crying. There's a gun visible in the frame, pointed at her head.
"Your choice," the leader says simply. "Make the video, or I give the order. Three. Two. One?—"
"Stop!" The word tears out of me. "I'll do it. I'll make your damn video."
"Jordan, no," Fitz growls.
"I have to." I look at him, willing him to understand. "I can't let her die, Fitz. I can't."
"Smart choice." The leader sets up the camera, positioning me in frame with Fitz visible in the background. He adjusts the angle, checks the lighting, professional as a film crew. "Now, Jordan. Tell the world about your crimes against Boko Haram. Tell them you're sorry. Tell them Nigeria must negotiate. And make it convincing, or the girl dies anyway."
I take a deep breath, look directly into the camera, and start to speak.
But not the words they want to hear.
5
FITZ
Iwatch Jordan prepare to speak, and I can see the calculation in her eyes. She's planning something. Christ, she's going to make this worse, and there's nothing I can do to stop her.
The camera's red light blinks steadily. A laptop sits beside it, screen showing a live feed counter climbing - already thousands watching. The leader stands behind the camera, waiting. Jordan's wrists are still bound behind her back, her red dress torn at the shoulder from when they dragged her in here. Her hair has come loose from its updo, and there's a raw scrape on her cheekbone.
Every dominant instinct I have screams at me to break free, to put myself between her and danger, to protect what's mine. But the zip ties bite into my wrists, and the three guards have their weapons trained on me. One wrong move, and they shoot. Then Jordan's alone with these bastards. So I stay still. I stay silent. And I watch my wife prepare to do something monumentally reckless.
"My name is Jordan James-Fitzwallace," she begins, her voice steady and clear. "I own Baker Street, a private establishment in London. For the past five years, I've worked toextract young women kidnapped by Boko Haram from captivity and help them rebuild their lives."
"Good," the leader says from behind the camera. "Now apologize. Tell them you were wrong."
Jordan meets my eyes for just a moment, and I see the defiance there. The spark that tells me she's not going to give them what they want. No. Don't do it. Don't antagonize him. But I know that look. I've seen it before, in our playroom when she's testing boundaries, pushing limits. The difference is that in our playroom, I control what happens next. Here, I control nothing.
"I was wrong," she continues, and I see the leader relax slightly.
For half a second, I think maybe she's going to cooperate. Maybe she's going to say what they want to hear, and we'll get through this alive.
Then she keeps talking.
"I was wrong to do it alone. I was wrong to think seventeen girls saved was enough when over a hundred are still missing."
The leader's posture changes. Tension coils through his shoulders. "What are you doing? That's not?—"
"I was wrong to think that the world would care." Her voice is rising now, passionate and furious. "I was wrong to believe that governments and international organizations would prioritize the lives of young African women over political convenience. And I was especially wrong to think that men like you—cowards who hide behind religion and tradition to justify rape and slavery—would ever see these women as human beings deserving of freedom."
My heart hammers against my ribs. That's Jordan. Brave, reckless, and about to get herself killed.
"Cut the camera!" the leader shouts, but one of his men is too slow, fumbling with the equipment, and Jordan keeps talking.
"To the girls still in captivity—I haven't forgotten you. I will never stop looking for you. And to the girls who have escaped—they're coming for you. They know where you are. You need to disappear. Change your names again. Run."
The leader moves fast. His hand is a blur as he backhands her hard enough that she falls from the chair, blood streaming from her split lip. The sound of flesh on flesh echoes in the room, and something in me gives way. I roar, lunging against my restraints hard enough that the chair topples, taking me with it. The zip ties slice into my wrists, and I can feel the warm slickness where they've cut through skin.
"You stupid bitch!" He's on her now, his hand around her throat, lifting her partially off the ground. "You just signed their death warrants. Every single girl on our list will die because of you."
Jordan's face is turning red, her bound hands useless behind her back. She can't fight. Can't defend herself. And I'm on the floor, tied to a chair, watching the woman I love struggle for air.
"Then you'd better get started," Jordan gasps out, her voice barely audible past his grip, "because by the time you find them, they'll be gone. I have friends. People who will hear that message and know what to do."
He releases her throat and stands, breathing hard. Jordan collapses, coughing and gasping. "Bring in the Okafor girl. If Mrs. Fitzwallace won't cooperate, maybe watching someone die will change her mind."
