Masterful, masterful. Almost convinced him.
“Fine.”
That sounded like it hurt.
“Swear to me—the north side of the city. They’ll be safe.”
He stood and started for the door.
Chains rattled and she lunged upward.
Instinct snapped Range into a fighting stance even as the chains yanked her back.
“Please,” she pleaded, half growling, her hands yanked down. Tears slid down her cheeks as she tried to angle around to reach him. “Tell me they will be safe. That I can trust your word.”
Something about the hoarse way she begged reached up inside Range and grabbed his gut. Sure wasn’t his heart because he didn’t have one. But he tucked his chin and seared her into silence. “I never said anything about trusting me. But you can trust the chief.”
“You don’t scare me, Rage.”
He twitched back. Scowled. “What?” Shehadcalled him Rage? He sniffed. Apropos
She shifted, glancing to the door. “Your anger, I know it masks a wound. A deep one. It does not scare me.”
With a mental shrug, he smirked. “I don’t care about scaring you, Madam. Only about ending your depravity.”
* * *
Everything was a disaster.
No, she could not say that. Twenty girls were on their way to freedom. Twelve others would be soon. If Razam could get them to the northern edge of the city, they could reach one of her contacts. Razam had the information. The plans. Granted, they were now two days behind, but she prayed Allah looked favorably upon her efforts to free them.
For her? Chains. Whether these that yet bound her arms in this cold room with its hard, metal chair and table, or the mental ones that would forever bind her to the very depravity Rage had named.
Elbows on the table, she held her face in her hands. Imagined Razam free. He was a good, good man. He deserved to find a wife and have a family. Always had he favored Fatina. Perhaps the two could find solace in one another.
The girls …
Allah, forgive me. I know I cannot undo the past, but with all that is in me, will I ensure they are free. If I can give my own life, then I do.Please—take it.
Life was too cruel and more times than not, she did not want to live. Then she would remind herself that the girls would have no one to defend them. They could not break free of the prison that had entombed their lives …
Until now.
At least for them.
Watching the first van drive away with 6 girls … then the next two with the others … it had worked, and she was both exultant and terrified. Then it was her turn. Yet as they slunk through the tunnel came the strange glow of green. Pop of gunfire. Allah had shown her that freedom was not to be hers. It was her penance.
But Atia …
She folded her arms on the table and buried her face as tears threatened.
No, do not show them weakness.
Kasra lifted her head again. Glanced at the mirrored glass. Were they watching? She could not tell, but she also could not doubt they were. Then to the wall by the door. If she stretched out her leg, could she toe the light off?
Angling out of the chair, she moved herself as far from the anchor hold as she could possibly move, then stretched her leg… her slipper reaching … reaching. The chains tugged. She slowed her moves, deliberate. Swiped the wall. Missed the switch. With a grunt, she tried again. And again. Until she scream-growled her frustration. Somehow, the chains yanked her backward. She landed hard on her hip, daggers of pain knifing her back. She arched her spine, then curled in on herself. Drew her hijab over her face. Let herself cry.
Except … she could not. Tears were as elusive as sleep.
