Chapter Three
Viviana awoke with a groan. Much of the pain was gone, though not all of it. Still, the doctor had been correct—she did feel much improved today. Of course, she hadn’t tried to open her eyes yet either. Whatever type of gas that had been used to render her unconscious had certainly done a number on her eyes. She vaguely recalled the two women in hijab washing them out several times. She’d cried from the pain.
Blinking several times to adjust her vision, Viviana let out a sigh of relief when she was able to open them without intense, jarring pain searing through her skull. She hadn’t gone blind or lost any visual acuity at all. She was a bit dizzy, still a little woozy, but all in all she felt a thousand times better.
Slowly, very slowly, she brought herself into an upright position in the bed. The soft blanket covering her body fell to her waist. It was only then, when the chill from the air conditioning caused her nipples to stiffen, Viviana realized she was completely naked.
Her forehead crinkled. She decided she must have been recuperating in an incredibly liberal Afghan hospital. Nudity wasn’t the norm for patients, especially females, in the Middle East. Hell, it wasn’t even the norm for American hospitals! Maybe this facility had run out of those bed gowns that open in the back.
Viviana eyed her surroundings. She’d never seen such a palatial hospital room, let alone such a posh one. The opulence was a bit overwhelming. Moroccan tile floors, a huge Persian rug that easily would have sold for over a hundred grand back home, mosaics and fine art on the walls, a lavish body of water that was either a bathtub or a swimming pool…
She blinked. This made no sense.
Naked or not, Viviana wanted to have a look around. She hoped her legs were steady enough to keep her on her feet. Turning herself to the right side of the hospital bed, she stood up, albeit shakily. That’s when she noticed the IV in her arm. She visually scanned the room for a cart to hook the IV onto so she could walk around with it.
“Damn,” she muttered. “Nothing.”
She coughed, her throat scratchy. At least there was a pitcher of water and a single glass on the table next to the bed. There was also a remote to what Viviana presumed was a television. Now if she could find the television said remote went to, she’d at least have something to occupy her time until the doctor or one of the nurses returned to check on her. She glanced around, but saw nothing. Sighing, she next looked for the nurse’s call button. No luck there either.
Disgruntled, Viviana poured herself a glass of water, grabbed the remote, and made herself comfortable in the bed again. The typeset below each button on the remote was in Arabic so she searched for the button with the word that meant “power” beneath it. “There you are.” She coughed again. Deciding to wet her throat before continuing her inspection of the remote, she slowly sipped water from the glass before setting it back on the table next to her. Much better.
She didn’t know why she was fiddling with a remote to a non-existent television, but clicked the power button anyway. She gasped when a hidden compartment opened from the ceiling and a huge LCD screen came down and backed up to the perfect height and distance from her. She smiled. She was definitely praising this hospital on the comment cards they typically left behind.
The television roared to life. Viviana quickly lowered the volume. The channel was already set to the local Al Jazeera news affiliate, which was precisely what she’d wanted. As much trepidation as she felt concerning the answer to the question of what had become of the safe house’s other inhabitants, she needed to know. She picked up her water and sat back as she watched the broadcast. It didn’t take long to be brought up to speed.
“It’s been four days since the American government’s safe house in the northern Kabul suburb of Wazir Akbar Khan was raided by insurgents. The attack left six of the house’s seven American occupants dead, including four U.S. military and two CIA intelligence analysts. We go to our Afghan correspondent Nazir al-Raja for the latest developments in this story. Nazir…”
Viviana closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her gut intuition had already told her what Al Jazeera TV just confirmed: she was the sole survivor. It was three years ago all over again. John, Majid, Belinda—all of them—gone. She wanted to cry, but was too depleted for even that. She might not have been besties with any of her colleagues, but they were good people. Nobody deserved to die in such a heinous manner, least of all them. She opened her eyes, her haunted gaze absently flicking back to the television.
“…The whereabouts of the seventh are still unknown.”
Viviana frowned. She, the seventh, was here in the hospital. Had the CIA lied to the media in order to keep the terrorists guessing? The thought sent a surge of relief through her entire body even as a photograph of her face flashed onto the screen.
“Agent Viviana Lincoln, a linguist and translator for the American government, has been missing since the attack. A video just released by the so-called Islamic State, in which the group claims responsibility for taking the American female hostage, appears to show Dr. Lincoln being treated for her wounds at an undisclosed location somewhere deep within the Daesh stronghold of Syria. The American government has yet to comment, stating only that they are in the process of authenticating the video.”
She stilled. Grainy footage of her lying in the bed she currently occupied filled the screen. Her pulse sped as her heart slammed in her chest.
“Oh my God,” Viviana whispered, her stare unblinking. Chills racked her body. “This can’t be happening.”
Memories of the attack flooded her awareness. The sounds, the smells, the terror she’d experienced…and the words she’d heard shouted.
“The sheikh wants her alive! Take her, but look upon her only as much as necessary!”
Viviana was theherthis sheikh wanted? Her breathing grew increasingly labored as dozens of competing but equally horrific scenarios raced through her mind. Rape, torture, a public beheading…all of the above? She had escaped those hells three years ago. The odds of escaping at least one of those outcomes a second time couldn’t be in her favor.
“No wonder they kept me naked,” she said shakily. “They think I won’t run.”
It was a bet they would lose.
Tearing the IV out of her arm, Viviana paid no attention to the pain or to the blood dripping from the minor wound she’d just caused herself. The only thing she could concentrate on was getting out of wherever in the hell she was and running like an Olympic sprinter to anywhere but here. Hopefully a sympathetic person, or at least a drone, would spot her. She prayed she would find something—anything—that could double as clothing, but already knew she wouldn’t let nudity stop her.
She glanced at the blanket. No, it was too bulky and heavy. It would only weigh her down.
Footsteps were coming. Her eyes widened. She jumped off the bed and onto feet being ill supported by unsteady legs. She’d forgotten how weak her legs were likely to be!
Realizing that in her current condition she couldn’t outrun whoever was coming, Viviana picked up the pitcher of water, emptied its contents on the floor, and wobbled towards the door. She stood behind it, wide-eyed and heart racing, preparing to hurl the urn at the first person who entered.
The door opened. She raised the pitcher.
