As it is, my body is in a complete fight-or-flight mode.The knowledge that I’m so close to death—or at least to excruciating pain—makes my heart pound with a sickeningly fast rhythm.I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me shake, but I can feel small tremors running over my skin, both from the cold water they poured on me in an already-freezing room and from a surfeit of adrenaline.They’ve strung me up so high that only the tips of my toes touch the ground, and with the majority of my weight being supported by my tied wrists, my wounded arm and shoulder are already screaming in agony.
As I hang there, trying to breathe through the pain, Majid approaches me, a smug smile creasing his face.“Well, if it isn’t Esguerra himself,” he drawls, his British accent making him sound like some Middle Eastern version of James Bond.“How nice of you to pay our corner of the world a visit.”
I don’t say anything, just gaze at him contemptuously, knowing that will irritate him more than anything.I know what he’s going to demand, and I have no intention of giving it to him—not when he’s going to kill me in the most painful way possible anyway.
Sure enough, my lack of response provokes him.I can see the flare of rage in his eyes.Majid Ben-Harid thrives on the fear and misery of others.I understand that about him because I’m the same way.And because we’re such kindred souls, I know how to spoil the fun for him.He’s going to destroy my body, but he won’t enjoy it quite as much as he’d like.
I won’t let him.
It’s small consolation for the fact that I’m going to die a torturous death, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment.
His smug smile gone, Majid steps toward me.“I see you’re not up for chitchat,” he says, bringing a large butcher knife up to my face.“Let’s cut to the chase then.”He runs the tip of the blade down my cheek, cutting just deep enough for blood to run down my chin in a thin trickle.“You give me the location of your explosive factory, as well as all the security details, and I—” he leans so close that I can see the black of his pupils in the mud-brown irises of his eyes, “—I will make your death quick.If you don’t… well, I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate on the alternative.What do you say?Do you want to make it easy for us or hard?Because the outcome will be the same either way.”
I don’t respond, and I don’t flinch away, not even when that blade continues its painful, cutting journey down my neck, chest, and stomach, leaving a bloody trail wherever it touches my skin.
It doesn’t matter what I choose because Majid has no intention of honoring any promises he makes to me.He’ll never give me a quick death—not even if I hand-deliver the explosive to him tomorrow.I’ve caused too much damage to Al-Quadar over the past few months, foiled too many of their plans.As soon as I give him what he wants, he’ll take me apart in the most excruciating manner possible, just to show his troops how he metes out punishment to those who cross him.
That’s what I would do in his place, at least.
The knife stops just below my ribs, the sharp point digging into my flesh, and I can see Majid’s eyes gleaming with vicious pleasure.“Well?”he whispers, pressing it in a fraction of an inch.“Play or no play, Esguerra?It’s really up to you.I can begin by harvesting some organs, just to make it extra profitable for us—or if you’d prefer, I can start lower, with your wife’s favorite part…”
I suppress an instinctive male urge to shudder at that last bit and keep my expression calm, almost amused.I know he won’t do anything too damaging at first—because if he did, I would bleed out right away.I’ve already lost too much blood, so it won’t take much to send me under.The last thing Majid would want is to deprive himself of a conscious victim.If he’s serious about getting that explosive, he’ll have to start small and work up to the brutality he just threatened me with.
“Go ahead,” I say coolly.“Do your best.”
And giving him a mocking smile, I wait for the torture to begin.
26
Nora
The eveningof my arrival home is a nonstop stream of crying, hugs, and questions about what happened and how I managed to come back.
I tell my parents as much of the truth as I can, explaining about the plane crash in Uzbekistan and Julian’s subsequent capture by the terrorist group he’s been fighting.As I speak, I can see them battling shock and disbelief.Terrorists and planes downed by missiles are so far outside of the normal paradigm of their lives that I know it’s hard for them to process.It was difficult for me once, too.
“Oh, Nora, honey…” My mom’s voice is soft and sympathetic.“I’m so sorry—I know you loved him, despite everything.Do you know what’s going to happen now?”
I shake my head, trying to avoid looking at my dad.He thinks this is a good development; I can see it on his face.He’s relieved that I’m most likely rid of the man he considers to be my abuser.I’m certain both of my parents think Julian deserves this, but my mom is at least attempting to be sensitive to my feelings.My dad, though, can hardly hide his satisfaction at this turn of events.
“Well, whatever happens, I’m glad you came home.”My mom reaches out to take my hand.Her dark eyes are swimming with fresh tears as she gazes at me.“We’re here for you, honey, you know that, right?”
“I do, Mom,” I whisper, my throat tight with emotion.“That’s why I came back.Because I missed you… and because I couldn’t be alone on that estate.”
That much is true, but that’s not the real reason I’m here.I can’t tell my parents the real reason.
If they knew I came home to get kidnapped by Al-Quadar, they would never forgive me for that.
Despite my exhaustion,I barely sleep that night.I know it’ll take some time for Al-Quadar to respond to my presence in town, but I’m still consumed by dread and nervous anticipation.Every time I drift off, I have nightmares, only in these dreams it’s not Beth who’s being cut into pieces—it’s Julian.The bloody images are so vivid that I wake up nauseated and shaking, my bedsheets drenched with sweat.Finally, I give up on sleep altogether and pull out the art supplies I brought with me in my suitcase.I’m hoping that painting will prevent me from dwelling on the fact that my nightmares may be playing out at this very moment in some Al-Quadar hideout thousands of miles away.
As the light of the rising sun filters into the room, I stop to examine what I painted.It looks abstract at first—just swirls of red, black, and brown—but a closer inspection reveals something different.All the swirls are faces and bodies, people tangled together in a paroxysm of violent ecstasy.The faces reveal both agony and pleasure, lust and torment.
It’s probably my best work to date, and I hate it.
I hate it because it shows me how much I’ve changed.How little of the old me remains.
“Wow, honey, this is amazing…” My mom’s voice startles me out of my musings, and I turn around to see her standing in the doorway, gazing at the painting with genuine admiration.“That French instructor of yours must be really good.”
“Yes, Monsieur Bernard is excellent,” I agree, trying to keep the weariness out of my voice.I’m so tired that I just want to collapse, but that’s not an option at the moment.
