Keep Me (21 page)

I must’ve gone as pale as a sheet because the driver’s gaze hardens, and I hear the faint click of car door locks being activated.

The sound galvanizes me into action. Adrenaline pumping in my veins, I dive for the door and jerk at the handle while screaming at the top of my lungs. I know it’s useless, but I need to try—and, more importantly, I need to give the appearance of trying. I can’t sit calmly while they take me back to hell.

I can’t let them find out that this time I want to go back there.

As the car begins moving, I continue wrestling with the door and banging on the window. The driver ignores me as he peels out of the parking lot at top speed, and none of the mall visitors seem to notice anything wrong, the tinted windows of the car hiding me from their gaze.

We don’t go far. Instead of getting out onto the highway, the car swings around to the back of the building. I see a beige van waiting for us, and I struggle harder, my nails breaking as I claw at the door with a desperation that’s only partially feigned. In my rush to rescue Julian, I hadn’t fully considered what it would mean to be taken by the monsters of my nightmares—to go through something so horrific again—and the terror that swamps me is only slightly lessened by the fact that this situation is of my own doing.

The driver pulls up next to the van, and the locks click open. Pushing open the door, I scramble out on all fours, scraping my palms on rough asphalt, but before I can get to my feet, a hard arm clamps around my waist and a gloved hand slaps over my mouth, muffling my screams.

I hear orders being barked out in Arabic as I’m carried to the van, kicking and struggling, and then I see a fist flying toward my face.

There’s an explosion of pain in my skull, and then there’s nothing else.

I drift in and out of consciousness, the periods of wakeful agony interspersed with short stretches of soothing darkness. I don’t know if it’s been hours, days, or weeks, but it feels like I’ve been here forever, at the mercy of Majid and the pain.

I haven’t slept. They don’t let me sleep. I gain respite only when my mind shuts down from the torment, and they have ways of bringing me back when I’m under for too long.

They waterboard me first. I find it funny, in a kind of perverse way. I wonder if they’re doing it because they know I’m part-American, or if they just think it’s an efficient method of breaking someone without inflicting severe damage.

They do it a few dozen times, pushing me to the brink of death and then bringing me back. It feels like I’m drowning over and over again, and my body fights for air with a desperation that seems out of place given the situation. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing if they accidentally drowned me; my mind knows that, but my body struggles to live. Every second with that wet rag on my face feels like an eternity, the trickle of water somehow more terrifying than the sharpest blade.

They pause every once in a while and throw questions at me, promising to stop if only I would answer. And when my lungs feel like they’re bursting, I want to give in. I want to put an end to this—yet something inside me won’t let me. I refuse to give them the satisfaction of winning, of letting them kill me while knowing that they achieved what they wanted.

As my body strains for air, my father’s voice comes to me.

“Are you going to cry? Are you going to cry like your mama’s pretty boy or face me like a man?”

I’m four years old again, cowering in the corner as my father kicks me repeatedly in the ribs. I know the right answer to his question—I know I need to face him—but I’m scared. I’m so scared. I can feel the wetness on my face, and I know it will make him angry. I don’t mean to cry. I haven’t truly cried since I was a baby, but the pain in my ribs makes my eyes water. If my mother were here, she’d hold me and kiss me, but she doesn’t come near me when my father is in this kind of mood. She’s too afraid of him.

I hate my father. I hate him, and I want to be like him all at once. I don’t want to be scared. I want to be the one with the power, the one everyone’s afraid of.

Rolling up into a little ball, I use the bottom of my shirt to wipe the betraying moisture off my face, and then I get to my feet, ignoring my fear and the ache in my bruised ribs.

“I’m not going to cry.” Swallowing the knot in my throat, I look up to meet my father’s angry gaze. “I’m never going to cry.”

Curses in Arabic. More wetness on my face.

My mind is violently wrenched back to the present as I convulse, gagging and sucking in air when the soaked rag is removed. My lungs expand greedily, and through the ringing in my ears, I hear Majid yelling at the man who almost killed me.

Well, fuck. Looks like this portion of the fun is over.

They start with the needles next. Long, thick needles that they drive under my toenails and fingernails. I’m able to bear this better, my mind divorcing itself from my tortured body and taking me back to the past.

I’m nine now. My father brought me to the city for negotiations with his suppliers. I’m sitting on the steps, guarding the entrance to the building, a gun tucked into my belt underneath my T-shirt. I know how to use this gun; I already killed two men with it. I threw up after the first one, earning myself a beating, but the second kill had been easier. I didn’t even flinch when I pulled the trigger.

A few teenage boys walk out onto the street. I recognize their tattoos; they’re part of a local gang. My father probably used them at some point to distribute his product, but right now they appear to be bored and at loose ends.

I watch as they meander up and down the street, kicking at some broken bottles and ribbing each other. A part of me envies their easy camaraderie. I don’t have a lot of friends, and the boys I occasionally play with all seem to be afraid of me. I don’t know if it’s because I’m the Señor’s son, or if they’ve heard things about me. I don’t usually mind their fear—I encourage it, in fact—but sometimes I wish I could just play like a regular kid.

These teenage boys haven’t heard about me, though. I can tell because when they spot me sitting there, they smirk and walk toward me, thinking they’ve found easy prey to bully.

“Hey,” one of them calls out. “What’s a little boy like you doing here? This is our neighborhood. You lost, kid?”

“No,” I say, replicating their smirks. “I’m about as lost as you . . . kid.”

The boy who spoke to me swells up with anger. “Why you little shit—” He starts toward me, and immediately freezes when I point my gun at him without blinking.

“Try it,” I invite him softly. “Come closer, why don’t you?”

The boys begin to back away. They’re not completely dumb; they see that I know how to handle the weapon.

My father and his men come out at that moment, and the boys scatter like a pack of rats.

When I tell my father what happened, he nods approvingly. “Good. You don’t back down, son. Remember that—you take what you want, and you never back down.”

Cold water in my face, followed by a brutal slap, and I’m back in the present. They have me tied to a chair now, my wrists bound behind my back and my ankles tied to the chair legs. My fingers and toes throb with agony, but I’m still alive—and for now unbroken.

I can see the frustrated fury on Majid’s face. He’s not happy with the progress thus far, and I have a feeling he’s about to amp up his efforts.

Sure enough, he approaches me, his knife clutched in his fist. “Last chance, Esguerra . . .” He stops in front of me. “I’m giving you one last chance before I start cutting off some useful body parts. Where is the fucking factory, and how do we get in?”

Instead of answering, I gather whatever little saliva remains in my mouth and spit at him. The red-tinted spittle splatters all over his nose and cheeks, and I watch with satisfaction as he wipes it off with his sleeve, his body vibrating with rage at the insult.

I don’t have a chance to enjoy his reaction for long, though, because he fists his hand in my hair and yanks on it, causing my neck to bend painfully backwards.

“Let me tell you what’s about to happen, you piece of shit,” he hisses, pressing the blade against my jaw. “I’m going to start with your eyes. I’m going to cut your left eyeball in half—and then I’m going to do the same with your right. And when you’re blind, I’m going to start trimming your dick, inch by inch, until there’s only a tiny stub left . . . Do you understand me? If you don’t start talking now, you will never see or fuck again.”

Fighting the urge to throw up, I remain silent as he pushes the knife upward, toward the thin skin under my left eye. The blade cuts through my cheek on the way, and I feel the warmth of the blood trickling down my cold skin. I know he’s not bluffing, but I also know that giving in will not change the outcome. Majid will torture me to get answers—and once he gets them, he will torture me even more.

Glaring at my lack of reaction, Majid presses the knife deeper into my skin. “Last fucking chance, Esguerra. Do you want to keep your eye or not?”

I don’t respond, and he drags the knife higher, causing my eyelids to squeeze shut reflexively.

“All right then,” he whispers, enjoying my body’s involuntarily panic as I try to jerk out of his reach . . . and then I feel a nauseating explosion of pain as the blade punctures through my eyelid and penetrates deep into my eye.

* * *

I must’ve lost consciousness again because there’s more cold water being thrown at me. I’m shivering, my body going into shock from the excruciating agony. I can’t see anything out of my left eye—all I feel there is a burning, leaking emptiness. My stomach roils with bile, and it takes all of my effort not to vomit all over myself.

“How about the second eye, Esguerra, hmm?” Majid smiles at me, his bloodied knife held tightly in his fist. “Would you like to be blind while we take your dick off, or would you rather see it all? Of course, it’s not too late to stop all this . . . Just tell us what we want to know, and we might even let you live—since you’re so brave and all.”

He’s lying. I can hear it in the gloating tone of his voice. He thinks he’s got me nearly broken, so desperate to stop the pain that I will believe anything he says.

“Fuck you,” I whisper with my remaining strength.
You don’t back down. You never back down.
“Fuck you and your pathetic little threats.”

His eyes narrow with rage, and the knife flashes toward my face. I squeeze my remaining eye shut, preparing for the agony . . . but it never comes.

Surprised, I peel open my uninjured eyelid and see that Majid got distracted by one of his minions. The man seems excited, pointing toward me as he chatters in rapid Arabic. I strain to make out some of the words I know, but he’s speaking too fast. Judging by the smile spreading across Majid’s face, however, whatever he’s saying is good news for Majid—which means it’s probably bad news for me.

My supposition is confirmed when Majid turns toward me and says with a cruel smirk, “Your other eye is safe for now, Esguerra. There is something I
really
want you to see in a few hours.”

I glare at him, unable to hide my hatred. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but the pit of my stomach tightens as the terrorists file out of the windowless room. There’s only one thing that would persuade me to give in—and she is safe and sound in my compound. They can’t possibly be talking about Nora, not with all the security I have around her. It’s some new mind game they’re playing with me, trying to make me think they have something worse in store for me than what I’ve already suffered. It’s a delay tactic, a way to prolong my suffering—nothing more.

I have no intention of falling for their trick, but as I wait there, bound and in the worst pain of my life, I’m not strong enough to stop the anxiety from creeping up on me. I should be grateful for this respite from torture, but I’m not.

I would gladly let Majid cut off every one of my limbs if only I could be certain that Nora is safe.

I don’t know how much time passes while I wait in torment, but finally I hear voices outside. The door opens, and Majid drags in a small figure dressed in a pair of Uggs and a man’s shirt that hangs down to her knees. Her hands are bound behind her back, and there is a bloody stain on the underside of her left arm.

My stomach drops and cold horror spreads through my veins as Nora’s dark eyes lock on my face.

My worst fear has come to pass.

They have the only person who matters to me in the whole fucking world.

They have my Nora—and this time, I can’t rescue her.

Trembling from head to toe, I stare at Julian, my chest squeezing with agony at the sight. There is a rough, dirty-looking bandage on his shoulder, with blood seeping out of it, and his naked body is a mass of cuts, bruises, and scrapes. His face is even worse. Below the old bandage on his forehead, there isn’t a spot left that isn’t discolored or swollen. The most horrifying thing of all, however, is the huge bleeding gash running through his left cheek and all the way up into his eyebrow—a mess of ragged flesh where his eye used to be.

Where his eye
used
to be.

They cut out his eye.

I can’t even begin to process that at the moment, so I don’t try. For now, Julian is alive, and that’s all that matters.

He’s tied to a metal chair¸ his legs bound apart and his arms restrained behind his back. I can see the shock and horror on his bloodied face as he takes in my presence, and I want to tell him that everything will be all right—that this time I am saving
him
—but I can’t. Not yet.

Not until Peter has a chance to get here with the reinforcements.

My bruised cheekbone is throbbing where they hit me, and the underside of my left arm is burning with pain from the open wound there. They stripped off my clothes and cut out my birth control implant while I was knocked out, probably fearing that it was a tracker of some kind. I hadn’t expected that—I figured, if anything, they would find one of the real trackers—but it worked out even better than I’d hoped. After cutting out the implant and seeing that it was nothing more than a simple plastic rod, they must’ve dismissed me as a threat, thinking that I am exactly what I was pretending to be: a naïve girl who went to see her parents, oblivious of any remaining danger. It makes me glad that I had the foresight to leave the bracelet tracker at the estate, so as not to arouse their suspicions.

To my relief, it doesn’t seem like they touched me much in other ways. At least, if they did anything more than cop a feel while I was unconscious, I feel no evidence of it. There is no soreness or stickiness between my legs, no pain of any kind. My skin is crawling at the knowledge that they had me naked, but it could’ve easily been much worse. When I woke up, I was already wearing someone’s shirt and my own Ugg boots. They must be saving all the drama for when I’m in front of Julian.

This was the part of my plan that Peter found most risky: that time from my capture until my arrival at their hideout.

“You know that they can search every inch of you and find all three of the tracking devices Julian placed on you,” he told me before we left the estate. “And then you’ll both be lost to us. You do understand what they will do to you to make Julian talk, right?”

“Yes, I do, Peter.” I gave him a grim smile. “I understand perfectly. There is no other choice, though, and the trackers are tiny, the insertion wounds nearly invisible at this point. They may find one or two, but I doubt they’ll find all three—and if they do, by the time they do, you may have a fix on their location.”

“Maybe,” he said, his eyes speaking volumes about his opinion on my sanity, “or maybe not. There are a hundred things that can go wrong between the time you get taken and when they bring you to Julian.”

“It’s a risk I’ll have to take,” I told him, bringing the discussion to an end. I knew how dangerous it would be for me to act as a human tracking device to locate the terrorists, but I couldn’t see any other way to get to Julian in time—and judging by his current state, I was nearly too late as is.

I see Julian attempting to compose himself, to hide his visceral reaction to my presence, but he’s not entirely successful. After the initial shock passes, his jaw tightens, and his undamaged eye begins to glitter with violent rage as he takes in my semi-dressed state. His powerful muscles bunch, straining against the restraints. He looks like he wants to rip apart everyone in the room, and I know that the ropes tying him to the chair are the only thing preventing him from launching a suicidal attack on our captors. The other terrorists must be thinking the same thing, because two of them step closer to Julian, clutching their weapons just in case.

Looking delighted with this turn of events, Majid laughs and drags me to the middle of the room, his grip on my arm excruciatingly tight. “You know, your dumb little whore all but fell into my lap,” he says conversationally, fisting his hand in my hair and forcing me down to my knees. “We found her shopping in your absence, like all those greedy American bitches. Figured we’d bring her here, so you can see her pretty little face before I carve it up . . . Unless you want to start talking?”

Julian remains silent, glaring at Majid with murderous hatred, while I take small, shallow breaths to cope with my terror. My eyes are watering from the pain in my scalp, and the fear pulsing through me feels almost like a living thing. With my hands restrained behind my back, there’s nothing I can do to prevent Majid from hurting me. I have no idea how long it’s going to take Peter to arrive, but there’s every chance he might not make it in time. I can see the rust-colored stains on the blade hanging loosely from Majid’s belt, and nausea rises in my throat as I realize that it’s Julian’s blood.

If we’re not rescued soon, it will be my blood, too.

To my horror, Majid reaches for that blade, still holding my hair in that painful grip. “Oh, yes,” he whispers, pressing the flat edge against my neck, “I think her head will make a nice little trophy—after I cut it up a bit, of course . . .” He pushes the knife upward, and I freeze in terror as I feel the blade cutting into the soft skin under my chin, followed by the stomach-churning sensation of warm liquid trickling down my neck.

The growl that emanates from Julian doesn’t resemble anything human. Before I can do more than gasp, he surges forward, using the balls of his feet to propel himself and the chair off the floor. His action is so sudden and violent that the two men standing next to him don’t react in time. Julian literally crashes into one of them, bringing the armed terrorist down to the floor, and, with one twist of his body, drives the metal leg of the chair into the man’s throat.

The next few seconds are a blur of blood and screams in Arabic. Majid releases his hold on me and yells out some orders, galvanizing the others into action as he springs into the fray himself.

Still tied to the chair, Julian is dragged off the injured man’s body, and I watch in horrified fascination as the man Julian attacked writhes on the floor, clutching his throat as rattling, gurgling sounds escape from his mouth. He’s dying—I can see it in the weakening spurts of blood coming from the ragged wound in his neck—yet his agony doesn’t seem to touch me. It’s as though I’m watching a movie instead of observing a human being bleeding to death in front of my eyes.

Majid and the other terrorists rush to his aid, trying to staunch the flow of blood, but it’s too late. The man’s frantic grip on his throat eases, his eyes glazing over, and the stench of death—of evacuated bowels and violence—fills the room.

He’s dead.

Julian killed him.

I should be disgusted and appalled, but I’m not. Maybe those emotions will hit me later, but for now, all I feel is a strange mixture of gladness and pride: gladness that one of these murderers is dead, and pride that Julian was the one to kill him. Even tied up and weakened by torture, my husband managed to take down one of his enemies—an armed man who was stupid enough to stand within Julian’s lethal reach.

My lack of empathy disturbs me on some level, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. Whether Julian intended to create a distraction or not, the end result is that nobody is paying attention to me at the moment—and as soon as I realize it, I spring into action.

Jumping to my feet, I cast a frantic glance around the room. My gaze lands on a small knife on a table near the wall, and I leap toward it, my pulse racing. The terrorists are all gathered around Julian on the other side of the room, and I hear grunts, curses, and the sickening sound of fists hitting flesh.

They’re punishing Julian for this murder—and, for now, ignoring me.

Turning my back to the table, I manage to palm the knife and wedge the blade underneath the duct tape they wrapped around my wrists. My hands are trembling, causing the sharp blade to nick my skin, but I ignore the pain, trying to saw through the thick tape before they realize what’s happening. My grip is slippery with sweat and blood, but I persist, and finally, my hands are free.

Shaking, I survey the room again, and spot an assault rifle leaning negligently against the wall. One of the terrorists must’ve left it there in the confusion resulting from Julian’s unexpected attack.

My heart throbbing in my throat, I inch along the wall toward the weapon, desperately hoping that the terrorists won’t glance in my direction. I have no idea what I’m going to do with one gun against a roomful of men armed to their teeth, but I have to do something.

I can’t stand by and watch them beat Julian to death.

My hands close around the weapon before anyone notices anything, and I suck in a shaking breath of relief. It’s an AK-47, one of the assault rifles I practiced with during my training with Julian. Gripping the heavy weapon, I lift it and point in the direction of the terrorists, trying to control the adrenaline-induced trembling in my arms. I’ve never shot at a person before—only at beer cans and paper targets—and I don’t know if I have what it takes to pull the trigger.

And as I’m trying to work up the courage to act, a blinding explosion rocks the room, knocking me off my feet and onto the floor.

* * *

I don’t know if I hit my head or was merely dazed by the explosion, but the next thing I’m aware of is the sound of gunfire outside the walls. The entire room is filled with smoke, and I cough as I instinctively attempt to get to my feet.

“Nora! Stay down!” It’s Julian, his voice hoarse from the smoke. “Stay down, baby, do you hear me?”

“Yes!” I yell back, intense joy filling every cell of my body as I realize that he’s alive—and in a good enough condition to speak. Keeping low to the ground, I peer out from behind the table that fell next to me, and see Julian lying on his side on the other end of the room, still tied to the metal chair.

I also see that the smoke is coming in from the vent in the ceiling, and that the room is empty except for the two of us. The battle, or whatever is happening, is taking place outside.

Peter and the guards must have arrived.

Almost crying with relief, I grab the AK-47 lying next to me, lower myself onto my stomach, and begin to belly-crawl toward Julian, holding my breath to avoid inhaling too much smoke.

At that moment, the door swings open, and a familiar figure steps into the room.

It’s Majid—and in his right hand, he’s holding a gun.

He must’ve realized that Al-Quadar were losing and came back to kill Julian.

A surge of hatred rises in my throat, choking me with bitter bile. This is the man who murdered Beth . . . who tortured Julian and would’ve done the same thing to me. A vicious, psychotic terrorist who had undoubtedly murdered dozens of innocent people.

He doesn’t see me there, all his attention on Julian as he lifts his gun and points it at my husband. “Goodbye, Esguerra,” he says quietly . . . and I squeeze the trigger of my own weapon.

Despite my prone position, my aim is accurate. Julian had me practice shooting sitting, lying down, and even running at some point. The assault rifle bucks in my shaking arms, slamming painfully against my shoulder, but the two bullets hit Majid exactly where I intended—in his right wrist and elbow.

The shots throw him back against the wall and knock the gun out of his grasp. Screaming, he clutches at his bleeding arm, and I get up, heedless of the danger posed by the bullets flying outside. I can hear Julian yelling something at me, but his exact words don’t register through the ringing in my ears.

In this moment, it’s as though the entire world fades away, leaving me alone with Majid.

Our eyes meet, and for the first time, I see fear in his dark, reptilian gaze. He knows that I am the one who shot him, and he can read the cold intent on my face.

“Please, don’t—” he begins saying, and I squeeze the trigger again, discharging five more bullets into his stomach and chest.

In the brief silence that follows, I watch as Majid’s body slides down the wall, almost in slow motion. His face is slack with shock, blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, and his eyes are open, staring at me with a kind of numb disbelief. He moves his lips, as though to say something, and a rattling gurgle escapes his throat as more blood bubbles up out of his mouth.

Lowering the gun, I step closer to him, drawn by a strange compulsion to see what I have wrought. Majid’s eyes plead with mine, begging for mercy without words. I hold his gaze, stretching out the moment . . . and then I aim the AK-47 at his forehead and pull the trigger again.

The back of his head explodes, blood and bits of brain tissue splattering against the wall. His eyes glaze over, the whites around the irises turning crimson as blood vessels burst in his eyes. His body goes limp, and the smell of death, sharp and pungent, permeates the room for the second time today.

Except it’s not Julian who’s the killer this time.

It’s me.

My hands are steady as I lower the weapon again, watching the blood trickle down the wall behind Majid. Then I walk toward Julian, kneel down beside him, and carefully place the gun on the floor as I begin to work on untying his ropes.

Julian is silent as I free him from his bonds, and so am I. The sounds of gunfire outside are beginning to die down, and I’m hoping that means Peter’s forces are winning. Either way, though, I’m ready for whatever may come, a strange calm engulfing me despite our still-precarious situation.

When Julian’s arms and legs are free, he kicks the chair away and rolls onto his back, his right hand closing around my wrist. His left arm, still partially in a cast, is immobile at his side, and there’s more blood on his face and body from the beating he just received. His grip on my wrist, however, is surprisingly strong as he pulls me closer, forcing me down on the floor next to him.