Freedom Does Matter (Mercenaries Book 2) (31 page)

“Right,” agreed the driver, listening to see where his fare was going, Beckie guessed.

She agreed with him; she did not want to stand in the street. “Are you sure I shouldn’t go in with you?”

“I’m certain! They say Sedki is… Well, inappropriate is a descriptive term,” he said. He was blushing and looking at the floor of the car. He shook himself, then met her eyes again. “And with you out here, I can make my excuses more believable.”

Beckie stared into his eyes, trying to see what was behind his words. “Okay, but don’t do anything foolish. What floor’s he on?”

Haleef turned and shouted back to the men, who began to approach. Beckie felt to make sure her scarf hadn’t gone askew. After one of the men responded to him, Haleef said, “The sixth. Don’t worry,” he continued with assurance, “as soon as I talk to him about work, I’ll be back.”

She nodded. She kept quiet as the two men peered in over Haleef’s shoulders. Hope I look the part! When the three turned and walked toward the building, she breathed again.

“It’ll be another tenner if we’re ‘ere past six,” the driver told her.

She nodded and reached for her bag.

Twenty minutes later, Beckie had played as much Sudoku on her phone as she could stand and was looking out the windows waiting for something. Anything.

One of the men Haleef had left with approached the taxi, stopping at the driver’s door. Beckie was soon much more than merely curious; the man coshed the driver as soon as he got to the car and immediately grabbed Beckie’s arm through the window.

He pulled and tugged, trying to work Beckie to the opening between the seats. She was fighting as well as she could, hanging on to the seatbelt on the other side and kicking at the man’s arm. After heaving twice, he slammed the blackjack on Beckie’s hand. When she screamed, he threw the door open and grabbed her again.

This time, his fingers entwined in her robe in the middle of her back. He yanked as she threw herself away; she heard the robe begin to rip. As she tried to roll her shoulders and arms back so she could slip out of the encumbering garment, he reached in to grasp her neck. With his sharp wrench, Beckie fell on her back, knees bent double and gasping for air so she couldn’t scream again.

The man muttered something as he pulled the scarf from her head and dropped it. One cuff above her ear made her head ring. Before it stopped, he took her chin and face in one hand, holding her mouth closed and pinching her nose to control her breathing. This isn’t part of my plan! He reached around her middle and pulled her backwards onto the sidewalk.

With one hand in her armpit and the other over her face, he half-pushed and half-carried Beckie to the doorway of the building. A snarl kept a young man at bay while the man made his way to the elevator. Beckie tried kicking and punching at him, but he simply pinched her nose shut when she did, and held it until she was light-headed and clawing at his arm.

In the elevator, he slammed her against the back wall and struck her again. It took a few moments before her mind worked again. When it did, she shook her head and felt her jaw. Hurts like hell, but I don’t think it’s broken. Before she mustered enough sense to attempt a counter attack, he’d pushed the button and turned back to slap her again. Pain exploded in her cheek and stars showed briefly; when her eyes opened, she had fallen to her knees, sprawled back against the car’s wall. The man looked down at her, clearly enjoying her plight. As she struggled to stand, she shook her head once more, groaning at her feelings: pain, helplessness, anger.

The elevator was fast enough that the door opened before the man had time to cuff her again, and the deceleration helped her stand. A plain tan painted hallway with matching brown patterned tiles on the floor was all Beckie saw as her captor grabbed the front of her robe and pulled her beside him. He had one hand behind her head, facing her down.

Three doors went by on either side before the man stopped and pushed her, face first, into a dark brown wooden door. She licked her lips and tasted blood. The lock snapped; the door opened away. A shove in the middle of her back and she fell face first to a hardwood floor. A sofa and two straight chairs stood near the wall. She tried to turn her head, but something hit her in the back and a hand at the back of her head forced her down again.

Someone grasped her hands and yanked them around behind her. Gonna be a tie? Or cuffs? Before whoever it was could continue, she heard “
La
!” Her hands were released, but not the pressure at her back or head.

She heard more words; in a pause, her head was smacked again, as if they had asked a question begging a response. Fighting back tears, she worked hard at recalling what Ms Al Sahaf had taught her during the walk to Tahrir Square when they’d been accosted by street urchins selling trinkets. She choked out the words. “
Ana… la ata… atakellem arabi
.” When the pressure at the back of her head relaxed a little, she tried again. “
Ana la atakellem al arabi.
” “I don’t speak Arabic.”

The men stared at each other, then at her. A siren warbled a long way away.

Another spate of words ended with Beckie being yanked to her feet and thrown to the sofa. She flinched, waiting for a blow, but nothing. She scrinched open her eyes enough to see the man who had captured her, and two others. There was no sign of Haleef. There was an archway opening on a dark space. One of the men, not her captor, was using his phone.

A few seconds passed before they heard a knock on the door, which then opened. A fourth man entered. He looked around, spending more time than Beckie liked leering at her. With more words and a gesture, he sent Beckie’s captor and the man with the phone out the door.

“My friend said you have a… tangle in your hair.” His English was passable; not as good as Haleef’s, but not bad. He spoke to the other man in Arabic.

The silent man drew a combat dagger as he approached the sofa. When he reached with his hand, Beckie rolled to her side and tried to slither to the floor. He missed the first grasp, but with his second, he seized the shoulder of her robe and pulled her around to lie, half off the cushion. When he thrust his hand toward the back of her head, she realized they’d found Kevin’s tracker. She twisted, but this time the man with the dagger sat on her chest and pulled her head up, forcing her chin into her throat. He held the dagger between the quillons.

Beckie flinched and tried to scream as the man combed through her hair, not particularly gently, but he pressed her head further forward to force her mouth closed. A moment later, he found the small tracker and yanked. Beckie tried to arch her back at the pain, replicated when the tracker refused to come out with repeated tugs.

The English speaker said something in Arabic, and the man on her chest held her head tight and cut the device out along with a hank of hair which Beckie mourned as the man rose and stepped away. He dropped the tracker to the wood floor and ground it under his heel.

Beckie rubbed her eyes, then her scalp, and sat up, breathing hard. She looked at the crushed plastic and electronic components and rubbed her eye again. That’s it for me if they move me.

“Who are you?”

The voice brought her head up. She looked across and up at him. “Susan Bartholmew,” she said, using the fake name that she and Haleef had agreed on. When she finished speaking, she felt around the inside of her mouth with her tongue; most of the cuts had stopped bleeding. She rubbed her head.

“I think…” The man stopped and said something in Arabic, then addressed her again. “I have no time, so we will move to the conclusion rather than play, Miss Beckie.”

The other man still caressed his dagger. The blade, glinting even in the subdued light of the room, caught her eye. She noticed a fresh discoloration and her mind flashed to Haleef. “You gonna kill me, too?” she shouted.

Both men started, but weren’t knocked for the loop Beckie wished. The knife approached until the man leaned in to hold the blade against her neck.

“Don’t move.”

As she shrank away from the knife, the man holding it used his other hand to grab a fistful of her robe and pull her to her feet.

“I do recommend you stand very still.”

So slowly that Beckie knew he was doing it to instill fear and hopelessness, he cut her robe off, indifferent to its ties and fasteners. When it lay on the floor, he did the same with her Chelsea jersey, though he’d made a funny expression when the robe fell away, exposing it.

“Not a fan, then?” she snarled.

“He’s from Liverpool. If you’d been wearing their jersey, he’d probably not ruin it.”

By the time he’d finished speaking, both the shirt and her bra were lying on the floor and her jeans were being slit down each leg.

“
La
,” she heard again as the man slid the knife under the waistband of her underwear. The dagger slipped out and disappeared, but not before the man worked his fingers into her hair and made a fist to prevent any motion.

As she tried to move her head, the man said, “I told him to stop. We’ll do that bit of unveiling later.” She heard him walking away.

The one with his fingers entwined in her hair pushed her ahead as he followed the English-speaking man. They went through the arch into a dim hallway to the end, then turned the corner into a bathroom. Moving nothing but her eyes, Beckie surveyed the white tiled room; it didn’t look all that unusual, except, under the sink… Those look like bloodstains, she thought. “What’d you do to Haleef?” she shouted as she twisted away.

The man’s grip on her hair held; as she twisted and fell, he lifted her. To abate the pain in her scalp, she scrambled to get her feet back under her. As she reached to rub her head, he smacked her hand away.

“Little,” she heard. “We did little to the man. We asked a few questions, as we are about to do you. Nothing more.” He reached for the taps and began filling the tub. More Arabic directed to the other man, who sat Beckie on the toilet, but kept his hand twisted in her hair.

She focused on the speaker. “If you didn’t hurt Haleef, where is he? He wouldn’t have gone without me, willingly.”

“Did I say willingly? I must have misspoken. I meant uninjured. Another of our group needed to talk with him. He may need to confirm what you say, so you would be well-advised to answer me fully and honestly.”

“Answer what? You haven’t asked but my name, and I gave you that!”

The tub was almost full. Beckie recalled Nancy and Sam’s description of interrogation techniques, though they had decided she didn’t need to actually experience most of them. Looks like I will, now. Her heart was trying to jump up into her mouth; she swallowed and stared hard at the tub, hoping the plug would suddenly pop out and disappear.

The English-speaking man turned the water off, then looked around. With a word, he walked out, but too soon, he returned carrying a kitchen chair and a pillow. “All the comforts of home, love,” he said, but his sneer chilled her. He set the chair next to the tub and laid the pillow on the seat. He nodded to the other man.

With no warning, he lifted her by the hair and carried her to the chair. Just before she had to scream at her scalp being ripped off, he dropped her on the edge of the chair, facing away from the tub. That and the sound of water splashing behind her confused her. But her confusion lasted mere moments before their intent became clear. While the speaker held her legs, the other man pushed her head down until the water washed over her face, then pulled her up. She couldn’t hold back a shout of consternation and while she spluttered and spit the water away, she heard, “You should have time to reflect on what we will do next.”

The man lifted her head enough so she could see the one speaking. His eyes were for the first time tracking along her body, giving every appearance of enjoying the sight. She arched her back—Still the exhibitionist, she thought. As her head was again pushed back, she shouted, “What do you—” Her question ended in a gargle, a plume of spit-out water and flailing arms. When she was pulled back above the surface, she screamed, “Kevin, where the fuck—” Back under the water for an additional second.

This time when she came up, she heard, “That’s a new name… Kevin. What does it mean, eh?” She opened her eyes, blinking the water from them. “Who’s Kevin, sweet?”

She said nothing, but managed to catch her breath as she went under again. This time, instead of pushing toward the surface, she twisted and tried diving toward the bottom, away from where the man holding her hair was standing.

The rim of the tub caught her ribs as she fell off the chair. Her head came up; in her hair, the grip relaxed as water splashed from the tub into her face. She gasped for a fresh breath. There was more noise, but she couldn’t see with her head against the side of the tub. There was shouting, and then kicking of, walls, maybe? Doors? Heavy blows on something that reverberated when struck. Not like a bell, though. The shouting continued. She pushed further away. “Fuck, that hurts!” She grabbed her side. She glanced down and gave a tiny smile. No bones sticking out. The noise subsided.

Carefully, she raised her head to see what she could. The man who’d been holding her head was lying on the floor, unmoving. There was no one else. Leaning on the tub, she set the chair upright and used it to pull herself up to stand. As she did, someone ran down the hallway, boots sounding like thunder. Her heart jumped back into her mouth and she tried to find a usable defensive position where the pain wouldn’t incapacitate her.

Kevin came around the corner like a scalded cat. The expression on his face was wonderful! His fear disappeared as he recognized her, morphing into pleasure, relaxation and finally, humor to go with the belly laugh when he realized that she was soaking wet and almost nude, too.

The laugh lasted a second before his eyes went to her face. “Whoa! What have you been doing?”

She fingered her split lip and then one of the bruises near her eye. “Well,” she attempted to drawl, but failed, her ribs hurt too much. Instead, she held her hands up in mock surrender as she said, “They got me.” She dropped her hands. “Feels like a broken rib, too,” she moaned, holding her side.