Keep Me (20 page)

At first, there is only darkness and pain. Pain that tears at me. Pain that shreds me from within. The darkness is easier. There is no pain in that, only oblivion. Still, I hate the nothingness that consumes me when I’m in that dark void. Hate the blankness of non-existence. As time passes, I come to crave the pain because it’s the opposite of that blankness—because feeling something is better than feeling nothing.

Gradually, the dark void recedes, lessens its hold on me. Now, alongside the pain, there are memories. Some good, some bad—they come at me in waves. My mother’s gentle smile as she reads me a bedtime story. My father’s hard voice and harder fists. Running through the jungle after a colorful butterfly, as happy and carefree as only a child can be. Killing my first man in that jungle. Playing with my cat Lola, then fishing and laughing with a bright-eyed, twelve-year-old girl . . . with Maria.

Maria’s body broken and violated, her light and innocence forever destroyed.

Blood on my hands, the satisfaction of hearing her murderers’ screams. Eating sushi in the best restaurant in Tokyo. Flies buzzing over my mother’s corpse. The thrill of closing my first deal, the lure of money pouring in. More death and violence. Death I cause, death I revel in.

And then there is
her
.

My Nora. The girl I stole because she reminded me of Maria.

The girl who is now my reason for existing.

I hold the image of her in my mind, letting all the other memories fade into the background. She’s all I want to think about, all I want to focus on. She makes the hurt go away, makes the darkness disappear. I may have brought her suffering, but she’s brought me the only happiness I’ve known since my early years.

As time crawls by, I become aware of other things. Besides the pain, there are sounds and sensations. I hear voices and feel a cold breeze on my face. My left shoulder burns, my broken arm throbs, and I’m dying of thirst. Still, I seem to be alive.

I twitch my fingers to verify that fact. Yes, alive. Almost too weak to move, but alive.

Fuck
. The rest of the memories flood in, and before I even open my eyes, I know where I am, and I know I probably shouldn’t have fought the darkness. Oblivion would’ve been better than this.

“Welcome back,” a man’s voice says softly, and I open my eyes to see Majid’s smiling face hovering over me. “You’ve been under long enough. It’s time for us to begin.”

* * *

They drag me along a hard cement floor of what appears to be some kind of a construction site. From the looks of it, it’s going to be an industrial building, and the room they haul me into has no windows, only a doorway. I think about fighting, but I’m too weak from my injuries to have any chance of success, so I decide to bide my time and conserve what little strength I have left. I’m guessing I will need it to cope with what they have in store for me.

They begin by stripping me naked and stringing me up with a rope that they loop over a beam in the unfinished ceiling. They’re not gentle about it, and the cast on my left arm breaks as they tie my wrists together and draw my bound arms up over my head. The agonizing pain in my injured arm and shoulder makes me pass out, and it’s not until they throw ice-cold water on my face that I regain consciousness again.

In a way, I admire their methods. They know what they’re doing. Take away a man’s clothes, and he immediately feels more vulnerable. Keep him cold, weak, and injured, and he’s already at a disadvantage, his psyche as battered as his body. They are starting off on the right foot. If I hadn’t put others through this myself, I would’ve been begging and pleading right about now.

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.

The evening of 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.

“You didn’t sleep well, did you?” My mom furrows her forehead, looking worried, and I know I didn’t succeed in hiding my tiredness from her. “Were you thinking about him?”

“Of course I was.” A sudden swell of anger sharpens my voice. “He’s my husband, you know.”

She blinks, clearly taken aback, and I immediately regret my harsh tone. This situation is not my mom’s fault; if anyone is blameless in all this, it’s my parents. My temper is the last thing they deserve . . . particularly since my desperate plan will likely cause them even more anguish.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say, going over to give her a hug. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s okay, honey.” She strokes my hair, her touch so gentle and comforting that I want to weep. “I understand.”

I nod, even though I know she can’t possibly comprehend the extent of my stress. She can’t—because she doesn’t know that I’m waiting.

Waiting to be taken by the same monsters who have Julian.

Waiting for Al-Quadar to snap at the bait.

* * *

The morning drags by. It’s a Saturday, so both of my parents are home. They’re happy about that, but I’m not. I wish they were at work today. I want to be alone if—no,
when
—Majid’s goons come for me. It had been relatively safe to spend the night, since Al-Quadar would need time to put whatever plan they have into action, but now that it’s morning, I don’t want my parents near me. The security detail Julian put in place around my family would ensure their safety, but those same bodyguards may also interfere with my abduction—and that’s the last thing I want.

“Shopping?” My dad gives me a strange look when I announce my intention to hit the stores after breakfast. “Are you sure, honey? You just got home, and with everything going on—”

“Dad, I’ve been in the middle of nowhere for months.” I give him my best men-just-don’t-get-it look. “You have no idea what that’s like for a girl.” Seeing that he’s unconvinced, I add, “Seriously, Dad, I could use the distraction.”

“She’s got a point,” my mom chimes in. Turning toward me, she gives me a conspiratorial wink and tells my dad, “There’s nothing like shopping to take a woman’s mind off things. I’ll go with Nora—it’ll be just like the old times.”

My heart sinks. I can’t have my mom coming along if the point is to have my parents away from potential danger. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mom,” I say regretfully, “but I already promised Leah I’d meet her. It’s spring break, you know, and she’s home.” I had seen an update to that effect on Facebook earlier this morning, so I’m only partially lying. My friend is indeed in town—I just hadn’t made any plans to see her today.

“Oh, okay.” My mom looks hurt for a moment, but then she shakes it off and gives me a bright smile. “No worries, honey. We’ll see you after you catch up with your friends. I’m glad you’re distracting yourself like that. It’s for the best, really . . .”

My dad still looks suspicious, but there is nothing he can do. I’m an adult, and I’m not exactly asking for their permission.

As soon as breakfast is over, I give them each a kiss and a hug and walk over to the bus stop on 95th street to get on the bus going to the Chicago Ridge Mall.

* * *

Come on, take me already. Fucking take me already.

I have been wandering through the mall for hours, and to my frustration, there is still no sign of Al-Quadar. They either don’t know that I’m here, or they don’t care about me now that they have Julian.

I refuse to entertain the latter possibility because if it’s true, Julian is as good as dead.

The plan has to work. There is no other alternative. Majid simply needs more time. Time to sniff out that I’m here alone and unprotected—a convenient tool that they can use to force Julian to give them what they want.

“Nora? Holy shit, Nora, is that you?” A familiar voice yanks me out of my thoughts, and I turn around to see my friend Leah gaping at me with astonishment.

“Leah!” For a second, I forget all about the danger and rush forward to embrace the girl who had been my best friend for ages. “I had no idea you would be here!” And it’s true—despite my lie to my parents this morning, I had not expected to run into Leah like that. In hindsight, though, I probably should have, since we used to hang out at this mall nearly every weekend when we were younger.

“What are you doing here?” she asks when we get the hug out of the way. “I thought you were in Colombia!”

“I was—I mean, I am.” Now that the initial excitement is over, I’m realizing that running into Leah could be problematic. The last thing I want is for my friend to suffer because of me. “I’m just here for a brief visit,” I explain hurriedly, casting a worried look around. All seems to be normal, so I continue, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was home, but things were kind of hectic and, well, you know how it is . . .”

“Right, you must be busy with your new husband and stuff,” she says slowly, and I can feel the distance between us growing even though we haven’t moved an inch. We haven’t spoken since I told her about my marriage—just exchanged a few brief emails—and I see now that she still questions my sanity . . . that she no longer understands the person I’ve become.

I don’t blame her for that. Sometimes I don’t understand that person either.

“Leah, babe, there you are!” A man’s voice interrupts our conversation, and my heart jumps as a familiar male figure approaches Leah from behind me.

It’s Jake—the boy I once had a crush on.

The boy Julian stole me from that fateful night in the park.

Only he’s not a boy anymore. His shoulders are heavier now; his face is leaner and harder. At some point in the past few months, he’s become a man—a man who only has eyes for Leah. Stopping next to her, he bends down to give her a kiss and says in a low, teasing voice, “Babe, I got you that present . . .”

Leah’s pale cheeks turn beet-red. “Um, Jake,” she mumbles, tugging on his arm to draw his attention to my presence, “look who I just ran into.”

He turns toward me, and his brown eyes go round with shock. “Nora? What—what are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know . . . just—just some shopping . . .” I hope I don’t sound as dumbfounded as I feel.
Leah and Jake? My best friend Leah and my former crush Jake?
It’s as if my world just tilted on its axis. I had no idea they were dating. I knew Leah broke up with her boyfriend a couple of months ago because she mentioned it in an email, but she never told me she’d hooked up with Jake.

As I look at them, standing next to each other with identical uncomfortable expressions on their faces, I realize it’s not altogether illogical. They both go to the University of Michigan, and they have an overlapping circle of friends and acquaintances from our high school. They even have a traumatic experience in common—having their friend/date abducted—that could’ve brought them closer together.

I also realize in that moment that all I feel when I look at them is relief.

Relief that they seem happy together, that the darkness from my life didn’t leave a permanent stain on Jake’s. There’s no regret for what might have been, no jealousy—only an anxiety that grows with every minute Julian spends in Al-Quadar’s hands.

“I’m sorry, Nora,” Leah says, giving me a wary look. “I should’ve told you about us earlier. It’s just that
—
”

“Leah, please.” Pushing aside my stress and exhaustion, I manage to give her a reassuring smile. “You don’t have to explain. Really. I’m married, and Jake and I only had one date. You don’t owe me any explanations . . . I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“Do you want to, um, grab some coffee with us?” Jake offers, sliding his arm around Leah’s waist in a gesture that strikes me as unusually protective. I wonder if it’s me he’s protecting her from. If so, he’s even smarter than I thought.

“We could catch up since you’re in town and all,” he continues, and I shake my head in refusal.

“I’d love to, but I can’t,” I say, and the regret in my voice is genuine. I desperately want to catch up with them, but I can’t have them near me in case Al-Quadar chooses this particular moment to strike. I have no idea how the terrorists would get to me in the middle of a crowded mall, but I’m certain they’ll find a way. Glancing down at my phone, I pretend to be dismayed at the time and say apologetically, “I’m afraid I’m already running late . . .”

“Is your husband here with you?” Leah asks, frowning, and I see Jake’s face turning white. He probably didn’t consider the possibility of Julian being nearby when he extended his invitation to me.

I shake my head, my throat tightening as the horrible reality of the situation threatens to choke me again. “No,” I say, hoping I sound halfway normal. “He couldn’t make it.”

“Oh, okay.” Leah’s frown deepens, a puzzled look entering her eyes, but Jake regains some of his color. He’s obviously relieved that he won’t be confronted by the ruthless criminal who’s caused him so much grief.

“I really have to run,” I say, and Jake nods, his grip on Leah’s waist tightening to keep her close.

“Good luck,” he says to me, and I can tell he’s glad I’m leaving. He’s been raised to be polite, however, so he adds, “It was good seeing you,” though his eyes say something different.

I give him an understanding smile. “You too,” I say and, waving goodbye to Leah, I head for the mall exit.

* * *

I forget about Jake and Leah as soon as I step out into the parking lot. Painfully alert, I scan the area before reluctantly pulling out my phone and calling for a cab. I would hang out at the mall longer, but I don’t want to chance running into my friends again. My next stop will be Michigan Avenue in Chicago, where I can browse some high-end stores while praying that I get taken before I completely lose my mind.

The cold wind bites through my clothes as I stand there waiting, my thigh-length peacoat and thin cashmere sweater offering little protection from the chilly temperature outside. It takes a solid half hour before the cab finally pulls up to the curb. By that time, I’m half-frozen, and my nerves are stretched so tightly I’m ready to scream.

Yanking the door open, I climb into the back of the car. It’s a clean-looking cab, with a thick glass partition separating the front seat from the back and the windows in the back lightly tinted. “The city, please.” My voice is sharper than it needs to be. “The stores on Michigan Avenue.”

“Sure thing, miss,” the driver says softly, and my head snaps up at the hint of accent in his voice. My eyes lock with his in the front mirror, and I freeze as a bolt of pure terror shoots down my spine.

He could’ve been one of a thousand immigrants driving a cab for a living, but he’s not.

He’s Al-Quadar. I can see it in the cold malevolence of his gaze.

They have finally come for me.

It’s what I have been waiting for, but now that the moment is here, I find myself paralyzed by a fear so intense, it chokes me from within. My mind flashes into the past, and the memories are so vivid, it’s almost as if I’m there again. I feel the pain of barely healed stitches in my side, see the dead bodies of the guards at the clinic, hear Beth’s screams . . . and then I taste vomit at the back of my throat as Majid touches my face with a blood-covered finger.