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“Boss wants to see you,” the man announced.
Zane suppressed an urge to bury his fist in the guy’s face and merely gestured for Yousef to go first up the stairs. A quick glance at Piper confirmed that she was still dead to the world.
Yousef led him to the living room, where Mahmoud and Hassan already sat. These three were the senior members of this cell. The other two guys, Bijan and Osted, acted mostly as muscle.
Mahmoud held out a cell phone and a national newspaper to Zane, who stared at them suspiciously. After months without him having access to any kind of news or electronic communications, why in the world was the guy offering him both now?
“I need photographs of the woman,” Mahmoud announced. “Clear ones where her face is easy to see. And she needs to be visibly tied up. We want her husband to understand in no uncertain terms that she is a captive.”
“Of course,” Zane responded. “Do you want them right now?”
“Yes.”
“Back in five minutes.”
Zane jogged down the basement stairs loudly, announcing his coming to the woman. Sure enough, when he looked across the space at her, she was awake and watching him.
In the middle of the cellar, he set down the wooden chair he’d carried from the kitchen, then moved over to her to unlock the handcuffs.
“What’s happening?” she asked quickly.
“Picture time, Mrs. Black.”
“You need proof of possession of me? To show whom?”
“Your husband, of course.”
“Are you asking for a ransom? Blackmail? What’s the play here?” she demanded.
An interesting, and decidedly military, turn of phrase. He responded, “The play is you’re going to sit in that chair with your hands tied behind your back. You’re going to look properly terrified, and I’m going to take a picture of you to send to him so he’ll do what we want him to.”
“Which is what?” she snapped.
God, he’d love to know that very thing. But he also wasn’t about to admit to her that he didn’t have the slightest idea what any of this was about. He propped the newspaper against her chest, being careful not to touch anything personal while he did so. When he was satisfied that the headline was prominently visible, he stepped back from her.
“Say cheese,” he muttered as he pointed the camera at her.
“Are we doing just stills, or do I get a video, too?” she asked.
“So you can blink out an SOS or something clever like that?” he asked dryly. “Trust me. Your husband will know you’re in trouble without you having to tell him.”
“Jerk,” she muttered.
“You have no idea,” he muttered back.
“Do tell.”
“Look scared, Persephone.”
The end result was her scowling at the camera, looking more defiant than frightened. But her features were clear and readily recognizable.
Which was, of course, a gigantic problem for him. As soon as Mr. Black saw the photos and declared them not to be of his wife, and that information was relayed back to Mahmoud, this woman would be dead. How long did Zane have until all that happened? A day? Two, maybe?
Urgency to get this woman out of here and run far, far away from these bastards pounded through his gut. The only thing keeping him here with her was the fact that he still had no idea why she’d been kidnapped. That, and so far, the men upstairs had shown no inclination to harm her. If he kept his cool for just a bit longer, hopefully whatever Mahmoud had planned for this woman would be revealed.
He briskly led her back over to her pole and cuffed her to it once more. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said wryly.
“Are you kidding?” she retorted. “I love what you’ve done with the place. Why would I leave this cozy little dungeon?”
One corner of his mouth turned up in sardonic humor. She was a sharp one, all right. “Don’t try that sarcasm on any of the others. They’ll kill you for showing them such disrespect.”
“But not you?” she asked quietly.
“I’m the one with the sense of humor. Just don’t push your luck.”
She subsided, silenced by the admonition. Dammit. He much preferred her sassy and mouthing off to him over this silent, apprehensive version of her. If only he could tell her who he really was, what his mission was here.
“Look,” he muttered under his breath, “I don’t know what the boss has planned for you. I’m going to do my best to protect you from harm. But I need you to hang in there for a little while longer.”
Her brow twitched into a perplexed frown. “Who are you?”
“I’m the guy giving you a wad of cotton balls. Keep them in your pocket for now, but if it looks like we’re coming back down here en masse to rough you up, slip them in your mouth between your molars and cheeks. They’ll protect the inside of your mouth, cushion any blows and help keep us from knocking any of your teeth out.”
Her frown deepened sharply as he tucked several cotton balls into the front pocket of her jeans. The pocket was snug and warm against her body, and he jerked his fingers out quickly. Must not allow himself to feel anything for this woman. No attraction. No interest. No affection.
He scooped up the fluffiest of the blankets and breathed, “Lift your shirt.”
“I beg your pardon?” she squawked.
“Keep your voice down,” he admonished sharply. Using the knife out of his ankle sheath—a big fighting blade he kept razor sharp—he sliced the edge of the fleece and then tore off a strip of the soft, thick cloth as quietly as he could.
He reached for her, and she flinched away from him. He couldn’t blame her for the reflex, but it cut at his soul and made his heart bleed a little. Reaching up under her shirt, he wrapped the length of fleece around her torso. His palms smoothed across her body, and it was slim and warm...and surprisingly muscular. This woman was in hella good shape. Thank God. She might just survive the worst of whatever Mahmoud and company threw at her.
He tucked the top edge of the blanket under the sides and back of her bra, then tugged the shirt down over the padding. He stepped back to examine his work.
“You can take another strip,” he muttered half to himself. “You’re leaner through the middle than I realized.” He tore off another strip of the blanket and wrapped it over the first one.
“Sorry about this,” he warned her, before tucking the second piece beneath the underwires of her bra. The backs of his knuckles momentarily rubbed against soft, resilient flesh, and his entire body tensed at the feminine feel of her.
Nope, nope, nope. Not going there.
Quickly, he tucked the blanket around the sides and back of her bra, too. “If Mahmoud gets any crazy ideas, that’ll absorb the worst of the impact from his fists. It’ll still hurt like hell, mind you, but maybe you won’t bruise so badly or break any ribs.”
“Why are you doing this for me?” she mumbled as he tugged her shirt into place once more and stood back to observe his handiwork.
She looked a little thicker than before, but he didn’t think the other men had been paying all that close attention to her, based on how they’d treated her so far. She’d been a target to them. An object to be seized and stolen. Not an actual human being.
“Do you by any chance know how to take a punch?” he asked in a low voice.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
This time it was his brow that twitched into a frown. How on earth did she know how to get punched? That wasn’t the sort of thing many people had practical experience with. Not even graduates of West Point. He prayed she’d tried boxing at some point in her past, and not any less savory possible sources of the knowledge.
“Try not to dislodge that padding. I may not get a chance to fix it before you need it.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled. She looked up at him without warning, and their gazes locked. It was all right there in her eyes. Naked fear, confusion, questions.
She whispered, almost as if she wasn’t even aware of saying the words aloud, “Am I going to die?”
“Not if I can help it,” he answered, before he could stop to think about the words. An urge to wrap her in his arms, to surround her in safety and comfort, nearly overcame him. His arms even started to lift toward her.
No! He mustn’t give himself away to her! Both their lives depended on him, and he had to keep his cover intact until they got out of here. He looked at her in silent apology, willing her to understand. To trust him a little bit longer.
She frowned faintly as if she sensed his unspoken message but was confused by it. “Why would you help me?” she whispered.
He stared at her, frustrated at his inability to answer her truthfully. God knew, she deserved a straight answer. “I can’t tell you. But I promise you this—I will do everything in my power to get you out of this alive and unharmed.”
She weighed his words, his sincerity—heck, him—for a long time. Then she nodded, apparently accepting him at his word. “Okay, then,” she breathed. “Thanks again.”
“No problem. I’m gonna be sleeping down here with you tonight. If you need anything, let me know. Quietly. Honestly, the quieter and less trouble you can be, the better.”
“Don’t draw attention to myself, in other words?” she asked.
“Exactly. I’ve learned that Out of Sight, Out of Mind is a good motto around these guys.”
She stared hard at him, and mentally he cursed at himself for having been too revealing with that comment. He spun away from her and jogged upstairs to deliver the camera to Mahmoud.
Mission complete, he came back down and wrapped up in his bedroll at the foot of the stairs. He mustn’t give away to her who he was. Not yet.
He tried to sleep, but it eluded him. Instead, he spent the time wondering who on earth she was. How did an army officer, obviously in fighting physical shape, end up in Houma, Louisiana? There wasn’t an active military base anywhere near that town. Was she on leave, maybe? Visiting family in the area?
He could only be grateful for whatever twist of fate had thrown Piper in his path. She’d been braver and calmer than any woman should be about being kidnapped at gunpoint, thrown in a van and driven hundreds of miles into the wilderness. He just needed her to be brave for a little while longer. Just until Mahmoud revealed his orders, now that the sleeper cell had been activated.
Chapter 5 (#u95de7290-5a1b-50d6-984a-38aef340738a)
Piper was immeasurably grateful for the padding and cotton balls her friendly captor had given her, but she also was overwhelmed with dread at what it signified for her near future. As she lay in the quiet, dimly lit cellar, unable to sleep, she listened to the light, slow sound of Goldeneyes’s breathing, and mentally braced herself for the torture to come.
In her POW training, the trainees had been slapped around some, and they’d all pretended it was an approximation of the pain they might experience as prisoners of war. But as she lay here now, she settled into the grim realization that nothing could prepare her for what was going to happen to her soon. She was going to suffer a real beating—or worse—at the hands of men who wouldn’t hesitate to break her.
Her instructors had told the POW trainees that their endorphins would kick in and the pain would lessen. That women had an advantage over men because their bodies threw out more endorphins faster than men’s, as a result of being biologically designed to withstand childbirth.
But she was still scared to death.
Goldeneyes had made it clear to her that the other men thought she was some woman called Persephone Black. Should she pretend to be that person, or was she better off denying being Mrs. Black? Would she piss off her kidnappers if she insisted she wasn’t the woman they’d meant to kidnap?
But she had no idea who this other woman was. She couldn’t correctly answer any questions about her. Her kidnappers would figure out soon enough that she couldn’t possibly be the woman in question. Maybe she should just go ahead and stand by not being Persephone Black.
Of course, then her kidnappers would demand to know who she really was. And it wasn’t like she was eager to spill her true identity or the fact that she was part of a highly classified Special Forces team.
The best bet was probably to go along with being Mrs. Black for now.
Working quickly, she built up a fake identity for herself. Originally from Minnesota, she decided to pretend she was from Wisconsin. Not that she expected any of the men except Goldeneyes would know a Midwestern accent when they heard one.
She would stick with the historian cover she already used in Houma: she was researching pirates in the early days of American history, particularly those who’d run through and hidden in the bayous of Louisiana.
She knew her captors thought she was thirty years old. How long had she been married? Three years seemed like a safe enough number. If only she knew what Mr. Black did. Since these people were obviously trying to coerce him into doing something, she probably had better avoid the topic of his work. If she was lucky, her captors already knew what work Mr. Black did and wouldn’t bother to confirm it with her.
Since sleep was totally not happening in the face of impending pain, she opted to rest and meditate, practicing centering herself and separating her mind from her body. And she prayed for strength.
The long hours of the night passed, and eventually, she heard stirring overhead. Apprehension tightened across her skin, and she checked her padding awkwardly. Still in place, thank goodness.
She stood up and maneuvered the cotton balls into her palm just in case.
The door at the top of the stairs opened and daylight flooded downward. Goldeneyes stood quickly, just in time to meet three of her captors at the foot of the stairs. They held a quick, quiet conversation in Farsi, most of which she missed.
Goldeneyes threw her a single warning glance, touching his cheek briefly with his finger.
Damn. It was time for the cotton balls. Turning her back to the men, she quickly slipped them into her mouth and used her tongue to push them into place between her molars and cheeks.
“Bring her over to the chair,” Mahmoud ordered.
Goldeneyes moved over to her and released one of her handcuffs. Using them like a leash, he dragged her toward the middle of the cellar. She resisted, unable to stop herself. She simply couldn’t go meekly into whatever was coming.
She wouldn’t say Goldeneyes was exactly gentle with her, but he wasn’t rough as he forced her over to the chair and pushed her down onto it. Quickly, he threaded the handcuffs through the chair’s back slats and pulled her free hand behind her back to recuff it.
Panic ripped through her and she looked up at him in anguish.
“Courage,” he muttered without moving his lips.
Right. Courage. She was a Medusa and would acquit herself like one.
She hoped.
Mahmoud moved over to stand in front of her. He passed what looked like a video camera to Goldeneyes. “Film this.”
Great. If this was going to be theater, then she could expect big dramatic punches. Blood. Pain. Lots of pain. She was all over giving these guys the best show she could. Maybe they would stop sooner if she did a lot of screaming and wailing.
Goldeneyes took the video camera, opened the foldout screen on its side and nodded. He didn’t look up at her. Rather, he stared fixedly at the tiny monitor. Almost as if he couldn’t bear to look directly at her.
The one called Yousef stepped up in front of her. He drew his arm across his body and backhanded her across the face. Hard. She let her head snap to the side with the slap, doing her best to move with the blow and minimize its impact.
But her entire right side of her face exploded with stinging fire. Crap, that hurts.
She glared at Mahmoud, standing behind and slightly to one side of Yousef. “Aren’t you going to ask me any questions before you start slapping me around?”
The bastard’s only response was, “Again.”
Yousef struck from the opposite direction this time, smacking the other side of her face painfully. That was the same side that he’d punched yesterday at the school, and the inside of her mouth was already cut up. She was immensely grateful for the cotton ball to cushion the blow. Her eyes watered copiously, though.
