from the storm, Alexa knew there would be men who had other priorities.
Sayed would seek such men for different reasons.
“We should get to higher ground. This water is filled with sewage,” Kinkaid said. “Our target will be looking for a safe place to hide. If there’s a Muslim connection here, he’ll find it. His food. His culture. His people. That’s what we’ll hit first, as soon as we find a place to stash our gear.”
“Preferably a place with a hot shower,” she added. “Not that I’m complaining. I’ve gotten used to sweat and bug juice. It makes a heady bouquet.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.” Kinkaid gave her a sideways glance. “Hot water may be too much to ask.”
“A girl can dream.”
Kinkaid pointed left. Wedged into the hillside were buildings that had fared better in the storm. The structures looked as if they might have escaped the flooding. And with downed power lines, some streets were dark, but other places had electricity. They headed for high ground and the light. Once they got past the flooding, Baracoa’s cobblestone streets were lined with single-story buildings with roofs of weathered red tile. The brightly colored structures were jammed next to each other. Despite paint peeling from the heat of the sun, remnants of the town’s colonial charm remained.
It took them an hour to find a functioning motel with an available room—one room. Kinkaid took it without asking her opinion. And judging by the looks of the place when they opened the door, he had cultivated his low standards to an art form.
They dropped their gear on the floor and stared at the room in stunned silence. Two bulbs were out, making the place dark. But from where she stood, that was a blessing. The old carpet had a musty stench to it, made worse by the muggy stale air. And the bed was rumpled. Who knew when they had last changed the sheets? The walls could have used a good coat of paint…ten years ago. And behind the curtain, the annoying buzz of flies pinging off the window capped off the ambience.
“Promise me,” he said.
“What?”
“No matter what happens. Don’t let me die in this fuckin’ shit hole.”
She sighed and cocked her head.
“Not funny, Kinkaid.”
Near Baracoa, Cuba
Blood loss had made Kate weak. Last night, Sayed had cut into her skin with his knife and torn clothes from her body. She knew parts of her were exposed. The air that hit her bare body made her skin prickle. And her tunic was shamefully dirty and tattered, making a mockery of her faith. If his intention had been to humiliate her, he had succeeded.
She had no idea how severe her wounds were. No one had tended to her. And she tried not to move. Moving opened the gashes and started the bleeding again. Without stitches, she would have no way to stop it. And infection would set in soon, but she had a feeling she wouldn’t live to see that happen.
She still had no idea where she was. They’d brought her to this new place with her head under a black hood. Sayed and his men were the only voices she heard until they locked her into a cell, tied her up, and yanked off the hood.
Her hands were bound above her head with rope, and her body hung from the ceiling under a stark light. In these conditions, she would not sleep. And to punish her further, Sayed had not given her water or food since the night of the raid—
Except for one bright moment of hope—Jackson Kinkaid. She was still shocked that he had risked his life to save her.
Apart from the friendship they shared, Kate knew he could be a dangerous man. She figured that out after their many talks at the hospital. And between each confidence he shared was the underlying pain, the sadness that would never leave his eyes. To this day she saw it. He’d never gotten his life back, not after what had happened. But he had come to rescue her, giving her hope until—
Kate heard footsteps echoing down a hall outside her cell. She gasped at the sound. And her heart thrashed in her chest as a deep ache clinched her belly. When the footsteps grew louder, she knew they were coming for her.
A key slid into the lock, and the door opened with a creak. She blinked her eyes to clear her blurred vision. A dark-skinned man stood in front of her. Sayed had come for her, the man who had taken such pleasure inflicting pain with his knife.
He had a tall glass of ice water in his hand. Taking his time, he drank and watched as she licked her lips, unable to hide her thirst. Her throat was parched, and her lips were so dry, they were cut and bleeding. She felt the sting of peeling skin and tasted the tang of blood every time she moistened her lips with her tongue.
“Ah, refreshing.” He grinned as the ice settled back into his glass. “I was very thirsty from the trip, but soon I will be enjoying a feast fit for Allah. My host, who is a man of my faith, has been most generous. He is preparing a banquet to celebrate my great victory. Curry chicken, roasted rabbit, olives, pomegranates, succulent sweet dates —these foods remind me of my home.” He narrowed his eyes, and his face turned into a scowl. “The fact that I am here with you is a true insult.”
Without warning, Sayed threw the glass across the room in a sudden fit of rage. The glass shattered against the wall, and the shards splintered. Pieces flew and glinted in the light. She hid her face on pure instinct. When she turned her head, he grabbed her chin and forced her to look him in the eye. For a long moment, he glared at her as his fingernails dug into her skin.
“Jackson Kinkaid. You must think him a hero, yes?” he said.
When she didn’t answer, he leaned closer and intimidated her with his intimacy. She felt his warm acrid breath on her face.
“Your hero was responsible for many of the hostages getting killed in that cowardly raid of his.” He nodded and glared at her. “It’s true. I was after ransom money, completely. These people would have been returned to their families…in time, but not now. Now, is too late.”
He stepped around her, where her eyes couldn’t follow. Having him behind her made her skin crawl. Her body tensed. And she held her breath.
“And as for your precious children, would you like to know who will not be going home?” He grinned and she heard the sick satisfaction in his voice. “Perhaps I will save this for another time. You are not worthy to know such things…unless I decide to tell you.”
He headed for the door to her cell, but turned at the last minute.
“Do you still think Jackson Kinkaid is a hero?” Sayed sneered. He left her alone again and locked the door.
Debilitating grief mixed with blind rage. Her eyes welled with tears, and her body fell slack. She wouldn’t have the strength to survive much longer. She wasn’t worth saving if the cost meant others would be killed. Kate wanted this to be over, and she no longer cared how that would happen. The faces of the children flashed painfully through her mind. Why had God forsaken her to this merciless man? And why had he allowed so many to be killed? Doubting God hurt far worse than anything Sayed could have done to her—and the wound had been self- inflicted.
Before dinner, Sayed went to the guest room he’d been given. He looked at his watch and calculated the time in his head. He had waited long enough. Back home in his country, his handler was an early riser.
Sayed had made a video of his own words and would transmit the uplink now. His teachings would be posted for the world to see. And this time, he would not hide behind a mask to gain deserved attention for killing his enemy. He would convince his handler to post his personal message to followers he was sure would soon know his name. Raising money to fight the oppressors of his people had value, but others were more suited to pursue this endeavor. He had a different calling. A much greater purpose. Of this he was certain.
And soon, others would know it, too.
