“Hey!” the man called. “She’s coming with me.”
“Not today, José.” Dro spun to face Bashir and the other two men emerging from the bar. “Do not come any closer if you know what’s good for you.”
One man snarled, “You cannot stop us from taking her.”
“Really?”
As the two accomplices advanced on Dro, Ryan tensed but was in no position to assist. From what Shaz told him, Dro was an expert at hand-to-hand combat, but he wasn’t sure about Bashir. Ryan beckoned to him.
Bashir was at his side immediately.
“Take care of her,” he said, maneuvering so that Carol’s weight now rested on Bashir.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Ryan took two hurried steps, but needn’t have bothered. The two men lay unconscious on the sidewalk, and Dro was in the middle of delivering a roundhouse kick to the third.
A crowd spilled through the front door of the club. Among them was Jahani Bahar, the bartender. When their eyes met, he glared at Dro and spun away with a phone pressed to his ear.
Ryan plunged into the crowd after him.
“Where are you going?” Dro yelled.
“After that bartender. Don’t let Carol out of your sight.”
Chapter Nine
The air thickened as the container creaked open. Hamid stepped inside, escorting Naima by the arm. The tense atmosphere dissipated for the moment. Then despair hung in the air when Abdul appeared and forced a young Black girl ahead of him. She cradled her arm against her side while tears flooded her cheeks.
Aziza propped herself on one elbow as Naima approached.
Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. One of her eyes was swollen shut. Her face was wet with perspiration and tears. When she sat on the cot, Hamid secured her wrist and pointed to the empty bed next to Aziza. None of the other women moved, as if afraid they would be abused if they even shifted.
Hamid threw Naima an apologetic glance before leaving her side. He moved to the new girl, who didn’t appear to be more than sixteen. She wore Bantu knots in her hair and clutched the top of her torn house dress with one hand. Her tears hadn’t stopped, and she curled into a ball on her side. She pleaded with Hamid in words Aziza didn’t understand, but it didn’t help her case.
With his job of tethering her done, Hamid left.
Aziza’s gaze shot to where Abdul stood. Fury simmered behind his eyes. As Hamid went past him, Abdul’s face twisted and he shot Naima a killing look, then limped toward the doorway.
A smirk pulled at Aziza’s lips until her focus turned to her friend, who lay trembling as her tears soaked the dingy sheet. Shaking with anger, Aziza asked, “Did Abdul hurt you?”
Naima sniffed and shook her head. In her lilting accent, she explained, “He tried to rape me, but I kicked him in the crotch.”
Leaning toward her, Aziza said, “I could tell you put a hurting on him. That’ll teach him.”
With a fist tucked under her head, Naima sobbed. When her tears subsided, she spoke in a monotone. “If I had known this would happen to me, I never would have left Senegal.”
A pang of sorrow hit Aziza, and she lay on her back. She didn’t have time to sink any lower because the door opened again. This time, they had a visitor—a short man, shrouded by a kaffiyeh that only left his gleaming eyes visible. They ran greedily over the females, then rested on the youngest. With an imperious gesture, his finger flicked toward four children of African descent. None of them was over twelve years old. He hesitated over the East Indian girl, who shrieked uncontrollably the moment his gaze fell on her.
Unable to bear the hopelessness in the eyes of the girls and their anguished cries, Aziza closed her eyes, but that didn’t stop bitter tears from escaping. When the container slammed shut and their screams faded, Aziza drew a harsh breath and said a prayer to keep herself from falling deeper into a place from which she wouldn’t be able to rise.
The other women groaned, and some wept openly. Nothing had prepared any of them for this kind of horror.
Her father’s voice washed over her, and she pictured him roughhousing with Drake when he was thirteen. Her brother was skinny and reserved, which made him a target for bullies. When he revealed what was happening to him at school, their father taught him how to fight back.
George Hampton was a physical education teacher and had cemented it into their heads that their greatest strength was not physical, but mental. In life, Aziza had proven his words to be true. All she achieved came through hard work and using the brain and smarts God gave her. However freedom came, it would be hers.
She opened her eyes and met those of the little Indian girl. Aziza dredged up a weak smile.
After a moment of staring at her with a solemn expression, the child returned her gesture.
“What is your name?” Aziza asked, propping herself on one elbow.
The girl mirrored her position. “Sunita.”
“Don’t worry. We will be all right.”
Sunita chewed her lip as if digesting her words, then she nodded and dragged her sleeve across her face to dry her tears.
Aziza felt awful about what amounted to lying. She had no guarantee any of them would survive this horror. All she had was faith in God. She had to bring her trust in Ryan to that level and hope he’d somehow know she needed him more than she had at any other time.
Ever since she arrived in Durabia, she’d been careful, but somehow she fell into the same trap as all these other women. From the headache, nausea, and heaviness in her limbs when she first arrived in this makeshift prison, she understood that someone
