An hour’s worth of driving into the desert brought them close to a settlement with one container placed adjacent to a double-wide unit. A small brick and mortar building was in close proximity. Flashes of light cut the darkness, along with the sound of gunfire.
Ryan slowed to a crawl and switched off the lights, same as Nicco had done. The SUV ahead of him stopped, and Ryan also pulled off the road. A dark SUV was parked close to the fence.
Daron ascertained there was no one inside.
“Someone else got here before us,” Nicco said, standing outside Vikkas’ window. “Everybody has a helmet?” he asked, while handing him a tiny radio that crackled to life.
Angela’s voice emitted from the device. “Testing. Testing.”
“We’re hearing you loud and clear,” Vikkas replied.
They left the vehicles carrying the duffle and crept toward the containers, where the gunfire had ceased. When they came to a low fence surrounding the property, one of the unseen men caught wind of their movement and shouted in Arabic.
They came under gunfire and hunkered behind the fence until the assault subsided.
“Sounds like they have semi-automatic weapons,” Ryan whispered.
“Didn’t expect anything else,” Daron said. “The people on this side of the world like their guns as much as we do in America.”
“We need to get closer,” Ryan said, “otherwise we’ll be pinned down here all night and exposed when daylight comes.”
“I have a plan,” Daron said, beckoning Nicco closer. “Dro and I will move in on one side. Nicco and Angela will attack from the other. Vikkas, you and Ryan cover us from here until we get into position. Use whatever means necessary.”
“Got it.”
As they melted into the darkness, Vikkas lifted a pair of tear gas grenades from the bag on the ground between them.
“You all aren’t playing.” Ryan said in a hushed tone. “I can help with that. I’ve been told I have a good pitching arm.”
“Have at it,” Vikkas said, handing him one of the round containers as the gunfire started again.
Ryan kneeled to scope out the place closest to where the gunshots originated. At the next ceasefire, he backed up a few steps, released the safety lever, pulled the pin, and lobbed the grenade toward the building.
A man screamed, then sobbed as the tear gas took effect. But that didn’t stop the guns’ barking for long. As the night wore on the attack continued, and Ryan wondered if their supply of ammunition would ever run out. The men put up a sustained fight, shooting at them from the building.
As they returned the fire, Ryan decided that if Aziza was inside the container, he’d fight to his last breath to free her. The crimson fingers of dawn lit the sky before Nicco picked off the last man with a bullet to the forehead.
That’s when they approached the container.
Chapter Sixteen
Aziza woke to a keening cry. She raised her head, searching among the women sleeping on the floor in a cluster. None of them stirred, so the wails weren’t coming from inside. Her grainy eyes attested to her lack of sleep during the night just past.
The men outside had bombarded the container, but were unsuccessful in getting inside. Apparently, the panels were reinforced. The bullet that hit Hamid entered through a section of the metal that had rusted.
At the thought of him, Aziza felt sick. One woman, who confirmed she was a nurse, bandaged his shoulder where the bullet pierced him. Thankfully, it was a flesh wound. The sight of the blood unnerved most of the females, but they didn’t unravel. Fact was, they had no way out while the men continued their assault.
Aziza rested her head on her folded arms. The combined odor of anxiety and sweat was not pleasant, but she refused to be distracted. Their funk was the least of her problems.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that three-quarters of a day had passed since she’d eaten. Neither had any of the women, but nobody complained.
The wailing continued outside, along with gunfire. While she wondered what was happening, her heart sank. Most likely, the battle was between factions intent on capturing them. The thought depressed her, and she breathed in deeply to calm her nerves.
She had led the women into this revolt, and she would see it to the end, no matter what happened. Her mother had always told her that giving up in the middle of her struggle was never a solution. The sage advice stiffened her spine, and she inched to a sitting position.
Aziza sat still, knowing she was at risk. Especially if there was a bullet out there destined to hit her. The metal box imprisoning them might have been secure, but like her dad used to say, if you were born to hang you couldn’t drown. Still, she changed position and propped herself on one elbow.
Eyes closed, she tried to separate the voices. Panic echoed from the persons speaking in Arabic. Then her ears picked up the familiar cadence of the English language.
Her heart took off at a gallop. What if the men speaking English had come to save them? Until she found herself in the middle of a horror story, being a victim of human trafficking was only a figment of Aziza’s imagination. Something that made her stomach turn when she heard about such incidents on social media or watched news on television.
The enormity of what they were facing swept over her, and her grandmother’s face swam before her eyes. Odd that she should think of her now, but it wasn’t all that strange. Evelyn Hampton was one of Aziza’s heroes. She’d been in awe of the small woman she met when she was twelve and her father first took her to Jamaica to visit. Her grandmother, a feminine version her father, had enfolded her in a hug. They stood eye to eye, but Aunt Evelyn—as everybody called her—was a powerhouse in terms of her personality. After being widowed in her thirties, she
