“What’s your name?” Aziza asked, looking at her sideways.
“Naima.”
Frowning, Aziza scanned the narrow space. “Where are we? Why are you crying?”
Naima broke into tears again. “You do not understand.”
Her words came out muffled as she sobbed into her hands.
Impatient, Aziza raised her arm to push the hair out of her face. That’s when she realized someone had shackled her to a pallet covered by a flimsy mattress. Other women surrounded them, their wide eyes conveying varying degrees of fright. Aside from that common feature, all of them wore identical hospital gowns. A second look confirmed they were house dresses with buttons down the front. Aziza wanted to drop someone. Who had dared to treat her like a rag doll and remove her clothes? And to replace her dress with the ugly dishrag she now wore? She needed answers.
“We are prisoners,” Naima said, sniffling.
Aziza sat up too fast, and put a hand to her head. When the room stopped wobbling, she turned to the other woman. “Did you say we’re prisoners?”
She nodded as her eyes filled again. With one end of the scarf covering her braids, she dried her tears. “They captured me yesterday. When I got here, you were unconscious.”
Either the woman was on drugs, or Aziza had woken up in a horror movie. The handcuff that kept her tethered to the bed said this was her reality. But what happened between happy hour at the club and this moment was a mystery.
Around them, other women groaned as they woke. The sounds of despair and misery escalated. As far as Aziza could tell, at least twenty women were confined in the space. The metal walls around them told her they were inside a double-wide container, which grew hotter by the moment. Ventilation was almost non-existent, but she took comfort in the fact that an air-conditioning unit sat on metal brackets high above them. With the rising heat, she swore she inhaled the women’s fear into her nostrils, but this was no time to be afraid. The hum of the cooling unit starting up brought relief.
Then clanging noises came from the far end of the container, and she craned her neck.
The lights came on and two men, each wearing a keffiyeh, or head covering, stood in the doorway. The material also shielded their faces. Only their eyes were visible. The stouter of the two carried a gun and locked the door when they stepped inside. From this distance, Aziza couldn’t see his eyes to gauge his temperament. The second man was slight in build and carried a tray with foil boxes she assumed contained food. He placed one on each bed as his companion watched with a keen gaze. When he reached the back end of the unit, Aziza threw a glance toward the entrance and asked in English, “Can you tell me what day it is?”
She figured today was Saturday or Sunday, but needed to know for sure. Also, she wanted to be certain whether he spoke English.
He looked at her, his eyes black as midnight, but didn’t act as if he understood her words.
“‘Ayn nahn.” Where are we? She asked in Arabic.
Surprise flickered in his gaze, and he turned his head to where the other man stood. The moment he opened his mouth, the gunman took heavy steps toward them. He spoke in rapid-fire Arabic, which went over Aziza’s head. When he glared at her, she knew he’d heard her words.
He pointed the rifle at her and growled. “Kun hadyaan.”
Aziza understood that he was telling her to shut up, and didn’t need him to say it twice. She was deeply disturbed by everything happening around her. Panicking, in fact. Why had they imprisoned her when she had committed no crime?
Chapter Four
“You have all the information Shaz provided.” Ryan’s gaze settled on the man across from him at the tiny café table. “What else can you tell me?”
Bashir Farooq, one of the Sheikh Kamran’s trusted assistants, laid an envelope on the tabletop. “This details Miss Hampton’s movements up to the time she disappeared.”
“How did you collect this data?” Ryan asked, opening the sealed envelope and scanning the sheets that outlined Aziza’s daily routine.
The aide squared his shoulders under his expensive jacket. “My position gives me access to information that wouldn’t be available to ordinary men.”
Ryan considered that, then tipped his head to one side, “Thank you. Give me a minute to go over it.”
The bearded, olive-skinned man nodded once and sipped from the cup of black coffee he’d ordered.
Ryan glanced at his watch, impatient to meet with the hotel security, but Roger Blythe, the extraction expert, advised against what he called knocking at the front door of the establishment. She had been housed in a residential unit owned by the hotel and if her disappearance potentially involved anyone on staff, Ryan needed a subtle plan of action rather than raising an immediate alarm. Roger’s mention of “human trafficking” had made Ryan’s blood run cold.
He wanted Roger to accompany him, but he’d just gotten married and was in the Bahamas on his honeymoon. Shaz enlisted the help of the Kings—his brothers who managed The Castle, a philanthropic organization in Wilmette, a far north suburb of Chicago—and they agreed he would travel directly to Durabia and investigate, then make contact from there. He expected at least two or three of them to arrive within days. The rest would follow later, if needed. He hoped that wouldn’t be the case.
“Are you sure you’re up for doing this?” Shaz had asked on Sunday.
“I won’t be able to rest if I don’t.”
The pictures he’d revealed of a young African-American woman with her belly slit open deeply disturbed Ryan and he refused to consider, even for one moment, that Aziza would have that kind of luck. The graphic display made the trip more urgent.
After his talk with Shaz, he had a meeting with Myles to cover important contract points. They also planned to have Ryan attend meetings online, as necessary.
He boarded a plane on Sunday
