Chapter 4

It was metal everywhere. Metal floor, metal walls. And I was rocking up and down.

Oh, no.

I retched and threw up all over myself. Despite lying in my own vomit, I felt better. The nausea was gone.

Most of the pain, I realized, was due to having my limbs tied in weird angles. I was desperate to get free, but no amount of pulling at my binds or rolling around in the burlap bag had any effect at all. I was stuck.

I lay on my side and looked around. I was in a ship, probably the cargo hold. It wasn't a big ship, and it looked like I was the only cargo.

Not good.

Why on earth would I be kidnapped? The answer was obvious. Trafficking in women. Sex trafficking. I saw the television specials. I read the articles. I knew all about it. Young girls were kidnapped to be stolen away to other countries.

I bit my lower lip to stop it from quivering. I didn't want to be a sex slave or a slave of any kind. I had just gotten a good job and a makeover.

I didn't want to be kidnapped.

The thought reverberated through my head, bouncing its way from neuron to neuron, gaining momentum until I had a big ball of panic where my brain used to be. Unable to contain it any longer, I started to scream. Great air raid siren sounds escaped from my mouth. I screamed like a girl in a horror movie. I screamed until I couldn't scream anymore.

But it wasn't very productive. I was still bound in a bag in the hull, and no one was coming to my rescue.

Panic turned to anger. How dare someone abduct me? Who did they think they were? Who did they think I was? I was a features editor. I was on an all-expenses-paid trip. I deserved more than a burlap bag and duct tape.

I pulled at my binds in earnest, rolling around on the metal floor. I grunted and pulled, working up a sweat but getting no closer to getting free.

Chastising myself for not jumping on the yoga bandwagon, I tried to tuck my hands underneath me in order to bring them around to the front. To no avail. I wasn't flexible enough, and my hands were tied too tight. Not to mention the burlap bag.

My breathing grew short from the exertion until I gasped for air and began to hyperventilate. I panted, unable to control my breathing. And then the panic returned.

Fight-or-flight response. I had heard of it, and now I was experiencing it. But I couldn't fight, and I couldn't flight. I flopped onto my belly and rested my cheek on the cool metal floor. A tear threatened to pop out of my eye, and I was almost willing to let it pop.

"Grow up, Abby," I mumbled to myself. "You're not five years old." I wasn't five. In fact, when I was five I wasn't five. I was already taking care of my mother by then, and I didn't allow myself to shed many tears.

I took stock of my situation, weighed my options.

My options were few, and my situation grim.

With escape impossible, I came up with a solution. I would reason with the kidnappers. I would use what charm I had left and get them to see the errors of their ways. After all, I wasn't a young girl. I was too old to be sold as a sex slave. After they understood their mistake, they would let me go.

"Kidnappers?" I called out. "Kidnappers! I'm ready for you to show yourselves. And let me have a nice hot shower while you're at it," I added.

There was no response. The stink of my vomit was really bad, my head hurt, and to top it off, they kidnapped me in my Superman belly shirt and boy cut underpants, and the burlap bag was really starting to make my naked lower half itch.

"Hey!" I tried again. "No hard feelings. Really. But I'm lying here, face-to-face with last night's dinner. I'm ready for honest torture here. Or perhaps just some strong interrogation. Or you could just-"

I was cut off by the sound of heavy footsteps on the metal floor. A man came into view, and I was struck dumb by his presence. It was Iain Brodie, and he walked toward me with definite purpose. He was scowling, as usual. I didn't have time to think. I went with my charm strategy.

"I know what you're thinking," I said. "That woman even looks good in a burlap bag."

But he didn't smile. He hauled me up with one hand and pointed a large hunting knife at my face.

"If you move," he said, ever-so-softly. "If you speak, I will cut you. Cut you deep. Do you understand?"

I nodded. I was beyond words.

He cut away the tape and let the bag drop to the ground, allowing me to step out of it. I stood in my t-shirt, underwear, and thick, cotton socks. I wanted to ask for water, for aspirin, for clothes, but the "cut deep" comment stopped me.

Brodie grabbed my arm, pushed me toward the wall, and sat me on the floor. I wiped the dried vomit from my mouth with the hem of my shirt.

Brodie busied himself with a duffel bag and my overnight bag, which he must have stolen when he had taken me. He took maps and various hi-tech gadgets out of the duffel and checked them.

And there were weapons. He was decked out in them, and he carried more in the bag. I eyed them jealously. If I could get to the duffel, I could arm myself and get out of there.

Ha! Who was I kidding? I didn't know how to handle a weapon. I might be able to escape, but not before shooting myself in the foot or worse.

Brodie must have felt my eyes on the weapons and gave me a look that would have melted glass. He didn't have to say a word. I wasn't going to try to escape. He would either kill me or simply catch me if I tried to run. I would have to figure out another way to get away.

I sat there for another hour while he organized himself. Then he hauled me up with one hand, carrying the gear with his other.

He was big. He was really big. He was around six foot four, and I came up to midway on his chest. His arms were thicker around than my legs. He was muscle, muscle, muscle, and his face was impassible granite with a long, thin scar down one side.

Something popped in my brain, and I couldn't hold down my hysteria any longer. It came out as indignation.

"You are not kidnapping me!" I stomped my stockinged foot on the metal hull floor. "No, you are not kidnapping me! And you know why? I am an international journalist. An American international journalist. If you lay one finger on me, the U.S. government will be so far up your ass that you will be farting 'God Bless America.'"

I cringed, waiting for the knife to come out or at least his fist to make impact with my face, but nothing happened, and the inaction emboldened me.

"Do you know what that makes you?" I continued. "You're a jackass. Your name is Jackass. You went to Jackass U, and you graduated Suma Cum Jackass. You work at Jackasses Are Us, and your parking space reads 'Reserved for Jackass.' You speak, eat, and wash jackass. In short, mercenary man with bad breath-" I waved my hand under my nose for effect. "You're a jackass," I finished.

I folded my arms across my chest and dug in my heels. Brodie stood, unblinking as usual without any facial expression.

"Now that the introductions have been made, Miss Williams," he growled. "Kindly get back in the burlap bag."

"Jackass."

"Miss Williams," he said, picking me up like I was nothing more than a bag of dog food. "Your charm notwithstanding, I need you to shut up and get in the burlap bag. I have several ways of doing that. I want to point out that I've used the nice method so far."

He held me close to him. My feet were a foot off the ground, and I stared nose to nose with him.

"Even a jackass can lose his temper," he said, softly.

I silently noted that his breath wasn't all that bad. I allowed him to put me back in the burlap bag. He swung me over his shoulder and walked up the stairs. The breeze was blowing on deck, and the salt air was refreshing and helped me shrug off the last effects of whatever drug Brodie had given me.

The ship slowed as we arrived on deck. There was shuffling and murmuring by people I couldn't see, because I was upside-down, facing the small of Brodie's back. After a couple of minutes, I was handed down to a waiting Zodiac boat.

An African man in similar khakis to Brodie's waited for me below. Unlike Brodie, he definitely did have bad breath. He sat me down in the corner. Brodie climbed down after me and threw his gear into the boat.

I looked longingly at the water. I was a good swimmer.

"We're three miles from land," Brodie told me, reading my mind.

"We'll be getting closer, if I'm not mistaken," I said.

Brodie sat next to me, wedging me into the corner. There was no way out unless he moved. The other man started the engine, and the boat moved into action. We hopped across the water at a breakneck speed. We were heading toward the mainland. Africa, I assumed.

It was the perfect time to cry. Maybe crying would persuade Brodie to let me go. But one look at his sharp edges and determined eyes prevented the tears from welling up.

"Why me?" I managed. It was a cliché, but fitting for the occasion. "Why would you kidnap a reporter from an English women's magazine? What kind of political statement is that? Is a militant anti-women's-magazine group behind this?"

Brodie didn't answer. He scooted even closer to me, wedging me farther into the corner. I wiggled my fingers free and pinched his leg. He was all muscle, but I was determined. I typed ninety words per minute. My fingers were in prime shape. I pinched for all I was worth. I pinched harder and harder until I was sure part of his thigh would snap off in my hand.

After a minute, Brodie cut his eyes to me and arched an eyebrow. "Is this making you feel better? By all means, continue if it gives you solace," he said, softly.

I saw red. I stopped pinching, bared my teeth, and lunged for his ear. I had visions of enacting a Vincent Van Gogh kind of revenge, but Brodie deflected me easily. He picked me up and turned me away from him, pinning me against him with one arm wrapped around my middle, effectively immobilizing me.

A group of men waited for us on the beach. They were dirty and dressed in ratty fatigues. They held machine guns, and three Range Rovers were parked behind them. They were not the dapper Les Terribles from Simoros. So far, Brodie was the only member of that contingent involved in my kidnapping. These guys were an even more motley, suspect group of characters.

As our boat approached the beach, Brodie hopped out and with one movement, turned and pulled me out by the arm, the burlap bag falling behind me. I stumbled in the water, but he kept dragging me. Finally, I managed to pull my feet under me and regain my balance. I had to run to keep up with him, my arm caught in the vise of his hand.

"The white one, boss," said one of the men. Brodie dragged me to the white Range Rover. The men were on our heels, carrying the gear and my overnight bag. Brodie opened the passenger door.

"I need a stick, a baton or shovel or something," he said.

Quickly, one of the men produced a metal baton. Brodie took it, lodged it behind the door handle and pulled. The metal handle broke away and dropped in the sand. "Get in," he ordered. I did, and he closed the door behind me. Without a door handle, he effectively locked me in the car.

There would be no jumping out, which had been my working plan.

Outside, the men spoke to Brodie awhile. He was obviously in charge, giving them orders and directions to do what, I didn't know.

Brodie and I drove in silence for at least an hour. I was sticky with vomit, very hungry, and I had to pee. We stuck to narrow roads, and the Africa bush was all around us. I had been in Africa one time before. I went on a deluxe, luxury vacation package through Kenya. It included a champagne breakfast in a hot air balloon.

My stomach growled at the memory. There was what looked like a tent and bedrolls in the backseat. No five star hotel tonight.

"I haven't gotten my shots," I said, suddenly remembering. "And malaria, what if I get malaria?"

Brodie kept his eyes on the road and didn't say a word. Diseases were swirling around my brain. Ebola, hemorrhagic fever, flesh-eating bacteria. There was a whole world of sick out there, and I didn't even have hand sanitizer.

I tried to remember if I brought any Imodium in my overnight bag. I let out a loud sigh of relief when I remembered that I had. Since I wasn't even allowed to get dressed, I didn't know if Brodie would allow me to get my toiletries bag in the inevitable time when my bowels would realize that I was in dysentery-land.

And sunscreen. He couldn't keep me away from my sunscreen, could he? It really was getting to the time when I needed some answers to my questions.

I cleared my throat. There was no reaction from Brodie. I cleared my throat again, this time louder. I noticed a little tightening of the muscles in Brodie's face. Perhaps even a slight grinding of his molars. I cleared my throat again, but this time something went down the wrong pipe, and I choked. The choking continued and got a little serious. I gasped for air. Finally, it ended with a loud belch. Brodie shot me a look.

"Pardon me," I said, daintily.

"What?" he demanded, giving up on ignoring me.

"It's just that I'm sure you picked up the wrong person by mistake."

"By mistake," he said like he had never heard the word before.

"Yes, I'm not that important. I don't mean to question your competency. Not at all."

"I didn't make a mistake."

"I'm sure you're a very fine kidnapper, but you must have made a mistake."

Brodie gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Is your name Abigail Nashkha Williams?"

"Yes," I said.

"Then, I didn't make a mistake. I was supposed to take you."

"Take me where? Where are you taking me?"

"Not that you need to know, but I have been assigned to take Abigail Nashkha Williams to Chechnya to be handed over to Makhmud Gurzhikhanov. Now shut up, or I'll knock you out, and I won't use ether this time."

I shut up. I was dumbfounded and couldn't speak, even if I wanted. Chechnya? Chechnya wasn't on my list of must-see countries.

I recalled TV footage of war-ravaged Grozny, the capital of Chechnya. I saw the pictures of dead, tortured Russian soldiers, of ruthless Chechens with unbecoming beards. I had no idea who the Makhmud guy was, and I didn't know why he would want me.

My mind shifted to TV shows like The Twilight Zone, Outer Limits, and Punk'd. If only it could be that easy. A slip into a parallel universe or a prank by unkind television producers would be such a relief.

After hours, we arrived. Brodie opened the car door, and I bolted for the one craggy bush in the area. It didn't offer much privacy, but I didn't care. I ran behind it and peed at least a gallon. Brodie averted his eyes, busying himself with setting up camp.

We were nowhere. And there was nothing around us. I could run, but I would end up in the same place. Nowhere.

But I would be alone and defenseless in Africa desert. At least Brodie had food and water and could probably take down a lion with one hand.

The sun was setting, and I had calmed down considerably. I figured that driving across Africa was not exactly the fastest route to Chechnya. Even I could figure that out.

The trip would be long, and perhaps Brodie would take a liking to me and let me go. At the very least, he would have to lighten up eventually, and I could get more information out of him.

The heat was oppressive, but it had cooled slightly as the sun began to set. Brodie took off his shirt and wiped himself down before putting on another clean one. He was an eyeful. Chest, abs, he was a walking "after" photo for workout equipment. Illegal wars and kidnapping must really burn calories.

I grabbed a handful of pills from my bag. They wouldn't prevent Ebola, but I had some preventative antibiotics and something for my stomach that would probably come in handy.

Brodie finished setting up the tent, which was smaller than I had imagined. He also set up a table and chairs and started a fire. I hoped that meant dinner was soon. I was starving.

I slugged down the pills with some much needed water. I still wasn't quite human, but the act of self-medicating had a calming effect on me.

"I'm going to change," I said and went into the tent. There wasn't enough room to stand. I had to quickly change my underwear and put on the essentials while lying down.

I grabbed a pair of socks and the foot ointment. I slithered out of the tent and put on a thick layer of cream on my feet.

"What the hell are you doing?" Brodie approached me. It was the first time he showed any interest in me at all.

"I have a very slight case of athlete's foot," I said. "I am in the middle of a six-week treatment, and I don't plan on getting behind, just because I'm being kidnapped, dragged across the African continent, and shipped off to some Chechen for God only knows what reason."

I raised my eyebrows, waiting for him to give me the reason, but he ignored me and turned away to prepare dinner.

He did a good job with it. The dinner was either delicious, or I was so hungry that anything would have tasted good. I wolfed it down.

It was odd sitting at a table, eating dinner in companionable silence, face-to-face with my kidnapper. He had threatened to hurt me, had taken my freedom, but he was sitting and eating with perfect table manners. He didn't seem to hold any animosity toward me whatsoever.

He was an incredible looking man. He was massive, and strength reverberated from him like music from an instrument. Bad news if I wanted to overpower him, stab him in the eye, and steal his car. And that was exactly what I wanted to do.

He had an eagle tattoo on his chest and another on his left forearm that looked like something military. He was a man who had seen a lot of violence and had committed a lot of violence. But all that aside, there was something poetic about him. He moved like a dancer, all grace and self-confidence.

Huh? What was I doing?

Perhaps I had the start of the Stockholm syndrome like Patty Hearst suffered when she was kidnapped. She started to relate to her kidnappers and wanted to please them. Now I had some strange attraction to my captor.

Sick.

Gross.

However.

My attraction was not kidnapping-induced. It had kicked in the first time I saw him. Perhaps the sexual tension I felt dulled my sense of danger, and that's why I never saw the kidnapping coming. Or perhaps I mistook danger for sexual tension. Maybe I wasn't attracted to him at all. Perhaps it was some roller-coaster-like feeling that I was attracted to.

One thing was certain. If I didn't get it together, I would be shit out of luck. Bad things happened in Chechnya.

I cleared my throat loudly.

Brodie dropped his fork on his plate. "Oh, Jesus, not that again. What is it this time?"

"I refuse to get Stockholm syndrome," I said.

"That's fine. So, I won't bring out the wine."

"You have wine?" I asked, hopefully.

"What do you think?"

"Well, even without wine, I won't let you be nice to me. It won't work," I said.

Brodie's eyebrows knitted together. "You consider this nice? Drugging you, kidnapping you, threatening you? That's nice in your book? Is that what American women like?"

"No, of course not. I mean the dinner. The good food. I know all about kidnappers' methods. I watch TV, you know. I've been around. You want to lower my guard, so I'll be compliant."

Brodie leaned forward and rested his chin between his thumb and forefinger. His attention distracted me, set me off-balance. It took me a moment to remember my train of thought.

"Compliant little Abby," I continued, finally, with as much attitude as I could muster. "Oh, you would like that. That would make your job a lot easier. If I put up a fuss, you would have a hard time getting me to Chechnya, or wherever you're really taking me."

Brodie didn't even blink. I shook my fork at him. "My momma didn't raise any fools, you know," I said, my voice moving up an octave. "I was top of my class, or almost. I got the Tri-City Foundational college scholarship. Sure, it was only three hundred dollars, but they don't give that to just anybody. You don't know who you're dealing with, buster."

"I don't need compliant," he said. "But I wouldn't mind silent. It's amazing how much your mouth can move."

"Speaking of that, I have a lot of questions."

"You shock me," he said, deadpan.

"Aren't you going to be missed in Simoros?" I asked. Brodie raised an eyebrow. Ding. Ding. Ding. I had hit a nerve. He wasn't expecting that question.

"I'm due for a holiday," he said.

"So, you haven't abandoned your boss, Montou? You haven't broken off from him?" I pressed.

Brodie was doing his unblinking thing again. His face was expressionless. "Things were going real good for you there. Weren't you Minister of

Foreign Affairs or something?" I asked.

"Close enough," he said.

"So you're doing this for Montou. Does this have something to do with him? Some kind of prisoner exchange? Ah, I see. You're just a soldier. You just follow orders."

Almost imperceptibly, Brodie clenched his jaw and darted his eyes quickly.

"I am a soldier. A good one, in fact," he said, softly.

"I think we established that. It takes a good soldier to drug a helpless woman and steal her away to a war-torn country for whatever reason."

I was goading him, but instead of taking the bait, the corners of his mouth rose in the teensiest of smiles.

"Why are we traveling through Africa to get to Eastern Europe?" I asked.

"Are we?"

"Aren't we?"

"I wouldn't worry about the travel plans. You'll get there soon enough."

Maybe so, but I was getting nowhere with Brodie, and then something hit me.

"How did you know my middle name?" I asked.

"Pardon?"

"My middle name. Nashkha. I've never used it. In fact, I legally changed my name when I was sixteen to leave it out. How did you know it?"

"That information is above my pay grade," he said, unconcerned.

"I'm betting your pay grade is pretty high. Everybody is all 'yes, sir' around you and 'yes, boss' around you. You're the big mercenary man, used to getting your way."

"If that were true, I would be sitting in silence right now, alone, enjoying the sunset and a good book."

"Ha!"

Brodie stared at me awhile. I dropped my gaze and studied my fingernails.

"Ha, what?" he asked, finally.

"Ha! As in, yeah, sure you can read," I said.

"Why Miss Williams, you wound me."

I would have loved to wound him. He was insufferable. He wasn't arrogant, but he was uncaring. I couldn't move him any direction. I was no closer to getting him to free me.

Then it dawned on me.

"Hey, wait a minute, I know something about my middle name," I said. "I always thought Nashkha was a hippie name my mom picked out from a celestial healing book or something, but it wasn't that. The name is a real name from somewhere."

Brodie leaned back in his chair and rested his hands in his lap. "Your name comes from Chechnya. You're Chechen."

I sat openmouthed. I heard a whoosh-whoosh sound, like I was in a wind tunnel. But there was no wind. The air was barely moving. In fact, I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.

We sat like that for a long time. I was disoriented. I didn't know where I was, and now I didn't know who I was. I had grown up with no identity except for the daughter of a crazy mother and a missing father. But I had a sinking feeling that I would find out the truth soon enough.

Brodie stared at me, studying me like a specimen in a lab. He tilted his head to the side. He was obviously waiting for more questions, surprised by my silence.

"You're a descendant of the legendary Nashkha clan," he offered. "That's a big deal. It was the first clan in Chechnya."

"And this Makhmud guy-"

"Makhmud Gurzhikhanov wants to revive the legendary Nashkha clan. Since you're a bit of a princess, as your husband, he will gain support from the other clans and rise up against the infidels and free your land from enemy invaders."

"I'm getting married?"

"Congratulations. I'm sure you'll be a lovely bride," he said.

For the briefest of moments, I felt relieved. I had been looking for a man, and arranged marriages weren't always bad. Perhaps this was my road to happiness. Although, if Makhmud were such a catch, he probably wouldn't have had to catch me with ether and a muscle-bound mercenary.

I tried to look on the bright side.

"I'm a princess?" I asked, hopefully.

"More or less. You won't be sitting with the queen at the Hildon Queen's Cup Polo Final, but you can be a figurehead in Chechnya."

"Well, that's okay, I guess. It's sort of like a princess." I sniffed. I was going to be married against my will in order to become a second rate princess.

"And this Makhmud guy-" I started.

Brodie cut me off and stood. "He will pay me handsomely when I deliver you, and then I make my way elsewhere. Other than that, you don't need to know anything, not our travel plans, not my political affiliations, nothing. No more questions. You're giving me a headache. Into the tent before the mosquitoes start."

He yanked me up and gave me a little shove toward the tent. I crawled in, happy to be alone to gather my thoughts. But I wasn't alone for long. Brodie crawled in right after me.