Still, she’d moved enough, made enough noise, that one of the men glanced down at her. His dark, close-set eyes were fierce, and even in her narco-hazy state she had no trouble reading the cold calculation in them. He looked away to say something to her second abductor. She couldn’t understand his words but noted they picked up the pace, breaking into a bumpy, bone-jostling jog. Her head bounced around so much she thought it was a wonder it didn’t snap off the end of her neck. Just crack! And there it’d go, rolling down the alley.
Although, come to think of it, that particular scenario didn’t sound all that bad. At least then she’d be free of this terrible paralysis and the mind-numbing terror it evoked.
A few more agonizing seconds passed before they reached their destination—the back of a faded red stall. Her kidnappers parted a slit in the fabric and ducked inside, unceremoniously dumping her into a molded plastic chair. Her arms fell listlessly to the sides, her legs crookedly stretched out in front of her. She couldn’t raise her head—like everything else, the muscles in her neck refused to work—but from the corner of her eye, she saw one of the men pull a handful of silk scarves over the front opening of the booth, effectively shutting the three of them inside.
Good God! What now?
And then she wished she hadn’t asked. Because one of her kidnappers bent to quickly undo the buttons on her blouse while the other squatted at her feet to attack the laces on the kitten-heel boots she’d purchased specifically for the New Frontiers in Horticulture Convention.
And how ridiculous that all seemed now, her desire to look just so—professional yet stylish—while she gave her speech. How stupid to have worried about her appearance, about how the president of the United States’ daughter would be perceived in this predominantly Muslim country, when there were so many real concerns that should’ve occupied her mind.
Real concerns like abduction. Like something terrible happening to the tough, loyal people in her protection detail. Like Carlos Soto suddenly reappearing in her life all big and dark and rough, everything she’d ever wanted in a man but couldn’t have. Like…rape…
The ugly word whispered through her head, causing her heart to crash against her breastbone. It made it hard to breath, hard to hear anything above the whooshing roar of blood between her ears.
“No,” she managed to murmur, though her tongue felt like it had swollen to fill her mouth. She wanted to punch. She wanted to kick. She wanted to bite and scratch and scream. But she could do none of that. She could do nothing but sit there, a prisoner inside her own useless body, while these vile men defiled her.
A sob of fear and fury built inside her chest as a thousand horrific images flipped through her mind.
Urgent, ungentle hands…flip!
Sweaty, thrusting male bodies…flip!
Greedy, wet mouths…flip!
The depravity and obscenity of it all caused saliva to pool at the back of her tongue. When she swallowed, it was thick and sticky. But, amazingly, the action enabled her to put some volume behind her next words. “Ssstop it! You b-bastards!” she slurred.
The thrill of succeeding in that one small rebellion was short lived, because the man pulling her blouse from her shoulders slapped her face. Hard. White-hot pain burned over the expanse of her cheek and detonated like an atom bomb behind her right eye. Her head whipped to the side where it remained, lolling against her left shoulder.
“Quiet!” he hissed, staring at her with such…hatred. She had never seen such hatred on the face of a man. Burning tears seeped from the corners of her eyes to trickle across the bridge of her nose and run over her temple.
She loathed the fact that she was crying, detested herself for showing these cowards…these beasts one ounce of weakness. But she couldn’t stop. Despite her best efforts, the tears kept on coming, soaking the hair at her temple and dripping onto her bare shoulder and chest.
When he reached between her breasts to flick open the front closure of her bra—No! No, no, no!—she squeezed her eyes closed and readied herself for the feel of his despicable hands on her flesh, readied herself for the ultimate degradation. But to her utter confusion and relief, it never came.
Instead, an article of clothing was forced over her head, her useless arms manipulated into the long sleeves. She opened her eyes to see the men were dressing her in a black baju kurung, a type of conservative, knee-length shirt worn by many of Malaysia’s women.
Huh? Why?
But then she forgot to seek the answer to her question when, with a yank and a tug, her trousers slipped from her legs. Hard, hot hands traveled up her bare thighs.