“No!” she managed to yell, only to have a wide, damp palm clamp over her mouth. Sweat seeped between her lips, its bitter, salty taste turning her stomach. She gagged and tried to shake loose the hand. But her feeble movement just resulted in the man digging his fingers and thumb into her face, smashing her cheeks against the rough edges of her teeth until she cried out. No, don’t let them see your pain, she admonished herself. It’ll only encourage them.
Of course, on a list of things that were easier said than done, that ranked right near the top. Her nostrils flared wide and her terror ratcheted up another notch when searching fingers curled around the waistband of her panties and tugged. She could smell her abductors, smell the spices they enjoyed in their meals coming through the sweat on their skin, smell the harsh detergent they washed their clothes in. Again, she closed her eyes, determined to block out what was coming next. Poised to disassociate herself from her physical form so that no matter what they did to her body, they wouldn’t touch her mind.
But her eyes flew open, and she blinked her confusion when her panties slipped over her heels only to be replaced by the feel of another garment. She looked down and recognized the straight cut of a traditional Malay skirt as it was pulled over her calves and knees.
Not taking his hand from her mouth, the man standing beside her hooked his free arm around her shoulders and lifted her so that his companion could tug the skirt up and over her naked hips and bottom. Next, a pair of soft-soled shoes—much like the ballet flats she liked to wear around the house—were slipped over her feet.
“I will take my hand from your mouth,” Shadow Man said. Now that he’d spoken more words, she remembered his voice from the balcony. “But I warn you, do not scream.” He leaned in close, malice shining in his black eyes, his long, thin nose barely an inch from hers. “If you scream, I will have to hurt you again.” He gave her cheeks a painful squeeze for emphasis. “Do you understand?”
She was so grateful he wasn’t about to rape her—the relief flooding her system so overwhelming it increased her dizziness ten-fold—that she didn’t think twice about grunting her acquiescence, blinking rapidly in case he didn’t understand.
“Good.” He nodded before yanking a scarf from the booth’s back wall, deftly wrapping the length of silk around her head. Oh, how she wished she could rub her abused cheeks, but she satisfied herself with watching the second man gather her belongings.
Uh-huh. Just go ahead and hold on to all of that, you son of a motherless goat, she thought with devilish delight. Lamentably, that delight was fleeting, because Henchman Number Two ducked out of the stall with her clothes in hand.
Well, for the love of…
Now how was her Secret Service detail supposed to find her? And then she remembered the three on-duty agents’ ominous absences. Did she have a Secret Service detail left? These men…these dark, dangerous men seemed to know too much. They’d known which balcony was hers. They’d known where to find and how to take out her protection detail; she prayed they’d only succeeded in incapacitating the agents, because even though she’d only been living and working with this current group for about six months—it was protocol for the agents to remain on a rotation to keep them from becoming too personally attached to their protectee—the thought of anything happening to them was…well…simply unacceptable. And these dark, dangerous men obviously knew about her clothes…
But how?
She didn’t have much time to ponder that before the second man reappeared. Empty handed. Shit on a biscuit! And even though she’d expected as much, the sight still made her want to cry. Again. Of course, she’d be damned if she gave these bastards that satisfaction. Again.
A loud banging and some rustling sounded outside the booth. Then the noisy hum of a nearby generator clicked off, quickly followed by another. The market was closing for the night, the vendors folding away their goods and piling their wares into the carts attached to their bicycles or motorbikes, all to be taken home until tomorrow when the grand parade would repeat itself.
Which meant she only had a few minutes to get someone’s attention. She opened her mouth. But before she could summon a scream—screw Shadow Man and his threats—a third man ducked into the stall.
Some quick words in Malay were exchanged. Shadow Man appeared to be pissed, verbally ripping the arrival a new asshole. That is until New Guy produced a syringe from his pocket. Shadow Man nodded and motioned in her direction. Stalking toward her, New Guy—who looked much like the other two. Dark. Skinny. With hate-filled eyes and nondescript clothes—slapped a bony hand over her lower jaw. His expression was hard, vicious as he wrenched her head to the side, exposing her neck beneath the scarf. But before he hit her with the needle, something caught his eye.