Keep Me(84)

“Sure thing, miss,” the driver says softly, and my head snaps up at the hint of accent in his voice. My eyes lock with his in the front mirror, and I freeze as a bolt of pure terror shoots down my spine.

He could’ve been one of a thousand immigrants driving a cab for a living, but he’s not.

He’s Al-Quadar. I can see it in the cold malevolence of his gaze.

They have finally come for me.

It’s what I have been waiting for, but now that the moment is here, I find myself paralyzed by a fear so intense, it chokes me from within. My mind flashes into the past, and the memories are so vivid, it’s almost as if I’m there again. I feel the pain of barely healed stitches in my side, see the dead bodies of the guards at the clinic, hear Beth’s screams . . . and then I taste vomit at the back of my throat as Majid touches my face with a blood-covered finger.

I must’ve gone as pale as a sheet because the driver’s gaze hardens, and I hear the faint click of car door locks being activated.

The sound galvanizes me into action. Adrenaline pumping in my veins, I dive for the door and jerk at the handle while screaming at the top of my lungs. I know it’s useless, but I need to try—and, more importantly, I need to give the appearance of trying. I can’t sit calmly while they take me back to hell.

I can’t let them find out that this time I want to go back there.

As the car begins moving, I continue wrestling with the door and banging on the window. The driver ignores me as he peels out of the parking lot at top speed, and none of the mall visitors seem to notice anything wrong, the tinted windows of the car hiding me from their gaze.

We don’t go far. Instead of getting out onto the highway, the car swings around to the back of the building. I see a beige van waiting for us, and I struggle harder, my nails breaking as I claw at the door with a desperation that’s only partially feigned. In my rush to rescue Julian, I hadn’t fully considered what it would mean to be taken by the monsters of my nightmares—to go through something so horrific again—and the terror that swamps me is only slightly lessened by the fact that this situation is of my own doing.

The driver pulls up next to the van, and the locks click open. Pushing open the door, I scramble out on all fours, scraping my palms on rough asphalt, but before I can get to my feet, a hard arm clamps around my waist and a gloved hand slaps over my mouth, muffling my screams.

I hear orders being barked out in Arabic as I’m carried to the van, kicking and struggling, and then I see a fist flying toward my face.

There’s an explosion of pain in my skull, and then there’s nothing else.





Chapter 27

Julian



I drift in and out of consciousness, the periods of wakeful agony interspersed with short stretches of soothing darkness. I don’t know if it’s been hours, days, or weeks, but it feels like I’ve been here forever, at the mercy of Majid and the pain.

I haven’t slept. They don’t let me sleep. I gain respite only when my mind shuts down from the torment, and they have ways of bringing me back when I’m under for too long.

They waterboard me first. I find it funny, in a kind of perverse way. I wonder if they’re doing it because they know I’m part-American, or if they just think it’s an efficient method of breaking someone without inflicting severe damage.

They do it a few dozen times, pushing me to the brink of death and then bringing me back. It feels like I’m drowning over and over again, and my body fights for air with a desperation that seems out of place given the situation. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing if they accidentally drowned me; my mind knows that, but my body struggles to live. Every second with that wet rag on my face feels like an eternity, the trickle of water somehow more terrifying than the sharpest blade.

They pause every once in a while and throw questions at me, promising to stop if only I would answer. And when my lungs feel like they’re bursting, I want to give in. I want to put an end to this—yet something inside me won’t let me. I refuse to give them the satisfaction of winning, of letting them kill me while knowing that they achieved what they wanted.

As my body strains for air, my father’s voice comes to me.

“Are you going to cry? Are you going to cry like your mama’s pretty boy or face me like a man?”

I’m four years old again, cowering in the corner as my father kicks me repeatedly in the ribs. I know the right answer to his question—I know I need to face him—but I’m scared. I’m so scared. I can feel the wetness on my face, and I know it will make him angry. I don’t mean to cry. I haven’t truly cried since I was a baby, but the pain in my ribs makes my eyes water. If my mother were here, she’d hold me and kiss me, but she doesn’t come near me when my father is in this kind of mood. She’s too afraid of him.