Aziza woke to a keening cry. She raised her head, searching among the women sleeping on the floor in a cluster. None of them stirred, so the wails weren’t coming from inside. Her grainy eyes attested to her lack of sleep during the night just past.
The men outside had bombarded the container, but were unsuccessful in getting inside. Apparently, the panels were reinforced. The bullet that hit Hamid entered through a section of the metal that had rusted.
At the thought of him, Aziza felt sick. One woman, who confirmed she was a nurse, bandaged his shoulder where the bullet pierced him. Thankfully, it was a flesh wound. The sight of the blood unnerved most of the females, but they didn’t unravel. Fact was, they had no way out while the men continued their assault.
Aziza rested her head on her folded arms. The combined odor of anxiety and sweat was not pleasant, but she refused to be distracted. Their funk was the least of her problems.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that three-quarters of a day had passed since she’d eaten. Neither had any of the women, but nobody complained.
The wailing continued outside, along with gunfire. While she wondered what was happening, her heart sank. Most likely, the battle was between factions intent on capturing them. The thought depressed her, and she breathed in deeply to calm her nerves.
She had led the women into this revolt, and she would see it to the end, no matter what happened. Her mother had always told her that giving up in the middle of her struggle was never a solution. The sage advice stiffened her spine, and she inched to a sitting position.
Aziza sat still, knowing she was at risk. Especially if there was a bullet out there destined to hit her. The metal box imprisoning them might have been secure, but like her dad used to say, if you were born to hang you couldn’t drown. Still, she changed position and propped herself on one elbow.
Eyes closed, she tried to separate the voices. Panic echoed from the persons speaking in Arabic. Then her ears picked up the familiar cadence of the English language.
Her heart took off at a gallop. What if the men speaking English had come to save them? Until she found herself in the middle of a horror story, being a victim of human trafficking was only a figment of Aziza’s imagination. Something that made her stomach turn when she heard about such incidents on social media or watched news on television.
The enormity of what they were facing swept over her, and her grandmother’s face swam before her eyes. Odd that she should think of her now, but it wasn’t all that strange. Evelyn Hampton was one of Aziza’s heroes. She’d been in awe of the small woman she met when she was twelve and her father first took her to Jamaica to visit. Her grandmother, a feminine version her father, had enfolded her in a hug. They stood eye to eye, but Aunt Evelyn—as everybody called her—was a powerhouse in terms of her personality. After being widowed in her thirties, she raised five sons on her own. She lived at the top of a hill in the parish of Westmoreland and to this day, Aunt Evelyn refused to move in with any of her three sons, who still lived on the island. And she was seventy-five.
When Aziza thought about the tough conditions her grandmother survived and her mantra, God helps those who help themselves, she knew quitting was not one of the choices open to her. Aside from that, she wanted to lay eyes on her family. Giving up wouldn’t accomplish that wish.
She desperately wanted to know what was happening outside, but there was no way ... unless she could see through the glass paneling at the top of their prison. Whoever came up with the design knew exactly what they were doing because none of the glass had shattered. Everyone in the forty-foot housing was sealed away, as if in a tomb. Except for that rusted section near the bed Hamid occupied.
Next to her, Naima stirred and her thoughts changed direction.
“I do not think they will give up,” she said. “What are we going to do?”
“What we’re not going to do,” Aziza hissed, “is give up.”
On Naima’s other side, Ahaba sniffled.
“You don’t have time for that now,” Naima said in a gentle voice. “We need you to focus on what’s going on out there. Can you do that?”
In the haze that signaled dawn, Aziza caught the girl’s nod.
“Do you understand what’s being said?” Naima asked, “and why they’re screeching like that?”
A few more seconds went by as Ahaba changed position and tipped her head closer to the wall. After a moment, she said, “I think the men who were trying to get us are still out there. And there are some others.”
Aziza bit down on her lip to contain her impatience. She had figured that out already. “Tell us what the crying is about.” She swallowed the for-heaven’s-sake part of the sentence.
“One of them is saying that he is blind, the other is saying that he is not willing to die for these ... “ She hesitated. “He just used a nasty word to describe us.”
“We need to figure out who those other men are,” Aziza whispered to Naima. “I’m hoping they are friends and not foes.”
“Do you have friends on this side of the world?” Naima asked. “We are in desperate need of some right now.”
The gunfire continued, punctuated by intermittent screams. A few more women raised their heads. Others sat up, wrapped their arms around their knees, and rocked backward and forward, comforting themselves.
The cot across from them creaked as Hamid stirred and groaned. His head fell back to the bed and he sobbed.
Naima looked away, because he was little more than a boy. A boy in agony, as evidenced by his continued cries. Since she hit him, things kept getting progressively worse for him. But he had made his choice. She closed the door on her sympathy and turned her attention to Ahaba.
One more burst of gunfire came before a man bellowed in Arabic.
“What is he saying?” Aziza all but yelled.
Ahaba’s voice quivered, but she continued, “He said, ‘I surrender.’”
Aziza smiled, then whispered, “Dear God, let their enemies be my friends.”
She contained her excitement, and reached for the gun. No matter who was outside, they still needed to stay alert.
The attack on the door was nothing compared to the previous assault. Her fellow prisoners scooted toward the back and huddled together in a shivering clump.
“What are we going to do if they break down the door?” Naima asked, her eyes wild in her narrow face.
“Let’s think about that bridge when we’re ready to cross it.”
As the pounding continued, Ahaba covered both her ears. Naima went to her side and hugged her.
Aziza positioned herself in front of the women. She was no Superwoman, but she would do what she could to protect the more vulnerable among them, especially the young girls. Yesterday evening while they waited out the men, the youngest girl, Sunita—almost a baby at ten years old—had broken down sobbing. Her tale of repeated assault, after her father sold her, made Aziza’s eyes sprout tears of anger while her blood boiled.
The silence, when it descended, was almost deafening. Hamid’s moaning was the only noise interrupting the early morning calm. Aziza could almost believe everybody outside had left. The lack of movement stretched her frayed nerves as she waited, for what, she didn’t know.
Abdul chose that moment to start shouting.
“He is telling them how many of us are in here.” Ahaba’s voice reeked of desperation.
Throwing aside caution, Aziza got to her feet. Propelled by anger, she thumped Abdul’s forehead and yanked the fabric back over his mouth. Leaning in close, she said, “We don’t know who is out there, but you better pray to God it’s your people and not mine.”
His yellow-brown eyes flashed hatred, but that was the least of her concern.
She didn’t know why she was warning him, but the snatches of English stirred the hope that somehow they would be delivered out of this hellhole where they’d been imprisoned for nearly a week. Her focus returned to Abdul, and she kept her voice even. “You better shut it before I punch you again.”
She flexed her sore fist, then dashed back to where she left the rifle leaning against the wall. Ignoring the pain in her hand and the tension pulling at the back of her neck, she hefted the rifle.
A husky and commanding voice rang through the air. “If you can hear me, my name is Nicco Wolfe and my team and I are here to help you.”
Aziza’s gaze shot to Naima, who stared back at her. Then a grin split her face. She sprang to her feet but Aziza pulled her back down. “We don’t know for sure he is who he says he is.”
Despite her doubt, Aziza stood and took unsteady steps toward the entrance.
“Did you hear me?” he asked.
Aziza stumbled and stopped herself from retreating to the safety of the group. Instead, she threw out a dare. “How do we know you’re not trying to trick us?”
“We risked our lives to free you,” he yelled. “You have to trust us. Please.”
“Give us a reason to open this door,” she challenged.
“The royal family hired us to find you.” The man’s voice took on a coaxing edge. “I understand your reluctance, but we really are here to help.”
Aziza glanced over her shoulder as excitement spread, and the women shot to their feet. Even Sunita stood. The hope shining from her eyes made Aziza weepy.
“Aziza, is that you?”
She frowned as her knees threatened to leave her without support. When she recovered, Aziza rushed toward the pile of metal that lay between them and the desert. Tears streamed down her face, and she could barely get her words out. “Ryan, it’s me.”
With the back of one hand, she wiped the tears away from her cheeks. She swallowed the wad of emotion blocking her throat, and tried again in a stronger voice. “Ryan, it’s Aziza.”
An unnatural pause occurred where nothing moved. She believed her heart forgot its pace, too. Then, it took off at a gallop as Ryan’s smooth tenor flowed over her again, “Woman, you’d better open this door before we flatten it.”
He didn’t have to tell her again. She set the gun to one side and dragged one of the flimsy metal beds out of the way. While she did that, her heart tried to find an escape route from her chest.
Although he spoke to her twice, Aziza could scarcely believe Ryan stood outside. She could not conceive how it was possible that he was here in Durabia, but she didn’t care. All she knew was that she needed the safety of his arms. The fact that she was wearing the same housecoat for days should have mattered, plus she hadn’t showered in nearly a week.
None of that meant anything.
All she wanted was to be reunited with the man she loved.
Working together, the women cleared the doorway and Aziza pulled back the latch to fly the door open. It didn’t budge.
Aziza groaned as her shoulders drooped. The rumble of disappointment spread behind her.
“It won’t open,” she yelled.
“Don’t worry,” Ryan said, “We’ve got you. Stand back from the door.”
“You got it.”
When all of them were out of range, Aziza kept hold of the AK-47 for some measure of safety. “You can come in now.”
“Cover your ears,” Ryan instructed.
The explosion was loud but meant little to Aziza because it would free her from the horror that escalated in the last fourteen hours.
This time, when the hinges creaked and one of them sagged, excitement flooded Aziza’s body and soul. She closed her eyes for a few seconds to stay grounded.
A muscular, blond man invaded the container with a gun in his hand. One corner of his mouth tipped into a wry smile. “It’s clear in here, except for the woman with the AK-47.” He looked her in the eyes. “I’m Nicco. Permission to approach?”
When she nodded, he crossed the cement floor, gently took the rifle from her hands and nodded—a gesture of respect. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome and thank you, too.”
Kelsie reluctantly handed him Abdul’s gun.
Over the Nicco’s shoulder, she glimpsed Ryan. They stared at each other as he approached. She didn’t dare blink, in case he was an illusion conjured by her tired brain.
When his arms closed around her, a sob worked its way up from her throat, and she buried her face in his chest. After inhaling as much of him as she could in several breaths, she cried, “They took the children, Ryan. Four little girls—you need to find all of them.”