The girl felt the cold hard barrel of a gun thrust against the back of her head.
“Kneel,” ordered the man, his voice as dry and cruel as the desert wind.
With no choice but to obey, the girl blindly sought the floor. The dusty rag around her eyes let in only glimpses of light, its fraying cloth reeking of stale sweat. She winced as the dirt floor grazed her bare knees and drew blood. Then, hearing the ominous click of a round entering the gun’s chamber, her body instinctively stiffened.
Her captor leaned in close. His breath, a bitter mix of coffee and nicotine, was warm and familiar in her ear. “Farewell, my little sparrow.”
So this is it, she thought with a numbness born out of exhaustion. After weeks of uncertainty and too many sleepless nights to count, she was beyond caring. Beyond even fear. In truth, her heart almost welcomed the end to her ordeal.
But, as she waited for the inevitable bullet, a small voice of fury rose within her.
Why have I been abandoned like this? Why hasn’t the ransom been paid? What’s gone wrong?
Despite all the promises and hopes she’d clung to, she was going to die. A bullet through the head. Her body dumped in the desert.
“Get it over with,” she muttered, willing her executioner to pull the trigger and end her suffering.
Silence.
No click. No bang. Not even a reply. Only the buzz of flies circling in the stifling heat.
What’s taking him so long? Is this another one of his mind games?
A bead of sweat rolled from beneath her blindfold and down her grime-covered cheek.
“Lost your nerve, have you?” she croaked, her voice quavering as her impatience turned to frustrated anger. Still no answer.
With a trembling hand, she removed the rag. Blinking away the dust, she discovered she was alone . . . abandoned in the center of a single-room mud-brick building. A makeshift wooden door barred the only entrance through which beams of sunlight speared the darkness.
Should I try to escape? But she had no idea what lay beyond the doorway. Her captor? The barrel of a gun? Most likely miles of unbroken desert—
Suddenly the door burst open and she was dazzled by the glaring African sun. A shadow passed across her face as a huge man filled the doorway. Dressed in khaki army fatigues and his finger primed on the trigger of an assault rifle, he swiftly scanned the room for threats before his gaze targeted her.
“Emily Sterling?” the soldier grunted.
Her throat too dry to reply, Emily managed a weak nod.
The soldier thumbed his radio mic. “Yankee Four to X-ray, hostage found alive, I repeat, alive.”
Scooping Emily up in his arms like a fragile doll, the soldier carried her to the door.
As the realization of her rescue hit her, Emily began to sob uncontrollably.
“It’s over,” promised the soldier. “You’re safe now.”
No, thought Emily as her tears dripped onto the man’s shirt. I’ll never be safe again.