Taken With The Enemy (3 page)
He was my captor.
And I was his prisoner.
I would guess that two hours had passed when a soft knock sounded at my door. And I, acting as if my ass was glued to the mattress, hadn't moved since my last discussion with my captor.
He knocked again.
I said nothing.
The door slowly opened, but I didn't bother to look up. I simply stared at the floor.
I could feel his eyes boring into me. I imagined the thoughts going through his head.
Why hadn't she showered? Had she sat there like that the whole time?
"Are you hungry?” he asked.
When I didn't answer, he came into the bedroom. He moved the vanity chair over, positioned it in front of me, and sat down.
I stared at his boots as the scent of sandalwood, cloves, and mint danced around us.
So close. Why is he so close?
Resting his elbows on his thighs and folding his hands in front of him, he leaned in. “Talk to me."
I looked away.
Gentle fingers captured my chin and gently pulled me to face him. “Brenna. I want you to talk to me. What's wrong?"
A thousand and one different responses came to my mind ...
You're my enemy. You have captured me. Kidnapped me. You're holding me against my will. I'm your prisoner. What do you want from me? What could I have that you possibly want? Why are you being so nice? Why do you act like you really care? Why did you hold me when I was sick? Why do you have to smell so good?
Instead, I choose this ... “Brenna Marie Mathews. Sergeant. September 21st, 1976. 592-30-9754."
He bit his bottom lip, but it didn't do anything to hide his smile.
Resisting the urge to smack the fucking smirk off his handsome face, I jerked out of his grasp.
Clearing his throat, he sat back. “I'm sorry. I know you're only doing what you were trained to do. But I assure you, you're not a prisoner of war. Like I said earlier, I want you to consider your stay here like you would a reassignment. Except that you'll be working out of your quarters."
When I didn't acknowledge him, he let out a frustrated breath and rose to his feet. “I think I've been more than amicable.” He moved the chair back in front of the vanity. “I'd appreciate it if you at least attempted to return the gesture."
My anger surged and all good sense flew right out the barred window. “I guess I'm not good at making friends with the enemy,” I muttered.
He stared down at me with hard eyes. “I'm not your enemy."
"Oh, my mistake,” I offered apologetically. “You just look so much like the insurgent who shot at me five days ago."
Shaking his head, he made his way toward the bedroom door. He stopped, looking back at me from over his shoulder. “If I was an insurgent,” he said, his tone taking on a serious edge, “you'd already be dead."
Then he was gone.
Alone again, I tried to figure out what scared me the most. The fact that I just picked a fight with my captor—and really was as careless as Sergeant Jackson accused, or that I was starting to believe the things my captor was telling me.
A short time later, he came back in with a porcelain bowl, silverware wrapped in a napkin, and a bottle of water.
"You haven't moved much,” he said, holding out a rice dish to me.
The food smelled delicious and I was tempted to take it, but pride was a powerful thing.
"I made it just for you,” he pressed softly.
Well, that explained the hint of clove and mint that had lingered on him earlier.
No, I couldn't accept it. Though my stomach protested my decision, it was a matter of principle. I refused to take favors from the enemy.
"Are you being stubborn? Or do you not like Chicken Biryani?
Why did he have to endear himself to me and prepare a real meal himself? Why couldn't he just be a normal captor and give me bread and water?
When I still didn't take it, he placed everything on the vanity. “I see,” he whispered.
He sounded almost hurt by the rejection, and it made me want the food even more, if not for my hunger, just to make him happy.
Oh God, I was so fucked up. Day one of captivity and I was already empathizing with my captor. I wish he would do something to make me hate him. If only he would yell at me, hit me—something other than trying to make me feel bad.
Truth be told, I didn't bear guilt well.
"I appreciate the gesture,” I offered, hoping that it not only soothed his feelings, but my own conscience as well. “But I'm not ready to eat yet."
He exhaled slowly, sitting on the lone chair in the room. “I have to leave for a couple of days."
My heart dropped. My breath caught in my throat. The turmoil of my situation finally caught up with me. Though I was ashamed to admit it, I didn't want him to go. Who would he leave me with? What if my next captor was a malicious asshole?
"I will return,” he assured me. “You are safe. I need you to trust me on that."
Yeah. Trust the
enemy
.
I glanced down at my lap and my fidgeting fingers. I chose my reply carefully, remembering how bad things went the last time I used the ‘e’ word.
"How do you trust someone you've just met?"
"I promise. No harm will come to you by any of us here."
Who was ‘us'? My captor and his merry band of armed insurgents? The day of the firefight danced in my head.
"How can you be so sure of that?” I asked, my voice weak even to my own ears.
In my peripheral vision, I saw him rub his square jaw before leaning back in the chair and folding his arms across his broad chest. “I'm not going to say that I expected you to take me on my word, but I'm curious to know what's prompting this question."
"Didn't he tell you to shoot me?” I whispered. “The man you were with?"
My captor gave no response, but he didn't have to. The little vein on the side of his temple twitched and I knew the answer.
Shaking my head, a sad smile touched my lips. “I don't understand Arabic, but it was very clear what he wanted. I expected to die, and I was okay with that. But I have to know ... Why didn't you kill me?"
"I would never hurt you,” he said softly.
"And had he not left when he did? Had he stayed to see the deed done?"
"Then I would have killed him."
My eyes misted at the shocking answer and darkness that laced his reply. God help me, I was falling for this bullshit.
Before I could ask him why he would choose my life over ‘the cause', he leaned forward and covered my restless fingers with his rough hand. His thumb caressed the inside of my wrist. The intimate gesture was probably meant to be comforting, but it unnerved me.
I looked up and met his gaze. What exactly did he want ... really want?
"I don't have much time. I want to show you around the flat before I go.” He gently squeezed my hand. “Please."
Nodding, I allowed him to help me off the bed. He held on to my elbow as we went into the living room. It looked like any other house in America, warm and comfortable, with cushy couches, high-tech stereo system, big screen TV, and a bookshelf filled with reading material, CDs, DVDs—even a small plant. Tasteful artwork hung on the walls, thick curtains lined the barred windows, throw pillows dotted the furniture, and an area rug lay on the marble floor beneath the coffee table.
"All the remotes can be found on top of the DVD player. There are board games in the bottom cabinet, as well as video games, books, and magazines. Just to let you know, sometimes the electric goes out. But don't worry, that's just us switching over the generators.” He pointed to a door. “And I'm sure you remember the guest bathroom."
He guided me to the adjoining room with a wood table and six matching chairs. “Dining room,” he said, then led me past that to a swinging door. “Kitchen."
The kitchen was nice. Granite countertops, microwave, dishwasher, full-size refrigerator. Ah ... coffeemaker.
He opened and closed the cabinets as he listed their contents. “Dishes, glasses, spices, soups, and snacks. Pots and pans are in the bottom cabinets, and everything else is in the drawers.” The refrigerator came next. “Besides leftover Biryani, there is also bottled water, soda, milk, eggs, vegetables, and meat in here."
"So you're not only a dark and mysterious kidnapper, but a gourmet chef?” I asked.
Refusing to take the bait, he fixed a stern gaze on me and continued, “Once a week, someone will stop by and replenish the perishables, and anything else you might need.” He moved and opened a door off the kitchen. “Laundry room."
Cupping my elbow in his palm, he moved us back through the dining room and into the hallway. “What do you think?"
His question caught me off guard. “Um, it's a very nice place. It has everything a person could want. Thank you."
What is wrong with me? This is my prison cell, not my vacation house. I'm not supposed to thank him for allowing me to stay here!
He grinned. “I'm glad you like it. But really, it's not as luxurious as you might think. In this part of the world stone building materials, like marble and granite, cost less than wood, and electronics are easy to come by, being that we are so close to Asia."
I got it: The ‘benefits’ of cheap labor and low import taxes. But who cared? What did that have to do with me being here against my will?
"This is the most important thing in the house,” he said, laying his hand on a simple, unassuming wall phone located next to a padlocked door. “If there is anything you need, anything at all, just pick up the phone. You will hear a beep. Once you do, make your request and hang up."
"Then what?”
Ugh, why do I feel the need to ask?
"Well, it depends on what you ask for. If it's on hand, someone will bring it to you. If not, they will try to get it. If it's non-attainable, then, well, your request is not met. Another thing. The other residents in the building, the ones who'll be taking care of you while I'm gone, will not speak to you. And if they do, it will be in Arabic. If you have a question, be sure to phrase it in a way that they can nod an affirmative, or shake their head for a negative."
"If they only speak Arabic, then how will they understand my questions at all?"
With an arrogant smirk across his face, he looked at his watch. “I have to go. I'm late. I will see you in a couple of days.” He headed for what I assumed was the front door.
But if that was the exit, then what was I standing in front of?
"Wait,” I called out.
He turned. “What's up?"
I cast a meaningful glance at the heavy padlocked door.
"It used to be the spare bedroom."
Used to be? “What is it now?"
"If all goes well, you will never have to find out,” he offered cryptically, shrugging his shoulders. Then he was gone. The door closed behind him, there was a jingle of keys and the click of deadbolt sliding into place.
I looked at the padlocked door again.
If all goes well, I'll never have to find out ...
What the hell was it? A fucking torture chamber?
Shit. It probably was.
My mind instantly filled with images that I could not physically see—shackles hanging from the ceiling and horrible devices that inflicted agonizing pain. Famous war movies with gruesome torture scenes danced across my mind.
My stomach churned. It all made sense now. I could do what
they
wanted and stay in my gilded cage, or I could suffer the horrors of whatever lay behind that door.
And my dumb ass was actually playing into his nice-guy act. Could we say Stockholm Syndrome?
Lying bastard.
The guy was the definition of the word ‘contradiction'. I mean, who ever heard of a gourmet chef who cooks a beautiful meal one minute and talks about his willingness to kill someone the next? No, he wasn't all accommodating and harmless.
Well, I wouldn't make that mistake again. He was the enemy, and he would get nothing from me. And in turn, I would take nothing from him but the bare minimum—that which I needed to live, and perhaps even less. And if I suffered for that decision, so be it.
What did they want from me anyway?
Of all the people in the world, why did they go through the trouble of taking me? I had no information that would help their cause. Ransom maybe? For a trade? Perhaps some of their buddies were being held in an Allied prison? But that still didn't explain why
me
. They could ransom any American.
Maybe they thought they'd have more weight with me because I was a female?
It didn't matter.
I would not play the pampered prisoner any longer.
Retrieving the Chicken Biryani from my room and throwing it, along with the bowl and silverware, into the kitchen trash can, I opened the fridge and grabbed as many bottles of water as I could carry before retreating back to my bedroom. Setting the water on the vanity, I gathered my pajamas and toiletries, then went to the bathroom for a bath.
I decided that I would give myself this one last creature comfort before I began my passive protest.
Lying in bed, daydreaming of food, I heard the front door open. Soft footsteps moved into the flat, but once again, no one called out to me.
My abdomen quivered when the unmistakable sound of porcelain being placed on the dining room table met my ears. But it was only after the steps retreated and the deadbolt lock slid in place did I rise out of the bed, curiosity getting the better of me.
I don't know why I was so anxious to punish myself. My head throbbed to the point of dizziness, my empty stomach hurt, and every muscle in my body ached. On trembling legs, I ventured into the living room.
I had been here five days ... five long days without food. Five endless days of denial when I had a perfectly stocked kitchen full of yummy goodness. And those five days didn't include the three days prior to my abduction when I had hardly eaten at all.
Staring at the dining room table, I decided right then that my keepers were overly cruel people.
