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And I realize that this little bungalow is the last place on earth that will look too hard at identification.
But that doesn’t stop me from worrying that I have sent Eros on a dangerous mission. When he steps out of the building, bounding back to me in the car and tucking his passport in his pocket, I heave a sigh of relief.
If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. He pulls the car around to the back of the little hotel, jumps out, and brandishes two old silver skeleton keys.
Tossing one to me, he points to the room at the very end. “Yer down there.”
Without another word, he turns and wanders off out the back lot. I watch him for a moment before I realize that he has no reason to watch me closely.
If anything, he wants me to run and never look back.
Picking up the small bag of my things that I’ve brought and the black canvas bag stuffed with money, I wander down to the room I’ve been assigned.
I open the door, unsure what to expect. I’m greeted with a small, plain white room, a very simple and rather narrow white bed, and a framed photocopy of some well-designed Arabic calligraphy, black print on faded yellow paper.
I step inside and close the door, putting my bags down on the coarsely starched linens of the bed. Turning, I look out the little window beside the door and wonder where Hades is.
He said he’d join me tonight, I think. But I have no idea of how long he’ll be. Nor really any idea whether I’m even supposed to be here or if Eros might have just decided to keep me separate from Hades for a few days.
I sit down on the bed, looking around. There is a little door that leads into a bathroom with a sink and toilet. Other than that, there is no decoration whatsoever.
After fidgeting for a minute, I dig into the bag of personal items I brought, producing my iPad. Turning it on, I take a deep breath.
A little dialog box pops up.
CONNECT TO 100.65.278 WIFI?
I tilt my head. The hotel must have service, I guess. I thought that Wi-Fi was spotty on this entire continent… but maybe that was just me presuming things.
I click CONNECT.
Nothing happens. When I try to pull up my browser, I get an error message that says I’m not connected to the internet.
Strange.
I pull up a book about turn of the century women artists and leaf through a few pages. The day gradually loses sunlight and turns into the gray of twilight. I’m hungry but I have no idea where Eros is.
So I curl up at the end of the bed and let my eyes drift closed. I’m not asleep precisely, just… resting.
I’m conscious of a sound from outside my room. Maybe tires on the gravel lot. Nothing that would stir me from my doze.
My mind drifts and I shift against the hard bed.
Everything is calm.
Peaceful.
Quiet.
And that’s when the door to my bedroom explodes inward. I bolt upright, rubbing at my face as I try to make sense of what I’m seeing.
Half a dozen figures, decked out in black tactical gear and carrying big, scary automatic rifles hurry into my little room.
I can’t believe my eyes as I take them all in. They move as a unit, their steps practiced. And it’s impossible to tell what race or creed they are because they’ve done such a good job of covering every inch of visible skin.
I shriek as loudly as I can and scurry backward, as if that will somehow help. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs painfully. I’m too shocked to even think of what I should do. Two of the men aim their guns at me; I scream again and duck my head.
“Get her up,” one man says.
