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If we were in a movie, this would be the part where I hit the wall and the thing crumbled into pieces.
But I didn’t, because, hello? Not the movies. When you hit cement, it hurts. You can break your fist acting that stupid.
If you don’t believe me, hit that wall behind you and see what happens.
After pacing for almost half an hour, I gave up hope he would come back and stared at the ceiling.
Hours later, the door opened, and two men came in as I laid on my bed.
“Get up,” the one on the right ordered.
I slowly did as he said because it was never a good idea to spook the big men holding nasty AKs. People have gotten shot for much less.
“Where are we going?” I asked as they led me through narrowed corridors into the hallway.
“To see the other fighters. Move,” one man ordered and pushed me forward.
I fake snarled at them for treating me like a menial sack of shit. As I was doing this, however, I took in the details of my surroundings, and the number of meters between each camera.
Once outside, I noticed the numerous satellite dishes on three of the compounds about one klick south and smiled inwardly.
That many cameras and satellite dishes meant a security system in a control room with a connection to the outside world through an Internet provider.
How much would you like to bet the control room was in one of those buildings? All I had to do was figure out which one.
They walked me to an open space, where male and female fighters were training. Some were pumping irons, while others were practicing hand-to-hand combat.
A man in green cargo pants and t-shirt supervised the entire thing.
“Aqui está outro.” Here is another one, the guard holding me declared.
“Estás a brincar comigo? Estão a enviar raparigas para lutar agora?”Are you fucking kidding me? They’re sending girls to fight now?
“Fale com o patrão se não estiver satisfeito.” Talk to the boss if you’re not happy.
The guard holding me pushed me to the man’s feet.
I schooled my features into a stoic mask, got up, and patted away the dirt while mentally memorizing the man’s face.
Have I mentioned that I hate being bullied? If it weren’t for this stupid collar around my throat, the idiot would be singing falsetto already.
“O que fala?” What do you speak? The man asked.
“English.” I actually understood some of what he said. Thanks to my teachers at the Academy, I speak several languages, namely Arabic, Russian, Latin, and Spanish.
“Let’s see what you have. You, come here,” he ordered a young man, who was about the same height and build as me, to come forward.
“Senhor?” he answered, and his familiar voice froze me on the spot. It was Diego, the fourteen-year-old boy I spoke with while in solitary confinement.
“Não, não o meu filho. Por favor, leva-me a mim, imploro-te,” No, not my son. Please take me instead, I beg you, a woman screamed as she desperately tried to hold on to her kid while the guards pulled him away from her.
I didn’t know who these petrified people were, but it was obvious they weren’t a match for me.
“I won’t fight children or women too scrawny to defend themselves,” I told the guard in a clear voice.
“You will fight whoever I tell you to fight, puta.”
“Good luck with that.” I fell over when the man pressed the yellow button and my necklace zapped me to kingdom come.
