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The only thing Diana was certain of was that this house was not where Rafiq was holed up. The structure was tiny and ramshackle, and she didn’t think anyone lived there. For starters, there was no electricity or water. Just a pit toilet, and their drinking water came from jugs. Cooking was done on an open fire. It would be called camping if the structure wasn’t a three-room house.
It was a waypoint. A stopping place to store her until her captors could plan their next move.
She realized they’d be at the way station for more than a few hours when Jamal left her with her hands free but ankles bound together—just enough length between them so she could hobble to the pit toilet as needed—and returned an hour later with groceries for her to cook. That she would do the cooking explained the unbound hands.
Their larder was basic: lamb, chicken, yogurt, pita bread, rice, and the makings for tabbouleh and falafel. Enough to feed the three of them for a day or two if she was careful with portions. She gathered that they’d burned through most of their funds keeping the car fueled as they drove all over the Kingdom.
Abandoning the camp—which had been expensive to set up—had been quite a blow to the organization’s finances. She felt a grim satisfaction at that, but also knew it would mean they’d up the pressure on her to provide them with an abundance of artifacts to sell.
It was late on the day after they’d settled in when they had a visitor. It was Harun, the man who’d initially abducted her and later introduced her to Rafiq.
Harun frowned at her unbound hands and ordered Bassam to correct his error.
Once she was properly tied up, Bassam led her into the other room, where an old metal sign was propped on a stack of old tires to make a desk of sorts. Harun stood before the table, where he’d placed a laptop that was in the process of booting up.
As he waited, he turned and studied her. His eyes were cold. Dead. She wasn’t a person to him. She was merely a means to an end. She hoped to hell he wouldn’t be permanently joining their merry band of three.
Bassam and Jamal she could handle. This man…he’d relish hurting her.
But she also knew she had to be careful in giving cooperation or acquiescence to Harun. If he realized she had her own agenda, he’d kill her.
He spoke to her in English. “You could have escaped last night, but instead you told the SEAL not to shoot your guards.”
“I had a knife to my throat.”
“They were US military special forces. Your guards are barely trained children.”
“A barely trained child can accidently slit a throat where a well-trained man will not. I like breathing. Cooperating with the boy with the knife was the logical choice.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She shrugged. “I don’t give a fuck what you believe.”
Quick as a flash, Harun’s open palm met her cheek. She rolled with the blow, twirling and bumping the table before dropping to the floor.
She only exaggerated the impact a little. The slap hurt like a bitch and did knock her off balance. She cupped her stinging cheek and glared up at him. Her eyes teared—those were real—and she decided to push again. “Fuck you.”
He kicked her in the ribs. Painful, but not what it could have been. He’d checked the blow. A show of power, but not bad enough to break ribs.
This was a strange dance, but still, they were both moving to the same song for different reasons. He needed her, but he needed to show power and control. She needed him to believe he’d cowed her into cooperating. She figured she had the upper hand because she knew his motives, but he had no clue about hers.
“Without the site we’d already located, we need to find a new source for artifacts. You will tell us where to go.” His eyes narrowed. “No tricks. We will send a team to check the site is real before we bring you there.”
She shifted her position and placed a hand over her soon-to-be bruised ribs. “There are guards at Petra.”
He raised his foot to kick her again. Her flinch wasn’t faked.
He placed his boot on the ground. “There is much archaeology in Jordan apart from Petra. You know where many sites are. You will tell me.”
“I’m an American. I don’t know where Jordan’s secret sites are.”
“You have worked with Professor Yousef.”
“So?”
Harun’s smile somehow turned even more malicious. He waved a hand toward the laptop on the table. “Stand,” he commanded. “And watch.”
She slowly got to her feet. Her side throbbed along with her head. She’d be wise to put the show of resistance behind her.
