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She’d purchased the condo not long after the accident, and the tub was fitted with extra handholds to facilitate getting in and out with only one good leg. She was thankful she’d made the accommodation then, even though by the time she moved in, she’d been almost to full mobility.
Now, she relaxed in her tub, the only place she really felt safe, which was odd given how utterly vulnerable she was between being naked and the complicated movements it took to get in and out without doing further harm to her much-abused joint.
She tried not to think about Chris. He wasn’t allowed in her safe space. No, she needed to focus on what her next steps would be to combat the efforts to brand her as either delusional or a liar when it came to Rafiq.
But really, she was at a loss. She’d spoken with the terrorist leader three times, but there was no proof of it.
The raid on the compound had resulted in the questioning of two women who apparently worked in the house as cooks. Diana had never crossed their paths while she was there, and they hadn’t known she was there. The women had denied Rafiq or any terrorist group resided there. But then, that was to be expected.
The men had all left in search of Diana.
The artifacts were gone.
Rafiq was gone.
He must’ve slipped out, hidden among the men in pursuit of her, a keffiyeh covering his head and face so he looked just like the others.
They got nothing from the raid. No proof that Rafiq was alive or had ever been there.
No one questioned her story of being held captive in that house. After all, they had drone video of her escaping. But there were other, more insidious questions being asked. Some in the Intelligence Community suggested her escape had been staged and she’d never been in real danger.
She closed her eyes as she sat in the hot water with the jets pummeling her shoulders.
She saw the bicycle. Inviting and available. Right there by the open gate. Felt the fear that had coursed through her as she made the rash decision to escape because she’d given up on waiting for the US military to save her.
She’d given up on Chris and his team. But then, she’d been certain they’d given up on her.
It had felt like the most dangerous action she’d taken in six weeks of taking dangerous actions—starting with refusing to be rescued the first time.
Now she had to wonder if it hadn’t been dangerous at all. If they’d let her go to give them all a reason to abandon the compound before the raid.
Had they known about the tracker?
The secret of subdermal trackers was known among some terrorist groups, but they’d have to have known she was a Valkyrie to suspect she had one, and that was the one thing she’d never been certain they knew about her.
She studied the faint scar on her arm. The dead tracker had been removed when she was in Germany. She was tracker-free.
If it hadn’t been for the small chip, she’d never have made the decisions she’d made. She’d have been rescued by Chris that first night. She’d probably be safe and home and whole.
She supposed she was safe and home. And technically, her body was whole. But her life was shattered. Irreparable.
Missing pieces like the glass ingot she’d broken.
She kept telling herself she’d get through this. Rafiq would be spotted by someone else, and her reputation would be restored. If that never happened, then at least with time, people would recognize that everything she’d done was for the greater good, even if it couldn’t be proved that the man was alive.
She hadn’t worked for a terrorist cell willingly. She had been under duress, in constant fear for her life.
Dr. Fahd Yousef’s body had been found within hours of his death. Her account of what she’d seen on the video matched with the wounds on his body. They knew that part of her story to be true.
Her heart ached every time she thought of Fahd and his wife and children.
Answers weren’t to be found in the tub, and so Diana opened the drain and then very carefully extracted herself, using all the handholds available and still nearly slipping twice.
She settled on a cold plastic chair she’d set up next to the tub and carefully removed the protective plastic from her leg, followed by the brace. She inspected the bandages before slowly unwrapping them to reveal the joint in all its mottled, sutured glory. She had a web of old scars and new stitches. These stitches were the slow-to-dissolve kind and even six weeks out she faced a patchwork of skin defined by blue lines that crisscrossed her pale skin. The sutures looked good—the sewn skin showing no redness or extra swelling.
She looked forward to hearing the doctor’s opinion of her progress tomorrow.
She used a soft cloth and special soap to wash her foot and ankle and then sat with her limb in front of a small portable heater for a few minutes to ensure it was completely dry before she wrapped it in a new bandage and put the brace back on. Only then did she deal with the rest of her postbathing ritual of combing wet hair and applying lotions.
