Malik had warned her not to come to Nigeria. She’d looked into changing her contract, but the need in Nigeria was so great that she hadn’t been able to turn her back on the country. In truth, she hadn’t believed this could happen to her. And now she would suffer—and her family would suffer—as a result.
Who were these bastards? Were they Boko Haram, bandits, Fulani herdsmen? What were they going to do with her?
Kristi had heard stories of captivity, rape, and murder, stories of women and girls being sold as prostitutes abroad or forced into marriage. Those stories rushed through her mind in sickening detail, her stomach threatening to revolt.
But she was a US citizen and on the staff of a global aid organization. Surely, they wouldn’t think they could get away with this. The US government would send someone.
A hostage negotiator? A SEAL Team? A private security team like Cobra?
And what if help doesn’t come fast enough?
The thought made her adrenaline spike again.
Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
Then something Malik had said came back to her. She had asked him how he could face combat, how he managed his fear with bullets flying.
I don’t let fear control me. A long time ago, I accepted that there was a bullet or an IED with my name on it out there somewhere, and my job was to keep fighting until it found me. It’s incredibly freeing to embrace your mortality. You surrender hope and gain clarity and peace. You learn to live and act in the moment.
She closed her eyes, drew deep breaths, exhaling slowly.
She’d never given much thought to how she might die. She had always assumed she’d be a grandmother by then, a respected elder in her family. She’d never imagined dying at the age of thirty-two.
The vehicle turned, slowed, stopped.
Shouts. Men’s voices. Laughter.
Her pulse raced.
The vehicle’s doors opened, and rough hands dragged her from the backseat, forcing her to her feet. The duffel bag was ripped away from her, fingers biting into her arms, pulling her along. From the closeness of the men’s voices, she knew a crowd had gathered around her. Then a hand reached between her legs, another grasping her butt.
She twisted, tried to smack the hands away.
Don’t let them see your fear. Embrace your mortality.
Shit!What the hell did that even mean?
She tripped up a step or two, and suddenly it was a little cooler.
Someone ripped the hood off her head.
She found herself standing inside a one-room mud-brick house with a dirt floor. Rodent droppings were scattered in the dirt, spider webs on the ceiling. Two open windows covered with mosquito netting let in daylight. Against the far wall, a man lay on a mat, a bloody bandage wrapped around his left thigh.
The man with the gunshot wound.
A hand in the middle of her back sent her stumbling forward.
The man who’d abducted her dropped the duffel bag at her feet, took hold of her arm. “Take care of him. Promise you will save him.”
She couldn’t promise that. If he was septic or if gangrene had set in, there would be little she could do for him out here. She jerked her arm away, looked the bastard straight in the eyes, doing her best to hide her fear. “I don’t know how bad it is, but I will do everything I can for him. If you want my help, keep your hands off me.”
The jerk drew his hand back as if to strike her, but a shout from the wounded man stopped him. He lowered his hand, backed away.
Startled, Kristi looked down, found her patient watching her.
“He will not harm you.” The man’s face was lined with pain. He, too, was thin, but older than the men who’d abducted her, his short dark hair and trimmed beard shot through with gray. “Help me.”
Kristi knelt beside him, pressed her hand to his forehead, doing her best to collect herself. She was a nurse. He was a patient in need of her help.