He’d withstood exhaustion and physical pain on countless missions. He’d been wounded more than once and had almost died in Afghanistan when he’d caught a bullet to the chest. But he’d never faced torture. Still, he wasn’t helpless. He’d made it through SERE training—Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape—and had all the tools that the army could give him.
What he didn’t have was a reason for this.
What did Kuti stand to gain by torturing him? Was it simply revenge?
The vehicle entered large bay doors and drew to a stop. The doors opened, and their captors climbed out, dragging Kristi with them first and then Malik.
Kuti spoke in rapid Naija to his men, two of whom grabbed Kristi by the arms and led her away.
She called for him. “Malik!”
Malik broke free from the men who held him and got in Kuti’s face. “Where are you taking her? Where are you taking my wife?”
“I am being merciful to you both. My men will lock her in a room where she won’t be able to hear you scream—or would you rather have her watch me break you?”
Malik leaned closer, his face now an inch from Kuti’s. “You and what army?”
Kuti stepped back. “You have reason to boast, Mr. Jones. You are a skilled fighter. But my expertise is the use of pain to make people talk.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I want to know who helped you rescue your wife—and I want to know what you did with Jidda’s nephew, Obi.”
Fuck.
That’s not what Malik had expected him to say, and it raised the stakes. Malik couldn’t betray David, and he would rather die than let these fuckers get their hands on Obi again. He would have to keep his teeth together, no matter what they did to him.
“I was alone out there. Your men were distracted by murdering one of their own. They made it easy for me to scare them with the drone and get my wife.”
“Mr. Jones, our tracker found two different kinds of shell casings and four sets of footprints.”
Son of a bitch.
“Your tracker is full of shit. Ask the men Ididn’tkill how many men they saw.”
Kuti laughed, pointed to one corner of the room. “String him up.”
Malik took the scene in. Kuti with no weapon in his hands. Four men with rifles on their shoulders moving toward him. The bar hanging from the ceiling by a rope-and-pulley system. The two men standing near the bay door, talking, rifles in hand.
He drew a breath, focused his mind, then jumped up and caught Kuti in the face with his heel, knocking him to the floor.
One of Kuti’s men came at him, but Malik dropped him with a scissor kick to the jaw, the man’s rifle clattering to the concrete.
Malik leapt, rolled, and came up holding the rifle. But his wrists were bound, making it impossible for him to hold it properly and sight his shot. Holding the AK like a pistol, he aimed as best he could and fired at the two men by the door, killing one of them. But before he could fire again, the rifle was knocked from his grasp, the butt of an AK striking him hard in the temple.
Pain exploded inside his cranium. He staggered back, tried to give himself room to recover, but it was over. Another blow from the AK, this time to his gut, knocking the breath from his lungs.
Two men dragged him, doubled-over, to the corner and began to bind his arms just above the elbows.
“Make it tight.” Kuti got to his feet, holding a handkerchief over his bloody nose. “You are strong and clever, Mr. Jones, but what do you know abouttabay?”
He gave a nod to his men, who pulled on the rope, hoisting Malik off his feet, leaving him to hang in mid-air.
Geezus.
He sucked in a breath at the pain, his body weight hanging entirely from his shoulders, which had been forced into an unnatural angle by the ropes that bound his elbows. He gritted his teeth, looked Kuti straight in the eyes. “Fuck you, motherfucker.”
19