She opened the drawer, grabbed the utility knife, and cut the ropes that bound her wrists.
* * *
Never shallI fail my comrades. I will always keep myself mentally alert, physically strong andmorally straight, and I will shoulder more than my share of the task, whatever it may be, one-hundred-percent and then some.
Cold sweat ran down Malik’s temples, trickled down his forehead, and into his eyes, the pain in his shoulders, upper back, neck, arms, and hands unbearable. He’d long since learned not to kick or struggle. It only made the pain worse.
Christ!
He gritted his teeth, reciting snippets of the Ranger Creed to keep his mind focused. He could not break. He could not betray David or his family. He could not give up Obi and turn him over to be the Sky Kings’ pawn.
Stay strong. Stay strong.
Cobra knew where they were. They would come.
Kuti had walked away a few minutes ago, leaving him with a few of his grunts, who alternately threatened him and found petty ways to hurt him. They had lowered him so that his feet barely touched the floor—then raised him up again. They’d grabbed his legs and had taken turns hanging on him, their weight amplifying his pain.
One pointed his AK at Malik’s crotch. When they quit laughing about that, the other flicked his lighter and moved the flame close to Malik’s bare feet.
Malik saw his chance. He grabbed the bastard by the neck with his legs, and lifted him off the ground with a jerk, breaking his neck and letting him fall to the concrete.
Fuck, it hurt, but it was worth it.
Malik taunted the other one. “Come here, fucker. Bring your AK. Get closer.”
The guy backed off and kept his distance.
Malik remained as he was, hanging, his arms tied together at the elbows, reciting the Creed, for another ten minutes—or had it been an hour?
Then Kuti walked in with some guy dressed in a neon blue suit.
The man with the AK lay face down on the floor to greet him, then clambered to his feet, pointed to his dead friend, and explained what had happened, Malik catching only catch bits and pieces.
Kuti walked over to the dead man, knelt down.
Malik rubbed it in, rage giving him strength. “Twenty-one.”
The bastard he’d kicked in the jaw had died, too.
Kuti glared up at Malik, but made way for the man in the peacock suit.
“Let him down. Bring us chairs.”
Malik was lowered to the floor, the relief in his shoulders and upper back so intense he almost moaned, though his arms still ached from lack of circulation. “Who the hell are you?”
“I am Captain Jonathan Bello. I just spoke with your lovely and spirited wife.”
“Stay the fuck away from Kristi.”
“As much as it pains me that you two are in this situation, we want information from you, information you refuse to give. The man who helped you raid our camp and steal your wife back—I’m certain he’s Nigerian or we would have caught him trying to escape with you.”
“Maybe—or maybe not.”
“And the boy Obi. Where is he? He was Jidda’s nephew, and Jidda worked for me. Obi must carry on in Jidda’s place. He has seen too much to leave us now.”
“I don’t know where Obi is.” Malik tried to shrug and rotate his shoulders, but the motion sent pain shooting down his arms. “We freed him and let him go.”
“That is what you keep telling Samuel. Three hours oftabayis almost always enough to get the truth from a man, but I think you are still holding out on us. You are too defiant, Mr. Jones, as is your wife. I offered her a life serving me in bed and out, and she chose to die.”