Malik’s heart hit his sternum, driving the breath from his lungs. “You … killed her? You fucking son of—”
“Oh, she’s safe for now. I’m giving her time to rethink her choice.” Bello stood, motioned for Samuel to raise Malik up again.
Malik tried to prepare himself, but the pain stunned him as they hoisted him up again. He clenched his teeth, afraid that if he opened his mouth he’d scream.
“I asked Samuel not to do any permanent harm until I got here and had a chance to speak with you. I made your wife an offer, and now I’ll do the same for you. Tell us what we want to know, and we’ll kill you with a single shot to the head. Fast, painless. All of this will end, and you can rest.”
When Malik said nothing, Bello went on.
“If you don’t, Samuel can do whatever he likes with you. He enjoys lighting fires beneath people and burning them slowly. They can’t help but kick and twist as they try to escape the heat, but that greatly increases their pain. In the end, they always break. You will break, Mr. Jones, and you will die horribly. Why not make it easier on yourself and your wife? If we must, we can get the information from her. I don’t think Kristi would last as long as you have.”
The thought of Kristi suffering torture put terror in Malik’s chest. “Fuck you, Bello! Stay away from her, or you’ll be the one who dies today.”
Bello and Kuti laughed and walked away, speaking quietly together.
But Malik overheard them.
“We use them against each other, see? Light one of your fires. We’ll bring her to watch. When she sees him burning, she’ll tell us what we want to know.”
Fire.
Chills slid down Malik’s spine.
If he could just hold out a little longer.
Never shall I fail my comrades…
* * *
Kristi inchedher way along the dusty ventilation shaft, flat on her belly, trying not to sneeze, dust making her skin itch. She thought she understood where she was going now, having taken some wrong turns. If she followed the shaft along the back of the building, it ought to take her to the big garage-like room where they’d last had Malik.
She’d cut through her ropes and looked for a way out of her prison, thinking at first that she could climb into the ceiling. Fear that it wouldn’t hold her made her give up that idea. Then she’d discovered the ventilation shaft in the back wall. It was barely large enough for her to pass, but it was her only way out. She’d pried the screen loose, crawled inside, and had crept her way along, looking into each room as she passed.
What if they’d moved him? What if he was too hurt to fight? What would she do if she found him?
Don’t think about that now.
She inched her way along, grateful she wasn’t claustrophobic, the utility knife in her pocket. Then up ahead, she saw light.
Carefully, quietly, she moved forward and looked through the screen. It was a small room, like a closet. The lights were on, but she didn’t see anyone. A box of whisky. A bag of rice. Bags of dried beans. A carton of cigarettes. Matches. And there in the corner were her backpack and Malik’s duffel bag, their contents dumped out.
The first aid kit. One of Malik’s pistols. The knife he’d worn around his ankle.
Oh, how she would love to get her hands on those. All she would have to do is crawl out, put what she needed into her backpack, and then disappear again—before anyone walked in or spotted her.
Sure. Easy. Piece of cake.
Pulse racing, she pushed out the screen, crept out, and grabbed the first aid kit and stuck it and the knife and one of his pistols into her backpack.
Voices.
She was about to crawl back into the shaft when her gaze fell on the matches and the whisky again, and an idea came to her. If she could create a distraction…
She grabbed a bottle of whisky and the matches and tucked them into her backpack. She stuck her backpack inside the shaft, then slid in feet-first and pulled the screen back into position.
The voices came closer.
A man walked in, grabbed a pack of cigarettes, and left again.