Liberation (3 page)

Unsure about the direction of the conversation, her answer was wary. “I was embarrassed that it was necessary.  All I did was shop.”

Nuri told her, “You diminish the shopping that you did.”

“You requested to be taken to the poorest regions of the city,” his cousin added.

Flustered, she shrugged.  “They had the prettiest goods.”

Both of them laughed and the sound was strangely beautiful.  Fahad shook his head.  “An American teenager walking the streets of Dubai with a bag of currency, buying entire shops of goods and having them shipped to shelters in the United States, is not done because the items are
pretty
.”

“It accomplished what I needed.  The people were kind.”

“I thought our grandfather would have a heart attack from stress.  He sent his own team to watch over you.  He was determined that nothing would happen to the daughter of one of his oldest friends.” 

She blinked and the alcohol haze cleared from her system with a snap.  Sitting up straight, she tilted her head.  “Your grandfather is Salid bin Qasim?”

“He is.”

“He was kind to me when…he was kind to me.”  Marci didn’t want to relive one of the most horrifying hours of her life.  She hadn’t spoken a word to Victoria for
months
after their return to the States.  Truthfully, she hadn’t spoken to anyone. 

It was clear that they already knew about that day from the looks on their faces.  She whispered, “Please.  I don’t wish to speak of it.”

“Understood.” 

“You’re both…familiar to me.” 

One side of Nuri’s mouth lifted and this time, she noticed a dimple in his cheek.  “We were part of the team assigned to you.” 

Absently, she said, “How dull that assignment must have been.  We are…close in age.” 

“Excitement is found where you search for it, Miss Canfield.  I am three years older,” Fahad said before nodding to his cousin. “Nuri is two.”

She rubbed her temple and flipped through her memories of the long-ago trip.  They’d been locked up for so long that they weren’t easily accessible.  Her family had been in Dubai for two weeks when a horrific series of events overshadowed the joy she’d found half a world away. 

Had forced her to forget the
friends
she made there. 

Glancing back and forth between them, she was stunned at how much she’d forgotten.  In a whisper, she told them, “You’re
Near
and
Far
.”

“You remain the only person in our lifetime to give us nicknames,” Fahad replied softly.

Fifteen years before, Marci had been taller than both of them.  They were young men struggling with puberty who were underweight, prone to acne, and had voices that consistently cracked. 

“You look so different.  You…grew up.” 

At the same time, they replied, “So did you, Marci.” 

She had forgotten so much that suddenly rushed back. 

Reaching out, Marci moved the collar of Nuri’s shirt and stared at the scar that slashed across his collarbone.  Taking Fahad’s hand, she turned it over and traced her finger over the raised flesh dissecting his inner forearm. 

It was physical evidence of the severe injuries they’d taken for
her
the day before the Canfields boarded their plane and returned to New York. 

She had never returned to the Middle East.  She’d never even asked if they’d survived.  One afternoon, she left her bed and pretended it never happened. 

“You could have
died
and I put all of it out of my mind like a selfish child.” 

“You were in
shock
.” 

“We understood, Marci.” 

There was a clench in her chest.  “I
didn’t
understand.”

Inhaling carefully, she closed her eyes and forced her mind back to the day when her exploration of beautiful Dubai had gone horribly wrong. 

* * * * *

The young men had been kind to her from the moment she arrived and the three of them were introduced.  The girls her age were so ladylike and subdued that she’d felt awkward in their presence. 

Instead, she’d found kindred spirits in the cousins.  Close in age and naturally charming, they’d appointed themselves as liaisons within the high walls of their grandfather’s castle. 

They asked her about books and movies, peppered her with questions about her days in the United States, and made her laugh when they told her what they imagined life was like in America.

Being around them made her happy, made her heart race, and she recognized that she felt differently about them than other boys she knew.  Raised in the sort of wealth that was incomprehensible to most people on the planet, she recognized the vast difference between her existence and the majority of the world population. 

Near and Far understood how she lived but the violence that had surrounded them from birth provided a different aspect.  Some of the experiences they shared with her gave her some much needed perspective at the time.  It gave her a new appreciation of wealth, freedom, and what
good
she could accomplish with both. 

During her time in their country, the pair frequently entered her thoughts unexpectedly.  She’d been thinking about them, a small smile on her face, as she exited a store that sold blankets. 

It was the last truly innocent moment of her life. 

A tall man with bright red hair stepped up on the sidewalk and shot the security men on either side of her in the head.  He grabbed for her but she dodged his hand and ran hard. 

Staying on the main road, she tapped into years of self-defense training.  She didn’t look back, she didn’t scream, she simply ran.  A van squealed to a stop as she approached an intersection and two different men jumped out. 

Darting into the street, she changed direction and kept running.  She knew she couldn’t enter a shop or stop a passing car.  Anyone who tried to help would be in mortal danger. 

There was no doubt that this was about money.  She was valuable.  Innocent bystanders would be nothing more than witnesses to dispose of and no match for the kind of men in pursuit of their payday. 

A mile, two miles, and Marci began to hope for escape.  Suddenly, a woman stepped from between two buildings and punched her in the face.  She hit the concrete hard. 

When the woman bent to seize her, she mule-kicked her in the sternum and watched her hit the side of a building, her head bouncing off the stone. 

Struggling to stand despite the pain ricocheting through her body, she attempted to run again.  The van rocked to a squealing stop along the curb and the three men rushed from the open doors. 

Reaching into her bag, she took out a can of mace and a small knife.  She would never be able to outrun them.  They
would
take her but she planned to hurt them as much as possible to buy time and weaken their advantage.  They surrounded her and she found herself backed into a narrow niche beside a shop. 

The cuts she delivered weren’t fatal but they would always carry the evidence that their target fought back.  The man with red hair tried to grab her and she sprayed mace in his eyes. 

Her victory was short-lived as the remaining attackers wrestled her into the van.  As her kidnappers prepared to speed away from the scene, one of them bound her arms and legs with tape.  Another piece was pressed roughly over her mouth. 

The woman she’d kicked jumped inside last.  Instantly, she knelt to punch Marci in the face repeatedly, despite the screaming coming from her male partners in the front. 

She listened to the various accents through the ringing of her ears and memorized their faces through the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. 

They drove for several minutes before the redhead’s vision cleared.  The man who’d killed her bodyguards straddled her torso.  The skin of his face was enflamed and his blue eyes watered. 

“Bitch!  Did you think you were going to get away?  I always get what I want.”  He ran his hands over her breasts and when she tried to get out from under him, he punched her in the temple.  “I can’t kill you but I can make this bad for you.  Lie still.  Let me see what’s so special about the little heiress.” 

It was the sort of attack she’d never expected and wasn’t prepared to deal with.  At fourteen, she’d never so much as kissed a boy.  No one had ever touched her intimately. 

She started screaming behind the tape and everyone started talking at once. 

The man in the passenger seat brought his gun around.  “You’re damaging merchandise worth
billions
, you fucking amateur!”  His accent was thick but the message was clear.

Suddenly, there was a crash and the van stopped moving.  The redhead was thrown free of her as the back door was pulled wide and several men in black tactical gear stood on the street. 

Gunshots from the side windows killed the two kidnappers in front.  The woman and the redhead launched themselves from the van, shooting and slashing at Marci’s would-be rescuers. 

Disoriented and nauseous, she rolled herself against the wall and worked at the bindings on her wrist.  When the tape ripped free, she pulled it off her ankles and mouth. 

Crawling to the open doors, she saw that the redhead’s back was to her.  He held a hostage, an older woman likely passing on the street who he grabbed when it was clear he was not going to walk away. 

His female accomplice was on the ground, shot in the center of her forehead, a long knife in her hand.  Her dead body lay between Marci and the man who had thought nothing of the men he’d killed, the way he’d touched her in the van, or the trauma he would cause the innocent victim he held to protect his own worthless hide. 

He thought himself safe because the van blocked his back. 

Quietly climbing from the cargo hold, Marci bent and picked up the wicked blade.  Wiping her hands on her jeans, she gripped it firmly and moved up behind him without a sound. 

The men in combat gear yelled at her in Arabic but she ignored them.  They kept their eyes on the man holding the hostage to keep him from turning and seeing her. 

“I don’t understand you fucking animals!  Speak English!”  The murderer pushed the gun harder into the temple of the woman.  She was crying.  “I’m walking away!  I’m walking away or I’ll kill this cunt!”

Marci was inches from his back when she simultaneously hooked one arm around his elbow, pulling the gun away from the hostage’s head, and used her other hand to slash her kidnapper across the back of his thigh with the knife. 

The blade went through his pants easily and she felt when it hit bone.  The effect was immediate.  His screams as the woman broke from his grasp were nothing to her. 

Twisting the gun out of his hand as he dropped to the ground, Marci watched him thrash as he bled profusely onto the cobblestone street.  Checking the ammunition in the magazine, she shoved it back in place and stared into his eyes. 

“Who sent you?”

He started to laugh.  “You stupid little bitch.  You’ll
never
be safe.” 

Glancing down his body, she extended her arm and put a bullet in his knee.  “Who
hired
you?” 

His fresh screams were accompanied by her being surrounded, guarded by a dozen men standing shoulder to shoulder.  Half of them faced out to watch the street.  Those facing toward her had their guns pointed at the kidnapper’s head and she knew they’d shoot if they believed her to be in danger.

Past them, she noted emergency personnel arriving to contain the scene.  Medics worked on the injured fifteen feet away. 

Among them were Near and Far.  They were covered in blood, their wounds likely delivered from the same knife she held in her hand. 

Straddling the redhead’s torso, trapping his shoulders with her knees, she slid the gun away and switched the knife to her other hand.  “I may never be safe but I will always be safe from
you
.  You have one more chance to tell me who hired you.” 

“Fuck you, rich girl.”

In her life, she’d had no real friends other than the staff who took care of her.  To know that this man had hurt people she cared about and could have killed her first friends for
money
made her mind cloud with rage. 

Looking down at a man who was delirious with pain but still able to spit hatred at her, she said clearly, “No.  Fuck
you
.” 

Then she sank the blade into his chest with both hands.  She watched as he gurgled his last breath and then the world rushed back, like an explosion in her brain, and she lost consciousness. 

Her rescuers returned her to the heavily fortified mansion of her father’s friend, Salid bin Qasim.  He’d guarded her personally until Pritchard and Victoria arrived.  Marci was beaten but it was the terror in her own mind that made her feel as if she was bleeding out. 

Her first memory upon waking was Victoria shrieking, “It’s the fucking Middle East, what do you
expect
, Pritchard?” 

“The leader was American, the driver and the passenger were Russian, and the woman may have been French,” she managed to whisper.  “None of them were Middle Eastern.”

Her mother turned on her.  “How would
you
know?  You don’t know anything!  You traipse around as if you don’t have a care in the fucking world – given far too much freedom by your father.  If you’d been taken, do you know what it would have
cost
, what we would have had to
pay
to get you back?”

A deep voice boomed across the room and made her head hurt.  “That is
enough
!  You dare to speak to your
daughter
, in this way?  She could have been killed.  Can you not pretend to be a mother for one moment?  Get out of this room at once.”

“Don’t you talk to me like that…”

“Get out of here, Victoria,” her father said sharply.

“Pritchard…”

“You have zero emotion.  Leave the presence of those who do.”  Marci remembered it as the one time her father had stood up to Victoria in such a way that put fear on her mother’s face. 

Salid sat in the chair beside the bed and said, “You are a strong young woman.  My grandsons said you are a fierce warrior.” 

She didn’t know she’d started to cry until he reached out with a piece of soft cloth to wipe her face. 

“You must rest.  Let the world circle the sun and heal your mind and body.  It will be better in a day, better still in a month, and in a decade, you will have forgotten much of what happened today.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“For
her
.”  She swallowed hard.  “Thank you.”

“There is no need to thank me.  Sleep now, little one.”

Marci had and it seemed, looking back, that she’d slept away the majority of several months.  When she woke up, she stepped back into her life and put the entire ordeal out of her mind. 

* * * * *

In the middle of a high-end club in New York City, Marci allowed everything to click into place. 

“I never thanked you.” 

Nuri brushed a strand of her hair over her shoulder.  “After you left, we spoke to dozens of witnesses who talked about your clear thinking and refusal to put anyone else in danger.”

“You are something of an urban legend to our people, Marci,” Fahad told her with a smile.