Taken With The Enemy (12 page)
I debated the safest course of action, considering the hostile looks the prisoner was giving me. Being on the floor left me open to being kicked, but leaning over the prisoner was just as dangerous. Fuck, it was all dangerous. Sitting next to him didn't guarantee my safety either. However, at least on the cot, we would be on an equal level. Hopefully, if he did decide to attack, he wouldn't grab me and snap my neck before I could get away.
Avoiding direct eye contact as I was ordered, I moved onto the thin mattress, riding the edge and keeping as much distance between us as I could and still be able to examine him properly. Automatically, I could see he was feverish, his pallid skin clammy looking, his cheeks rosy. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his dark eyes were glazed. Abrasions covered his forehead, and his forearm had a makeshift bandage of sorts, like a handkerchief tied over a wound.
I reached for his injured arm, but he leaned away and muttered something that, despite the language barrier, was obviously meant to warn me off. He then gave a response that obviously pissed off my escort, because my escort suddenly kicked the cot, jarring both me and the prisoner.
Rattled, I wasn't sure how to proceed. My captor had told me not to press the treatment issue, but the guy was undoubtedly suffering. I really wished I could talk to him. Maybe he was in a great deal of pain and didn't want me touching his injured arm? Or maybe he didn't know my intent and was scared of me?
Maybe the other man didn't tell him I was a doctor?
Thinking it would be best to show him that I was there to help, I pulled the stethoscope and the sphygmomanometer out to measure his blood pressure. These were universal medical instruments. He couldn't mistake my intent.
I reach for his good arm, but he pulled back, objecting. I followed his retreat, undeterred. He wasn't the first difficult—
"I will kill you if you touch me."
I was so shocked by the outburst being in English, I forgot the ‘no eye contact’ rule.
"Yes, bitch, you understand now,” he hissed, then spat in my face.
The next thing I knew, my escort had his fists on the prisoner's shirt and was hauling him off the bed.
"Don't,” I cried, shooting to my feet as the injured prisoner was slammed against the wall.
My escort turned and gave me a warning look, but remained silent.
"I do not want a whore's hands on me,” the prisoner snarled.
"I'm not a whore. I'm a doctor,” I explained curtly, wiping his spittle from my veil.
"You work for these American pigs."
It took a moment for his statement to sink in.
I looked up. “American? Are you sure?"
Deafening silence was my only reply.
I shook my head. “I wouldn't know. I'm just a prisoner here, too,” I remarked dryly, pulling off my head cover.
The prisoner stared up at my escort. “Pigs. You even steal your own women from their families."
A commotion sounded, just beyond the closed door.
I glanced over my shoulder. “What's happening?"
The guard pressed on his ear as if he had a radio ear-piece in, nodded, and moved in front of the entrance, blocking it. But never offered an answer.
"One says you leave, the other says you stay,” the prisoner translated.
Shit.
I didn't need to be told which one wanted me pulled out of the room.
I turned back. “Can I treat you now? Yes or no?"
When the prisoner nodded, my escort dragged him back to the cot and shoved him down.
I sat and resumed my exam. After taking his blood pressure, which was good, and his temperature, which was a little high at 101, I unraveled his makeshift bandage.
"They let you stay because I talk now."
The warning about me not speaking to the prisoner came to mind. Ha. I only broke two of the three requests. My captor shouldn't be too pissed off.
Yeah, right.
"I not talk before you come."
His injury would require stitches. It was an angry gash, filled with foreign matter and showed signs of setting infection. I pulled out my supplies to treat the wound.
"What is your name?” the prisoner asked.
The way they were about names around here, I'm sure my captor would have a heart attack if I gave my real one.
"Bee,” I offered.
"Like the honey?"
I smiled. “Yes."
Taking a deep breath, I caught myself before asking the prisoner what his name was. There was no need to piss my captor off any more than I probably already had. I'd talk enough to keep the patient happy, and nothing more.
After preparing the area, I pulled out a few needles and began inserting a series of interrupted sutures. As I tied and pulled, and pulled and tied, I thought more on my captor. He probably wanted to throttle me. For all I knew, he might actually do it.
I felt a giggle bubble up. It was a cross between a nervous reaction of things to come and a bratty ‘ha-ha’ gloating cynicism.
Why should I gloat?
I guess because my captor didn't get what
he
wanted. I was still in the room, I was not wearing my headscarf, I was making eye contact with the prisoner, I was talking to the prisoner, and I found out something about my captor that he didn't want me to discover.
Childish, I know.
But nervousness stemmed from the fact that I'd have to deal with the consequences of these actions later. When
he
got me alone. And I was quite sure there'd be hell to pay.
I was snatched from my musings by the prisoner's next question. “Why are you here?"
Telling this guy you were in Iraq with the military will probably not go over well.
I played ignorant, as if he meant how I ended up a prisoner too. “I guess the same reason you are. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
He chuckled. “I like you."
I finished sewing up the gash, impressed with my own handiwork. “You'll need to have these stitches removed in 10 to 14 days. Do you have allergies to any medications?” I asked. When he shook his head no, I smiled. “Then I'll leave you some medicines with the guards."
All I had left to attend to were the minor abrasions on his head. I opened an antiseptic packet and began treating the scratches.
"You have beauty and kind hands. I will remember you."
I gave a small smile, continuing with my ministrations. It was always nice to be appreciated as well as complimented.
"You should not be here,” the prisoner said softly.
No shit.
“I know."
"Find a way to leave, my friend."
Squinting at a cut on his ear, I nodded my concurrence.
Yeah, I'm working on that.
I must have missed seeing the small laceration during my initial examination, being that it was on the far side from where I sat. It appeared deep and jagged, but was now crusting over and no longer bleeding.
"They underestimate us,” he muttered. “We are not without ways..."
I leaned in to take a closer look, testing the flesh around the wound with my fingers.
"We know who they are,” he whispered, “and we are coming for them."
I froze and stared at him.
He had said it so softly, I wasn't sure I had heard him right.
We know who they are ... we are coming for them...
Even as my escort's rough fingers snaked under my arm and jerked me to my feet, I never stopped gazing into the prisoner's eyes, my mind finally digesting all of his words. He was warning me, telling me to escape when I could—while I could. He didn't want to see me hurt.
The prisoner nodded. “Soon,
insha'allah
."
Suddenly, I was dragged away.
My escort's biting grip never loosened, but I was too stunned to care. I kept looking back until finally we exited and the guard slammed the door shut, cutting off my view of the prisoner.
I was brought up short and spun about, only to meet the intense glare of my captor. Anger didn't describe what I saw there. Rage was more like it.
Fear sliced through my gut and cut off my breath.
"What did the prisoner whisper to you?” he bit out.
"I'm not sure—"
"Tell me. Now!"
I jumped. “I'm not sure I heard him corr—"
Abruptly, my captor moved forward, forcing his heated breath against my face. He was less than an inch away. I tried to step back, but my escort was the proverbial hard place to the rock before me.
"Don't you dare stand there and lie to protect him."
"I-I'm not. I'm just saying...” I tried to collect my scattered thoughts. But I was panicky, my legs trembling.
My captor was trying to intimidate me. Scare me. And though the tactic was working, it was not needed—and the insult to my integrity was definitely uncalled for. I wasn't trying to hide anything from him. If he wouldn't keep interrupting me, he'd already have his damn information.
"What did he say, Brenna?"
As he continued to stare me down, his anger seemed to be escalating. I almost expected to hear the threats of torture tumble out of his mouth.
The prisoner's injuries flashed in my mind.
I inhaled a shaky breath. “Maybe some one needs to protect him,” I whispered, looking away.
He let out a contemptible snort. “So you're siding with insurgents now?"
Fury clouded my good sense. For a fleeting moment, I heard Sergeant Jackson lecturing me about being careless.
I ignored the warning.
"What are you? Special ops? CIA? NCS?” I sneered. “Is this why you brought me here? To treat the prisoners you fuck up during interrogation? Did you forget that fucking torture is against the fucking law in
our
country?"
"Is that what he told you? That we tortured him?"
"Did you?” I countered.
"I could give a crap less whether you think we did or not. I don't answer to you. You answer to me. Tell me, word for word, what he said to you. Now."
Give a crap less, answer to me
... his statements, like sharp daggers, stabbed at my chest. And it hurt.
A thousand smart ass retorts teased my tongue, and I opened my mouth with the intent to lash out at the son of a bitch, but a subtle voice in my head, another whisper demanding that I pay heed, reminded me of the audience present. Though the others in the room pretended not be listening, too absorbed in whatever
busy
work they were doing, I knew they were.
Shame flooded me, cooling my lava hot temper and allowing reason to take hold.
This argument was getting out of hand. The problem here was not the transfer of information, or lack thereof. The problem was that my captor and I were too close to each other, cared too much, our emotions running too high, and we were now trying to wound each other with hurtful words...
God, it was like we were having a lovers spat over which button too push in the time of war. Red or green. The wrong choice would blow us all to kingdom come.
I told myself to calm down, to be a mature adult. I'd give him what he wanted for the sake of peace and for the safety of the people around me.
"I'm not sure if I heard him—"
"We're not doing this again, Brenna,” he spat. “If you can't do it on your own..."
AHHH!
"Stop, damn it, just stop! Stop interrupting me and let me finish my damn sentence.” My eyes watered in frustration. “Please."
I would not cry, I would not cry...
He snapped his mouth shut, then offered an abrupt nod.
"I don't know if I heard him correctly,” I voiced slowly, emphasizing each word in a vain attempt to steady my quivering voice. I paused, expecting a fifth interruption. When it didn't come, I continued. “I think he said, ‘We know who they are and we are coming for them'."
"Anything else?"
"Um ... inshallah, soon."
He looked up and behind me. “Take her back to her quarters,” he said quietly.
And that was it.
My escort dragged me away again, albeit a little gentler than when he'd brought me out of the makeshift holding cell, but dragging all the same.
On the bright side, at least they didn't blindfold me this time.
It was afternoon and I was still in bed, staring at the ceiling. I had spent the last two days doing a lot of thinking. I had plenty of time to do so. Two days and I hadn't seen or heard from my captor.
Which was fine by me.
Okay, it bothered me a little, but I wasn't going to go search for him—not that I could, being locked in the apartment and all. I didn't even bother with the walks in the courtyard. I wasn't going to lower myself to request anything from them. Not even my escort. Fuck him, too.
The only messages I left in the last forty-eight hours were the prescription instructions for their other prisoner.
Fuck them all.
I took an occasional break here and there from my soul-searching to watch the news, but of course, no mention of me being MIA.
Given all the information I had gathered during my stay, starting with my captor's ‘consider this a temporary reassignment', and ending with the injured insurgents ‘American pigs’ comment, I guessed that my captor and his friends really were some super classified US government agency. I probably was
not missing
due to them fudging paperwork, and their newly discovered identity explained how they were able to get on a US post—and take me off it—so easily. It also explained how they'd managed to retrieve my belongings.
So that led to my next conclusion, or maybe assumption: They weren't my enemy.
Gee, my captor had been telling the truth. Go fucking figure.
However, just because he wasn't my enemy didn't make things any better between us. He was still my
captor
. For one, he'd kidnapped me. For two, I was being held there against my will, secreted away behind white steel bars and padlocked doors. And three, most importantly, he was
my captor
because I didn't know what else to call the fucking jerk.
I should refer to him as
asshole
, but it just didn't have the same flow.
What it came down to was this: If they needed my help, they should have asked me, not abducted me. It would have made everything so much easier. Or even if they just ‘had’ to kidnap me, they could have at least told me we were on the ‘same side’ instead of leaving me to wonder if I was cavorting with insurgents.