Taken With The Enemy (5 page)

I had heard a similar comment a couple of years ago from a guy I had been dating. He failed to mention his wife and two kids. But he never
actually
lied; I'd just never asked the proper question. So, obviously, the whole ‘misunderstanding’ had been my fault.

Seething inside, I glared at him in disdain. “Withholding, lying ... Is it not one in the same?"

He folded his arms across his chest, anger flashing in his eyes. “You tell me?"

"What do you mean?"

"When you filled out your enlistment papers, you gave your signature under a paragraph agreeing that all the personal information written above was completely accurate and true to the best of your knowledge. However, there was no mention of college experience or a medical degree. Were you lying? Falsifying government documents? Or, when you signed your name, did you tell yourself that the information listed above was ‘accurate and true', and since a higher education was not necessary to join the enlisted ranks, you were not obligated to divulge that part. So tell me,
Doctor
, was that little omission a lie or not relevant?"

Once again, I was floored. He'd seen a copy of my enlistment papers?

"How do you know what I wrote?” I asked.

"Why join the military and take on a position you're overqualified for? Why not join as a military doctor? You are a respected Emergency Room physician, and I cannot believe that the military had no use for your skills. Why not mention it on your application?

"How do you know all this?” I reiterated.

"And as for previous job experience, you listed all your volunteer work, positions you've held while working for charities. I'm sure your recruiter asked about the job experience listed, or lack thereof. What did you tell him? That you've never worked anything but charity because you'd been living off the inheritance your parents left behind when they died in a tragic car accident?"

This wasn't happening—couldn't be happening...

"I wonder if you bothered to tell your recruiter it wasn't just a simple
inheritance
you received, but that you are actually the heir to a vast fortune, that you have enough money not to have to work another day in your life. How did you get around explaining why you wanted to join? Did you give him some speech about patriotic pride?"

"Fuck you."

"What Brenna?
Don't like hearing the truth?
” he spat. “Are you upset because I'm calling you out on your hypocritical bullshit? You want to thumb your nose at me for hiding things, but you have done the same for many years."

"I don't have to take this."

I went to rise from my seat, but he grasped my arm, holding me in place. “You will not walk away from me."

We sat there, staring each other down. It was in those few tense moments that I realized how dangerous he truly was. This threat wasn't physical. No, it was something so much worse. He wasn't going to let me run. He was going to make me face this—whatever ‘this’ was.

In such a short span of time, my captor already knew how to get past barriers I'd carefully erected. He knew how to bring down my emotional defenses. He had the means to draw me out. Clear as crystal, I read it all right there in his eyes. He knew just how to break me.

"I get it. You can stop,” I said, tears threatening once again.

"I'm not even close to being done.” He released my arm. “We checked up on those charities you've worked for. Your parents started each one of them years ago, and you have kept them running since their death. But what I find strange is that the positions you listed on your application were low level—manning the food lines at soup kitchens, picking up trash off the beaches, passing blankets out at the battered women shelter—"

"Please,” I whispered. “Don't do this."

"I'm going to place a bet that the people you worked with at these charities never knew your real identity. Your fellow volunteers thought you were ‘Average Jane’ off the street and had no idea that it was your money funding the projects in the first place. You never even told them you were a doctor."

I didn't respond. Why bother denying or confirming anything?

He continued. “You were once dismissed from a volunteer job at a homeless shelter where you managed the finances for hinting to the director that he should stop pocketing the money and put it to better use, such as more blankets and cots. He chewed you out, and you left without protest. How ironic you should be fired from your own charity for accusing someone of embezzling your money. But did you stand up to him there? No. Couldn't reveal your secret, could you? Instead, the mysterious benefactor sent him a letter later that day, relieving him of his position."

I stared off into space, occasionally wiping the silent tears that rolled down my cheeks. God, how could he know all this? And why did his words hurt so much?

"Why do you live this secret life?” he asked. “Why do you take the back seat on things when you're more than capable of being in the lead? Why do you live the life you do, instead of living the life of an investment heiress?"

"Perhaps I never had the opportunity,” I offered softly, instantly regretting the moment the lie rolled off my lips. I knew better, and so did he.

"You were twelve when your parents died. Your sole living relative, your grandmother, took over your care. Intelligent and resourceful, you graduated high school when you were sixteen and left for the university. You were nineteen when your grandmother passed away and you received your inheritance. Besides paying your college tuition and funding your charity work, you've done little with the money. You have no children, no husband, just a couple of past boyfriends that never became serious, and you have no close friends. You live in a modest apartment, drive a modest car, wear modest clothes, and spend a majority of your time working at the public hospital for a modest salary. Any free time you have is spent volunteering."

"What do you want me to say? That you're right? That you've perfectly summed up my empty life and lonely existence?

"Is there anyone in this world who knows who you really are besides your financial advisor and your personal accountant?"

I shrugged. “I guess you do."

"No, I know nothing about you. And neither does your financial advisor or accountant—or your lawyer for that matter. They might know your ‘true’ identity, your background, but they don't know
yo
u. And neither do I. In fact, I doubt there's a living soul in on this earth who knows the real Brenna. You've locked yourself in tight and hidden the key. I could sit here and claim to know who you are based off what I've seen—your responses, your actions, the way you dress, the things you say—but I won't. It would be a false claim. Because I know there is more to you than what I can locate in some file."

He got up and walked toward the front door. “I'll tell you what, Brenna. When you are ready to answer my ‘simplest’ of questions, I'll be more than happy to answer
some
of yours."

After it slammed shut, I stared at the closed door, noting that he didn't lock it. He didn't seem the type, even in anger, to forget such a detail. No, he was a man who did things when they served a purpose.

An act of trust or another lesson?

I'd already told him I would escape, given the chance, so I'm sure he didn't just
trust
me not to run. And the cameras in the flat were in place for a reason, so if I even approached the door, they would know.

Another lesson.

But this new lesson was harder to bear, even more so than the emotional rollercoaster he'd made me endure during the others. Even if I left now, I wouldn't get far. Not because of the cameras, or guards, or walls, but because my body was weak from malnourishment. The conversation had drained what little energy I had left. I barely had enough to get myself to the bedroom, much less to attempt a daring escape that would probably entail a brutal trek through the desert.

He was a dick for reminding me how I had thwarted myself.

Well, lesson learned.

I picked up the spoon and went about choking down the soup, thinking I would ‘escape’ after I was done, just for the sake of principle. Between eating and fighting off the bouts of nausea, I thought about the other lessons he'd imparted.

The first was the easiest, and the most cliché: You couldn't judge a book by its cover. Looks were definitely deceiving. He touched on all three of my secret lives, and even knew I went through great lengths to keep my roles as ‘doctor', ‘soldier', and ‘bleeding heart’ separate. I guess his acknowledgment of my daily challenges was his way of telling me that I couldn't judge him by what I saw, and that he might just be telling me the truth when he said he wasn't an insurgent.

Obviously, he wasn't.

He was so much more.

That was the second lesson. The details he knew about my life could not have been gathered by a simple background check. The story about the unscrupulous homeless shelter director proved that. That wouldn't have been found on paper. The tale would've been told from one of the resident employees who were there that day. So either my captor had boarded a plane for the US and went to the shelter—which was unlikely, or he had connections of some sort back in the States.

Maybe he'd hired a really good private investigator. But how did he see a copy of my enlistment papers? Those types of government documents were protected under the privacy act. They wouldn't—shouldn't be so easy to get. And let's not forget how he'd abducted me from a US encampment and managed to retrieve my personal belongings while he was at it.

He definitely had connections, something associated with government, a job where he could obtain personal information and gain access.

Was he some kind of spy?

If so, for what side?

He looked and lived in the world of an Iraqi insurgent, but spoke with the fluency of an American familiar with US military life.

And he insisted he wasn't my enemy.

He also hadn't played the stereotypical captor. He hadn't tortured me or anything ...
yet.

Like some Hollywood movie plot, I allowed myself to consider the possibility that he might be working covert ops for the US. But then again, he could just as easily be working for some Iraqi political faction.

Shit.

I suddenly realized, after all was said and done, that he never did reveal anything about himself—at least nothing concrete. Fuck. Nothing. Not even his name. Even what I had once believed about him as fact was no longer substantiated.

And here I was, after having my whole life unearthed and paraded about, left utterly open and exposed, my defenses completely obliterated ... and I knew nothing more about him than I did the moment we met.

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By the time the soup bowl was empty, I was feeling a little better, but not by much. I swear the noodles were slithering around in my tummy ... like little slimy worms.

Oh, God.
I thought.
I'm going to be sick.

Taking a deep breath, I swallowed hard, willing my stomach to calm. It was time to get ready for my escape and I needed to keep the soup down for strength.

I put on my dog tags and rose from my chair, careful to step around the broken glass lying scattered across the floor. Damn. After I was ‘recaptured'—assuming that I wasn't sent to the torture chamber—I would have to clean all that up.

Oh well.

I dragged my tired ass into the bedroom. Standing in front of the wardrobes, I tried to decide what to wear for the great escape. I should put on the uniform, but it seemed like so much work with the boots and all. Plus, if I donned all the gear, it would be too heavy for my poor muscles to carry.

In the end, I decided on another pair of pajamas. To hell with it. How long could I possibly be gone before I was brought back? I wasn't even up to this now. I had to fight to stop myself from collapsing on the bed and going back to sleep. It had to be after midnight anyway.

Gathering my bra, panties and other needed items, I went into the bathroom to take a quick shower, wondering exactly where all those hidden cameras were.

After putting on my PJs, I tied my hair up and went back to the wardrobe. The shower had revitalized me some—just some. However, I was feeling a little more optimistic about my escape.

I figured wearing the
hijab
might work in my favor. At least, in the slim chance I did make it past the walls, I could blend in with the locals. I searched through the selection, bypassing the traditional draping styles, choosing instead one of the contemporary
abayas
that many of the younger women favored, which wore like a loose, lightweight caftan without the sash.

Donning the black full-length tunic, I hung the head scarf around my neck, not wanting to dampen the silk material by wrapping it over my wet hair. I slipped my feet into a pair of embroidered ballet shoes, pleased that they fit.

I took a deep breath. This was it. Time to go.

Leaving the bedroom, I resisted the urge to go back for my purse. It seemed weird to leave all my personal belongings behind, even if I was doomed to be recaptured. My wallet, my identification, my credit cards, my cell phone—which doesn't work anywhere but in America—damn it! It was for the best. Anyway, what was my captor going to do? Steal my identity?

I smiled at my own joke.

Passing through the dining room, I found the floor spotless.
They
must have swept and mopped while I was bathing. Funny, I was actually grateful, being too tired to do it myself.

I slowed my pace when the front door came into sight.

It occurred to me that my keepers might have locked the door after they came in and cleaned. My hopes, which I didn't even realize were up, fell slightly. I had to attempt it anyway. I wouldn't be able to sleep otherwise. Well, perhaps that wasn't quite true.

Listening closely, I tried to gauge if there were people in the corridor. I heard nothing but my rapid pounding heartbeat. “Don't get excited,” I scolded softly. “You're not going to get anywhere, even if the door is unlocked."