To my relief, it doesn’t seem like they touched me much in other ways. At least, if they did anything more than cop a feel while I was unconscious, I feel no evidence of it. There is no soreness or stickiness between my legs, no pain of any kind. My skin is crawling at the knowledge that they had me naked, but it could’ve easily been much worse. When I woke up, I was already wearing someone’s shirt and my own Ugg boots. They must be saving all the drama for when I’m in front of Julian.
This was the part of my plan that Peter found most risky: that time from my capture until my arrival at their hideout.
“You know that they can search every inch of you and find all three of the tracking devices Julian placed on you,” he told me before we left the estate. “And then you’ll both be lost to us. You do understand what they will do to you to make Julian talk, right?”
“Yes, I do, Peter.” I gave him a grim smile. “I understand perfectly. There is no other choice, though, and the trackers are tiny, the insertion wounds nearly invisible at this point. They may find one or two, but I doubt they’ll find all three—and if they do, by the time they do, you may have a fix on their location.”
“Maybe,” he said, his eyes speaking volumes about his opinion on my sanity, “or maybe not. There are a hundred things that can go wrong between the time you get taken and when they bring you to Julian.”
“It’s a risk I’ll have to take,” I told him, bringing the discussion to an end. I knew how dangerous it would be for me to act as a human tracking device to locate the terrorists, but I couldn’t see any other way to get to Julian in time—and judging by his current state, I was nearly too late as is.
I see Julian attempting to compose himself, to hide his visceral reaction to my presence, but he’s not entirely successful. After the initial shock passes, his jaw tightens, and his undamaged eye begins to glitter with violent rage as he takes in my semi-dressed state. His powerful muscles bunch, straining against the restraints. He looks like he wants to rip apart everyone in the room, and I know that the ropes tying him to the chair are the only thing preventing him from launching a suicidal attack on our captors. The other terrorists must be thinking the same thing, because two of them step closer to Julian, clutching their weapons just in case.
Looking delighted with this turn of events, Majid laughs and drags me to the middle of the room, his grip on my arm excruciatingly tight. “You know, your dumb little whore all but fell into my lap,” he says conversationally, fisting his hand in my hair and forcing me down to my knees. “We found her shopping in your absence, like all those greedy American bitches. Figured we’d bring her here, so you can see her pretty little face before I carve it up . . . Unless you want to start talking?”
Julian remains silent, glaring at Majid with murderous hatred, while I take small, shallow breaths to cope with my terror. My eyes are watering from the pain in my scalp, and the fear pulsing through me feels almost like a living thing. With my hands restrained behind my back, there’s nothing I can do to prevent Majid from hurting me. I have no idea how long it’s going to take Peter to arrive, but there’s every chance he might not make it in time. I can see the rust-colored stains on the blade hanging loosely from Majid’s belt, and nausea rises in my throat as I realize that it’s Julian’s blood.
If we’re not rescued soon, it will be my blood, too.
To my horror, Majid reaches for that blade, still holding my hair in that painful grip. “Oh, yes,” he whispers, pressing the flat edge against my neck, “I think her head will make a nice little trophy—after I cut it up a bit, of course . . .” He pushes the knife upward, and I freeze in terror as I feel the blade cutting into the soft skin under my chin, followed by the stomach-churning sensation of warm liquid trickling down my neck.
The growl that emanates from Julian doesn’t resemble anything human. Before I can do more than gasp, he surges forward, using the balls of his feet to propel himself and the chair off the floor. His action is so sudden and violent that the two men standing next to him don’t react in time. Julian literally crashes into one of them, bringing the armed terrorist down to the floor, and, with one twist of his body, drives the metal leg of the chair into the man’s throat.
The next few seconds are a blur of blood and screams in Arabic. Majid releases his hold on me and yells out some orders, galvanizing the others into action as he springs into the fray himself.
Still tied to the chair, Julian is dragged off the injured man’s body, and I watch in horrified fascination as the man Julian attacked writhes on the floor, clutching his throat as rattling, gurgling sounds escape from his mouth. He’s dying—I can see it in the weakening spurts of blood coming from the ragged wound in his neck—yet his agony doesn’t seem to touch me. It’s as though I’m watching a movie instead of observing a human being bleeding to death in front of my eyes.
Majid and the other terrorists rush to his aid, trying to staunch the flow of blood, but it’s too late. The man’s frantic grip on his throat eases, his eyes glazing over, and the stench of death—of evacuated bowels and violence—fills the room.
He’s dead.
Julian killed him.
I should be disgusted and appalled, but I’m not. Maybe those emotions will hit me later, but for now, all I feel is a strange mixture of gladness and pride: gladness that one of these murderers is dead, and pride that Julian was the one to kill him. Even tied up and weakened by torture, my husband managed to take down one of his enemies—an armed man who was stupid enough to stand within Julian’s lethal reach.