backward into a wall of men.
It is like they’ve been tracking me from above, corralling me like a lamb to the slaughter. Before I can retreat, two men grab my wrists. I kick, trying to writhe out of their arms, but they tug me toward a car, parked on the empty road.
“Hilfe!” I scream in German. “Help!”
A greasy cloth is shoved into my mouth and tied around the back of my head. I start to choke. It nearly suffocates me.
The trunk is opened. They push me inside.
Before the trunk slams shut and a scarf is knotted over my eyes, I see him again, staring down at me, watching me, an arrogant smirk across his silky face.
I know his face well. I have seen it every night for the past six hundred and thirty-two days.
Bekami.
CHAPTER 57
Inside a small jet, I am lashed to a seat. For three hours and twenty-two minutes, hardly a word is spoken.
Wild, uncontainable pain steeps inside me as I try not to think about my father. The sounds of the AK gunfire. Him shooting at the Chechens to save me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and begin counting to infinity.
When the jet lands, someone reknots my blindfold, knocking the back of my head when he’s finished. Momentarily, everything goes fuzzy. But my mind clears as clammy hands linger on my neck and a voice says, “You thought your father had eliminated me. You were wrong. Instead, I eliminated him.”
He shoves me down the aisle, drags me across the jet stairway, and throws me into another car trunk.
Drawing a map inside my head, I calculate a radius: depending on airspeed, we could be as far south as Tripoli, as far east as Odessa, as far north as Stockholm, and as far west as Dublin … I could basically be anywhere.
Paying attention to the noises outside, I try to hear voices, to identify a language. I listen for a stray siren, something to indicate where we are. Vespas? Church bells? Sports cars? Rickety vans? Buses? Dogs? Even silence tells me something.
The road is straight, paved. Noise increases steadily until it becomes a dull, incessant hum.
I pull my knees up against my chest and press my back into the corner so I won’t roll. I should sleep after being awake for so long, but every time I close my eyes I see my father’s face … pale white skin … blood drowning his words …
With the cloth in my mouth, my tears suffocate me. I have to figure out how not to think about my father.
The car turns sharply, and I roll against the wheel well. Wincing, I readjust myself.
Something jabs my left hip.
I try to roll away from it, but it follows me. It is a hard box with rounded edges. Maneuvering to my side, I still feel it; it stays lodged into my hip, poking me from within my coat pocket. I stretch my tied hands across my back.
After several attempts, my fingers fasten around the small rectangular box. I gasp.
Instantly, I know what it is and who put it there. I resist the onslaught of more tears at considering how my father managed to slip it into my pocket.
Fervently, I attempt to power on my phone. Nothing.
Again, I try. Nothing. The battery is dead. It’s useless.
But then I hear my father’s voice inside my head. You know how to use it?
I smile, despite the tears. Yes, Dad, I know.
I wedge my feet into opposite corners of the trunk, position my back into the side, and use the muscles in my thighs to bear down so I won’t roll.
A car horn breaks my concentration. Ignoring the possibility that we might stop soon, I refocus.
Accessing the power button with my left thumb, I press down and begin counting from zero. The timing must be accurate. At ten, I release. At sixteen, I press again. Then, at twenty-six, I release. I repeat this pattern twice more.
Three signals at sixteen-second intervals. According to my father, this initiates the linkup with a satellite transmitter, not connected to the power source. This is not a phone, Tate McCormick said weeks ago, and he was right. This isn’t a phone. It’s a lifeline. Maybe.
The car stops. The engine idles. Doors open. Muffled voices surround me. I shove the phone down my boot.
The trunk is unlatched. Arms grip me, tearing me out of the cramped space.
I don’t resist; I don’t want them to have a reason to search me, or touch me.
Gravel crunches beneath my boots.
Even