"It's been two days,” he continued. “It's not like you to avoid us."
"I know,” I replied, moving the mashed potatoes around my plate.
"Or are you trying to avoid the ass chewing you know is coming your way?"
My head shot up. “What?"
"Sergeant Jackson wasn't happy about that last stunt you pulled."
"Oh, whatever.” I sighed, finding myself deeply annoyed by the direction this conversation was going. “He's just pissed because I'm here—being a woman and all."
"No, he's pissed because when he says to take cover, he means it. You might not be assigned to us, but you're still his responsibility. The First Sergeant tasked him specifically with watching over you. There'll be hell to pay if you get hurt. And I hate to say it, Bee, but this time, I have to agree."
"That's Sergeant Mathews, Corporal."
"Whoa.” Chuckling, he lifted his hands in surrender. “You don't like what I'm saying, so you're going to go all gung-ho with the rank? Cool, cool ... I understand,
Sergeant
."
"Sorry, Mollina.” I pushed my tray forward. “It's not you. I'm just in a mood. You can still call me Bee, or Doc as you all so lovingly titled me."
"Hey, no problem. It's been a rough week."
I gave him a forced smile.
"Are you going to eat that?” he asked, pointing to my dinner roll.
Before I could answer no, he snatched it off my plate.
Deciding it was best to just go to bed and sleep the icky feelings off, I stood, only to come eye to eye with Sergeant Jackson.
Damn.
"Just the soldier I wanted to see."
"I'm out,” the corporal said all too quickly. He shoved the roll in his mouth, got up, and moved to another table.
Jackson took a seat.
I let out a heavy breath. “Hey, Sergeant. I was just leav—"
"Sit your ass down, Doc,” he ordered.
I did as I was told, preparing myself for the reprimand the corporal had warned me about. I listened without comment as the squad leader droned on about my carelessness and issued threats of disciplinary action the next time I failed to follow his orders. He then went on to say if I
ever
took off into an unknown building without my weapon—and backup—again, he'd save everyone the trouble and shoot me himself.
"Don't think because you're a medic those terrorist assholes out there consider you a non-combatant,” he remarked. “This ain't Geneva. They'll kill you and not think twice about it."
If he only knew how close I had been to dying that day. I'd failed to mention the incident with the two insurgents. If I had, I knew I'd never be allowed outside the wire again.
Then Jackson moved on into his usual ‘no woman assigned to combat’ spiel and how the military might have found a way around the law, creatively using the words ‘support’ and ‘attached', but that didn't make it right.
"Don't think that I don't have faith in your abilities as a medic because you're a woman. I think you're a damn fine medic. But why be out there if you don't have to be?” he reasoned. “Shit, I don't even want to be out there."
Here it comes...
"Perhaps you should consider giving us more training so you can take less mission work. Teach us what you know."
It would take me eight or more years to teach him what I know. But he was referring to my military medical training.
"I understand your concern, Sergeant Jackson. But—and I mean this with the utmost respect—there are some things that only a certified medic can do. I have already shared with you all the basic first aid knowledge I can. I'm sorry my gender makes you uncomfortable, but it's better to have a female medic than no medic at all."
"Have you heard anything on Pinot and Michaels?” he asked, dropping the subject.
"Michaels is recovering well. I haven't heard anything about Pinot since he was flown to Ramstein Air Base.
He looked at the nearly untouched food in front of me, then stared me directly in the eye. “How are you holding up?"
"I'm all right. Tired. But I'll be back to work tomorrow. The doctor had me take an extra day of rest. My legs and backside are bruised something awful."
"No, Sergeant Mathews. I mean
how are you holding up
?"
Oh, he meant emotionally.
A person dying around me was not a new experience, but then the squad leader wouldn't know that. Back in my civilian life, it was never the people dying at the hospital that had destroyed my spirit; it was telling the news to those left behind.
"I'm all right. Really,” I assured him.
He gave me a tip-lipped smile. “Okay. Go do as the doctor ordered and get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."
Nodding, I rose from my seat and left.
As I walked away from the chow hall, something nagged at me, slowing my steps. I looked at everything around me, but saw nothing out of order. If anything, the area was kind of quiet.
I moved out of the way so a Humvee could pass. Instead, it slowed to stop and a couple of soldiers got out, falling in-step behind me. Sandalwood teased my senses. Before I had time to register the scent, someone grabbed me and a cloth sealed tight over my nose and mouth.
Scratching at the hand smothering my breath, I struggled desperately for freedom, but it was of no use. A few moments later, everything went dark.
I closed my eyes again and willed the bed to stop spinning.
Where am I?
Suddenly, my stomach roiled and I no longer cared where I was—as long as it had a bathroom.
The desire not to be sick on myself prompted my legs to move. Rising from the bed, I staggered around the dim chamber, holding onto anything that would support my weight. The floor seemed to shift beneath my feet. I headed toward the light shining in the doorway and stumbled out into an illuminated living room.
The world around me tilted back and forth like a ship being pitched in a storm. I pressed my hand over my lips as my stomach tensed and my throat tightened. I swallowed hard. Using the wall to hold myself up, I leaned into it and let it guide me in my search.
Thankfully, the toilet was the first door I came across.
Collapsing to my knees in front of the porcelain bowl, I vomited a little and dry-heaved a lot. Forever passed before my body relaxed. After wiping my mouth with toilet paper, I rested my head on the seat, trying to make sense of it all.
Why do I feel so sick?
Memories of a rag being held over my face flooded my mind.
Fuck me. I'd been visited by the ether bunny.
I glanced down at myself, noting that I was still dressed, the only bare part of me being my feet. I hadn't been sexually assaulted by the group of soldiers, or at least I didn't think so, but why in the hell was I wearing an
abaya
over my clothing?
Squinting, I searched the clean, tiled bathroom. Seeing the bidet, then looking back down at the black frock-robe thing that covered my body, I realized something very important.
I was no longer on site.
I again replayed my last conscious moments as I had as I left the chow hall. Had I been kidnapped? Off an American compound?
Un-fucking believable.
I tried to stand, but my vision blurred and my legs turned to jelly. Suddenly very cold and weak, I rested against the toilet again.
I do not know how long I sat there before, in the hazy recesses of my mind, I acknowledged a door opening in the other room followed by heavy footsteps approaching my location.
Sandalwood ...
him.
The insurgent.
My abductor.
"No, don't,” I groaned when he knelt down beside me and began gathering me into his arms. I tried to resist, but it was a fruitless attempt. Though my mind demanded that I continue to fight, my heart and body lacked the strength.
He pulled me close. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he murmured.
His soothing words calmed me. He smelled so good, his body was warm, and his strong arms held me firm. Closing my heavy eyes, I settled against him, the basic need to feel safe and secure, for the moment, satisfied.
"I'm sick,” I said softly.
He drew me deeper into his embrace. “I know. You'll be all right soon."
Shifting my weight, he lifted me off the bathroom floor. I grew more disoriented, and more nauseated, the more he moved.
I buried my face into his warmth, finding comfort in his scent. “Don't let me go,” I whispered as I felt myself falling into darkness.
"I won't."
The chatter of voices and the aroma of cooking spices drew me from my sleep. I rolled over and snuggled deeper into the warm blankets, trying to ignore the noise and tempting lure of food. I was dreaming of something good, of someone good, but it was quickly slipping away.
As my mind fully awoke, I was jarred from my coziness.
I'm not supposed to be here.
Opening my eyes, I sat up, and my heart leapt in my chest.
Shit.
I hadn't been dreaming. I was still here, wherever here was.
Here—My new prison.
The light filtering through the barred window told me it was midday. I looked out. I was on the first floor, maybe of an apartment building or hotel. As for a geographical reference-city, town, or oasis in the middle of the desert-I couldn't tell which. My view was blocked by an eight foot tall sand-colored concrete wall that stood maybe twenty feet away from my window. From what I could gather, the ‘privacy’ wall probably circled the whole building.
I glanced at the bedroom door. It was cracked open, but I saw no movement.
Letting out the breath I'd been holding, I surveyed my surroundings, trying to come to terms with the present situation. The wooden vanity near my bed drew my attention first. Neatly arranged on the top were my personal belongings: brush, makeup bag, perfume, and even some magazines. And strangely, my purse hung off the vanity chair. I stared for while, too stunned with disbelief to do much else.
What the hell? I have to be imagining this...
The air conditioning kicked on, jerking me out of my shock.
Removing the covers, I left the bed on shaky legs, the marble cold beneath my feet. I touched the items on the vanity, finding them as foreign as I did familiar. I looked into the mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back. I still wore the
abaya
from the night before, and dark circles adorned the space under my eyes and above my sunken cheeks. My parched lips were cracked and ready to bleed.
Unzipping my make-up bag, I pulled out lip balm and glossed it over my lips, then instantly regretted it.
What if
they
had done something to it?
Throwing it down, I opened the vanity drawers, only to discover all my toiletries. Deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, lotions...
On the other side of the bedroom were a dresser, a small cabinet, and two large wardrobes.
Approaching warily, I opened the first wardrobe. Inside hung more
abayas
and other forms of
hijab
attire, and matching head coverings. However, next to this exotic assortment hung
my
civilian clothes—jeans, shirts, sweats, jacket....
Horrified, I closed the door and moved to the next wardrobe. My uniforms were in there. At the bottom were my military bags, filled with all my field equipment. Even my Chem bag was there. But no weapon.
I went to the dresser and searched the contents. My undergarments, pajamas, socks ... Then moving on to the small cabinet, which was actually a shoe rack, I found it filled with sandals, slippers, and contained my shower shoes and boots.
"Are you feeling better?"
Startled, I gasped. My feet slowly moved me backwards until the back of my knees hit the mattress and propelled me to sit.
My kidnapper leaned against the door casually, his expression showing patience as if he waited for me to say something.
I didn't.
He rubbed the dark stubble on his face. “Look, the food will be ready in a couple of hours. Why don't you take a quick shower and relax.” He came further into the bedroom, approaching a closed door and opening it. “You have your own bathroom. Hamper is in the corner, towels are on the shelf. Your soap and shampoo are already in the tub."
My shampoo and soap? How did my stuff even get here?
I stared at him, then at the vanity, then back at him.
He looked thoughtful for a moment before his eyes brightened, as if he suddenly understood the silent question. “We retrieved your belongings when we picked you up."
Oh, fucking nice.
Picked you up.
He said it so easily, like I had needed a ride somewhere.
I studied my enemy. Jeans, fitted white t-shirt, a perfectly sculpted body to go along with his perfect English. If he wasn't an American, he could easily be mistaken for one. It probably had been easy for him to get on post. All he would have needed was the right documentation.
"I have to get back to the kitchen,” he said, breaking the tense silence. “After your shower, you can go out to the living room and watch TV if you want. We have satellite."
I glanced over at the doorway, still hearing voices I could not understand. I shook my head. No. There was no way I was going to hang out with insurgents.
He must have read my thoughts. “It's a news station. There is no one here but you and me."
My eyes followed him as he headed toward the doorway, his familiar scent lingering in his wake. Just as he was about to walk out, he stopped.
Letting out a heavy breath, he turned to me. “I know what I'm about to say will fall on deaf ears, but you are safe. No harm will come to you. You are safer here with us than you were before. Try to be open-minded and consider your stay as a temporary reassignment."
On that, he left, closing the bedroom door behind him.
Open-minded? A temporary reassignment?
He had to be kidding. Though he seemed sincere when he said that no harm would come to me, and secretly, deep inside, I was relieved by his words, I still had to face the truth of the matter: This place, as nice as it was, was my cell.