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NICK
Pirate Encampment
Horn of Africa
Ten Years Ago
The chains bite into my wrists, the rusted metal cutting into raw flesh. The sting barely registers anymore, lost in the constant, agonizing ache of my body breaking down. The stench of sweat, blood, and rotting wood clogs my nose, suffocating the small, sweltering room they’ve kept me in for the last—what? Two days? Three? My sense of time is as fucked as the rest of me.
The pirates have been relentless. They’ve used fists, boots, knives, whatever they could find to get what they want out of me. Names. Intel. Weaknesses.
They haven’t gotten shit.
I won’t break.
The metal door screeches open, rusted hinges grinding against each other like nails on a chalkboard. The dim lantern light from the hallway spills into the room, casting long shadows. I don’t look up. I don’t have to.
I know their leader’s footsteps by now—soft but sure, the steps of a predator who enjoys playing with his food. Abdi Warsame, one of Somalia’s most ruthless warlords, steps inside, his sharp eyes raking over me.
“You look terrible, Ryeland,” he says in English, his voice thick with his Somali accent. He crouches, bringing himself to my level. “You are a dead man walking. The world already believes you are gone. Why fight this? Why not make it easy on yourself and we will end your pain?”
I laugh, the sound hoarse and bitter. “Because you’re the one who’s already lost.”
Warsame chuckles like we’re old friends. “You are very brave, my friend. But you and I both know that bravery dies quickly in a place like this.” He reaches into the folds of his robe and pulls out a knife, the serrated edge glinting in the low light. “Perhaps I carve the truth from you instead.”
I meet his eyes, my gaze steady. “Do your worst.”
His expression doesn’t change, but the shift in the air is immediate. The guards tense, anticipating violence. Warsame leans in close, so close I can smell the tobacco on his breath.
“The only reason you are still breathing is because I find you amusing,” he murmurs. “That ends today.”
He straightens, nodding to the two men flanking him. One of them moves forward, a thick wooden baton gripped in his hands.
I brace myself.
The first strike lands across my ribs, sending a white-hot explosion of pain through my side. I don’t make a sound. The second follows, slamming into my thigh. The third cracks against my shoulder.
I grit my teeth, sucking in short, shallow breaths.
Warsame watches, waiting for me to fold. When I don’t, he sighs and turns toward the door. “Break him.”
Then he’s gone.
The guards waste no time, pulling me to my feet.
A fist crashes into my jaw, snapping my head to the side. Another blow slams into my stomach, forcing the air from my lungs. My vision swims, pain radiating through every nerve ending. I don’t resist—I let my body go limp, let them think I’m fading.
It’s exactly what I need them to believe.
I count their steps, track their positions, and wait for the right moment.
Then I move.
I twist hard, ignoring the fire in my muscles, and wrap the chain of my restraints around the throat of the closest guard. He chokes, his hands flying up in panic, but I pull tighter, using what little leverage I have. His body convulses, jerking as he struggles, but his strength drains fast.
The second guard shouts, scrambling for his weapon.