Page 34

Yes. End this. Please end it. Because if I wasn’t enough for my own family, I’ll never be enough for anyone.

The general’s second stops at my right shoulder. Clarity of what's about to happen makes my sobbing subside; I'm prepared, ready, for whatever he gives me. Or so I think.

His boots move forward, stalking toward the man in black. Eyes still fixed on the ground, I hear instead of see a punch, followed by something heavy falling to the ground.

On each side, two other men in fatigues move past me, deeper into the rotting pen. Swallowing past the dry knot building in my throat, I gather a sliver of courage and look up to see what’s going on.

Bad idea.

Worst idea ever, really.

My sobbing returns, but this time I do nothing to stay quiet. Racking breaths and cries fill the small room at the sight of the man who tried to save me being held between two men while the general’s second treats him as his very own human punching bag.

Blood pours from the man’s nose. A gash stripes his left cheekbone where the skin has split.

The man inflicting the pain pauses to rub his fist, smiling. "Now. Answers," he says.

The man in black smiles. And if he weren't beaten and bloody, I'd say it’s more of a cocky smirk more than a smile. "Sure, man, shoot."

"Who sent you?"

Those brown eyes look to the ceiling, searching. "Yeah, I'll pass. I'll take More Nontypical Question for two hundred, Alex."

With a grin of his own, the general’s second slams his tight fist against the man’s jaw, snapping his head back. “Who sent you?"

His gaze slides to me. "I can't remember." His tone now devoid of the earlier humor, his muscles tense, bracing for the next hit, but I can't see that again.

Please, no, never again.

"Stop," I squeak. All eyes shift to me, glaring. The man in black’s narrow as he shakes his head. "Leave him alone." It hits me fast, how I can save him, even if it's only for a short amount of time. "Leave him for the general. Let him get the answers."

It only takes two long strides for the general’s second to be close enough to grip the back of my veil, taking chunks of hair with it, and yank me to my feet. My back teeth clench to hold back the scream of pain that wants to erupt.

His close foul breath burns my nostrils, churning my empty stomach. Evil eyes scorch into mine as he says, "You no power here."

"I know. I-I know that. I just... the general will want—"

The back of his hand connects with my cheek so hard, the dense bones of his knuckles snapping against my eye, I stumble to the side only to be yanked upright once again. Loud American cuss words fill the camp—hell, the entire jungle—and the movement of a scuffle sounds behind the man who inflicted my pain.

And oh hell does it hurt. No one told me being backhanded felt like your eye was going to pop out of its socket and your cheekbones would explode into thousands of tiny shards. In books the girls just fell and cried. A little more detail would’ve been nice for this moment.

"No speak again," the general’s second yells in my face, sending another gut-churning waft of his foul breath my way. "Come."

His grip around my arms feels like a tourniquet as he drags me out of the shack, away from the still-yelling American voice. Terrified of what will happen next, I glance back and find furious brown eyes staring from behind the four men who are now holding him back. I stumble and trip as the general’s second strides across the camp, hauling me behind him. I want to beg, for death or life I’m not sure at this point, but I don't. It was stupid to say anything in there moments ago; no need to repeat the same mistake.

All for a man I don't know.

But I know enough, I guess. If he was willing to risk his life for me, I should reciprocate. That's the way it works, right? Maybe all those books have twisted my expectations of real life.

When we reach the bank of the river, the hand that was cutting off circulation to my fingers slams onto my upper back, shoving my knees into the rocky bank.

This is it.

Has to be.

I'm going to die.

But instead he stands there silently, watching. Or waiting, I guess.