Page 5

T ahira struggled to awaken. Her eyelids were so heavy, she couldn’t lift them. Her head pounded, and her tongue felt dry and swollen. Where am I? Am I sleeping? Mother? Father? Is anyone there?

She wasn’t sure if the questions were in her mind or if she’d spoken them out loud, but either way, she didn’t receive an answer.

A shuffling noise, and then what sounded like a sniffle, penetrated her thoughts.

Still unable to open her eyes to see, Tahira concentrated on her other four senses and took stock of what she could figure out.

The surface she was lying on was hard, with a scratchy, smelling blanket or other material underneath her.

She shivered as cold, damp air seeped into her flesh and goose bumps spread across her skin.

The acrid odor of urine and feces filled her nostrils, and she fought the urge to gag.

Soft murmurs and sobs caught her attention, but she couldn’t make out what was being said.

Tahira’s leg twitched, and she startled when a hand landed on her arm and shook it. Nala’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Tahira? Wake up! Please!”

Finally forcing her eyes open, Tahira blinked several times until the dimly lit room came into focus.

Not that it was exactly a room, per se. Stone walls and iron bars weren’t exactly a common decor in any room she’d ever been in.

She tried to sit up, but her head hurt too much, and a wave of nausea washed over her, so she laid back down. “Wh-where are we?”

“I don’t know, but wherever we are, it’s c-cold. Lahana is still unconscious. I—I think we were drugged. Do you remember what happened?”

She thought hard, her last memories coming back in flashes.

They’d spent about three hours at the falls, having a wonderful time.

They’d chatted with other tourists, flirted with a few guys, and simply enjoyed the beauty of the tropical paradise.

With about five hours left before they had to be back onboard their ship, the women had decided to head back to Montego Bay to go shopping for souvenirs.

After that, they’d meet Farid and Diallo at Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville for food and drinks.

Tahira loved the American singer, with his laid-back style of music, and had visited many of his restaurants in other cities and countries.

The one in Montego Bay reportedly had a 120-foot water slide that deposited participants into the sparkling, blue Caribbean Sea, and Tahira had been looking forward to trying it out.

“We ... we were leaving the park and walking back to our vehicle.” Her brow furrowed.

“Didn’t a man approach us and ask ...” Before Tahira could finish the thought, most of what’d happened flooded her mind.

“ Mon dieu! ” While English was the national language of Timasur, French was a close second.

Tahira had learned both during her education and occasionally the latter slipped into her speech, especially when she was upset—and upset was an understatement for what she was experiencing now.

“What?” Nala whispered, her eyes going wide in fear.

Under the impression that her cousin knew what she was about to say but was afraid to say it herself because that would make it real, Tahira lowered her voice.

“There were several men, and Kojo and Alake were—were shot!” Horror took root in her stomach as her hand went to her neck where she found a small bruise.

She remembered a sting followed by a burning sensation before everything went dark.

They must have been drugged, and her bodyguards had to be dead.

Tears filled her eyes. The two men who’d protected her for several years had both been shot in the head.

Tahira couldn’t remember hearing the guns fire, but she’d seen them in the hands of the men who had attacked them and then blood, bone, and brains splattering the side of the SUV before her bodyguards fell to the ground. Her heart broke for their families.

As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light enveloping them, Tahira gingerly tried to sit up again and looked around.

All she had on was her bikini and sarong, neither of which provided her with any warmth.

Her sandals were gone—not that they would’ve helped in the cold.

Despite the musty stench of the blanket she’d been lying on, she pulled it up and around her back and shoulders as she took in their surroundings.

Lahana was lying on another blanket on the other side of Nala.

They were in a jail or something similar, trapped behind iron bars.

There were several other cells, each holding two, three, or four young women—Tahira counted sixteen total—all of whom appeared shell-shocked, with vacant gazes or red, swollen eyes.

What’s going on? Where are we? There was warmer air being forced through a small vent above her head, instead of air conditioning, so wherever they were, they’d left the summer heat of Jamaica.

There weren’t any windows either, so it was impossible to tell if it was night or day.

Depending on what drug had been used and the dosage, they could’ve been out for just a few hours or much longer—she had no idea which.

Tahira slowly got to her feet and was about to ask the other women if they knew where they were when a loud clanging noise echoed throughout the area.

At the end of the walkway separating the two rows of cells, a heavy wooden and iron door opened.

Chills went up and down Tahira’s spine as several Latino-looking men strode in, and she didn’t think it had anything to do with the temperature.

It didn’t escape her notice how the other women backed away from the doors to their cells and cowered against the stone walls.

One man stopped in front of the cell Tahira and her cousins were in, while the other five or six men spread out around him.

Two others had stayed back by the door. She couldn’t see them clearly—they were in the shadows—but it didn’t matter since the man at her cell door silently demanded her attention.

He was about an inch taller than her own five-six and weighed about two-hundred-and-thirty pounds.

His brown eyes held no warmth under his trim dark hair.

A mustache and goatee covered the lower half of his face but didn’t hide the pockmarks on his skin.

He was dressed in a sweater, dress slacks, and expensive-looking shoes.

The other men were dressed similarly, but Tahira knew without a doubt the man in front of her was in charge. His dark aura gave it away.

“Well, hello, sleeping beauties. I see you’re awake,” he stated in English with a thick Latino accent. He glanced down at Lahana, still lying on the floor, and frowned. “Well, at least two of you are.”

Pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders, for both warmth and to conceal her bare skin from the men’s leering gazes, Tahira stood tall and lifted her chin. “Who are you and why do you have us caged like animals?”

The man didn’t answer her right away, which grated on her nerves, but she refused to let him see how afraid she was.

Putting an unlit cigar he’d been holding in his mouth, he removed a lighter from his pocket and lit it.

As he exhaled, rings of smoke filled the air.

“My name doesn’t matter—you won’t be here long enough for it to make a difference. ”

Tahira had no idea what that meant, but it sounded like their next destination would be worse than their current situation. God help them.