Page 131 of Stains of Desire

Why am I on the treason list?

It feels like hours before the man comes back, but the clock proves I'm wrong. It's been less than fifteen minutes.

"Get up."

"Why?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

I stand and the chair slides along the floor.

He grabs my cuffs. "Let's go."

New panic annihilates me. "Where are you taking me?"

"I advise you to stay quiet."

My insides quiver so hard, I swallow down bile. He leads me down several halls then outside. There's a three-row golf-cart waiting. "Get in."

I sit in the passenger's side.

I could run.

I'll get shot.

That won't help Millie.

I can't help Millie anymore. I'll never be free again.

He drives around the airport, past the commercial flights, and we stop in front of a private plane. There's a British flag on it.

They are taking me to England.

My anxiety hits a new high. I grip the bar in front of me.

"Get out, now," he barks.

"No. Please," I beg him.

There's no sympathy in his eyes. They are cold and merciless. "If you don't get out, I will drag you by your hair into the plane. Take your pick."

"Please," I beg him again.

He reaches for my hair, and I hold my hands up. "Okay. I'll go."

Every step toward the plane feels like I'm walking in quicksand. I'm drowning in fear-filled nerves. When I get in the plane, there's an airline stewardess. She sympathetically glances at me but quickly looks away.

The immigration officer belts me in a seat and gets off the plane.

For the next seven hours, I have several panic attacks so bad, I think I'm having a heart attack. The stewardess never checks on me or offers help. When we land, I'm so distraught I can't walk.

A man I've never seen before, in military fatigues, picks me up and carries me. I don't look at my surroundings. I hide in his chest and continue the struggle to find air.

He sets me down in a metal chair in a dark room. The fluorescent light is missing several bulbs, and the sound reminds me of a fly buzzing in my ear.

The walls are a dark gray and dirty, as if they haven't had a fresh coat of paint in decades. There is a similar clock on the wall that was in the room in Bermuda, and the ticking adds to my stress.

I sit for hours. The air is cold, and my lips tremble, but it could also be from my panic.