Page 37 of The Condemned (Echoes from the Past #6)

TWENTY-EIGHT

Kabul, Afghanistan

Rhys had traveled widely before settling down to his job at the BBC nearly a decade ago, but he’d never felt as out of his element as he did in Kabul.

His spirits quickly sagged once Rob departed for home, and they had already been low.

There were other European reporters at the hotel, but Rhys had no desire to engage in conversation.

The news about Jo had devastated him, but he couldn’t leave until he learned what had become of her remains.

It was the least he could do for Quinn, who’d now never meet her twin. She’d be shattered.

Early in the morning, when waiting for a call back from the British Embassy became unbearable, he made an impulsive decision.

Given what had happened to Jo and Ali, driving into the mountains was probably the most irrational decision he’d ever made, but when he left the hotel, he reasoned that he wouldn’t get far, since there were checkpoints on the outskirts of the city and a visible military presence.

Rhys had asked for a map at the hotel and pinpointed the location Ali had drawn. He mapped out his route and set off.

The morning was cold and clear, the mountains rugged and forbidding in the distance.

He wasn’t sure how long it’d take him to get to his destination, but it wasn’t as if he was in a rush.

Lack of purpose always made him feel restless and frustrated.

At least this was something he could do.

He sailed through the checkpoints, being a white, middle-aged man with a press pass, and continued toward the foothills.

He’d expected to get overtaken by a military vehicle at any moment but found himself completely alone on the narrowing road that led into the mountains.

He drove for two hours before finally nearing the place Ali had marked .

Rhys stopped and looked around. He didn’t dare leave the road or step out of the vehicle.

As long as he stayed put, he was safe, or so he told himself as he extracted the binoculars he’d borrowed from one of the other reporters, who was an avid twitcher, and brought binoculars everywhere he went.

Rhys had never cared for birdwatching, but the glasses would come in handy.

He peered into the binoculars, scanning the area inch by slow inch.

He wasn’t sure what he expected to find.

Surely if Jo’s body was lying out in the open, someone would have seen it by now.

The steeply rising mountain terrain offered up nothing.

The dry, rocky mountainside was an unbroken vista of brown, occasionally dotted with a smudge of green from a particularly stubborn weed or sapling.

Rhys saw craggy fissures higher up and assumed some of them were caves, but it was difficult to tell from his vantage point.

There were no signs of life, not even the orange blur of fox fur or the burrow of a groundhog, if they were native to Afghanistan.

The sky was clear as well. Not a single bird had entered his field of vision, not even a pigeon or a sparrow.

After approximately half an hour of staring at the unrelenting background of dun-colored dirt, Rhys set aside the glasses and made a very careful U-turn, scrupulously avoiding the sides of the road.

That was where explosives were frequently buried, according to Rob.

The return trip to Kabul took much longer, since it was more difficult to enter the city than leave it.

The line at the checkpoint was at least thirty cars long and moved at a snail’s pace, but eventually Rhys made it back to the hotel, tossed the binoculars on the chair, and threw himself down on the bed, physically and mentally exhausted.

What he’d done was so monumentally foolish, he could hardly admit it to himself, and he thanked his lucky stars for having returned to the hotel in one piece.

A part of him was relieved he’d found nothing, but he was also disappointed.

It was as if Jo had vanished into thin air.

Rhys sank into the lumpy mattress and fell into an uneasy slumber .

It was late afternoon by the time he woke up.

His back ached, and his emotional fabric was in tatters.

He hadn’t learned anything new this day, but he felt heavier somehow, more lethargic.

He sat up slowly and ran his fingers through his hair.

He wanted nothing more than to throw his few possessions into his case, drive to the airport, and get on the next flight out of Kabul, but he couldn’t leave until he had something concrete to tell Quinn.

He knew her too well to believe that she would simply accept Jo’s death, especially when there was no body.

Quinn would never find peace unless he could present her with irrefutable proof that Jo was gone.

Rhys stood and walked to the window, pushing aside the hideous apricot-colored curtains.

The sky just above the distant mountaintops was a palette of pink, lavender, and gold, but the city spread out below was already shadowed with the deep purple of a winter evening.

Rhys grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

He was hungry but had no desire to eat at the hotel restaurant.

The kebob place Rob had taken him to was a ten-minute walk from the hotel, and he felt like getting a breath of air.

The tiny room made him claustrophobic and depressed.

The street was practically deserted. Darkness came early in February and people retired to their homes, undoubtedly safer behind their flimsy, bullet-strewn walls.

Rhys walked along at a brisk pace, eager to get to the restaurant.

The place was small, but lively, and although he’d resented the festive atmosphere so soon after learning of Jo’s death, he longed for a little cheer this evening.

Rhys was a few minutes away from his destination when a windowless black van turned the corner.

It was driving slowly, as if the driver were looking for an address or landmark.

Normally, Rhys would have ignored a passing vehicle, but something about the van’s deliberate slowness and grime-covered plates made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

He quickened his step, hoping it would simply pass him by.

As he neared the junction, the vehicle drove past him and disappeared around the corner.

Rhys breathed a sigh of relief. He was overly anxious, his nerves on edge in this city that was like a violent video game, where the bad guys kept coming and the good guys kept trying to keep them at bay.

What would anyone want with him? He was just another foreigner, a faceless dot in an overpopulated metropolis.

Rhys stopped and waited for the light to change before he could cross the street.

He saw the bright lights of the kebob restaurant just up ahead.

The screech of tires startled him, and he looked back, surprised to see the van racing toward him.

It must have made a circle and come back around.

The vehicle stopped next to him, the side door slid open, and two men jumped out.

They were dressed entirely in black, dark caps pulled low over their eyes.

Rhys could have sworn they were European.

Rhys took a step back, but the men were upon him before he could formulate a coherent thought.

They pulled a bag over his head, yanked his arms roughly behind him, bound them with a strip of plastic, and shoved him inside.

Rhys fell onto his side and pulled his knees up to his chest to protect his vital organs.

The floor of the van smelled sweet, a sickening odor that made his head swim.

Opium , Rhys thought. He’d never actually smelled it but had seen its distinctive scent described several times in popular literature.

The van lurched as it pulled away, speeding down the street. The men talked quietly between themselves, but Rhys couldn’t understand a word. He thought it was one of the Eastern European languages. They definitely weren’t Afghans.

“What do you want with me?” he demanded, his voice muffled by the bag over his head. “I’m a British journalist.”

“We know you are,” one of the men responded.

So, it wasn’t a mistake. He’d been taken deliberately.

Rhys tried freeing his hands, but the plastic strips bit into his skin.

They couldn’t be loosened, like with rope.

He’d seen those types of restraints used in action films. His feet were free, but there wasn’t much he could do.

Just when Rhys thought his kidnappers would take him out of the city, the van stopped abruptly.

He tensed as he heard a set of footsteps somewhere above his head.

The driver must have remained seated, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

This was Rhys’s one chance to save himself.

He opened his mouth to speak, desperate to engage his kidnappers in discourse, but strong hands yanked on his ankles, straightening his legs.

Rhys had a few seconds to react to this development before a heavy boot struck him in the stomach, making him cry out in pain.

He gasped for breath, the dusty fibers of the bag making him cough as they landed in the back of his throat.

Rhys sputtered, tears streaming from his eyes as he doubled over in pain.

The boot kicked him in the knees, forcing his legs to jerk away and expose his stomach once again.

Rhys was kicked several more times, each blow leaving him breathless and gasping for breath.

The pain in his stomach was excruciating, and each breath was an agony on his bruised or broken ribs.

Rhys curled into a ball and his attacker allowed him to remain in that position.

Moving behind, he kicked Rhys in the lower back, aiming for his kidneys.

Rhys jerked involuntary, throwing his head back and lowering his knees.

Another kick followed. Rhys heard a roar.

It took him a moment to realize the sound had come from him.

His mind seemed disconnected from his body, maybe because of the opium he’d inhaled, but the pain enveloped him like an iron shield, solid and impenetrable.

He was crying and whimpering between coughs, but he wouldn’t give his attacker the satisfaction of pleading for mercy. It’d probably just spurn him on.

Rhys closed his eyes tightly and saw the image of his daughter as he’d seen her on the antenatal scan.

She’d been alive then, moving slowly, her feet like flippers making ripples in the amniotic fluid.

She’d lifted her hand and moved it toward her face.

Her fingers had been splayed, tiny and perfect.

Rhys didn’t care if she’d been his. She’d felt his.

Elizabeth , Rhys thought groggily, using the name he’d secretly picked for her. My Elizabeth. I’m coming, sweetheart. We’ll be together soon . He braced for another kick, but the assault stopped.

“This is your one and only warning, Englishman. Stop asking questions about things that don’t concern you and go home.”

The van stopped moving and Rhys was unceremoniously tossed out. He couldn’t break his fall with his hands, so he landed on his side, slamming his head against the pavement. His restraints were clipped, and then he heard the screech of tires as the van pulled away.

Rhys remained immobile for a few minutes, unable to gather enough strength to stand.

He was vulnerable and exposed, but he needed to catch his breath.

His back and stomach were on fire and he could barely draw breath.

Finally, Rhys pulled the bag from his head and looked around.

He’d been dumped in the same spot where he’d been snatched.

He saw the lights of the kebob restaurant glowing warmly in the dark night, but he was no longer hungry.