“You will know.” A faint smile. “It will be…very much apparent.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure I like how that sounds.
A long silence. The SUV bounces, rattles, rumbles. Dirt flies behind us in a cloud—we’ve left the city proper and are on the outskirts, now.
With every mile, my stomach rises higher into my throat.
Finally, I feel the Rover begin to slow.
“Be ready,” Thomas calls back. “I see my friend.”
I look at Anselm. “I’m scared. What if I fail?”
He regards me steadily. “You will not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you are a Roth.” He smiles, then, wrapping an arm around my shoulders in a rare show of affection. “And because you know that you cannot.”
“For Apollo and Yelena.”
“For Apollo and Yelena,” he echoes.
We slow to a stop. Tunis is behind us, a low line of blocks against the horizon. Dust skirls around us, tasting gritty and bitter in my mouth, crunching between my molars—the back of the Land Rover is open to the elements, no roof or walls, just bare metal roll bars where a soft top had once gone, long ago.
There’s a battered white Toyota pickup older even than the Land Rover we’re in. A man leans against it, arms crossed over his chest—he’s Arabic, of an ethnicity I am not worldly enough to determine; he wears khakis over flip flops and a white polo shirt with blue stripes, and has a short, neat beard and short black hair combed to the side.
Thomas jumps out from behind the wheel and strides over to the other man—they converse in low tones in what sounds like a complex combination of Arabic, an African dialect, and English.
Thomas gestures to me, and, knees knocking, I hop over the side and to the ground, joining Thomas and his friend at the truck.
Thomas gestures at his friend. “This is Ahmed.”
Ahmed nods at me, his eyes unfriendly and cold. A glance at Thomas. “She is too perfect. No one believe I take her, not so much as one hair out of place.”
I’ve long since gotten rid of all of my personal belongings. But he’s right—my hair is neatly bound back in a ponytail, my clothes are clean and nice, if a bit wrinkled and sweaty. I simply look too put together to be anyone’s captive.
I look at Thomas. “Hit me.”
He frowns. “No.”
“There’s no time for bullshit,” I snap. “Hit me. Hard enough to leave a bruise, maybe split my lip.”
“I do not hit women.”
“I’ve sparred full contact with trained killers, Thomas. I can take a punch. And I’m telling you to do it.” I brace myself, teeth clenched.
Thomas lets out a breath, and then his closed fist rockets into my face, smashing hard against my mouth and cheek. My head is rocked backward, pain lancing through me. Nothing I can’t take—Sasha has hit me harder when I failed to block. My lip is definitely split, and I’ll have a hell of a bruise. Before I can recover, Thomas’s arm goes around my neck, putting me in a supine headlock, cutting off my air supply. I hear shouts from Duke and the other, and instead of immediately freeing myself, I wave them off. Then, I make quick work of getting out of Thomas’s headlock, which leaves my hair messed up—the intention all along.
I straighten, panting, and dab at my lip. Duke, Anselm, and Alexei are all a few feet away, weapons drawn and trained on Thomas. “Stand down, guys. I told him to hit me.”
Ahmed hasn’t reacted at all. Now, he looks me over, nodding once. “Better. Now she look like a prisoner.” He indicates the truck with a rough jerk of his chin. “We go, now. Convoy will arrive soon.”
I look at the men, head held high. “See you soon.” Duke moves toward me, but I stop him with an outstretched hand. “No. Better to not.”
Duke, looking very, very pissed off, backs up. “No hesitation, Rinny.”
“Don’t fucking call me Rinny,” I snap. “You know I hate that.”
