I opened one eye and recognized the object in my hands. It was a water canteen.
“I think I’m okay.” I nodded automatically because I wasn’t fully awake. I squinted at an unfamiliar dashboard. We were in a car. A Jeep. It was moving. Beyond the dashboard the landscape was equally unfamiliar. We were in a jungle on an unpaved road.
Maybe I was dreaming.
“Please, drink something.”
I moved my eyes to the left, finding Greg splitting his attention between the gravel road and me. He steered the car with one hand. His other arm reached out to me. It was in my hair, his thumb stroking my neck.
“Don’t drink too fast. Just take sips,” he warned, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder and giving me a soft squeeze.
I nodded again and did as instructed after I confirmed that Greg was in fact the person who had passed me the water. My survival training—training which had been drilled into me until it became instinct—told me to first take stock of my surroundings for imminent threats. I mechanically made of list of facts.
I checked the back seat, then checked the mirrors. There were no cars visible in front or behind us. We were alone.
I scanned the interior of the car and identified three weapons: a Heckler & Koch MP5 behind his seat, a SIG DAK in the driver’s side door pocket, and a stiletto with bayonet-style blade —switched closed—in the cup holder between us.
After my surroundings were catalogued and classified as benign, I took stock of my physical state.
My throat was dry. I sipped from the canteen. My extremities tingled with diminishing numbness. I was lethargic. I took another sip of water, screwed the top back on the canteen, and reached forward to pat down my feet, legs, and hips.
“What’s wrong? Are you looking for something?”
“No. Checking for injuries.” I flexed my fingers and continued exploring my hips and stomach.
“You’re not injured. You were . . . asleep.”
Asleep.
I thought about that word. It didn’t feel right.
“No.” I checked my back, then my arms. “I was drugged,” I said and thought at the same time.
Greg said nothing. He brushed my hair away from my cheek, his long fingers remaining on my neck.
Now that I was certain we were in no immediate peril, for the moment, and I was free of any gaping wounds or broken bones, I endeavored to piece together the how and when and where of our predicament.
“Fiona?”
My last memory was Ashley’s party, Janie on the floor. Greg had come home. I fell asleep. Grace called out. I slept in. The living room . . . the living room. The epically messy living room.
“Fe? Are you okay? Talk to me.” Greg’s tone was cut with urgency.
He left. We fought and he’d left Chicago. And then . . .
“Just a minute.” I wasn’t quite awake, but almost, and my brain was on the high cliff of awareness, on the precipice of pummeling headlong into the present. “Where did you say we are?”
He released what sounded like a relieved breath. “We’re an hour north of Cameroon, in Gashaka Gumti National Park. We’ll make—”
“Oh shit!” I shot up in my seat, instantly regretting the sudden movement when spikes of pain and stars filled my vision. It all came back to me, a violent and sudden recollection of the last several days. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead.
“What? Are you hurt? Can you see?”
“Why are we in Cameroon? We shouldn’t be in Cameroon!” My heart thumped in my chest.
“Calm down. Close your eyes and sit back. We’re not there yet. I estimate we have another—”
“No, no, no! Listen to me!” I kept my eyes shut until the flickering silver shards dissipated, and then peeked at Greg’s profile. “There’s a plane waiting for us in Enugu, a mail carrier puddle jumper through Red Star. It’s going to take us to Lagos, where Quinn arranged for transport. Everything is set, but we need to get back to Enugu.”
Greg cleared his throat, his expression hardening. “It’s too late.”
“It’s not. The plane leaves at sundown. We have time.”
“Fe, you’ve been out for fourteen hours. We’re eight hours from Enugu. It’s too late.”
A sinking vertigo sensation required that I lean against the seat and brace against the door. “Dammit.”
He nodded, apparently agreeing with my one-word assessment of the situation. I opened both my eyes and stared at my husband’s grim profile, ignoring the pain in my head. He’d showered and was wearing seemingly clean clothes, a navy blue T-shirt that read, Seattle Seahawks 2015 Super Bowl Champions, and blue and grey Navy-issue cargo pants. He still had his week-old beard, which meant he hadn’t taken time to shave.
I wanted to panic, but I wouldn’t. Like a good soldier, I took another sip of water and forced the bile rising in my throat to recede. He drove and I stared out the window, collecting my thoughts. The collection of thoughts took much longer than usual because I was also processing how to feel about . . . everything.
He’d lied to me.
He’d lied to me for over two months.
Then he’d drugged me.