One guard sauntered into the cell with their evening gruel, and spat in it, laughing at how clever he was. It was the same man who so enjoyed beating up on Raoul. Good! Zeke moaned, rolled over and appeared to pass out, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth because he’d taken the precaution of biting his lip, reopening one of the many cuts he’d received over the past few days.
“He’s dead!” Raoul screamed in Arabic. He flashed an angry glare at the guard, then felt for a pulse that was actually strong and regular. The guard gaped but didn’t move. “Come and check for yourself, if you don’t believe me.”
Raoul knew they were to be kept alive, either as bargaining tools or for propaganda purposes. Two of America’s elite, taken down by poorly armed and trained freedom fighters was the stuff to reassure the foot soldiers and send a message to the world. The guards would be blamed if one of them did die, and they knew it. Fear passed through the eyes of the one in the cell with them now.
He leaned over Zeke, who obligingly poked a finger in his eye, directly on target. Before the man could scream, Raoul bashed him on the back of the head and he fell to the floor, his face landing in the lukewarm broth. Raoul knew they had little time to spare, but took a moment to grab him by the hair with one hand and knock his teeth down his throat with the other—payback for all the abuse he’d taken from the slob.
Zeke moved with a speed that defied his weakened condition. He stood behind the door when the other guard rushed in, gun drawn, to see what was going on. Zeke crashed his hand against the man’s forearm with such force that he probably broke it. His gun skidded across the floor, and Raoul picked it up.
Silently and swiftly, Raoul and Zeke stripped the two guards, donned their clothing and confiscated their weapons. They gagged them so they couldn’t call for help when they came to, took their keys, and locked them in the cell.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Zeke said, grinding his jaw.
“Soon. But first we have one more score to settle.”
Zeke nodded and together they made their way to the room they were taken to when the head honcho wanted to see them. They listened outside and heard voices. A man’s, which they recognized as belonging to their tormentor, the one who had ordered Cantara’s murder, and the soft laughter of a woman. Raoul nodded, and they burst through the door together.
“When did you forget to knock?” the man demanded in Arabic. He was seated in an armchair with a scantily clad Western woman on his lap. He gasped when he saw who had barged in and pushed the woman aside, reaching for a weapon.
“Don’t even think about it, asshole,” Zeke said, aiming the guard’s gun directly at his head.
“He’s mine,” Raoul growled.
“No, please. I can pay you. I can help you get away.” Tears sprang to the man’s eyes as he begged for his life. He no longer seemed quite so tough. The smell of urine implied he’d wet himself. “I could have had the two of you killed, but I did not.”
“Your mistake, asshole.”
Raoul walked up behind the man, who was quivering with fear, sweat running down his brow. He yanked his head back hard, and saw petrified eyes staring up at him. Cantara. She was all he could think about. The only good thing in his life had been snatched away from him by this sniveling coward. Grief and the burning desire for revenge fuelled Raoul’s anger. Using the razor-sharp knife he’d taken from the guard, he sliced the man’s throat so deeply and with enough force to almost decapitate him.
Blood spurted, filling the air with its sharp, metallic tang. The woman screamed, but there was no one to hear her. They’d already checked. There were just the two guards at night to keep watch over Raoul and Zeke, and ensure no one disturbed the boss man when he was entertaining his floozy. Raoul had no idea where the rest of the goons he’d seen hanging around slept, but it was presumably close by. He didn’t plan on staying around long enough to find out.
“Take me with you,” the woman pleaded. “I didn’t want to be here. They made me.”
Raoul merely shook his head and he and Zeke left the room, locking the door from the outside and pocketing the key.
It was surprisingly easy to slip from the building. They didn’t see another person, which was just as well because in their present frame of mind, anyone who crossed their path would not have survived the experience. Outside, the night air was cool, but sweet and fresh after days locked in that stifling cellar.
“What now?” Zeke asked.
Raoul’s eyes adjusted to the near dark, and he pointed. “Over there.”
“Shit!”
To their utter astonishment, they saw the motorbike they’d ridden parked up in a corner of the compound, the keys still in the ignition.
“Fucking amateurs,” Zeke muttered.
“Get the gate. Careful, though. Check for guards first.”
Zeke peered through the spyhole, clearly saw nothing, and cautiously opened the gates. Raoul knocked the bike off its kickstand and wheeled it forward. Every bone in his battered body protested but Raoul was running on adrenalin and barely felt the discomfort. Zeke shut the gates again once they were outside, both men astonished that they still hadn’t been challenged.
“We must have given a fucking good impression of being at death’s door,” Zeke said. “Otherwise there would be more guards.”
“What worries me is that no one is out here on guard.” Raoul pointed to a pile of cigarette butts near the gate. “I guess we got lucky and caught them taking a leak, or whatever, but they’ll be back any moment. We have to assume we’ll be missed and the alarm will be raised.” Both men pushed the bike further away from their prison as Raoul spoke. “Shoot if anyone so much as looks at us the wrong way.”
“Count on it, bud.”
Raoul straddled the bike and started the engine, waiting for Zeke to climb up behind before speeding off, glad to see the tank was still almost full of gas.