Chapter Forty-Eight

ACACIA CAME AWAKE WITH A START.

She’d been dreaming she was drowning; water filled her lungs and made it impossible to breathe. She gasped. The hot, humid air was stifling. No wonder she’d found it difficult to catch her breath.

She sat up and instantly regretted the decision. A dull ache in her lower back flared to a sharp pain that wrapped around her middle. She fought back nausea and examined the small, square room. Bright sunshine streamed in a small window set high in the cinderblock wall, indicating it was midday or later. She’d been unconscious for hours.

She breathed slowly, in and out, trying to manage the pain while ignoring the heat.

A steel door presumably led to the outside. Unfortunately, the door lacked a doorknob. Another door opened into a bathroom.

The only furniture in the room was the cot she was sitting on and a small side table. A pitcher of water stood on the table next to a small metal cup. She poured water and drank it greedily, though it was warm.

Acacia examined the ceiling. The overheard lights were off, probably because of the stifling heat. She was sweating and she’d barely moved.

She closed her eyes and listened for traffic or any other recognizable sounds. She could hear the pathetic ventilation system rattling through the covered shaft above her, but nothing else.

She opened her eyes. She wondered if the ventilation shaft was wide enough to afford her a means of escape.

But first, she’d try the window. The cinderblocks had shallow grooves between them, some shallower than others.

Years ago, she’d taken a rock climbing class. She hadn’t climbed since then, but she knew the basics. The difficulty of climbing the wall was much greater than her skill level, but she had nothing to lose.

Her back complained as she lifted herself from the cot. She looked in vain for her purse, but of course, whoever had taken her had likely taken it as well.

She was still dressed in the previous night’s clothes—white jeans that were now filthy and an orange silk long-sleeved top. A large rip in the silk opened below her right arm. She wore black leather shoes with no heel. At least the shoes were suitable for climbing.

She hobbled to the wall and stretched her arms upward, fingers questing for depressions she could hold. Then she lifted her left foot, ignoring the complaints from her spine, and found a toehold. Carefully, she transferred her weight to her left foot and lifted her right. She had difficulty finding a hold for the right and flattened the side of it into the deepest groove before transferring her weight to her left foot again.

Her hands sought and found higher holds, her stomach scraping against the wall as she lifted her right foot still farther, searching for a place that would take her weight.

She pulled herself up, adjusted her weight into her right foot, and began the process again with her left. Bit by bit she climbed, not giving up until finally her right hand reached the windowsill.

Straining, she pulled herself up.

There were bars on the window, covering what seemed to be Plexiglas. Outside, beige pillars topped with arches lined the courtyard, which featured a central fountain. Part of the courtyard floor was an intricate mosaic of small tiles, but the courtyard was dirty and dilapidated. Many of the tiles were broken.

A doorway stood to her left and one to her right, but there were no other visible windows on the main floor. Shuttered windows dotted the second floor, and two massive palm trees stood at the opposite end of the courtyard, flanking a tall double door with rusted iron hinges.

Acacia’s arms and legs began to shake, and she quickly retraced her moves, climbing down to the concrete floor. Based on the architecture and palm trees, she was likely somewhere in the Middle East. As if in confirmation, she heard the sound of the muezzin leading the call to prayer.

Her father must have kidnapped her.

She covered her face with her hands and took a long, deep breath. Instead of praying, she ignored the muezzin and tried to organize her thoughts.

Rick would have gone looking for Kurt. She thought of his vacant stare as he lay on the floor of her apartment building, blood staining his chest. He’d promised to protect her when they were in Dubai. He’d died protecting her in Paris.

She knew so little about him. She wondered if he had a family.

Acacia stifled a sob.

Think, she told herself. You can grieve for Kurt later. Now you have to find a way out.

She surveyed the room and looked for anything that could be used as a weapon or a means of escape. The cot had a simple steel frame and slats overlaid with a thin mattress. She had sheets and a blanket, as well as a pillow. If the window were large enough, she could climb out and lower herself with a rope made of sheets. But the window was far too small for her to pass through, and it was barred with iron.

If she stood the cot on its end, she could use it as a ladder to the ventilation shaft. She wasn’t sure how steady the cot would be on the uneven concrete floor. And she’d have to figure out a way to remove the cover to the ventilation shaft. As an escape plan, it held promise. She could try after dark.

The door to the cell didn’t have a doorknob or a lock she could pick, and the gap between door and doorframe was exceptionally slim. Even if she could remove one of the metal slats from her bed, it would probably be too wide to pry open the door. But again, it was something she could try.

Acacia crossed to inspect the bathroom. It had a shower stall, toilet, and sink. She turned her back to the mirror and lifted her shirt. A long horizontal bruise of dark purple and blue cut across her lower back. She pushed at it and winced.

If she smashed the mirror, she could wrap the shards of glass in strips torn from the bed sheet and use them as a weapon.

She didn’t want to kill anyone. As she’d learned in martial arts, her goal was to escape an attacker by disabling him. But if a shard of glass was the only means of escape she had, she’d use it.

She inspected the shampoo in the shower. The Arabic and French label declared it had been made in Morocco.

Morocco.

Of course she had no idea where she was in Morocco. Without money or a passport, returning to Europe would be difficult. She didn’t have Nicholas and his myriad of contacts and diplomatic passports to rely on.

Nicholas.

She wondered where he was and what he was doing. She wondered if he was searching for her.

She’d left him, so if he washed his hands of her, it would be her fault. But the man she knew, the man she still loved, would not do that. Acacia believed down to her soul that Nicholas’s love for her and his nobility of character would not allow him to surrender her to her fate. Somewhere, he and his people were looking for her. The thought bolstered her hope.

She heard a door open.

Acacia stood in the doorway of the bathroom and stared straight into the eyes of a young, dark-skinned man dressed in loose-fitting, sand-colored clothing and carrying a military rifle.

He spoke Arabic. “Your father returns tomorrow. Do you need anything?”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” she answered in French.

The man scowled and continued in his own language. “I was told you know Arabic.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” she repeated. She hunched over dramatically and placed her hand at her lower back. “I’m in pain. I need a doctor.”

The man gave her a confused look and exited. The door clanged shut behind him.

He hadn’t seemed angry or aggressive, despite his weapon. He’d held the door to her cell open while he spoke to her. She wondered if he’d return. If he did, she’d be ready.

She stood behind the cell door and waited. And waited.

More than an hour passed before something clanged against the door and metal scraped against metal. The door swung inward.

Acacia grabbed the edge of the door with both hands and pushed as hard as she could. The door caught someone and knocked him to the floor. She leapt over his sprawled body and wrested his gun from his hand.

A guard shouted at her from the other end of the hall.

Acacia didn’t know how to use a rifle. She squeezed the trigger but the gun didn’t fire. Frustrated, she hoisted the rifle over her shoulder and ran.

A doorway at the far end of the hall opened into what looked like the courtyard. But just as she approached the threshold, someone stepped into her path.

Acacia continued running, then, at the last minute, she executed a roundhouse kick to the guard’s head.

He fell to his knees.

She struck him in the head with the butt of the rifle and kept on running.

Outside, the sun shone bright and hot. Her steps echoed across the mosaic tiles as she ran past the fountain and toward the high, wooden doors. She yanked the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Furiously, she searched for a lock.

She heard footsteps and turned around, but before she could defend herself, something struck her from the side. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, everything went dark.