Chapter 4 #2
"Territorial. I respect that." He withdraws his hand, but slowly, deliberately.
Making sure I know he could have torn it off if he wanted to.
"Here's what's going to happen, Jordan. You're going to make a video.
You're going to tell the world about your work extracting girls from Boko Haram.
You're going to apologize for interfering with cultural traditions.
And you're going to beg Nigeria to meet our demands. "
"Go to hell."
"Or," he continues as if I haven't spoken, "I start with Grace Okafor. Then I move on to the other girls you 'rescued.' We have a list. We know where they are. Every one of them."
My blood runs cold. The temperature in the room seems to drop twenty degrees. "You're lying."
"Am I? Chiasoka Sani, living in France under witness protection.
Amina Kwago, relocated to Canada with a new identity.
Precious Nkiru, in university in London.
" He rattles off names, locations, and my stomach churns.
Girls I pulled out of hell. Girls who trusted me to keep them safe. "Shall I continue?"
"How?" My voice cracks.
"We have resources. Patience. We've been watching you for a long time, Jordan. Waiting for the perfect opportunity." He stands, and the chair scrapes against the floor. "You have one hour to decide. Make the video, or I start making examples. Your choice."
The mercenary leaves, and I'm alone again with the horrible realization that my crusade to save these women may have put them all in danger. The girls I rescued. The girls I promised would be safe. Every single one of them now has a target on their back because of me.
The tears come then, hot and angry, and I can't wipe them away with my hands bound.
I don't know how much time has passed when the door opens again. My shoulders are screaming from the unnatural position. My wrists are raw. This time, it's two of the gunmen, and they haul me to my feet. My legs nearly give out—they've gone numb from sitting.
"Your husband wants to see you," one says.
They drag me through corridors, up a service stairway, and into what I recognize as one of the luxury suites. Fitz is there, also zip-tied, sitting in a chair with a gun trained on him by two guards. There's a bruise forming on his cheekbone. They hit him. Rage floods through me, hot and fierce.
Our eyes meet, and I see the fury there, but also the relief. He's checking me over, cataloging injuries, assessing my condition.
"Give us a moment," their leader says, appearing in the doorway. "And gentlemen? If they try anything, shoot Mrs. Fitzwallace first. I have a feeling Captain Fitzwallace will be much more cooperative if his wife is bleeding."
The guards position themselves by the door, weapons ready, and the leader leaves us.
"Jordan," Fitz says quietly, his voice carrying that particular tone that means I'm in serious trouble. "What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking they were going to execute Grace Okafor on video to make a political statement." I move closer, desperate to touch him, to feel that he's real and whole. "I couldn't let that happen."
"So you offered yourself instead." It's not a question.
"Yes."
"You promised me." His voice is soft, deadly. "You promised me that if I told you to run, you'd run. You promised no heroics."
"You never said to run, so I stood. I'm sorry Fitz, but I couldn't just do nothing."
"Don't play semantics with me, Jordan. You lied to your Dom.
You put yourself in danger. You ignored a direct order.
" He leans forward as much as his restraints allow.
"When we get out of this—and we will get out of this—you and I are going to have a very long discussion about obedience.
And that discussion will involve you over my knee, your ass bare, and my belt. "
Despite everything, despite the armed guards and the hostage situation and the very real possibility we might die, I feel heat flood through me at his words.
"Is now really the time for dominance games?" I ask, my voice coming out breathier than I intend.
"Now is exactly the time. Because you need to remember who makes the decisions when our lives are on the line." His eyes bore into mine. "You need to remember that your Dom knows what he's doing. And you need to remember that your first priority is staying alive, not playing hero."
"Grace—"
"Grace is still alive. So are we. So is her mother. If you had waited, if you had trusted me, I would have found a way to save her without putting you directly in their crosshairs." His voice drops lower. "But you couldn't do that, could you? You couldn't trust me to handle it."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" He holds my gaze. "You saw a girl in trouble, and every rational thought fled your head. That's the Jordan James who got shot at her own wedding. That's the Jordan James who I love desperately and who also drives me insane with her recklessness."
"I had to do something—"
"You had to trust your Dom to do something. There's a difference." He shifts, trying to ease the strain on his shoulders. The zip ties have left marks on his wrists. "But that's a conversation for later. Right now, we need to focus on getting out of here alive. Both of us. All of us, if possible."
"How?" I glance at the guards, who are watching us with bored expressions. "We're zip-tied, outgunned, and isolated."
"We have advantages they don't know about." He cuts his eyes meaningfully toward his boot.
Right. Fitz never goes anywhere without backup weapons. I just need to—
The door bursts open, and the leader strides in, looking pleased with himself.
"How touching. A husband and wife reunion." He holds up a video camera. "Unfortunately, we're on a schedule. Jordan, it's time for you to make your statement."
"And if I refuse?"
He doesn't answer. Just pulls out a tablet and turns it to face me.
On the screen is a live feed of Grace Okafor, bound to a chair, sobbing. Her face is swollen from crying. There's a gun visible in the frame, pointed at her head.
"Your choice," the leader says simply. "Make the video, or I give the order. Three. Two. One—"
"Stop!" The word tears out of me. "I'll do it. I'll make your damn video."
"Jordan, no," Fitz growls.
"I have to." I look at him, willing him to understand. "I can't let her die, Fitz. I can't."
"Smart choice." The leader sets up the camera, positioning me in frame with Fitz visible in the background.
He adjusts the angle, checks the lighting, professional as a film crew.
"Now, Jordan. Tell the world about your crimes against Boko Haram.
Tell them you're sorry. Tell them Nigeria must negotiate.
And make it convincing, or the girl dies anyway. "
I take a deep breath, look directly into the camera, and start to speak.
But not the words they want to hear.