Chapter Six #2
Matthew picked up his pen and wrote down a list of things he needed to gather information on: military bases in Pakistan, air strips near or on such bases, customs locations, and refueling stations.
One thing was for certain – Rafiq wouldn’t be flying in or out through commercial means.
He’d need a private plane, one that wouldn’t have to contend with customs officials. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
The intercom buzzer startled him. His food had finally arrived. He took the elevator to the first floor and met the delivery guy, gave him a healthy tip, and trudged back upstairs to enjoy his greasy, delicious treats.
Several hours later, Matthew decided to call it a night and drive back to his hotel.
He planned on getting up early in the morning and going to visit Olivia in the hospital again.
She’d be expecting news on her request to join the witness protection program and he had no additional news to offer, but he still needed to get the rest of her statement.
If her information delivered the results he had proposed to his superiors, her request would likely be granted, but not for the right reasons.
What the girl needed was justice. She needed the men responsible for her kidnapping, rape, and torture to pay for their crimes in the public arena.
She needed for those men to be judged and found wanting of basic human decency – only then could she pick up the pieces of her life and move forward.
However, if he was correct in his assumptions, the Bureau would be more interested in the national security elements, rather than justice for one eighteen-year-old girl.
There would be no official arrests, no public trials.
Any evidence of involvement in human trafficking by wealthy and powerful military leaders, heads of state, and billionaire moguls would be an invaluable asset in the hands of the U.S.
government. Especially if the persons involved remained in power.
It was somewhat of a moral conundrum as far as Matthew was concerned.
Olivia was running away. She didn’t want to face her former life or its inhabitants, and it was a sentiment Matthew understood well but couldn’t agree with.
At the same time, he was the last person to give advice on how a person should move beyond their personal traumas.
He was still damaged, still sick in the head, no matter how many therapists he had talked to as a teenager.
His records had been sealed and for all intents and purposes he was fit for duty, but he knew his own mind.
He knew his own limitations and biases. He supposed it counted for something; his knowledge of his own shortcomings afforded him the semblance of perspective when dealing with his job.
He entered his hotel room and set his briefcase down on the table provided.
He emptied his pockets, careful to stack any loose change by denomination and place them in a row by size.
His keys, wallet, and watch were also placed with care.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket and hung it up in the closet.
Next, he sat and removed his shoes and socks, followed by his shirt and tie.
Finally, he removed his belt, wound it, and placed it on the table with his other things before he removed his underwear.
He lined up his shoes under the bed and placed the other items in the hotel’s dry-cleaning bag.
It was his nightly routine and he took comfort in the repeated actions. Order was important.
He stood naked in the warm, slightly-humid Texas air and ignored the tingling sensation of his penis becoming more erect.
He knew why he was getting hard and he wished he weren’t.
He’d been unable to resist the temptation of perusing his interview notes, despite the promising information he’d garnered through researching Rafiq in greater depth.
That much of the girl’s story was filled with violence was regrettable; that the violence was a direct result of sexually-charged circumstances was contemptible, but the way she recounted the story with such devious and manipulating zest and obvious arousal was enough to put him over the edge.
It pushed all of his buttons, and on the heels of his distaste was the undeniable quickening of his pulse.
He wouldn’t do it though. He wouldn’t fantasize. He wouldn’t masturbate. He wouldn’t seek out sexual gratification. Doing so would be a step in the wrong direction for him, because he knew it would lead to the debilitating guilt that inexorably followed.
Instead, he got down on the floor and proceeded to do as many push-ups as he possibly could.
He was tired and his muscles protested. Two in the morning was not the time for exercise, his muscles screamed at him, but it was better than the alternative.
He pushed himself until sweat ran down his back and his stomach quivered, until his arms threatened to give out…
until there was not a chance in hell he could inspire his lust. Then he took a shower and got in bed.
He slept peacefully and without dreams.