Chapter 9
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QUINN MUMBLED, GROGGY and dazed, as two men gripped her arms, pulling her to her feet.
She stumbled, shuffling along between them as they walked off of an airplane.
She’d woken up once on the flight, her wrists still restrained, but seated rather than crammed into a suitcase.
She’d barely gotten a glimpse of her surroundings before she’d been drugged again, this time via a needle.
Now she simply felt nauseated and hungover.
She squinted against the bright sunlight, the world swaying around her. She had no idea what was going on but prayed she wouldn’t be injected with an unknown substance again. Or shoved back into a suitcase.
The hot, dry air hit her just before they helped her into an idling vehicle and closed the door. Quinn blinked in surprise, recognition dawning.
She wasn’t in Washington state anymore.
She looked around in alarm, noting the craggy mountains in the background. The vast, brown desert spread out around them. Holy shit. She didn’t even think she was still in the U.S. She tried to speak but was still gagged, her wrists restrained. At some point, they’d untied her ankles, she noted.
A man slid into the vehicle beside her, loudly slamming the door, and she realized it was the first man from back in Seattle.
What the hell? She blinked, taking in the turban he’d wound round his head.
He’d changed clothes, too, and now wore a loose-fitting tunic over baggy trousers.
He still had the same full face, covered with a short dark beard.
The same hard eyes. He glanced at her for only a moment then leaned forward, speaking in a low voice to the driver.
Was that Farsi?
A jolt of adrenaline shot through her, and Quinn suddenly felt more alert.
She had to pay attention. To learn who her captors were.
To figure out where specifically she was.
Her gaze darted across the air field where they’d just come from.
It was nothing more than a landing strip in the middle of the desert.
There was no way that small plane had flown them all the way from Seattle.
What had happened in the past twenty-four hours? She could barely remember a damn thing.
Was she in Afghanistan? The homegrown terror cell that Bravo Team was targeting consisted of Americans. This man was American. She fought against the restraints on her wrists, and he huffed out a sound, the laugh low and harsh.
Quinn mumbled around her gag, and his gaze flicked over her. Cruel. Assessing.
The driver said something in Farsi, and the man beside her barked out a laugh. His gaze darkened as he stared at her once more.
“I didn’t expect to come here with a bride.”
Quinn nearly chocked on the bile rising in the back of her throat, looking at him in shock.
“An American bride, at that. We’ll have to get rid of that purple in your hair and get you some traditional clothes. You’ll learn how to be a subservient Muslim wife—my wife.”
Quinn fought against her restraints, trying to grab for the door handle, then froze in shock as he slapped her across the face.
Rough hands yanked her toward him, and he yelled at the driver to go.
He grabbed her head, pushing it down on his lap as she struggled against him.
Even now, she could tell he was getting excited, his erection growing beneath her cheek.
She turned her face the other way, crying, and he kept her head down.
He held her that way as the vehicle bounced along, one hand on her back, pressing her down, the second on her head. Quinn wondered for a moment if he was hiding her. She’d been in plain sight exiting the plane, however. And who would he be hiding her from?
Fresh tears tracked down her cheeks, and she was jostled again as they made a turn, speeding up to head away from the desert airstrip. The men began talking in Farsi again, and she didn’t understand a single word.
Photos of the terror cell members slid through her mind, and she tried to recall who specifically this guy was.
He looked different than any of the photos she’d seen, what with a beard and traditional Afghani clothing, but she was positive she could ID him if given enough time.
She just had to think. She just needed to remember.
Her captor laughed as they left the others behind, and Quinn began to grow queasy again, either from being drugged, the bumpy ride, or the entire situation.
She tried to shift into another position, and his hand fisted in her hair, threatening.
His other hand roamed her body, exploring her curves, cruelly squeezing her breasts.
Her leather jacket was gone, she realized. All Quinn wore was her scoop-neck top and wide-legged pants. Her shoes. She struggled, listening to his wicked laughter. With her hands tied, she had no way to fight him off.
“The mountains will be your home now,” he said, his voice harsh. “Afghanistan will have your loyalty. And you—you will belong to no one but me.”