Chapter 7 #3
“And how are you doing?” He glances around the living room, his gaze lingering on the photos above my fireplace—candid shots of me and Annaliese beside a collection of pictures of my old team. “Nice area you live in. Close to the beach.”
“I’m doing pretty well,” I reply. “Just working a regular job now.”
Davis frowns at the photos. “Seems like you’re doing well. Place like this can’t be cheap. And I heard you’re doing robotics. That’s got to pay pretty well.”
Something about the tone of his voice feels off. It’s almost… mocking.
Stop looking for trouble where there’s nothing, I remind myself. The guy’s been a captive in the Middle East for two and a half years. He’s still assimilating back into regular life. Think about how much you’ve struggled, and you were only held captive for a fraction of the time.
Forcing a friendlier smile, I reply, “It’s okay. I was lucky to find a job, really.”
Davis gives me a long look. “Lucky. Yeah. I suppose you are.”
“Um.” Suddenly eager to put some space between us, I stand.
“Do you want something to drink? Soda? Water? Juice?” It’s on the tip of my tongue to offer him one of the beers I bought for the weekend, but something stops me.
I don’t want to share a beer with him. I just want to get this conversation over, hopefully leaving myself enough time to get my bearings back before Ace gets here.
He nods. “Actually, water would be great. If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” I hurry towards the kitchen, adding over my shoulder, “Do you want bottled or tap?”
At first, there’s no answer.
Then it comes from right behind me, this time in a low, threatening tone. “Neither.”
It’s a simple word. A harmless one. But my body knows it’s anything but.
Alarm bells shriek in my head, announcing danger before my brain can register it.
Body tensing instinctively, I spin around. My arms come up defensively.
But already, a fist is flying towards me.
I try to duck, but I’m off guard. My responses are too slow.
Davis’ fist crashes into my jaw, snapping my head back and making it spin.
“Bitch,” he snarls. “Fucking traitorous bitch.”
Then he leaps on me.
Already off balance, I crash to the floor. His heavier body flattens on top of me, pinning me down.
As he scrabbles for my wrists, I turn into a dervish. Kicking. Bucking. Punching. Twisting.
Arching my back to give myself some space, I draw my knee back and nail him in the crotch. Davis growls, “Fucking bitch!” and punches me again.
Spots explode across my vision. My ears ring.
I try for a throat strike, just like I did to Winthrop. But Winthrop was untrained. Davis isn’t. And despite his years of captivity, he’s incredibly strong.
Realizing my phone is still in my hand, I slam the edge of it into the side of his head.
But I’m dizzy. Sick. Pinned down by a man at least fifty pounds heavier than me.
And shit, in all my training, I haven’t done one-on-one sparring, not in years.
I was worried it would be too triggering, and stupidly, I thought I wouldn’t need it.
But I do. Oh, I do.
“Bitch!” Davis grabs my hand and wrenches my fingers away from the phone.
A bone snaps.
Though I’ve been trained never to show how much pain I’m in, a small yelp escapes.
Then I think, Idiot. There’s no point in keeping quiet. Shout for help. One of the neighbors will hear and call the police.
Just as I’m opening my mouth to scream, Davis claps his large hand across my mouth and nose.
It’s rough. Sweaty. Smelling of salt and oil.
“You fucking bitch,” he grits out. “I’ve been waiting years for this. And now you’re finally going to get what you deserve.”
Twisting my head to escape his punishing grip, I keep fighting. Kicking. Squirming. Using any part of my body as a weapon, just as I was taught.
You’re a freaking Green Beret, I tell myself. You can beat this guy. So what if he’s bigger? I used to wrestle with my teammates, and they were all bigger than me.
But for every move I make, Davis seems to anticipate it. Because one thing I do remember about him is that he wasn’t just a regular soldier, but Spec Ops, just like I was.
Was. Because despite my five-times-a-week workouts, I’m not as strong as I was three years ago. And the longer Davis’s hand covers my face, the less air I have and the weaker I’m getting.
But why? Why is he doing this?
Was he indoctrinated by the enemy, sent to punish me for escaping?
I want to ask. I want to reason with him. I want to tell him this isn’t the way. That whatever he thinks I did, it’s not true. That the only thing I’m guilty of is surviving when two of my teammates didn’t.
“Bitch,” he repeats. “Fucking whore. You’re going to regret what you did.”
I keep trying to fight back. But my movements are slow. Weak. Uncoordinated.
Black creeps into my vision.
With one last burst of energy, I reach for my phone, so close I can feel the smoothness of it with the tips of my fingers. If I can just reach it, call 911, call Ace…
Davis laughs; a cruel, poisonous sound. Then he snatches up the phone and throws it across the room. “I don’t think so, Yara,” he sneers.
And then, as the darkness closes in, he adds in a darkly satisfied tone, “This is going to be fun, Sergeant Alves. I can’t wait to get started.”