Page 8 of Fighting for Valor
Hours later, I’ve only checked on a fraction of Amir Faruk’s investments. My thoughts won’t stop racing, pinging off the inside of my skull, jumbled, random fragments seemingly from another life.
I know I’m American. I know I don’t belong here. I’ve always known that. But I’m trapped. Trapped by my guilt. Both an old, deep-seated guilt I can’t understand and the guilt over everything I’ve done for my captor.
I used to think of him as my savior. Not anymore. Seeing him with Josephine, hearing the way he changes his voice, going from kind to vicious in a heartbeat, I remember bits and pieces of my first few days here. The drugs. The torture.
Giving up on my work, I strip off my clothes and turn on the shower. The water runs over my too-long hair, the beard I know I never used to have.
“Remove all of it. Make it hurt.”
The doctor grabs my wrist, rests his knee on my forearm, and holds a hot poker to my bicep. I scream, but then the pain fades away as Amir Faruk gives me a cup of tea. “You are no longer that wanted man, Isaad. You are free.”
Staring down at the shiny burn scar, I strain to see the remnants of the tattoo. “…iber.” The only piece left. It means something. Liber. Freedom. De Oppresso Liber. To free the oppressed.
I used to be someone else. Someone good. Someone who helped people. And now…I work for a murderer, a rapist, a human trafficker.
Loud, choking sobs echo off the shower walls as I mourn that man I used to be. Even though I don’t remember his name.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
The sound of the chopper blades lulls me into a trance, and I stare out at the desolate landscape. The Afghan hills are hauntingly beautiful at dawn—as long as you’re not getting shot at.
Next to me, a hazy form moves, and an elbow to my ribs makes me curse. “What the fuck?”
“Stay focused,” he growls, his voice deep, raspy, familiar. “Something’s not right with this mission.”
“You’re one paranoid son-of-a-bitch, Ry.”
“And you—”
An explosion rocks the air around us, and we’re spinning, smoke filling the interior of the helicopter. I grab the radio, my hand shaking. “COMSAT, COMSAT, do you read—?”
Jerking to my feet, my legs tangle in the sheet, and I crash to the floor with a grunt.
My team. My Special Forces team. Ryker. Dax. Hab. Gose. Naz. Dead. All because of me.
I can’t see their faces, but I know who they are now. And who I used to be. And that’s the worst part of it.
I was Special Forces. Trained never to lie. To protect the innocent. To infiltrate and free the oppressed, to take on the missions few others could ever do.
How can I live with my failures knowing who I used to be? How can I keep following Faruk’s orders? I can’t. I have to find a way to end him—then myself. It’s my only shot at redemption.
Chapter Five
Isaad
Days later, I trudge out into the courtyard for morning prayers, wondering how much longer I can keep up this act. Whenever I see Faruk, I want to wrap my hands around his throat and break his neck. But, he’s never alone.
The American, Dr. Joey, is attempting to cure Faruk’s son. Mateen is a sweet boy. Last spring, Faruk let me teach him how to play soccer. But the kid started asking me all kinds of questions—where I was from, why I talked funny, why my skin was so pale, and when Faruk overheard me tell him I was from far away and couldn’t ever go home again, he put a stop to those blissful afternoons when I could let go of my guilt for a few hours.
Mateen curls on his prayer mat, his arms around his belly, while Faruk yells at the petite American. But she doesn’t back down.
“I told you he needed fresh fruits and vegetables, bland food, and only the bare minimum of meat. Liver? It’s full of iron—something he does not need more of. You just set him back weeks!” Joey snaps from her position on her knees next to Mateen.
Faruk curses and kicks her in the stomach. The viciousness of his attack makes me draw in a sharp breath, and she curls into a ball as he continues to punch and kick her. Stepping forward, I force strength into my tone. “Amir Faruk, sir. The doctor cannot cure your son if you…break her.”
Faruk straightens, panting, and Dr. Joey peers up at me from under her arm and gives me a tiny nod. Checking to make sure no one’s looking at me, I mouth, “I’m sorry,” and back up, my head bowed.
I wish I could help her, but even if I could get her to the underground tunnel, where would she go? I can’t get into the garage—the locks aren’t computerized, and the keys are in the guard house, which is staffed twenty-four hours a day by two men. The gate, too, is manual, and patrolled.
