Click Here to Return to Homepage for A Good Read

The Rescue

By: Dorothy McFalls

July 2003

Dorothy McFalls [dorothymcfalls@att.net] lives in a small island community in South Carolina and has been writing non-fiction for more than six years as an urban planner. She has recently given up her career to pursue her first love, fiction.

I am not afraid of him. Despite her denials, Jesse could not stop a shiver from winding down her back. But the noise blasting from the adjacent room didn’t give her the chance to dwell on her destructive thoughts. Besides, he was her younger brother for heaven’s sake.

“Could you turn that down?” Jesse thought she might scream. Her nerves were unraveling faster than the water boiling over onto the stove. The stove! Spaghetti splattered out of the large pot along with a healthy dose of scalding water.

She pulled the pot off the heat just as her three children erupted into that high-pitched tone they got only with Taylor. And the television still blared in the living room.

Of course she loved Taylor. God bless him. He was her younger brother after all. But she’d been shocked into silence two days ago when he showed up on her doorstep.

Fifteen years, she’d wondered whether he was alive or dead. And then--boom--he shows up, towering a good foot taller than her and sporting a body with muscles sculpted from the hardest stone. But he was still her little brother with a loose black forelock hanging over his right brow. That lock of hair was the only thing that softened the frightening man he’d become.

He’d pulled her into a tight hug before she could sort out her feelings. A wave of relief had relaxed her anger by end of the long, silent embrace.

“I have a month off,” he’d said. “I missed having a family.”

Too shocked by his sudden appearance, Jesse couldn’t bring herself to confront him. Two days had passed and she still hadn’t dared ask the questions that were burning in her mind.

One of her boys screamed.

Jesse jumped. Her heart didn’t fall from her throat until a raucous of laughter poured in from the living room. She heaved a deep breath and then mopped the water from the stove.

Taylor was good for the boys. They needed a male figure in their lives. Besides, raising three boys alone drained nearly every drop of energy from her. She wiped her hands on a dishrag and went to check on her children. Every moment of every day she lived for her boys. And though she would never wish her children away, she recently found herself waking up in the morning not knowing who she was anymore.

Taylor’s arrival felt like some kind of mystical Godsend. If only she could find it in her heart to trust him.

In the living room, Jesse found Taylor on the floor crawling on his hands and knees while her three small hellions took turns leaping onto his back and tugging viscously on his neck.

“Don’t let them take advantage of you,” she scolded. “You’ll never get a moment’s rest.”

Taylor looked up and smiled. Their eyes locked, sending a chill down Jesse’s back.

What have you been doing these fifteen years? She had been dying to ask him, but that dark look haunting his eyes made her suspect she didn’t really want to know.

“We’re playing that Uncle Taylor is the bad guy, mamma,” Kyle said in his very matter-of-fact way.

“It’s his idea,” Pete, her eldest, chimed in.

Her baby, Toby, jumped on Taylor’s back.

Taylor grunted. “I’m the bad guy.”

Yes, Jesse thought, that’s what I’m worried about.

She didn’t dare trust him alone with her boys, not while that dangerous shadow lived behind his eyes.

“Go wash up, boys.” Jesse clapped her hands. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

Taylor stood as the boys scurried down the hall. He didn’t offer to help. He just stood there, in the middle of the living room, staring at her. The television still made a terrible racket in the background.

“You look tired,” he said.

His assessing gaze pressed so hard on her she took a step back and cleared her throat. “Well, yes. The boys take a lot of work. It’s hard...without George.”

“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know. I would’ve come right away if I’d known.”

“People die,” Jesse said before the tears threatened.

“I know,” he said immediately. That inky danger flared in his eyes. God, if only she could see a glimmer of sorrow, a spark of remorse in his expression.

A stranger could come to her door and tell her Taylor had murdered a string of helpless victims and she’d believe it. This man--this utterly large man--staying in her home scared her witless with his long silences, hard glares, and mysterious late night phone calls.

Who are you?

“What the hell is she doing? She’ll get herself killed.” Taylor was no longer paying attention to Jesse or her nervous behavior. His attentions turned to the television, which was still turned far too loud, and to the woman on the screen, reporting in front of a concrete hut. A frown set Taylor’s features into a frightening pose that reminded Jesse of a jackal ready to kill.

“Do you know her?” Jesse asked, hoping beyond hope that Taylor had somehow gotten himself mixed up in the television news business.

“No,” he said without looking up from the dusty-haired reporter.

“Then why do you care?” Jesse could feel her anger flaring, but couldn’t stop it this time. “Reporters go everywhere, report on lots of things. More people die everyday in car crashes than those stupid globetrotting reporters finding out things that make no impact on our lives at all and ignoring the really important day-to-day events. Who gives a shit about some dinky tribes in Africa?”

Taylor looked up from the television. His mouth dropped open.

“Dinner will be cold. What’s taking my boys so long?” Jesse screamed for her children to get down to the table. She didn’t want to talk about the hurt, the anger, or the sorrow that ripped at her throat...not with a brother who’d somehow become a stranger.

* * * * *

“I want my cameraman to be permitted closer to the presidential palace. He needs to shoot some general sweeps for the feature piece we’re putting together,” Connor said to Jameson Wilks, an American professor who’d graciously agreed to serve as interpreter. He’d lived in this emerging African country long ignored by the outside world, studying the remote and fierce Rambudo tribe. Jameson repeated the request to the shifty-eyed army officer who shadowed the television crew with a team of heavily armed men in tow.

“He says it’s impossible,” Jameson said after a lengthy argument in a language Connor had yet to master even the most rudimentary phrases. Generally a wiz with language, the soft clicks and pops of the Rambudo dialect confounded her.

“Tell him his president gave me free access,” Connor shot back.

Jameson shook his head. “It’s no good, Connor. Take what you can get. This society is suspicious of the outside world. They don’t want you recording where their tribal leader resides. They won’t allow it, regardless of what Mandudo says.”

“And where will I be allowed to interview this great and powerful Mandudo? In a field?”

“Connor, please don’t shout.” Jameson smiled nervously at the army officer, whose frown had drawn deeper. “Loud voices are a threat in their society, only uttered before an attack.” He turned and spoke quickly with the officer, who pointed at Connor and shook his head and frowned even harder.

“Forget it,” she grumbled and walked toward a group of young children playing on a nearby sand dune. The air was hot and dry. The conditions were closing in on intolerable. But as long as there was the chance she’d be on the front line when this tiny country of Rambudo--a place not much larger than her local New Jersey neighborhood with a population smaller than a light shopping day at her local mall--tests a nuclear weapon, she could put up with almost anything the weather or the tribal politics tossed her way. This story was huge. What was a country with less than fifty automobiles, no televisions, scarce electricity and even scarcer sources of indoor plumbing doing launching a nuclear program? Where did the technology come from? Where did the money come from?

Most everyone in the world, her producer included, believed the rumor to be a joke, a ploy by Mandudo, the newly appointed president, to garner the world’s interest. Connor, following a nagging hunch that this was real, turned out to be the only reporter foolhardy enough to trek through the barren desert to report from the capital of Rambudo.

But Connor had some pull at the station. Her angular features and slim, fit body brought in the viewers, giving her news program the highest rankings in the history of the television station. For Connor, this story was her chance to show the world that a brain existed beneath her beauty.

“You need a touch-up on your brow,” Patty, Connor’s assistant and closest friend touched her shoulder and said. “You’ll want to look fresh before the live feed in ten minutes.”

Connor barely nodded, barely acknowledged her friend. A gust of desert winds coated them both with a layer of tawny sand. She barely noticed. Her gaze was fixed on the spot where several of the village children had been playing.

The children were gone.

In their place stood three mammoth guards. Two had lit cigarettes hanging from their lips. Machine guns--Connor didn’t recognize the type--were slung lazily over their shoulders.

“Connor? The live feed will be in ten minutes. You know, to promote your interview with President Mandudo? Come on, wake up!”

“Just a minute.” Connor stepped closer to the men.

The children had disappeared too quickly, too quietly. And those soldiers, their boots were crisply polished. How could that be? Everyone else was caked in a thick layer of sand, herself included.

The nearest concrete building was at least a hundred yards away. A hundred yards in this cakey sand would coat a pair of black boots. Leading Connor to conclude that the soldiers must have emerged from the desert ground.

“Excuse me,” she called to them. A smattering of soldiers spoke English. She hoped to find one of those rarities among this trio.

They glared at her as she approached. One man stepped forward.

“Not allowed,” he said and waved his hands for her to step away. “Not allowed.”

“President Mandudo gave me free access,” she said. “I’m with the press.”

She’d bypassed his English knowledge. He looked dumbly at her and uttered, “Not allowed.” The other two soldiers grabbed their machine guns.

“Connor?” Patty said, her voice shaky.

“I’m sick and tired of the empty promises I’d been given. They said I’d have complete access to the facilities.” Her voice rose. “I intend to have that access. Step aside.”

A metal hatch gleamed in a bed of sand. The soldiers gaped at her as she marched straight for the opening. “Get a camera over here!” she called and bent down to pull on the steel handle.

The one soldier who spoke a little English caught her hand.

“Danger,” he said, shaking his head.

Connor pried his fingers from her hand. “Television crew,” she replied, speaking slowly and clearly. “Mandudo says yes.”

She pulled the door open and was immediately assaulted by a blast of super cooled air. The children she’d seen playing in the sand were running around at the base of the long tube in little circles, chasing each other, several feet below the desert ground in this artificially chilly air. A soldier garbed in a uniform with an insignia Connor felt she should be able to recognize walked by, patted a child on the head, and disappeared down a corridor.

This was what she’d been searching for...evidence that the Rambudo people possessed the technology to develop nuclear-grade weaponry.

“Where’s my cameraman? Get Jameson!”

“No!” the soldier shouted when she lowered herself onto the ladder leading down into the stainless steel vault.

Guttural shouts and clicks rose in the dry oven air followed by the sharp rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire. Concerned for her crew’s safety, Connor shot back up the ladder only to be stopped by the toe of a thick leather boot as it smashed mercilessly into her forehead.

Connor realized she was falling, but lost consciousness before the metal floor of the frigid vault slammed into her back.

* * * * *

The phone’s unearthly ring jolted Jesse awake. She sat bolt up, her gaze flying to the clock on the bedside table. Two forty-five. The red numbers burned into her corneas. The ringing of the phone called out again, stopping Jesse’s heart. What disaster would prompt someone to call at such a late hour?

She ripped the phone from its cradle and heard Taylor’s voice offering a greeting to a gruff voice on the other end of the line.

She leaned back into her pillow, still half-asleep, and listened.

“This is about Rambudo, isn’t it?” Taylor said. “I had a feeling that country would eventually blow themselves up.”

“They didn’t blow up...yet.” The gruff voice sounded irritated at Taylor. Jesse’s insides twisted with fear for her brother.

“What’s the score, then?” Taylor seemed so cool, mechanical almost. What had happened to her hotheaded little brother? Who’d killed him and replaced him with this robot? “You wouldn’t call here, in the middle of the night, if it wasn’t something huge.”

“It’s huge.” The man paused and sighed. “You know that reporter, Connor Thyme?”

“Yep, saw her on the news just this evening. Damn fool woman is going to get herself killed.”

“She might be dead already. But I honestly don’t care about her welfare right now. Rambudo has just released still pictures of her arrest. The television network is on the phone to every heavy hitter in Washington, and they, in turn, are breathing fire down my back.”

“So?”

“So? Damn it, Taylor. If we don’t do something right away, the world will turn its attentions to Rambudo and our nice little experiment will explode in our face.”

“Your face,” Taylor corrected.

“Just clean it up,” the gruff voice said before disconnecting the line.

Jesse remained on the bed with the phone balanced in her hand, feeling quite stunned. What in the world had her brother gotten himself mixed up with? She could hear the distinctive scraping of drawers being opened and closed in the adjacent room.

He was packing? He wouldn’t dare disappear in the middle of the night, just like fifteen years ago, would he? The thought propelled Jesse to her feet. She dropped the phone back into its cradle and tossed open her closet door to fish around the cluttered mess of clothes for a robe.

The door to the guest bedroom opened and closed again, bringing a new sense of urgency to Jesse’s searching fingers. She was not going to let her brother slip from her life this time...not with so many questions still smothering their relationship. She snatched up her pink robe, finding that it had fallen from its hanger and was lying on the closet floor. With one arm in the robe, she threw open the door and ran down the hall.

Jesse found Taylor crouched in front of the television in the living room. The kaleidoscope glow of the set lit his features as they screwed up into a hard frown. His black duffle bag lay at his feet.

On the screen was a still shot of the same reporter Taylor had commented on earlier in the day...Connor Thyme, the gruff voiced man had mentioned the woman’s name. The blonde headed beauty was sprawled out on her stomach on a tiny cot. Her face was caked with blood, her eyes closed. A thin blanket riddled with holes covered her shoulders and part of her back. The sound on the television was too quiet for Jesse to hear, but she could see the frantic faces of the newsmen as they talked about the picture of Connor and could tell that they were worried.

“Damn,” Taylor whispered. He rose, but kept his gaze trained on the set.

“So,” Jesse said. She crossed her arms and reveled in the sensation of her building anger. “You’re planning to leave without a word.”

Taylor glanced up from the television. His expression remained firm. “I believe you got all the explanation you needed when you listened in on my telephone call, sissy.”

That testy tone of his was the first truly familiar thing Jesse could latch on to and say she recognized. Growing up he’d use that scathing tone, scolding her for touching one of his unfathomable experiments. Hearing that churlish sound again washed away her anger and nearly wrenched tears from Jesse’s eyes.

“Oh Taylor,” she said at the end of a long sigh. “Don’t turn away from your family again. Please, don’t run away like this.”

His brown eyes lost much of their fire as his lips softened into a half-smile. He glanced at the television again. They were showing another picture of that reporter. It looked no different from the first picture, just shot from another angle.

“I have to go, Jesse. But I promise I’ll return this time.”

Somewhere deep in her heart, she believed him. And though letting him leave so quickly and mysteriously reopened the wound he created when he disappeared fifteen years earlier, she took comfort in the tight embrace he freely gave and from the words he whispered before slinking into the night.

“You won’t ever need to feel alone in this world again, Jesse. I swear it.”

* * * * *

Everything hurt.

And the heat threatened to suffocate her.

Connor moaned. She hated the pitiful sound that sprang from her mouth, but she really couldn’t do anything other than groan softly. Her muscles were tight bundles of pain. She didn’t dare try to move, fearing something might break.

Slowly one then the other, she pried her eyes open. The task challenged her. Her eyelashes felt glued to her lower lids, a heavy crust sealing them closed. When she finally got them opened, Connor stared blankly at the rough concrete block wall in front of her and wondered where she was.

Her memories, shadowy and close to being forgotten like a fleeting dream, trickled back into her mind while she laid still and concentrated on keeping her breath shallow and even. Sharp pains flowed down her back with each intake of air. Her crew, Patty, Jameson...oh God. She remembered hearing the gunfire.

Were they dead?

She searched her mind, desperately remembering that she’d tried to get back to them. And then nothing...a great void existed in her memories. Had she seen their bloody bodies? Had she been shot too?

This didn’t look like a hospital, but then again in Rambudo, nothing looked like it should.

“Hello?” she called out weakly. What sounded like the scuffle of footfalls also reminded her of the sound rats make. Connor prayed someone was indeed approaching. She didn’t think she could handle an encounter with rats feeling as immobile as she did at the moment.

“You’re awake,” a feminine voice with barely any accent said. “Good.” A stunning dark woman dressed in a colorful silk gown knelt down beside the cot and wiped Connor’s stinging face with a cool, damp rag.

Connor licked the refreshing fibers as they crossed her dried lips, not realizing how painfully her parched throat ached until teased with a few drops of water.

“I will bring you a glass of water to sip from after I clean you up,” the woman said gently.

“My crew?” Connor had to ask. She pinched her eyes closed frightened of her reaction to what she prayed would not be the woman’s answer.

“Do not worry after them. They will be sent home shortly,” the woman said evenly. “A cameraman was shot in the leg and your assistant in the arm. But they have received medical care.”

“Patty shot?” Connor cursed herself for acting too rashly in the presence of a testy army that spoke very little English and trusted Westerners even less. Though she could not help but wonder about that hatch in the desert sand and the super-cooled bunker it hid.

“They will be put on a plane home. We are not barbarians.” Something about the woman’s tone sent warning bells chiming in Connor’s head.

She fought through wave after wave of pain to sit up. Blinking, she saw for the first time that she was indeed in something other than a hospital. The bars on the window and separating her cell from the grungy one beside her where a battered old man lay crumpled on the floor sent a shiver down her spine.

She was in trouble.

“Why have I been imprisoned?” Connor could not keep her voice from ascending an octave from the panic welling in her chest. “President Mandudo gave me free access. He promised me--”

“I cannot tell you.” The woman’s open expression closed down. She stood. “I cannot tell you anything. They will question you before...I am sure.”

“Before what?” Connor struggled to her feet. Her back muscles were bruised and tight, but standing was not impossible. Walking as quickly as the woman was impossible though. The woman scurried out of the cell and closed the door fashioned out of wire bars with a loud clank before Connor could catch her arm. The old man in the adjacent cell moaned.

“I am sorry. Take comfort knowing your friends are safe,” the woman said.

She never did return with that promised glass of water, though Connor’s parched throat had quickly dropped the least of her worries.

* * * * *

Mandudo watched the large man named Taylor pace the entire length of the large presidential conference room, turn, and walk the long stretch back to the head of the table. The man’s eyes were alive and intelligent, never stopping on one point, but always searching. Those roving eyes put the image of Anansi the Spider strongly in Mandudo’s head.

“Have you ever heard of the myth of Anansi?” Mandudo asked the restless man.

“No,” he answered. This man’s thoughts weren’t on myths or the wisdom one could learn from them, but that didn’t deter Mandudo.

“Anansi is a spider...a tricky spider.” Like you, Mandudo thought. “The god of everything kept a patch of yams, and Anansi was jealous, because he wanted the yams for himself.”

“I really don’t have time for this,” the man called Taylor said. His tone was sharp. “Just answer my question.”

“Anansi was a smart spider, mind you,” Mandudo continued as if Taylor hadn’t spoken. The large man needed to hear the story to understand his country’s position. “But when he went into the patch to help himself to the yams, his leg got entangled in a trap. But this didn’t deter Anansi, for he knew how to be patient. He waited.”

“Just like I must wait, I suppose.”

“Soon, a praying mantis came along. Anansi called out to the mantis, saying ‘you have finally come!’ The mantis had no idea what Anansi was talking about. But Anansi was clever, he wove a fantastic story about a villainous threatening the god’s yams. ‘I’ve been posted to guard the yams,’ Anansi claimed. ‘But no one has come to relieve me and I’ve not eaten for three days. I am starving. If you would but take my place for a short time, I could run into the village and find some food to eat.’ The praying mantis was cautious, but Anansi’s plea had been expertly given. The mantis could not leave Anansi to starve. So Anansi and the mantis traded places, freeing Anansi from the leg trap while ensnaring the mantis.” Mandudo sighed. There was so much truth in those myths. He wished he’d been a smarter man and had heeded the lessons hidden in the ancient stories. “Anansi returned to the village and announced that the praying mantis had been caught in the yam patch.”

“Fascinating,” the large man said, his tone heavy with sarcasm. “And you believe yourself to be the praying mantis, I suppose?”

“I fear you and your agency has painted us a rosy picture, without warning us of the dangers of the trap you were leading us into.”

The man frowned at that and shook his head. “If anything, you were the one who acted the part of the spider. My agency is standing with its leg stuck in the trap. Why in the hell did you announce that you planned to test a nuclear weapon?”

“We are a poor country with little aid from outside sources. The nuclear bomb you’ve given us is worth a thousand times its value when standing in the world stage with our hands out for money. Countries will listen to our needs now.”

“That is not why you were given that little, dirty bomb. It’s not a true nuclear weapon and it doesn’t put you on par with the nuclear powers in the world. It’s just a dirty bomb to be used as an insurance policy against your neighboring countries.”

“In exchange for what?” Mandudo rose from his chair. He was tired of the restless man’s movements. He wanted to bring the meeting to a close and get the man out of his country.

“We just don’t want you to be trampled over by any of your neighbors. The United States does care about the developing countries in the world, you know.”

“Ah, do I hear Anansi the spider speaking? Your tongue is so cleaver. Next you will promise my country large aid packages as long as I’m patient and wait?”

The man’s eyes flashed with an evil man’s darkness. “I don’t have the authority to make those kind of promises.”

“But your agency does, doesn’t it? And will, won’t they? As long as I become their puppet?”

“My agency is ready to take that dirty bomb away from you and wipe our hands of this little country. By holding that reporter hostage, you’ve directed a very bright spotlight on this tiny little speck of the world. I would not be surprised if you melted under the heat. My agency, President Mandudo, is not willing to melt with you.”

Mandudo felt the tangled ropes from Anansi’s trap tighten around his own ankle. Why had he made this crazy agreement with the United States? He sank back into his red, plush presidential chair. “There is nothing I can do about the reporter.” Defeat dripped from his words. “I have no power over General Lahgro or his actions. You should know that...you trained him.”

* * * * *

“You General Lahgro’s prisoner now,” the battered old man whispered from the corner of his cell. His English was nearly as clear as the woman’s. “Mandudo cannot help you.”

Connor curled her hands around the hot bars that separated their cells and leaned her forehead against the metal. “What is this prison?”

“Prison?” The man coughed a sickly laugh. “Your language calls this hell. No one leaves, unless to be killed.”

Connor’s heart stopped. No trial? No chance to fight for her freedom? But then again, this wasn’t her country. Her producer would raise a stink. The United States wouldn’t let her die here.

“You find out our little country’s secret?” he asked.

“About the nuclear weapon? President Mandudo sent out a press release about that. That’s not much of a secret, if your president is openly admitting it.”

“That bomb’s just the president’s toy. I heard you found the...the,” the man frowned as he searched for the word. “The bunker.”

“That hatch in the sand? What’s in that underground structure?”

“An army.”

“So? What’s so secret about a country’s army?” she asked the old man, but a rumble of heavy boots cut off any chance of his replying. Connor inched away from the bars on a hunch that whoever was coming wouldn’t approve of deep conversations between the prisoners.

“Connor Thyme,” a heavily mustached man in a brilliant red and green uniform coated with medals and gold stars said in biting tones. “You will come with me.”

“Who are you?” Connor’s heart took a rapid beat as she remembered the old man saying no one left the prison by any means other than to be killed. “Where are you taking me?”

The highly decorated man didn’t answer. He just unlocked the door, swung it open--freedom never felt so frightening--and grabbed her arm. He dragged her down a long concrete corridor and pushed her through a narrow doorway.

Connor landed on her hands and knees, scraping the skin. Her eyes latched onto the blood staining the dirt floor and the heavy stench of death. She looked up quickly when a large figure approached, the air strangling in her lungs.

She wasn’t ready to die.

“She’s pretty beat up,” the man who towering over her said.

Connor blinked. This man was American. Perhaps he was from the State Department...perhaps he’d come to save her.

“We haven’t touched her since the arrest,” the military man said. “Even if we had, this is none of your business.”

“General Lahgro, you know I’m not here to--”

“Please,” Connor reached up and grabbed the American’s hand and pulled herself to her feet. The fear bubbling around in her stomach would just have to wait. “I demand to know what’s going on. Why am I being held? Who are you? Who is he?”

The American let her keep her hold of his hand, his gaze swept over her like a sharp breeze. “This complicates everything. How much does she know?”

“That’s why I brought her here. I intend to find out.”

General Lahgro grabbed the back of her neck with his large hand and tossed her into a hard, wooden chair. The American didn’t appear bothered by this rough treatment in the least. He crossed his arms and took a step back.

“If you intend to torture her, I can’t stay. My agency can’t be part of anything like that.” The American’s cool eyes were locked with hers. It wasn’t a comfort.

This talk of torture sent Connor’s fears spiraling out of her stomach. She’d lived through some tough moments before, but nothing looked as bleak as this. Just last year she’d filmed a feature story on foreign military torture tactics and knew too much for her own good. She’d seen men much braver than herself break down and sob uncontrollably when recounting the horrors they’d survived.

“Perhaps you should leave, then,” General Lahgro said as he slipped on a pair of leather gloves.

The American didn’t move. “Do you intend to kill her?”

The question sent Connor’s heart to throbbing in her throat. She bit her tongue to stop herself from saying something stupid in a move to feign bravery.

“I will need to kill her eventually,” General Lahgro answered thoughtfully. “Do you need her kept alive?”

“I’d like to question her.” The American crossed the room to stand beside Connor. He took her chin in his hand and lifted her face so he could stare into her eyes. “Perhaps I could have a few minutes with her before you get started?”

General Lahgro wasn’t pleased, but the American seemed to have some kind of power over him. He slowly drew off his leather gloves. “I suppose you want privacy?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Don’t kill her,” General Lahgro warned before stepping out of the narrow, windowless room. The door closed with a soft snap. Connor’s instincts told her that her situation hadn’t improved...but how could that be? Didn’t this man say he worked for the United States government? Wouldn’t he be bound by the Constitution to help her?

“Who are you?” Connor whispered the question. She’d meant to sound much more like a crass reporter, but her fear had won control of her voice.

“I’m Taylor,” he said and released her chin. He stepped away from her and leaned against a heavy wooden table with several bloodied boxes scattered on top. The horrible little room didn’t seem to affect him at all.

“Taylor,” Connor repeated his name, just a first name. Though he technically answered the question, she was no closer to knowing anything. “What is going on?”

“You’ve put your nose into something dangerous.” He crossed his arms in front of his broad chest. “Tell me, Connor. Why did they arrest you?”

“I don’t know!” she nearly screamed. “I’d been given free access to report on this story about Rambudo acquiring a nuclear bomb. President Mandudo personally invited me here to cover the story!” She drew a deep breath. “Are you from the State Department?”

“No,” he said. “What were you doing just before they arrested you?”

Connor hesitated before answering, wishing to see the whole picture. Who was this Taylor with no last name offered? Who did he represent?

Taylor leaned forward when she remained silent. “If you tell me the truth now, you won’t have to suffer General Lahgro’s twisted idea of entertainment.”

Connor swallowed hard, trying to dislodge a lump clogging her throat. “A hatch,” she croaked.

“A hatch?” He sounded amused. A patronizing smile tugged on his lips. Generally, such an expression would inflame Connor. Right now, in this horrible little room, the look only frightened her into babbling.

“I found a hatch in the middle of the desert. The children had disappeared and I couldn’t figure out why.”

“Children?”

“They’d gone down the hatch. It was cold down there. The soldiers didn’t want me to see what was down there. They didn’t want the camera crew to come close. They started firing. Is my crew safe?”

“They were put on a plane heading back to the states a little more than an hour ago,” he said. “Go on. What did you see underneath this mysterious hatch?”

Connor closed her eyes, trying desperately to remember. She didn’t want Taylor to call General Lahgro back into the room. “I-I don’t know. The soldier kicked me in the head before I had a chance to take a look around.”

“You saw nothing?”

Taylor didn’t believe her, Connor could tell by the way his eyebrows lifted and his smirk faded into a deadly frown.

“Nothing important, I swear.” The stifling heat in the room was getting to her. She needed water. Never in her life had she needed water like she did now. She was drier than the desert. Her insides were crumbling.

Taylor flipped open the lid of one closest box to his hand and produced what looked like a scalpel caked in blood. He studied the nicked blade as he rolled the torture implement between his fingers. “Not very sanitary,” he said far too casually for the situation. “Though, I doubt anyone’s died of infection from this.”

“No...” the plea sprang from Connor’s lips, unbidden. “I swear I don’t know.”

“I believe you,” he said, still fiddling with that blade. “General Lahgro won’t...not until he’s done everything he can to pry open that pretty head of yours.”

The literal image of his words wrenched Connor’s stomach. She gagged and broke out in a fit of coughing from the bile that rose to her throat, which only made her angry at everything, especially herself.

“You work for the United States government. You have to help me. You can’t let him harm me like this.”

“Hmmm...I believe the State Department had issued a warning, advising all citizens to avoid this part of the world. I’m sure you were told, as they told every member of the press who’d contacted them, that they’d not be able to provide assistance should you run into trouble. That doesn’t necessarily mean that there’s no United States presence in the area. Certainly, a person in your position would know that by now.”

He dropped the scalpel and fished out a rather ominous looking pair of tongs, also caked in dried blood. “I believe these are General Lahgro’s favorites. They create such excruciating pain without inflicting any mortal damage.”

Connor had a feeling her time was running short and she certainly didn’t want to be turned over General Lahgro and his boxes of sadistic toys.

“What do you want me to tell you?” she asked.

“The truth.”

“I have already--!” Connor heaved a deep breath and closed her eyes, searching her mind for even the smallest glimmer of a memory leading up to her being kicked in the head. “I saw a soldier underground,” she said as she pictured the image in her head. “His uniform was different than the army above. He was a foreigner.”

“American?” Taylor asked.

“No.”

“No? Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Taylor remained quiet for a long time. Connor kept her eyes closed, not willing to read his expression, not wanting to know if what she’d just fed him was what he wanted to hear. If she had it all to do over again, she would’ve laughed at President Mandudo’s press release along with all her colleagues and would be opening her eyes to find herself safe at home.

Home...a place she would probably never see again.

“Get up,” he said a moment before Connor would’ve degraded into a sniveling mess.

She opened her eyes, but didn’t move right away.

“Do you want to stay and let General Lahgro peel your life away, layer by layer?”

Of course she didn’t.

He pinched her chin between his fingers. “You will do exactly what I say, when I say it. You endanger my life; you will be the one to die. Do you understand?”

Connor nodded.

“Then, get up.”

Her stiff back muscles pulled as she carefully rose to her feet.

“You’ll have to move faster than that.” He took her wrist in an unbreakable hold and hauled her over to the door. His relentless gaze raked over her a moment before he tossed open the door. “Don’t say a word,” he whispered harshly.

“Hey!” A guard trotted toward them. “General Lahgro says she stays in the room.”

“He told me he wanted me to bring her to him,” Taylor answered while continuing to pull Connor down the hall. The fact that the guard had dipped his automatic rifle to take aim didn’t alter Taylor’s wide stride.

“Halt. I ask General Lahgro.”

“No time,” Taylor said. He gave Connor a vicious shove toward the outside door. She stumbled but caught herself before her knees could scrape against the rough concrete.

“Halt,” the guard called again.

Taylor tossed her out the door and dived after her. The loud cracks of bullets echoed in Connor’s head as she took off running blindly away from the prison.

I’m going to die. I’m going to die.

She heard a loud curse and then went crashing to the ground when something large collided with her, throwing her to the hot, dry ground.

“I’ve got her,” Taylor shouted just above her ear. “Don’t shoot.” He followed up by speaking rapidly in the Rambudo tongue. The meaning of the strange words lost on Connor.

She rubbed her raw, heat-seared eyes as Taylor dragged her to her feet. He didn’t look happy. She felt even worse when she saw General Lahgro lumbering toward them.

“What is the meaning of this?” the general called and stopped several hundred feet from them. None of the guards approached, which Connor thought odd.

Taylor tightened his grasp on her arm, nearly crushing the bone.

“She escaped,” he called back. “Your guards are incompetent. I was coming to get you when she escaped. But she’s a fool, she just darted into the middle of your mine field, as you see.”

“A mine field?” Connor whispered. Her legs suddenly turned watery.

“You are an even bigger fool to run in after her,” General Lahgro said.

“I am,” Taylor agreed. “But she’s holding back, not told me everything I need to know. I want her alive.”

“So do I,” Lahgro agreed. The smile that accompanied his words chilled Connor’s blood. This man was worst than an animal. He enjoyed harming, maiming, and killing. She could spout her life story and this Lahgro would only torture her more.

“I’m going to take her back to the United States with me,” Taylor said, much to Connor’s relief.

“I cannot allow that, my friend.”

“The world frowns on violence toward the press. You’ll only turn this country into a hotbed of controversy if you harm her.”

General Lahgro merely shrugged. “Unlike that fool, Mandudo, I don’t care about the world’s opinion.”

“That foreign soldier you saw in the bunker?” Taylor bent down and whispered. “Where was he from?”

“I don’t know.” Connor wished she did know. She wanted more than anything to help this man trying to save her life. “I swear I don’t.”

He didn’t get upset, didn’t change his expression at all. “How did you know he wasn’t American then?” he asked calmly.

“The insignia was wrong. It looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it.” For all the bravado she’d displayed before being arrested, she would’ve thought she’d hold on to a glimmer of bravery. All of it faded though and her voice had wavered.

This wasn’t a game. Her crew had already gotten hurt. She didn’t even know how serious their injuries were.

How in the world could Taylor keep his calm with so many guns and dangerous men surrounding them? And standing in the middle of a minefield to boot!

“What kind of insignia?” he asked.

* * * * *

General Lahgro eyed Taylor Keen cautiously. He’d heard some scary stories about this dark ops agent from the United States. People have been known to mysteriously disappear in his wake...some very important members of foreign governments, in fact. Lahgro didn’t intend to become one of them, but he also needed to keep his country from becoming nothing more than a puppet of the United States. That’s exactly where that fool, Mandudo, was leading them. It took a bold move, like arresting this feisty little reporter, to prove to the world that Rambudo did have a backbone.

“I know about the army,” Taylor called out.

His words sent a chill down Lahgro’s spine. How did Taylor find out about that? He should’ve never left him alone with that nosey reporter.

“What army?” Lahgro called with an innocent lilt lifting his tone.

“I know you are trying to play on both sides of the fence. Let me tell you right now, Lahgro. If I don’t come home alive, my agency will send a fleet of bombers over here and blow this little country off the face of Africa.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Taylor. We are just a poor country. We are grateful for your nation’s assistance.”

“Tell your men to lower their weapons. Grant Connor and me safe passage to my plane.” Taylor was a man who knew no fear; as he already admitted, his death would create a great heap of havoc.

Lahgro had no choice but to agree to his terms.

“Very well.” With a wave of his hand, he called off the troop of soldiers and prayed Taylor would be able to make it out of the minefield without triggering what would surely spell the end of Rambudo.

* * * * *

“Who are you?” Connor asked. “Really.” She felt her bravado return now that she was sitting on a military plane headed back to the United States and sipping on a very American and very ice-cold soda.

Taylor lowered the dark sunglasses he’d donned moments into the flight to glare at her. “I’m no one,” he said.

“No one? Seriously, I’m going to do a feature story on you, on how you rescued me despite the odds against it.”

Taylor continued to glare.

“I mean, this is what America needs to hear about. People like you...honest to God heroes.”

“I’m not a hero.” There was something dark living in his voice. Connor would’ve shivered if her mood hadn’t been quite so bright.

“I’m still breathing and am, for the most part, unharmed. Like it or not, in my book, that makes you a hero. I intend to make sure every last American knows about what you did.”

“I don’t exist.” He pushed his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose and turned to stare out a window.

“What do you mean you don’t exist? You’re here, right in front of me. You’ve bruised my arm with that iron grip of yours. I’m alive because of that cunning brain in your head.”

Taylor refused to answer. The silence in the airplane’s cabin ate at Connor’s nerves.

“I’m sure your superiors would love the positive press. Lord knows there’s been too much negative press against the government lately. What agency do you work for anyhow?”

The silence spanned longer.

“I can find out, you know. I’m as tenacious as a tick.”

That got Taylor’s attention. He turned back toward her and took off his sunglasses. “What makes you think I won’t kill you?”

The question settled low in Connor’s throat, but she didn’t let that deter her from answering without hesitation. “You can’t. I’m an American citizen. We’re on the same side, you and I. You work for me in a way. I’m not in any kind of danger.”

“Aren’t you?” His eyes settled on her throat.

“Why save me from Lahgro then?” She choked on a nervous laugh. “You’re just trying to scare me.”

“I’m not going to lie to you, Connor.” He paused for what seemed like a lifetime of heavy heartbeats. “You know too much. The United States doesn’t want anyone to know what’s going on in Rambudo...not yet anyhow. And here you are, an intrepid reporter, itching to shout the story to the world. What do you think will happen to you?”

“The United States doesn’t kill it’s own citizens.”

“Not publicly. Let’s just say my agency is operating below the radar. I do a dirty business no one wants to admit but has to be done. If I don’t, countries like Rambudo would erupt into a bloody mess. We’re saving lives, even if some blood has to be shed in the process.”

“Bull,” Connor said, holding firm to her belief that her life wasn’t in any danger.

Taylor smiled and shrugged. “Believe what you want.” He slipped his sunglasses back on and returned his attentions to the window.

That smile of his, so cold and emotionless, froze Connor’s veins.

* * * * *

“You did what?” a man in the adjacent room, a room where Taylor had just disappeared, shouted loud enough for Connor to hear.

She pressed her ear to the door to listen. They’d landed somewhere near DC a few hours earlier and driven straight to this non-descript office building in the middle of a Virginia suburb. Taylor had led her through a maze of hallways and to this long conference room, telling her to stay put before leaving her locked behind two wooden doors, alone.

Connor still believed she had nothing to worry about. So, planning to put together a fantastic story for her producer, she listened.

“I couldn’t let them kill her, Harold. Not like that,” Taylor’s low voice rumbled, slightly muffled through the heavy door.

“I should’ve never given you permission to visit your sister. That stroll into your past has softened you. This is dangerous...and stupid.”

“General Lahgro is planning to double cross us. Connor saw a soldier from North Korea’s army in that bunker we built for them. She might know more. She might know how much of our weapons Lahgro is planning to sell to the North Koreans.”

“Stop making excuses, Taylor. What do you plan to do with her? Here, on U-S of A soil?”

“I don’t know.” Connor barely could hear his answer he spoke so quietly.

“You don’t know. Well, that’s cheery to hear. I suppose you also have plans to return to your sister’s domestic abode and pretend you’re not who you are?”

“I’m tired of this life, Harold. I want out. Besides, my sister needs me.”

“She wouldn’t let you within a hundred miles of her children if she knew who you were.”

Connor held her breath in the silence that followed and began rethinking her feelings of security. Her ears had to be deceiving her...this conversation couldn’t be happening in her country...not in the land of the free.

This story promised to be a thousand times bigger than some tiny country in Africa getting its hands on a dirty bomb. There would be Senate hearings discussing this, and awards, and ratings.

This was exactly the type of story that had drawn her into journalism. A story that promised to improve the world.

She just had to get out of the building alive.

“Get rid of her now,” the faceless man in the other room said. “I don’t care how. Just make sure no one ever finds the body. I’ll start a cover story circulating.”

“No,” Taylor said. “I want out.”

“You don’t get out. I own you, remember? And if you care anything about those darling little nephews of yours, you’ll stop this foolishness and start acting like the Taylor Keen I created.”

Connor darted from the door when the knob turned and plunked down into the nearest chair. She drummed her fingers on the top of the table, trying her hardest to look bored.

“Do I get to meet your boss?” she asked. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel the vein in her neck jumping.

“No,” he said. He narrowed his eyes as he stared at her, but didn’t say anything more.

“I’d really like to interview him. Did you even ask?”

“He’s not interested.” He took her arm and pulled her up to his side. “We’ve gotta go now.”

“Where?” Her brave front threatened to crumble. Connor drew a deep breath and forced herself to meet his dead gaze. “I want to know where you are taking me.”

“Trust me, Connor,” he whispered.

She knew better than to trust him after listening in on that terrifying conversation. An agency in the government wanted her dead. If not him, someone else would do the deed. Trust was the last thing she could count on.

The only thing convincing her to follow Taylor quietly was the gun that appeared suddenly in his hand with a long silencer attached. “Remember the deal, Connor. You put me into danger, you’ll be the one to die.”

* * * * *

Taylor drove a sleek and rich, black Audi TT through the suburban streets, past several commercial strip developments that were indistinguishable from each other and further still down a twisting road. The traffic thinned with each mile. The distances between the buildings lining the road grew, giving way to farm fields and trees.

Connor, who generally loved the country, grew more anxious with the passing of asphalt beneath them. She sat in the passenger seat, still as a stone, wondering how to escape from this government-sanctioned madman.

There is no escape, her mind screamed with a surge of panic when he steered the car onto a bumpy dirt road that looked as if it hadn’t been traveled in over a decade. I’m going to be killed and no one will ever know my fate.

She turned her head quickly to read Taylor’s expression, and cursed herself for being a glutton for punishment. His firm jaw was tight with concentration, his gaze fixed on the road in front of them. The only redeeming feature to this large, frightening man was the loose lock of hair that dropped over his brow.

“Is there anything I can do to change your mind?” she asked, only to be rewarded with a wall of silence. The car bumped along the rutted dirt and grass path. “What if I promise not to report anything? I could disappear into the Midwest and change my name. You’ll never know I existed.”

Still more silence, the strangling kind that sucked the air from a healthy set of lungs.

The car jostled again, shifting the gun sitting on Taylor’s lap and reminding Connor of the helplessness of her situation.

“Please,” she said as the car slowed near a thick clump of trees. “Please don’t do this. I-I’m not--”

His gaze, black as the devils heart, locked onto her face and shocked her into silence. He reached into an inside pocket of his leather jacket, withdrew a tiny cell phone, and tossed it on her lap.

She stared at the phone expecting it to explode, or shoot poison up her nostrils, or eat a hole through her skin. The harmless chrome phone just sat in her lap, doing nothing sinister at all.

Taylor sucked in several deep breaths. He opened his mouth to speak twice before actually uttering a sound. “How much power do you wield at your television station?” he asked finally.

Was this a trick question? Perhaps if she was just a peon, a nobody, she could convince him to spare her life.

“No one listens to me there. I’m just the dumb pretty girl. A glorified weather chick, you know. A joke. An idiot.” The words flew out of her mouth. She would’ve kept going indefinitely if the vicious look twisting his mouth hadn’t stopped her.

“A joke,” he said quietly.

“Yep.”

“An idiot,” he said.

Connor nodded, trying to look as dull-witted as possible.

“Damn.” He opened the car door and raised the gun. “Get out.”

Connor’s heart hammered in her chest. She suddenly got the feeling that she’d just made a huge error in judgment. “Wait...wait.” She refused to open the door, to leave the safety of his spotless car. “Why are you asking?”

“If you can’t make things happen at your television station, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, Connor. But I have three beautiful nephews to consider. I can’t risk their lives. I’m sure you understand.”

“The hell I do!”

Facing death like this didn’t matter, that gun didn’t matter, if she was going to die--which looked pretty darn certain--she was going to die honestly. And had no plans of making her demise easy for Taylor.

Taylor rolled his eyes and showed the first sign of truly human emotion since Connor met him--honest, sticky exasperation. “You don’t understand the position I’m in. I don’t have the luxury to disobey an order like you do. I screw up, people get killed...people I love.” He waved the gun at her. “Now get out of the car.”

“No.”

“No?” He squared his shoulders then, looking determined to drag her bodily from the safety of his vehicle if need be.

“I can help you,” she said quickly.

“You can’t.”

“I can. You asked me if I wielded any power, and I lied. I can have every damn camera from my station, twenty affiliates, and two rival stations surrounding that so-called agency you work for, blowing the lid off what I can only suppose is an unconstitutional use of government power.”

“Call it homeland security, use words like preemptive justice, and all sorts of intelligent people look the other way.”

A new gleam of light sparkled in Taylor’s eyes. Connor prayed she was seeing the beginnings of a ray of hope.

“You’re not spewing bull just because your life’s on the line, are you?” he asked tentatively.

“I would...but I’m not. I’m a ratings goddess at the station. They’ll do anything I ask, especially if I’m breaking open a story that will shake the very foundations of our country. It’ll be an event people will talk about for hundreds of years.”

“I hope this country can survive it.”

“This nation will crumble if we ignore it.”

Taylor pointed to the phone on Connor’s lap. “Make the call.”

* * * * *

The camera panned the nondescript, brown building. Teams of reporters surrounded the perimeter, descending on anyone who dared step foot out the door like a plague of locus. The scene abruptly cut to the president standing in the middle of the rose garden. A haggard expression aged him by at least twenty years.

“The American people can rest assured, knowing I have ordered each and every member of this cloaked agency, known to the CIA only as The Assassins, to be taken immediately into custody. The files have already been seized.” The president banged his fist against the dais. “I will get to the bottom of this. I will restore confidence.”

The select members of the press present began shouting questions in the gap of silence.

Jesse turned the television’s volume down and sat back, stunned.

“You’re an assassin?” The question had to be asked. Taylor had reappeared out of the blue not more than an hour earlier, acting nervous for her safety and the safety of her boys.

“Something huge is happening, Jesse,” he’d said. “I don’t have time to explain. Just know I’m smack dab in the middle, and by relation, you and your sons are too, I’m afraid.” And he was...afraid that is. She’d seen Taylor express several emotions growing up, but never fear.

“You killed people?” The thought horrified her.

“I’m not proud of it,” he said. “I understand if you don’t want me in your home. But know this, it’s not safe for me to leave you...not right now. Soon, Jesse, this will all be over.”

Jesse sucked in a deep breath and took a moment to listen as her boys played in the adjacent room.

“I want you in my life,” she said finally.

Connor Tyme, bruised and looking physically exhausted, appeared on the television screen with all her usual pep and energy. It was quite a contrast to watch. Jesse raised the volume.

“...And I would be remiss if I didn’t thank my source,” she said. “Without him daring to go against the system and speak out--at a great risk to his own life--I wouldn’t be alive right now. I know this is hard to believe, but this agency shielded behind the power of our government had ordered me killed...one of it’s own American citizens...just because I knew too much.”

The thought sent a shiver down Jesse’s spine. How could someone loose such a basic freedom--the freedom to live--in an open society like this one?

Funny, Taylor didn’t appear nearly as concerned as she felt. A crooked smile graced his lips as he continued to watch Connor Tyme’s extended report.

“Taylor,” she said looking directly into the camera. Her bright personality pushed through the glass on the set. The station’s ratings would hit new record highs after this. “I insist we have dinner Wednesday night. At eight. My place. Don’t let this grateful reporter down.”

Click Here to Return to Homepage for A Good Read