Marc Cameron - National Security

“Allah willing,” the Bedouin said. “But for now, let me tell you all I know of a man named Jericho…”

After he finished the phone call, Zafir sighed. His master now acted as a friend. It was more than he had dreamed could ever take place. But even as he spoke of fulfilling his destiny in the United States, his satisfaction wilted, dragged down by nagging thoughts of the American whore. She would pay for what she had done. Zafir consoled himself with the fact that he would be the one to exact that payment very, very soon.

Fort Worth

“So,” Carrie Navarro said, popping her hands against the thighs of faded jeans and leaning back in the soft cushions of the leather sofa. “Here we are again. Think it’s worth another go?”

“If you’re ready,” Dr. Soto said, smiling serenely.

“I’ll never be ready,” Navarro scoffed, pushing a lock of dark hair out of her eyes. “But I trust you, Doc. If you say I need to watch myself go through this again, then I’ll do it. Some hajji bastard’s not gonna get the better of me.”

“Very well,” Soto said. “Close your eyes and relax. Let your mind wander freely. I’m going to count to ten…”

“Where are you now?” Soto asked a minute later.

“Some shithole outside Baquba.” Navarro’s eyelids twitched.

“Carrie, I’m still detecting a lot of anger from you,” Soto said. “I need you to detach-”

Eyelids closed but fluttering heavily, Navarro laughed at that. “I love you, Doc, but that’s not gonna happen. Let someone yank out a toenail and come around every few hours and rape you… then see how much you can detach…”

“Okay, Carrie,” Soto said. “Calm down, sweetheart. If this is too difficult for you, we should wait until a better time-”

“There’s never gonna be a good time to go through that kind of hell, Dr. Soto,” Navarro whispered. Tears pressed between dark, clenched lashes. “I said I trust you and I do. Besides, I’ve got more to worry about that just myself here.” She clutched her knees until her knuckles turned white. “So, let’s do this thing…”

Chibernat Village, Iraq

The duct tape used to cover Carrie Navarro’s eyes was crooked, revealing the tiniest swath of light along the frayed bottom edge. She awoke to find herself facedown, hands drawn together and bound cruelly behind her back. Shoulder blades pinned together like a trussed bird, her entire body was one raw bruise. Her head was on fire and her feet felt as if they’d been beaten with a pipe. She tried to move her aching jaw but found it impossible because of a thick cloth gag that held her mouth in an agonizing half-open position. A swollen tongue did little to salve her cracked lips.

Wincing from the shooting pain in her head, she rolled up on one side enough to peer around the concrete cell through the narrow slit in the tape. The rough tile floor was awash in blood and urine. The sudden realization that the odor around her was the smell of her own filth sent her stomach reeling. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious, but judging from her cramped muscles, she assumed it had been a while.

The squealing metal creak of a heavy door caused her to catch her breath. She pressed her cheek back to the cool stickiness of the floor, watching heavy black boots approach across the tile. A bucket of icy water drove a scream from her lungs.

“Good,” someone chuckled in accented English. It was a man’s voice, full of contempt. “You are awake.” Another bucket of frigid water followed.

Carrie cringed in shock, wriggling away until her back hit a wall. She tried to scream, but with the cruel gag could muster only a pitiful gurgle. She peered through the gap in the tape as the black boots approached her again. A bronze hand, little more than a claw, missing all but a thumb and forefinger, reached toward her face.

“I will now untie you,” the voice said. “Clean yourself at once.” He might as well have been giving commands to a dog.

He removed the gag first, then without warning he ripped the tape from Carrie’s eyes, yanking out her eyebrows and most of her lashes in the process.

“Son of a bitch!” she screamed, moving her jaw back and forth now that it was free.

“You have a fire,” the man said. He was tall, with a mussed beard and a wild mane of long, black hair that matched his sullen eyes. “I have yet to decide if that pleases me.”

She recognized him as the man who’d pulled out at least two of her toenails with a pair of pliers upon her arrival, tormenting her until she’d passed out.

As Carrie’s eyes became accustomed to the stark white light of her cell, she saw two more buckets of water, along with a towel and a coarse bar of gray soap. Three other bearded men stood leering in the open doorway.

As usual, Carrie let her temper get the better of her.

“Afraid you can’t handle me all by yourself?” She rolled to a sitting position and dipped her head toward the door. “Is that why you brought your creepy little friends?”

“Oh, rest assured, little dog. I can handle you fine all alone.” The man punctuated his words with a swift kick that caught her square in the joint of her hip.

Carrie gasped as waves of pain and nausea engulfed her. “Bastard!” she spat, coughing until she gagged.

The man scratched at his beard, smoothed it, thinking for a moment, then kicked her again. “I know the meaning of these words you use,” he said. “You will soon learn better than to call Zafir such names. You may call me a great many things-your master or your tormentor…” He smiled. “… even your lover. But you must keep a civil tongue in your mouth or I would be most happy to tear it out by the root. And I assure you, in my country, this is no empty threat.”

Carrie swallowed hard, trying to regain her composure. It was amazing how pain cleared the cobwebs from her muddled mind. It was as if she could see the pure evil that made up the man standing in front of her.

“How about some privacy while I wash?” she said, rubbing her wrists. “I thought you Arab men were all about covering your women.”

Zafir sneered. “That particular nicety is reserved for pious Muslim women. The way you dress in your tight pants and transparent shirt, you may as well be naked at all times. Surely a man can not be blamed when his passions are inflamed around a woman of such wanton behaviors.” He threw her a tattered cotton rag. “Now, I will not tell you again so nicely. Clean yourself at once.”

Though every muscle screamed at the slightest movement, Carrie resolved then and there that this man would not witness her pain, no matter what he did to her. She rose up on both feet. Wobbly at first, she used the wall to steady herself. It took all her strength just to put her weight on one foot and peel off her soaked khakis. Defiantly, she dropped her filthy underwear to her ankles and kicked them toward the door where the three wide-eyed guards ogled her. She pulled her shirt over her head to find that her bra was already missing. Deep purple lines covered her left breast. Raw bruises blotched her hips and legs.

Concentrating to control her breathing, she strode past Zafir to the two waiting buckets, where she scrubbed herself with the rough soap before pouring the contents of each over her head. This water was warm so she assumed he actually wanted her clean. It sickened her to think why.

Scrubbed pink, she stood naked in front of Zafir letting her arms dangle, unwilling even to fold them lest he think she felt the need to cover herself. She had nothing to be ashamed of. This was his doing, not hers.

“There now.” He licked his lips as he took a step closer to her. “Things are much different after one has bathed. Don’t you think?”