Page 6 of Zain

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The desire formurder flooded Zain’s arteries. He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth as he stared at Rakesh. The guy was inches shorter thanhim. If Zain lost his temper, he could snap Rakesh like a twig. And he wouldn’t regret it either. Rakesh was one of the cruelest bastards in this godforsaken place, reveling in the suffering he imposed on innocent people.

Lanterns flickered on the cave walls as they walked together, sending insidious shapes over Rakesh’s face and the rock surrounding them. Rakesh’s dark eyebrows bobbed, waiting for Zain to acknowledge whatever he’d said. Zain hadn’t been listening.

Hatred made him want to pull the machete from his belt and slit the bastard’s throat. Common sense won out. Zain just grunted. Rakesh meandered down the long windowless hall, and Zain fell into step beside him.

“You check on cell one,” Rakesh ordered. “I’ll do the other.”

Distaste slithered around Zain’s spine. Their job was to check on the prisoners. Rakesh had never volunteered himself for the prisoner’s check. Red flags waved in Zain’s head.

It’d been eight hours since they returned from disassembling the protest, and the woman’s haunting blue eyes had stayed with Zain every goddamn minute. A woman captive wouldn’t last long here. It’d be a miracle if she hadn’t been violated already. Fury skittered over his flesh, but he didn’t give in to the stifling need to find her.

He couldn’t.

Over the years, he’d learned how to create distance; he’d allowed himself to become desensitized. It was the only way to push through the urge to shield any female from the dungeon’s monsters.

I can’t get involved.

The linen afghan around his frame offered a shield against the frigid elements as he moved deeper through the cave alongside Rakesh. After steering around the winding corridor, he reached cell one. There were two cells, each one holding two or three inmates, all men other than the woman who’d been taken today.

Rakesh’s pace increased, and he disappeared around the corner, where the other cell waited.

Zain slid his assault rifle off his shoulder and poised it in front of him with one hand. With his other hand, he fished out the set of keys from his pocket. No sounds came from inside as he unlocked the door and entered.

Three captives sat hunched against the cave’s walls. One on one side and two on the other. Several feet separated them. The flames on the wall sconces danced, illuminating the men’s dirty faces.

She wasn’t here. Relief and disappointment clashed inside him like two rams fighting to determine dominance.

The stenches of urine and feces stung his nostrils. Pushing down a gag, he made his way toward the captives.

Immediately, a young man from the protestearlier that day leapt to his knees. “Please, sir!” he said, in Pashto, his native tongue. “My wife. My daughter. I need to find them.” Tears coursed down his cheeks.

The dampness in the air was so thick Zain could almost see water droplets. If the men held here didn’t die from torture or brute force, they’d die of infection. The prisoner’s words morphed into guttural cries that tried to worm through the blocked-off chambers of Zain’s conscience.

There’s nothing I can do.

Still, the man’s deep-brown eyes cut through him. The other prisoners were quiet. They’d been here a few weeks and by now surely knew begging wouldn’t get them anywhere. Zain approached the younger man and knelt down. He pulled his canteen from his side and handed it to him.

The man grabbed the leather bag, tears of appreciation in his gaze. He likely thought he’d found a savior. An ally.

He was wrong.

The man drank, wiped his mouth, and handed the canteen back. “Th-Thank you. Please. Can you help me? I didn’t do what they say. I’m innocent.”

Zain fought the mounting pressure in his chest. This man could scream his innocence and it wouldn’t fucking matter. Not only did no one give a shit, but he’d been accused of arranging a riot. Protesting of any kind was unforgivable. Guilty or not, he’d pay the price.

Zain tethered the man’s gaze to his. “Don’t try to talk to anyone,” he said in Pashto, his voice barely above a whisper. “They’ll kill you and do the same to your family for fun.”

The man sobbed. His wrenching cries made Zain cringe. Without another word, he stood and went back into the hall. The man’s pitiful pleas echoed over the stone walls. Zain locked the door and closed his eyes for half a second.

Up until now, Zain’s heart had been hardened. Stone cold. But something about the man’s desperation for his family ate away at the moat of distance Zain had constructed around his heart. The guy would be dead tomorrow if the family didn’t pay the ransom money. Which they sure as hell wouldn’t be able to do.

Zain turned and swung the strap of his rifle over his shoulder. Resting his palm on the handle of the machete—he wouldn’t walk a step in this place unguarded—Zain looked toward the other cell, around the corner.

Uncertainty anchored him in place. He shook his head, dissolving the unease clouding him. He moved away from the door.

“No!” A muffled female cry split the air.

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