chance of being released. Provided, of course, someone would cough up the ransom demand. It wouldn't be the U.S. government. She understood that. They didn't negotiate with terrorists. But her parents would. Or Ethan.
She let out a deep breath. Who was she kidding? Her folks didn't have any money. And Ethan. Ethan didn't negotiate. Ethan acted.
Please, God, let him be acting now.
In the meantime, she had Rahimulla. Bless him. Whenever the chance arose, she thanked him with a look for his efforts.
But Rahimulla was losing momentum. His arguments were holding less and less water. He was losing support by the hour. Which meant she was losing, too.
And knowing that, for the first time since this started, she thought about the possibility of dying here.
What happened next had her wondering if maybe dying was such a horrible fate after all.
The men arrived with much fanfare—albeit quiet fanfare.
If Darcy hadn't seen a flurry of movement on the far side of the camp—which was only about fifteen yards in diameter—she wouldn't have noticed the arrival of another terrorist band.
Her heart sank as she counted at least a dozen new men and boys.
"It just had to get worse, didn't it?" she whispered skyward.
No one seemed particularly surprised to have met up with the other men. No one but her—and the woman who suddenly appeared, bound and battered, as they dragged her behind them.
Oh God.
Oh . . . my . . . God.
Darcy's stomach twisted in sympathy and horror as she got a good look at the hostage.
She was a mass of bruises and cuts, her skin sunburned and peeling. Her long hair was a matted straggly blond that hadn't seen a brush or shampoo in— Darcy's heart clenched—how long had the woman been captive?
Long, Darcy decided with a sinking sensation in her chest.
Very, very long.
The woman stood there, weaving on her bare and battered feet. Her hands were bound in front of her and tied to a rope like she was a head of livestock. Her head was bowed, her shoulders hunched beneath a filthy and ragged camo T-shirt. Baggy green shorts hung on her thin hips. Bruises in varying colors and cuts in different degrees of healing or infection covered her emaciated frame.
She looked beyond exhausted. She looked beyond defeat. Beyond, perhaps, sanity.
Absent. Her body was here—but Darcy wondered if her mind had gone somewhere else.
Darcy wanted to go to her, prop her up. Hold her close. Shelter and protect her from what must have been barbaric sins committed against her.
Darcy hadn't even known she'd risen and leaned toward the hostage when Rahimulla's hand on her arm stopped her. A quick shake of his head begged her to stay put.
For the longest moment, she held his gaze, fighting with the urge to disobey him. But Rahimulla was the only thing standing between her and possibly the same fate as this poor woman. And Darcy wouldn't be any good to either one of them if she ended up dead for her efforts.
So she stayed where she was. Mouth shut. Fingers clenched so deep into her palms, she felt the sting from her ragged nails.
And she watched with an aching heart.
The woman could have been anywhere from twenty to sixty. Darcy couldn't see her face beneath the fall of snarled hair. Couldn't see her eyes. But Darcy was aware suddenly that she could hear her.
She'd thought she'd imagined it at first. But the sound became increasingly clear.
Soft continuous moans.
Keening little cries.
So low and so tortured, Darcy knew the woman wasn't even aware she was emitting them.
Darcy's heart clenched tighter—so tight it physically hurt.
In the midst of all that agony, the hair went up on the back of her neck and suddenly Darcy realized she wasn't the only one doing the watching. She tore her gaze away from the woman and directly into the face of what appeared to be the leader of this new contingent of
She let out a deep breath. Who was she kidding? Her folks didn't have any money. And Ethan. Ethan didn't negotiate. Ethan acted.
Please, God, let him be acting now.
In the meantime, she had Rahimulla. Bless him. Whenever the chance arose, she thanked him with a look for his efforts.
But Rahimulla was losing momentum. His arguments were holding less and less water. He was losing support by the hour. Which meant she was losing, too.
And knowing that, for the first time since this started, she thought about the possibility of dying here.
What happened next had her wondering if maybe dying was such a horrible fate after all.
The men arrived with much fanfare—albeit quiet fanfare.
If Darcy hadn't seen a flurry of movement on the far side of the camp—which was only about fifteen yards in diameter—she wouldn't have noticed the arrival of another terrorist band.
Her heart sank as she counted at least a dozen new men and boys.
"It just had to get worse, didn't it?" she whispered skyward.
No one seemed particularly surprised to have met up with the other men. No one but her—and the woman who suddenly appeared, bound and battered, as they dragged her behind them.
Oh God.
Oh . . . my . . . God.
Darcy's stomach twisted in sympathy and horror as she got a good look at the hostage.
She was a mass of bruises and cuts, her skin sunburned and peeling. Her long hair was a matted straggly blond that hadn't seen a brush or shampoo in— Darcy's heart clenched—how long had the woman been captive?
Long, Darcy decided with a sinking sensation in her chest.
Very, very long.
The woman stood there, weaving on her bare and battered feet. Her hands were bound in front of her and tied to a rope like she was a head of livestock. Her head was bowed, her shoulders hunched beneath a filthy and ragged camo T-shirt. Baggy green shorts hung on her thin hips. Bruises in varying colors and cuts in different degrees of healing or infection covered her emaciated frame.
She looked beyond exhausted. She looked beyond defeat. Beyond, perhaps, sanity.
Absent. Her body was here—but Darcy wondered if her mind had gone somewhere else.
Darcy wanted to go to her, prop her up. Hold her close. Shelter and protect her from what must have been barbaric sins committed against her.
Darcy hadn't even known she'd risen and leaned toward the hostage when Rahimulla's hand on her arm stopped her. A quick shake of his head begged her to stay put.
For the longest moment, she held his gaze, fighting with the urge to disobey him. But Rahimulla was the only thing standing between her and possibly the same fate as this poor woman. And Darcy wouldn't be any good to either one of them if she ended up dead for her efforts.
So she stayed where she was. Mouth shut. Fingers clenched so deep into her palms, she felt the sting from her ragged nails.
And she watched with an aching heart.
The woman could have been anywhere from twenty to sixty. Darcy couldn't see her face beneath the fall of snarled hair. Couldn't see her eyes. But Darcy was aware suddenly that she could hear her.
She'd thought she'd imagined it at first. But the sound became increasingly clear.
Soft continuous moans.
Keening little cries.
So low and so tortured, Darcy knew the woman wasn't even aware she was emitting them.
Darcy's heart clenched tighter—so tight it physically hurt.
In the midst of all that agony, the hair went up on the back of her neck and suddenly Darcy realized she wasn't the only one doing the watching. She tore her gaze away from the woman and directly into the face of what appeared to be the leader of this new contingent of
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