Free Desert Rose by Laura Taylor Page A

woman stepped aside to turn on the nearby showerhead. Her companion waved the unfriendly end of her weapon in Emma’s face just before she hauled her to her feet, spat an order at her in some Arabic dialect, and then shoved her under the cold water.
    Emma decided against removing her clothes. Modesty, she knew, was stressed in the Middle East, especially among Muslim women. She spotted a wedge of soap in a basket on the floor and reached for it.
    She clumsily scrubbed at her clothes and her hair. One of the women yelled at her and made emphatic motions with her weapon; the other one clawed yet again at her soggy clothing. She complied with their obvious expectations.
    Shedding her clothes, she kept her gaze averted and hurriedly washed her body. Her face burned with outrage as she prayed that she would soon be returned to her cell and David.
    Emma remained silent as the shower was turned off. Shivering, she gathered up the pile of sodden garments at her feet, but it was snatched out of her hands.
    After being prodded forward with a gun pressed into her lower spine, she followed one of the women to a cabinet on the far side of the room. Once there, she received a voluminous black cloak and a veil–like garment known as a burqa. Although still dripping wet, Emma dressed quickly. She scooped up her clothes before being marched out of the shower room, down a short hallway, and outside to a deserted courtyard.
    She hesitated as the two women made themselves comfortable across from one another on wooden benches. They looked on, expressionless and their weapons still pointed at her, as she draped her wet clothing across an unused bench. Emma scanned the area to be sure there were no men in the vicinity before she slipped the burqa off her head and finger–combed her long hair. The light breeze and pleasant midday sun should have felt therapeutic, but they did nothing to ease her fear.
    Her thoughts repeatedly strayed to David. While she longed for an end to her imprisonment, she knew she would find little satisfaction in freedom if he remained a captive. Surely their captors realized that, if they released her, she wouldn’t remain silent about him. If anything, she would shout his status and location to the world until they were reunited.
    At least an hour passed before the two women jumped into action once again. She watched in horror as one of the women fashioned a leash with a length of rope. Lifting her chin in a gesture of defiance, she refused to cower as the leash was looped around her neck and she was jerked forward. Then, she was quick–marched through a large kitchen. When an old man surreptitiously shoved two oranges into the folds of the still wet clothing she carried, she nodded her gratitude. She thought, maybe they aren’t going to hang me right away.
    She was shoved into a storeroom, a deadbolt grinding into position after the door slammed shut, and left alone to languish. Huddled on the floor, she stared at the two oranges the old man had given to her as the minutes ticked by—minutes that turned into hours. Darkness finally fell, casting the windowless room in deep shadows.
    She rested her forehead on upraised knees as she endured the darkness. The rustling sounds of small rodents in the depths of the storeroom and the periodic pounding of booted footsteps as men raced up and down the hallway beyond the door made rest impossible.
    She tried to sustain herself by imagining a future beyond the threat of being hanged in some media–designed circus. When that failed, she tried to imagine a future with David, but all she saw in her mind was an endless black void. She struggled then, really struggled not to abandon herself to complete despair.
    Despite her hunger, she couldn’t summon the ability to eat even a small piece of the fresh fruit she’d been given. What kept her sane as the hours unfolded was her determination to share this windfall with David.

6
    Don’t forget me.
    As if I could ever forget you,