Free Cross Country by James Patterson

didn’t care what came next.
    It was a hard overhand fist to my temple. I heard a strange crunching sound inside my head, then another.
    I don’t know how many closed-fist blows came after that.
    I think I passed out at four.

Chapter 38
    UNREAL. UNPRECEDENTED. UNBELIEVABLE
.
    It was dark when I woke up, and I hurt all over, but especially around my nose. At first my mind was blank. I had no idea where I was; not Africa, not anywhere. I just thought
How the hell did I get here?
    And then,
Where is here? Where have I been taken?
    My hand went up to my temple. I felt a sharp sting where I touched an open wound, and then I remembered the handcuffs.
But they weren’t on my wrists anymore
.
    I was on my back, on a hard floor, stone or cement maybe.
    Someone was looking down at me. I couldn’t make out his expression in the nearly lightless room. I could only tell that he was a dark-skinned man.
    Not one man, I realized. Many. A dozen or more men were standing around me. Then I got it! They were
prisoners
— like me.
    “White man is awake,” someone said.
    My clothes gave me away, I supposed. They had made me for an American. “White man” was meant to be an insult, one that I had heard already on the trip.
    “Where am I?” It came out as a croak. “Water?” I asked.
    The one who’d already spoken said, “Not until morning, my friend.” He knelt down and helped me sit up, though. My rib cage felt like it was ready to explode, and I had a monster headache that wasn’t going away by itself.
    I saw that I was in a bleak, filthy holding cell of some kind. Even with my nose broken, the smell was unbelievably strong and foul, probably coming from a latrine in some unseen corner. I took shallow breaths through my mouth.
    What little light there was came through a grated door on the far wall. The place looked big enough for maybe a dozen of us, but there were at least three times that number, all males.
    Many of the prisoners were lying shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor. A relatively lucky few were snoring away on wall-mounted bunks.
    “What time is it?” I asked.
    “Midnight, maybe. Who knows? What’s the difference to us? We’re all dead men anyway.”

Chapter 39
    AS MY HEAD cleared some, I realized that my wallet was gone. And my belt.
    And, I realized as I felt around some more, the earring from my left ear. The lobe was scabbed over where a small silver hoop had been, a birthday present from Jannie.
    Where had they taken me? How far was I from the airport? Was I still in Nigeria?
    Why hadn’t anyone tried to stop them from kidnapping me? Did it happen all the time?
    I had no idea about any of these questions, or their answers.
    “Are we in Lagos?” I finally asked.
    “Yes. In Kirikiri. We are political prisoners. So we have been told. I am a journalist. And you are?”
    A metal scrape came from the direction of the door as it was unlocked, then opened wide.
    I saw two blue-uniformed guards pause in the light of a cement corridor before they stepped in and became shadows themselves. Seconds later, one of them played a flashlight over us.
    It caught me in the eyes and hung there for several seconds.
    I felt sure they were here for me, but they grabbed the man two down from me instead. The one who had said he was a journalist.
    They pulled him roughly to his feet. Then one of the guards unholstered a pistol and pressed it to his temple.
    “No one talks to the American.
No one,
” the guard told the room. “You hear me?”
    Then, as I watched in disbelief, the man was pistol-whipped until he was unconscious. Then he was dragged out of the holding cell.
    The reaction of the other prisoners around me was mostly silent acceptance, but a couple of men moaned into their hands. No one moved; I could still hear snoring from a few of them.
    I stayed where I was, holding it all in until the vicious guards were gone. Then I did the only thing I could, which was ease back down to the floor, where every shallow, rapid