Chapter 62

“Keep still, bitch!” Mrs. Al-Haraz hissed at Samira, slapping her face roughly.

Samira’s body was strapped down tightly, like a mummy, to the table in front of the cell. Leather straps secured her wrists and ankles, rendering her completely immobile. Another strap crossed her midsection, pinning her down further. Mrs. Al-Haraz tightened the vice around Samira’s head, making her face completely still. The other captives watched in horror, their eyes wide with fear, as a new form of torture was inflicted upon one of them.

“Please, don’t do this to me. Let me be sold to someone else. Just don’t mark my face,” Samira pleaded, her voice trembling with fear. She wriggled her toes and fingers, the only movement she could manage apart from her face, desperate tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Why do you care? It’s not your face; it will belong to your owner, you bitch!” Mrs. Al-Haraz breathed over the terrified girl. “I just need to tighten this vice to stop you from moving your head so much!”

“NOOOOO! Please, you’ll break my skull!” Samira cried out, twisting her head in a futile attempt to escape.

“I’m not going to mess up these tattoos and get myself into trouble over it!” Mrs. Al-Haraz hissed back, her voice cold and unyielding.

Samira had been sold. Her buyer, attracted to her ethnicity and face, wanted tribal tattoos around her body. He had sent an old National Geographic article featuring Maori women, requesting a specific pattern that extended down her forehead, across her cheekbones, and along her chin. Further tattoos were planned for her mons, hands, feet, and the back of her shoulders, all in intricate black patterns.

Samira sobbed uncontrollably, her desperate pleas echoing in the dimly lit room. “Please, please, don’t do this. Don’t ruin my face,” she cried, her voice breaking. But her pleas fell on deaf ears as the nightmarish procedure began.

As the tattoo needle gun worked on the spot between her eyebrows, the hot injection into her skin cast a bolt of despair into Samira’s brain. The training, the torture, the rape, the abuse, the punishment, the tattoo on her hand, the hair removal—all these horrors might fade with time if she ever escaped. But this was different. This was permanent. At just eighteen, whether she escaped or not, these monsters had marked her forever. They had marred her beauty, forcing themselves onto her face, the one part of her that everyone would see. Now, they had taken that too, she would always know who she was, looking in the mirror, or looking at anyone, she could never be anyone other than a slave, for the remainder of her life.

Kasia, dressed in gym shorts and a bra, was climbing a roughly assembled wall in another room. The wall was set up above a mattress, but the grips were unstable, and every now and then, one would fall off in her hand, causing her to land on the mattress. Some grips delivered electric shocks, making her fly off and crash onto the mat.

She screamed as she fell, skidding off the mattress and hitting the floor.

Konrad, watching, clapped appreciatively. “That was good, Kasia. You nearly got to the top. Just remember, it’s not about being fair. Your owner might shock you to stop you from reaching the top just because he wants to. There’s nothing you can do about it; you just have to accept it.”

Kasia slammed her palm on the ground. “Why? Why is he such a bastard? These games are sick!”

“Now, now, Kasia,” Konrad replied. “You did quite well this morning with the tunnel game.”

“How do you know he won’t rig that game too, just to punish me for failing even if I win?” moaned Kasia, clutching her arm on the ground, still in pain.

“Again, remember, Kasia, you must do your best, but these games are for your owner’s enjoyment. Your job is to please him. That’s the objective. You’re a good climber, but you need to learn fast. There might not even be a mattress when your Master plays with you.”

“It sounds like the bastard wants to kill me,” wailed Kasia. “The Master promised me he would sell me to a nice owner if I behaved, and I have behaved!”

“Kasia, there are much worse buyers out there,” laughed Konrad. “It would turn your hair gray to hear about what’s going to happen to Yasmina!”

“I can’t do this. Why don’t you just kill me now?” sobbed Kasia, collapsing on the mattress.

“Now, now, Kasia,” Konrad said, stroking her hair. “The Master charged a lot of money for you, so if your owner decides to kill you or is so careless with these games that you die, then it will be his loss. He will want to give you a chance to stay alive, for a while at least. The key is to keep him entertained; the longer you entertain him, the longer you’ll live.”

“What a fucking life,” Kasia stared into the distance. “Konrad, you’re not really that evil underneath it all, are you?”

“Kasia, I told you,” Konrad said sternly. “Don’t try to tempt me. Any more talk like that, and I will have you spend a whole night with the rats. I would beat you black and blue, but we don’t want to tarnish you ahead of your transfer to your owner.”

Kasia stared down at the ground, the inhumanity of it all unbelievable.

“Don’t think we are all evil here. It’s just that you are a slave, to be sold, and that is all there is to it. If we wanted to make even more money out of your buyer, we would not be training you so much now for his planned games, because the sooner you die, the sooner he may want to pay us for a replacement.”

As Kasia continued to stare into the silence past him, Konrad crouched down next to her, running his hand along her thigh and over the cotton shorts covering her shapely buttocks.

“Speaking of replacements, I heard the Master say you have a lovely sister, Agnes, just fourteen. I am getting a new ID soon and will be going out on scouting and kidnap missions for the organization. Agnes looks like a nice girl. I already know her address, her school, and how she gets to school every day. Who knows, maybe your owner will demand your sister to replace you if you don’t fulfill his fantasies?”

Kasia groaned. She had not seen Agnes in over a year but had seen a picture of her last week, she had grown so much in a year. It had been put on the top of the inside wall of the cell, part of the photos for the girls to stare at every day of their family members, grim reminders that they would be targeted if there was misbehavior.

“Now, one last game for the day, Kasia,” Konrad said, his voice cold, “for this, please remove your clothes.”

Kasia mechanically stepped out of her shorts and pulled off her bra top. She was already barefoot, her toes sore from hanging onto the grips.

Konrad brought out a device that held two wires positioned one above the other. The participant had to get on their hands and feet, or sometimes knees, and crawl forward between the two wires. The bottom wire was at knee height, and the top wire was at chest height, ensuring they always had to be crawling. The wires delivered small shocks, so they couldn’t touch either the bottom or top wire.

The wires weren’t straight. Sometimes the bottom wire was raised slightly, requiring them to switch from hands-and-knees crawling to hands-and-feet crawling, while still staying below the top wire. Additionally, the top wire sometimes hung down slackly between points, so they had to ensure they stayed above the bottom wire and below the slack top wire.

Konrad set up the wires, his eyes glinting with a cruel satisfaction. “This will test your endurance and precision. Remember, no touching the wires, or you’ll get a shock.”

Kasia took a deep breath, preparing herself for the challenge. She positioned herself at the starting point, aware of the electric shocks that awaited her if she made any mistakes. Her body ached from the previous tasks, but she knew she had to keep going.

As she began to crawl, she was forced to stay on all fours, arching her back downward to move herself between the wires. Her breasts hung low, swaying precariously with each movement, and she feared that one wrong sway might make them touch the bottom wire. Simultaneously, she had to be careful that her upturned buttocks didn’t graze the top wire. The position was humiliating and painful, but she had no choice.

Her breath came in shallow gasps as she inched forward, her muscles straining to maintain the awkward position. Kasia’s heart pounded in her chest as she forced herself forward and downward, her focus split between her dangling breasts and her elevated buttocks. The fear of the electric shocks kept her on edge, every muscle taut with tension.

As she moved, the bottom wire nudged between her vaginal lips, delivering a small shock. She winced, her body tensing as the shock coursed through her. She held her position, gritting her teeth and waiting for the sensation to pass. Her breasts jiggled from the abrupt stop, and she anxiously waited for them to stop swinging before daring to move again.

Konrad gently patted her buttocks to urge her forward, his touch sending a shiver down her spine. “Keep going, Kasia,” he said, his voice smooth and insistent. “You’re doing well, but don’t get too comfortable. The challenge is far from over.”

She bit her lip, trying to ignore the degrading sensation of his hand on her skin. She couldn’t afford to lose focus, not even for a moment.

The course seemed endless, each twist and turn a new challenge. Kasia’s muscles burned, and sweat dripped down her face.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she reached the end of the course. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she reached the end of the course. Exhausted and trembling, she collapsed to the ground, staring at the ceiling, her body aching from the exertion.

Konrad walked over, a satisfied smile on his face. “Well done, Kasia. Just one shock. Now I think we should do five more trips back and forth. I am sorry if you think it cruel, but your new owner will not be as forgiving. Perhaps he might have razor-edged wires!”

Kasia groaned silently, realizing with horror he was probably right.

Fresh from the Venice Film Festival, Arjun Jakhu reclined in his private jet, still fuming. His latest movie had been a huge success, but he was furious over the heckles and protests about his involvement. As a Bollywood producer for forty years, his movies had made billions of dollars, yet now some liberal “goras” were trying to ruin his career just because he had a bit of fun with some actresses willing to do anything for a part. And all those stories about mistreatment—utter nonsense.

“Touchdown in ten minutes, Mr. Jakhu,” his pilot announced. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, yes, where is your spirit of adventure?” mocked Jakhu.

At least he had his money, he sighed. He might not be able to make any more movies, but at seventy years old, he had a good run. Now, he wanted to spend his money in the most debauched way possible in the limited time he had left.

His plane flew low over the Egyptian city of Alexandria, on an unscheduled stop on its way from Venice back to Delhi.

The Borg El Arab airstrip, situated among the derelict warehouses of an abandoned industrial estate, was barely policed and poorly maintained, making for a rough landing. Located miles from Alexandria in the arid desert, it was not a place a Bollywood film producer would typically visit, except perhaps to scout for a post-apocalyptic disaster movie.

As the plane touched down, Jakhu, his pilot, and his nervous bodyguard disembarked, the engine still running. They were met by a smiling Arab man dressed in a traditional Egyptian galabeya, a long, loose-fitting robe made of light cotton fabric, perfect for the desert climate. He wore a keffiyeh, a checked cotton headdress, wrapped around his head and secured with an agal, a black cord. Clean-shaven with a dark complexion, he grinned at them.

“Hasan Al-Khitab, at your service, Mr. Jakhu. Welcome to Egypt!”

“Mr. Al-Khitab, I intend to leave Egypt and this wretched facility within half an hour,” Jakhu said, turning up his nose. “With or without the cargo. Now, where is it?”

“Follow me,” Mr. Al-Khitab said, smiling disarmingly at the pilot and bodyguard, both of whom carried guns.

“Where is Mr. Pembroke?” Jakhu asked. “I was very much looking forward to meeting this myth.”

“He is unfortunately engaged elsewhere, Mr. Jakhu,” Mr. Al-Khitab replied. “I have authority on his behalf.” He bowed slightly.

“Well, anyway, I want to see the merchandise at least!”

Mr. Al-Khitab led them to a small warehouse. Inside, they entered a hall where two other armed men stood guard, their presence immediately imposing. One was a towering figure, six feet five inches tall, with a menacing look. He was missing part of his jaw, revealing teeth beneath his Arab robe, and gripped an AK-47 with ease. The other was a shorter, but equally intimidating Arab man in a T-shirt and fatigues, also armed with an AK-47. Nearby stood a woman in an Abaya, her striking bright blue eyes adding an air of mystery and danger.

There was a small room next to them, hidden by a red curtain, which they all seemed to be guarding.

“Mr. Jakhu,” Mr. Al-Khitab announced, “I first have a few questions before I pull back this curtain. Do you have the ability to make the payment presently if we make a deal? The products will not leave this airstrip without full payment.”

“Yes, yes, I have my accountant here,” Jakhu shrugged towards his panicked associate who looked out of his depth. “He can make the transaction right here.”

“Excellent.” Mr. Al-Khitab clasped his hands together and smiled at the blue eyed woman. “In that case, Madam, why don’t you display our wares?”

The woman pulled back the curtain, revealing two women who stepped out, looking incongruous in the rough setting. They were both stunningly beautiful, with long jet-black hair, high noses, and arched black eyebrows. Their deep, mesmerizing black eyes framed perfectly by their elegant features, gave them a striking appearance. Each about five feet six, they looked like sisters.