Trained by Sansa Rayne
Chapter 4
“Our main story today concerns the Middle East,” I say, reading straight from the prompter. I received none of this in advance; it must be breaking news. “Anarchy, Inc., a previously unknown organization, has taken credit for the assassination of a notorious Saudi arms dealer, Hamza Bin Khaled.”
Holy fucking shit.
I’ve heard of him. He’s operated with relative impunity for years. Educated here in America, he’s been suspected of developing new weapons tech that has been the subject of numerous reports from the Pentagon and two separate Congressional hearings.
“He was shot and killed outside Riyadh, as were several of his bodyguards and associates, although authorities have not yet confirmed how many were slain or if there were any survivors. Few details have been released to the media at this time, but a photo obtained by LPN is believed to come from the scene of the attack.”
I haven’t seen the image myself until it appears the monitors. How the hell did my handlers not prep me on this before the show? This is huge news.
In fact, why exactly am I covering it? This should be on the evening news, not Kate Atwood Live. I was supposed to interview the author of a book on how deforestation activists are using their cause to cover for sex traffickers.
“These vehicles were found at a construction site west of the city, and appear to correspond to the Mercedes SUVs seen in numerous photos of Bin Khaled taken throughout the past year. An analysis of the cars is underway, but as you can see, they appear to have been burned following an extensive shootout.”
What I want to know is, who provided the photo? Did someone driving by happen to see the smoke and stop to take a picture? My script didn’t indicate how we obtained it.
“Little is known about the group Anarchy, Inc. According to their statement, their goal is ‘To end the rule of corrupt tyrants and let the natural order rule our fates once more.’ They also stated, ‘Today’s strike against state-sanctioned murder is just the start of a campaign that will free mankind.’ Sources at National Security have not discounted the possibility that we may see similar attacks.”
They haven’t discounted the possibility that aliens abducted Elvis, either. How does a terrorist organization show up out of nowhere and kill a notorious weapons dealer? There’s definitely something missing here. What, though? And why?
“Here to talk to us about the attack is Middle East expert and a frequent guest of the show, Matthew Ryan. Matthew, thank you for joining us. What can you tell us about this organization, Anarchy, Inc.?”
Tall and skinny, with gray in his hair and beard, he wears a professorial tweed jacket — he’s nailed the look of a respectable scholar. Anyone who looks him up will discover that he doesn’t even have a college degree, and the closest he’s come to visiting the Middle East is ordering falafel from a street cart. However, his video series on YouTube has registered millions of views.
“As you said in your report, not much is known about them, and I hate to speculate.”
Bullshit. All he does is speculate. He has no actual knowledge.
“My assumption is that they’re not native to the region,” Ryan begins. “I don’t believe they have any connection to any religious groups.”
He may well be right, but these are guesses.
“My principal concern is what they may have taken from Hamza Bin Khaled. If this was some arms deal, they may have taken guns, bombs — some of it quite advanced. Look at the photograph: this was a serious, coordinated attack. Whether Anarchy, Inc. is a cover for some other group or a major new threat to global stability, time will tell.”
I can’t really disagree, though I could have made all the same assumptions by myself. As he talks, I stare at the image. Ryan’s right: this wasn’t a band of amateurs. Surely someone among the Masters would have known Bin Khaled. Maybe they could shed some light on who would want him dead. For all I know, it was one of them. Was he killed by a rival, or because of who he works with? What if he’d gotten his hands on something so dangerous he had to be eliminated? Did he have a nuke or something?
Considering my experience with Victor Sovereign, I have to wonder if Bin Khaled’s even dead — did some black ops team capture him, kill his associates and fake his death? That would be interesting, for sure.
“Now that Bin Khaled’s gone, how do you think it will affect dynamics between the various warring factions?” I ask.
Ryan chuckles, a nervous laugh. He has no fucking clue. Of course, that was a much harder question than I’m supposed to ask, but this isn’t a typical segment for my show.
“It’s too soon to tell,” he says. “I’m sure the coming investigation will give us a better picture of what we’re dealing with.”
—
When the show is over, for once I feel genuinely interested and keep thinking about what happened. I can hardly remember the last time I got involved in the news. It’s like a ray of sunlight has grazed a long-dormant flower within me, coaxing it into opening its petals. While my guards lead me down to the limo, I fantasize about following up on the story. Getting lost in my imagination, I forget for a while that it’s Friday and the guards aren’t taking me to my apartment.
Dread floods through me as I remember they’re driving me to the airport — I’m headed for the Enclave.
Since I don’t broadcast on weekends, there’s no need for me to be in New York. They can throw me in the dungeon on the island, where they don’t need to keep me supervised on camera every minute of the day. It’s easier for them, and I suspect they like reminding me that I’m only allowed to effect the facade of a normal life because it suits their purposes — it’s not an act of mercy toward me.
Do they worry that I’ll lose my sanity if I have to maintain this existence forever? Or are they counting on it? Being an unhinged nutcase isn’t the worst way to get ratings.
The guard sitting in back gestures for me to hold out my hands, so I do, letting him zip tie my wrists together. Once he’s finished, he stuffs a wadded up cloth in my mouth and then wraps my jaw in clear tape. I don’t know why they bother. Who would I talk to? The same six men guard me, day in and day out, but I don’t know any of their names. They don’t talk to me unless they have to give me an order. If I speak to them without a good reason, I’ll be punished. Yet, they still gag me every time.
After an hour we arrive at the private airport, where the jet awaits, ready for takeoff. The guards drag me on board and strip me naked, like usual, but they don’t take me to the holding cell in back. Instead, they take me into the passenger compartment. I don’t struggle as they release my wrists and bind them instead to the armrests of a seat, but I sweat.
Changes to my routine are never good.
I don’t have to wait too long to find out what’s going on: as soon as I’m secured in my seat, the plane starts rolling down the runway. Once it levels off from its ascent, Anton steps out from the cockpit.
Fuck.
“Hi, Kate,” he says, straightening his tie as he sits down next to me. The sleeves of his black suit brush over my bare wrists. It pains me to admit the waft of his sporty cologne is the best thing I’ve smelled in weeks. “I was hoping we might talk,” he adds, unwinding the tape from around my mouth.
If this is about that hard question I asked Matthew Ryan…
Somehow, after everything I’ve been through, I still do stupid shit.
“Yes, sir,” I say when he’s pulled the cloth from my mouth.
Anton effects a hurt expression, tapping his chest.
“I thought you would say something snarky or defiant. Are you not feeling well?”
Fucking asshole. I haven’t given him attitude in months. The consequences aren’t worth it. He knows I’m done giving him reasons to make my life worse. If I mouth off, I’ll spend nights in my cell wearing a straight jacket instead of just chains. If I refuse to answer when spoken to, they’ll keep me awake for days with random blasts of noise. If I don’t comply with an order immediately, they’ll spike my food with microdoses of poison and hallucinogens and leave me to suffer for the night.
Anton knows I perpetually feel like shit, because he’s engineered my life to deprive it of even a single moment of happiness or relief.
“I feel the same as always, sir,” I say. The words I’m fine can never come out of my mouth, or he’ll do something to make me not fine.
“That was an interesting show today. Did you know about the attack before you went on the air?”
Is this a trick question? He’s aware that no one tells me anything. That’s by design. If I talk to my producers before a show, it’s because they’ve permitted it. I never speak to the audience personally. How would I know about the attack?
“No, sir.”
“Before the show, did you speak to anyone?”
“No, sir. No one.”
Anton nods, studying me. He’s questioned me enough times, he can tell I’m not lying.
“And your handlers said nothing?”
“No, sir.”
This is ridiculous. What the hell is the point of this? No one speaks to me, and I don’t speak to anyone without Anton’s people knowing. I’m under constant surveillance. I’ve been completely controlled by him ever since… since he killed Ingram. Not once have I attempted to escape or beg someone for help. I may have mouthed off a few times when my frustration overwhelmed my caution, but the price of a failed escape attempt is too high. I won’t risk Brendan and John’s lives.
“Good,” he says, sitting back and getting out his tablet. Before he turns it on, he takes off his tie and wraps it around my forehead, blinding me.
He spends the rest of the flight sitting next to me, quietly scrolling his screen. I can hear the tap of his finger over the subtle hum of the engines. He doesn’t ask me any more questions. I shiver in the cabin’s cool air; normally I’d curl up in my cell, but with my wrists locked in place all I can do is endure the cold.
Once we land, Anton’s guards release me from the chair but immediately handcuff me. Anton takes his tie back, fastens a collar around my neck and attaches a leash. Normally the guards would lead me to the harem, but tonight Anton takes it upon himself.
The courtesans pay me little attention, either not caring that I’m here or afraid of getting in trouble if they speak to me. I don’t blame them. Whenever Anton’s men bring me to the Enclave, I spend a night at the harem bound to an upright, wooden frame. They ball-gag me and blindfold me. I’m completely exposed and on display. No one is allowed to touch me, but it’s still humiliating.
There was a time when I might have gotten off on a predicament like this; inside, some part of me still feels a surge of excitement whenever I’m restrained. I can’t help if it reminds me of Ingram. And when they punish me with some cruel torment… part of me finds succor in the pain. I can never fully shake the belief that I deserve to suffer.
Although it’s a relief when Anton leaves me, I still wonder what happened on the plane. Why all the questions? Was he testing me, or messing with me? I’ve been subjected to enough of his games to have a good sense of when he’s playing one. It felt like he was serious.
I tune out the comings and goings of the masters and courtesans as the night progresses. Having Anton’s finger on the switch that could kill him at any time hasn’t kept all of the men away; several show up to have their way with the women. If they’re merely pretending to abide by Anton’s rule, they’re putting on a good performance. What does it really matter who is in charge as long as they’re rich and can fuck to their hearts’ content? It’s not very likely they’d take a stand on principle.
As the night wears on and the men turn in, the courtesans pass out on the sofas or in their masters’ rooms. I lose myself thinking about dead arms dealers and Anton’s surprise visit. Is there some kind of connection? Why would Anton ask me about it? Did my show’s producer, Stephanie, overstep her authority in having me cover the attack? I suppose that’s possible. Though, it doesn’t explain what Anton was doing in New York. Why not question me when I arrived at the Enclave? He could have had business dealings in the city, I guess. Still, he seemed inordinately concerned about my coverage of the attack.
Late in the night, a hand pulls back my blindfold.
Colette.
She always comes and feeds me dinner on nights like this. Accompanied by a guard, she brings a bowl of some kind of gooey slop — bland oatmeal or watery grits. However, tonight she’s alone — and she doesn’t have a bowl, she carries a plate of bacon and chocolates.
“Hey,” she says, taking out my gag. “Don’t be alarmed.”
What the fuck?
She’s not supposed to talk to me. Normally she won’t even look me in the eyes. The only reason she’s allowed to feed me is so that I’ll have the strength to not pass out. Coming here by herself and serving me real food — and treats — is absolutely forbidden. I shut my eyes and look away. This is either a bad dream or a trap.
“It’s okay, Kate,” she says. “You won’t get in trouble. I promise.”
I shake my head. This isn’t happening. I’ve lost touch with reality.
“Open your eyes.”
I do. She holds out a piece of bacon. It smells like paradise.
“Eat.”
Fuck it. I may not get another chance. And if anyone gets in trouble, it should be Colette.
I bite off a piece and groan as the smoky, savory flavor awakens pleasure centers in my brain atrophied by months of hibernation.
Colette leans over and whispers in my ear, “Things are going to change, Kate. Stay strong.”