Forbidden Captor. Julie Miller
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and holding it against her nape beneath the French knot of her hair was the only comfort she could give herself, the only outlet for the feelings she couldn’t express. She allowed herself five minutes of relative privacy. Time enough to shut off the ovens and let her temper cool along with the loaves of bread. Time enough to fix her emotionless mask back into place, pick up a plastic tub and return to the dining room to begin clearing the tables.
The smells of tobacco and liquor stung her nose as some of the men lit cigarettes and doctored their coffee from flasks in their pockets. A few headed out into the breezeway or checked the pistols at their sides and returned to their posts. Those remaining went back to trading stories, plotting strategies and ignoring her as she worked.
“Hey, listen to this, Marcus. We’re on the radio.” A short, stocky man she knew only as Ike shushed the room when he turned up the reporter’s voice on his battery-powered radio.
“The nationwide manhunt continues for the eight prisoners who escaped from The Fortress prison in Montana where, like Alcatraz, escape was once thought to be impossible. The man believed to have spearheaded the prison break, Boone Fowler, the reputed leader of the Montana Militia for a Free America, is also sought as a suspect in a recent nerve gas incident at the Big Sky Galleria mall…”
“We’re famous.”
“Is the boss hearing this?”
“They’ll never find us here.”
“Shut up. I want to listen.” Marcus silenced the men.
Tasiya began quietly stacking and clearing dishes from the tables to hide how intently, she, too, was listening to the American news report. “In other news, Crown Prince Nikolai of Lukinburg—at a speech in Kalispell, Montanta—spoke of his gratitude to the American government and its people for their support in helping to bring peace and prosperity back to his country.”
After a crackle of applause, she heard the familiar, cultured voice of the man who would defy his king and father to save the country she loved from ruin. “Kalispell, Montana is quite delightful in November. It’s almost as pretty and picturesque as Ryanavik Mountain in my nation, Lukinburg. Can you envision the same…”
Tasiya paused with a handful of silverware, frowning at the eloquent oratory. Ryanavik was the name of a lake outside St. Feodor, not a mountain. A native of her homeland would never make such a mistake in geography. Was Prince Nikolai taking poetic license to create an analogy pleasing to the Americans? She dropped the silverware into a mug and reached for the wad of paper napkins at the center of the table. But Lukinburg had so many beautiful mountains, why not—
“Turn that damn crap off!”
Boone Fowler stormed into the dining hall, picked up Ike’s radio and hurled it across the room. It hit the stone wall and shattered, silencing Prince Nikolai and any protest from the men in the room.
Like the others, Tasiya froze. Her heart, thumping against the walls of her chest, was the only sound she could hear.
With the pinkie of his left hand, Fowler brushed aside a stringy lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. But as calm and controlled as that tiny movement was, there was nothing soft or gentle about him as he paced the length of the room. “You men are getting weak and lax. Basking in your own glory. We are fighting for our country, not ourselves. Our campaign is not about our egos and making the news. This is about the truth that I have taught you again and again.”
“America for Americans,” Ike mumbled dutifully.
Fowler braced his hands at his hips and nodded, slowly turning to make eye contact with each man in the room. “America for Americans,” he articulated through the clench of his jaw. “I’ve trained you all to be better men than this. I’ve trained you to believe in the cause as much as you believe in me.”
He reached out and put a hand on Ike’s shoulder. Tasiya, clutching the trash from the table to her chest to hide her own trembling hands, didn’t for one second believe Fowler’s contact was meant to be a comforting, fatherly gesture. Yet Ike looked up into his leader’s black eyes as though receiving wisdom and reassurance from a saint. “I believe in you, sir.”
Fowler nodded, then stepped away. “I’ve devised a plan we must follow to the letter. I’ve given you orders and I expect them to be obeyed. I haven’t let you down yet, have I? I showed you the truth about how our government is betraying our citizens, I gave you something to fight for. Is there any room in that plan to bask in personal accomplishments?”
“No, sir.” The timid responses echoed across the room.
Fowler turned. “Is there?”
“No, sir!” they answered with more force.
“America for Americans!” one man shouted. He repeated the slogan and others joined in. Soon they were clapping their hands and pounding on the tables. Tasiya never felt more isolated and unwelcome in the world than she did when the chant reached a feverish pitch.
But as a nervous sweat broke out across the back of her neck and chilled her spine, Boone Fowler seemed to relax. A smile sliced across his thin beard, though the satisfaction never warmed his eyes.
This impromptu rally for their patriotic cause was not unlike the protests in support of King Aleksandr in her own country. But if anyone dared voice a dissenting opinion against king or crowd, the state police would show up. Or else minions like Dimitri Mostek and his security force would pay a more-private visit after the fact.
These men were afraid of their leader. And he’d used that fear to brainwash them into obeying him.
If this was democracy, it was truly a frightening thing.
“Marcus.”
“Sir.” Marcus jumped to Fowler’s side.
The cheers began to fade and were replaced by excited chatter. Tasiya laid the napkins in the tub and tried to make as little noise as possible sliding the chairs back into place.
“I have the prisoners’ speeches written for the video. I want an update on your progress with them today,” Fowler ordered. “Report to my office in twenty minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fowler turned to the hapless Ike who was already on his feet, with his shoulders back and his chin tipped up at attention. “I want you to go to the communications center and doublecheck the accuracy of the wire I just received.”
“But Simmons is on duty, sir.”
“Don’t argue with me. I want your expertise to verify it.”
“Yes, sir.” Ike scooted out the door, pulling out a ring of keys as he disappeared into the breezeway.
“The rest of you—I want a complete sweep of the island. Check every inch of the security grid. I want to know if so much as a pelican has breached the perimeter today.”
A chorus of ‘Yes, sir’ and the scramble of feet and chairs left Tasiya standing alone at the center of the room.
“And you—” She flinched when Boone Fowler pointed straight at her, yanking her from anonymity into the spotlight. “Bring me coffee in my office. Black. And plenty of it.”
“Yes, sir.” She needed no excuse to linger. Propping the loaded tub on her hip, she turned and hurried out to the kitchen where she dumped out the dregs and started a fresh pot. But she could still hear Fowler talking to Marcus Smith.
“I need to know if any of the prisoners have made contact with anyone on the outside.”
“Impossible, sir. The bounty hunters aren’t even allowed contact with each other.”
“Good. Now here’s what I want you to do.”
Apparently, the two men had left the room. Tasiya could hear nothing now but the silence of just how alone she was.
She glanced quickly at her watch. If she hurried, by the time the coffee