Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 61867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
They’ve been questioning me, these men, whoever they are. Asking me about my father and his business as an arms dealer.
At first, I didn’t believe them. Surely it had to be some kind of scam that shady people here pulled on tourists. After all, I was snatched up out of a cab and taken here, so it wouldn’t be hard to believe. You never know what kind of people you’ll run into looking to swindle you, especially in countries you’re not familiar with. But the more these guys talked, the more I realized that this wasn’t a scam, and that my dad really was involved with something dark and underground.
How could I not know about it? That’s what these men wanted to know. As far as they were concerned, I was his business partner, and for the last eleven months, they’ve been trying to get information out of me about where he’s kept his money, who else he did business with, and where he kept his stores of weapons.
I’ve been telling them I don’t know and that I didn’t even know my dad was into this, but they don’t believe me. I’ve taken beatings, suffered through sleep deprivation techniques, and listened to them tell me about all the terrible things they would do to my mom if I didn’t spill my guts and give up the secrets to the entire operation.
What operation?!
That’s what I tried to tell them so many times over. But they just won’t listen. And every time they come to question me and pull me out of my room, which is basically nothing more than a cell, I end up screaming at them and telling them that I don’t know anything. I beg for them to let me just see my parents, but they just throw me back in here with a meal that’s barely enough to keep me alive, then come back the next day with the same questions.
I’m starting to wonder just how much longer I can fight it. Just how much longer I can hold out. But the one thing that keeps me going is her.
Iris.
I think about her every day. The time we spent together back home, whether it was just sitting in the back yard while I worked on my motorcycle while she watched and talked my ear off about whatever it was that was going on in her life, or the times I’d bring her over to the house for dinner so she could get away from that mom of hers that was driving her crazy.
Sometimes I dream about the times we’d go riding up in the hills. She’d climb on the back of my bike, and I’d blaze up through the trees with her holding on to my waist. I loved those times, but I never truly appreciated just how much until now, staring at the cracked, cold, concrete ceiling above me, wondering if I’ll ever get out of here at all.
I wonder what she’s up to now. I never even got a chance to say goodbye to her.
My dad said we’d be gone a week—two weeks max—and then I’d be home again. Then it would just be some crazy story to tell to her. But now it’s been almost a year without a word. She must be worried sick about me. I know I would be if she just up and vanished like that. I can’t even imagine what she just be thinking. It isn’t just me; the entire family who lives next door to her is gone.
I wonder if she called the police. She must have. It’s not like they’ll have anything to go on though. We left on our own and we bought plane tickets. If anyone seriously looked into it, they’d see that, but I doubt local cops even have the jurisdiction to pull that kind of information.
So Iris is just sitting there, day after day, night after night, wondering where the hell her friend and his entire family suddenly just ran off to. It makes me feel terrible.
On the other side of the thick sheet of metal that serves as a door for the room these men are keeping me in, I hear the familiar sound of footsteps approaching. I used to get myself into a sitting position, thinking that showing some kind of readiness or politeness would work in my favor, but I don’t bother anymore. Nothing I do seems to change the way they treat me.
Moments later, I hear the sound of the door unlocking. It swings open, revealing a man who calls himself Roan. I’m certain this isn’t his real name. Beside him stands Edmond, who he is always with.
“You are ready to talk to us?” Roan asks. Both of them speak English very well.
“I told you, Roan, there’s nothing to talk to you about,” I sigh. “Unless you want to talk about Breaking Bad or something. Did they get that in Albania? Great show if you haven’t seen it.”