Warning: The following chapter contains a scenario that some readers may find disturbing, especially considering the current violent acts of the past week. I contemplated not publishing this chapter as I do not condone violence. However I wrote this scene months ago and the plot point is important to Max and Sophie's story. 

Darkness had become his companion. Almost as consistent as the throbbing ache in his left shoulder and knee. The lack of light knocked against his head and heart, as if it were the devil whispering encouragement to give up, to give in and let desolation take over.

But Max couldn't stop trying.

Trying to live.

Trying to escape.

Trying to get home.

To her.

At the scrape of a key in a lock, Max's teeth abandoned their attempt to undo the knot, tying his hands together and chaining him to an iron ring attached to the wall. He spit out the frayed shreds of rope and hid his work in his lap.

The blindfold had come loose at some point, Max wasn't sure when, and now hung around his neck like a collar. The gained measure of freedom meant little since the room had stayed a consistent murky grey after the second time he regained consciousness. With no variation in the pale light shining like a beacon under the door, and the chill, Max suspected he was being kept underground, perhaps in a basement. Of course, the cold spreading across his skin could be from an infection. The wound on the back of his head stung, and the rope tied around his wrists chaffed, the skin breaking against the rough abrasions.

"Hope it's lahoh." Max ignored the shake in his voice. The popular local dish, traditionally served at breakfast, helped Max track time in the void. If it was morning, that meant more people in the building. Voices, laughter and footsteps mixing together as men and women filled the place, but at night a grave silence settled in. Of course, he couldn't be sure, given he had no idea how long they had knocked out initially him after the attack on the street. Or the second time when a group of men had beaten him in this room. The swelling in his right eye had begun to recede, but he bet he could win a black eye competition.

For two days now, the man that now entered the room, the lower half of his face hidden by a black-and-white checkered bandana., had been Max's only visitor.

"Ibrahim, did you bring coffee?" Max asked.

A shaft of light from the hallway silhouetted Ibrahim. Max wasn't sure that was his real name but counted earning any name a win. Ibrahim placed a metal plate and a ceramic cup on the packed earth beside Max. "Only water."

"Shame." Max inched forward to drag the food closer, this time remembering to move gingerly. Even so, pain radiated from his left shoulder. "My girlfriend Sophie makes the best coffee in the morning. I'm addicted to waking up to that aroma."

Max hated bringing even Sophie's name into this dank, vile space, like speaking it aloud somehow tainted the woman thousands of miles away, hopefully safe and sound. He liked to think of her snuggled in his bed, surrounded by blankets, warm and comfortable, not sitting at the kitchen table in the lake house, her beautiful face stained with worry because he'd missed more than a few phone calls by this point.

He focused on the present opportunity, picking up his allotment of food for the day. The meager morsel, barely the size of his palm, was cold. Still, he broke the meal into two sections and slowly nibbled on a corner. His tactic was to keep Ibrahim in the room as long as possible, talk to the man about their lives, find common ground, break down the barrier between hostage and kidnapper. Find a crack he could exploit to get him out of this room.

"She told me her secret. Do you want to know?" Only Ibrahim's eyes moved, the pupils skimming Max's face. Max swallowed the dry, tasteless pancake. "A sprinkle of cinnamon. Makes a world of difference."

Ibrahim adjusted his bandana, and the bland breakfast swirled in his stomach. Max took a sip from the cup, the tinge from his old baseball injury almost a comfort, something he could count on in this unpredictable situation. He didn't bother to pretend the drink was coffee. The cool water slid down his throat and it took an immense amount of concentration not to gulp the liquid in one go.

"My girlfriend is an amazing chef. Loves trying new recipes. She's eager to try skudahkharis after I told her it was Djibouti's national dish. Does your wife make skudahkharis?" Max was taking a gamble, swinging at what might be a curve ball, but he'd noticed the ring on Ibrahim's left hand.

"No." Ibrahim crossed his arms.

Max searched for another avenue or topic to keep the conversation alive. In jilted discussions, he'd learned he was one of many American soldiers captured that day by Ibrahim's organization. They were held at locations around Djibouti City as insurance for the group who were plotting a regime change for the current government. The captives were their assurance against the US Military assisting the current government in squashing the coo. Ibrahim hadn't offered an answer when Max had asked what was to happen to him after Ibrahim and his cohorts took control of the city.

Silence hung over the room until Ibrahim grunted, "My sister."

"Does your sister live nearby?" Ibrahim nodded and Max internally cheered at the home run. "Must be nice. Mine lives far away. I rarely see her."

Ibrahim jutted forward, snatching up the plate. Max hadn't realized he'd finished the lahoh. His stomach growled in protest at the too meager meal and he wondered if the persistent headache was from the lack of food or a concussion from the blow to his head. Ibrahim went for the cup, but Max hugged it close to his chest.

"I'm not finished. Can't I keep it, Ibrahim?" Part of his military training for these situations instructed to learn a kidnapper's name and weave it frequently into conversations.

Ibrahim's gaze swung to the empty doorway and back to Max. Max reminded himself to breathe regularly, his stomach muscles cramping in anticipation. With a curt nod, his captor turned, left the room, closing the door and plunging Max back into darkness.

Max let his head fall against the cool stone wall and closed his eyes. A tiredness he'd never experienced before washed over him like a tidal wave and a different ache stirred in his chest. He conjured up memories of Sophie. Her smile at the train station upon spotting him. The sensation of her lips on his in the warm kitchen of the old farmhouse. His heart rate slowed as he mentally traced the curve of her hip, his fingers settling on the small of her back, cradling her in his arms. He sucked in stale, damp air and convinced himself it was the sweet vanilla of Sophie that infiltrated his nose.

Unfortunately, the inhale ignited a coughing fit as the spores in the air caught in his throat. Max sucked back the remaining water in the mug, trying to quell the uproar. He'd just about got the fit under control when another spasm hit. As he violently coughed, Max smashed the mug against the wall, shattering the pottery into pieces.

Above him, footsteps stomped across the floor and Max's knee screamed in protest as he attempted to stand, prepare for his captors' return. A voice shouted in a language he didn't recognize, but no one pushed open the door. No one came to inspect Max's cell. Perhaps no one heard the mug break.

Max slid down the wall and fumbled in the dark, picking over the shards of the cup until he found a sharp edge. Pushing through the fatigue, he stuffed the sliver between his wrist and his bindings and dragged the improvised knife over the rope.

He had a plan. First free himself. Second, use the broken mug as a weapon to gain his freedom. Most importantly, he had to escape.

Max had a promise to keep.

Slick with what was probably blood from the cuts on his fingers, the mug piece often slipped from his grip. But eventually, after minutes or hours, Max couldn't tell, the threads frayed enough he could force his hands apart. Free. Shard tucked into in his pocket, Max rose to his feet, taking more care and placing weight on his good knee. He gathered up the remnants of the rope and tested his other knee by walking along the stone wall. The pain was sharp but bearable. He might not be stealing second base any time soon, yet he had no choice but the bare the discomfort. Feeling his way in the dark, Max found the doorframe and sank back to the ground.

Surprised at how the short jaunt left him breathless, he closed his eyes and tried to rest. Hopefully, he'd need his strength soon. Since being captured, the routine was a meal in the morning and another cup of water at night, maybe a slap or punch, if Ibrahim wasn't the one to deliver his rations.

Max's teeth began to chatter, and he wrapped his arms around his knees, trying to keep warm. He imagined the fireplace at the lake house, sitting on the sofa with Sophie tucked against his chest, her hand over his heart. She'd tell him about the latest addition to the menu she'd create for the winery, pairing ingredients sweet and savory.

Somewhere beside him metal grated against metal and Max woke from a dream. He must have fallen asleep. Was it nighttime already? As he jumped to his feet, he listened for sounds of activity. All was quiet except for the rusty hinges of the door. Without hesitating, Max reached out and yanked the man at the entrance into the room, slamming him against the wall.

Ibrahim grunted and made to perhaps shout, but Max clamped a hand over his mouth and pressed the sharp edge of the fractured cup against Ibrahim's jugular.

In his ears, Max's pulse pounded. "I don't want to hurt you. Do as I say, and you'll see your wife again." The whites of Ibrahim's eyes increased, and Max took that as an agreement. "First. Tie your bandana around your mouth like a gag."

Ibrahim moved slowly, lowering the bandana until it was between his teeth and tying it tighter.

Max nodded. "Good. Now walk with me to the other side of the room." They moved in sync. "Reach into my pocket and take out the rope. Secure it to the ring." In the low light, Max watched the man do as he asked. "Now take the other end and wrap it around your wrists." Ibrahim's chest rose and fell, yet the man knew what to do as this was how Max had been secured. When there were a few loops wound, Max edged the improvised knife from Ibrahim's neck and quickly bound the man's hands.

"Stay quiet and hopefully we will never see each other again." Max turned and ran for the door.

In the hallway, the light blinded him. Still, Max spotted a set of stairs and, despite the increasing pain in his knee, took them two at a time. Tiny shard of pottery in his hand, Max emerged into an empty foyer, a metal door before him. With a shove, he spilled into the still warm air of a Djibouti City summer evening. Max sucked in the fresh air like a drowning man and studied the seemingly residential area around him.

A shout emanated from the building behind him, and Max scrambled in the direction of the bright lights. What he hoped was a main square or popular street. Keeping to the darkened edges of the laneway, his knee roared in agony with every rushed step. Yet Max only increased his speed, breaking into a run. His lungs screamed for him to stop, catch his breath.

Max pressed on, home base in sight. He had to return to Sophie.