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“What do you think he’s doing?” Paula asked Hoke as they sat down to dinner.

“Why do you torture yourself like this?” he asked, laying down his fork.

“If I think of him doing normal things, like eating, then I can pretend that he’s just gone out on tour…and not in the hands of terrorists,” she said, her voice breaking.

“We have to be prepared for the worst, you know that.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “The officials told us that there is a very slim chance that he’ll come home alive.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “I know, but I just can’t stop believing that he’ll come home. It’s like admitting that I have lost faith.”

“Harold called today while you were at church. He said he and Jackie are going to Washington in a couple of days to meet with someone they know there.”

“I wish them luck,” Paula said. So far they’d had no luck in getting in to talk to anyone. The military had been good about updating them on their efforts, but nothing had come of that either.

It hurt them both badly to not be able to do anything to save their son. Waiting was torture to them, not knowing what was going on.

“We’ll hear something soon,” Hoke assured her. He wished he felt as confident as he tried to sound; he too was trying not to lose hope.

Marcus kept in constant contact with all of them, calling them as often as he could to let them know what was going on there in Baghdad. He had flown there as soon as he’d recovered from the attack; he’d been injured trying to fight off the terrorists. Their small security force had been horribly outnumbered from the beginning.

Using money from the families, he hired an ex-military security expert to lead a small group of Iraqi citizens to help him search for the prisoners. The record label had refused to assist him, saying that the government was doing what it could. Marcus knew better than that, his dealings with the authorities in Baghdad had shown him the ineptitude of both the local and military police in the area.

Hoke knew that Marcus was doing everything humanly possible to find the boys; they were his responsibility and he felt that he had let them down. He knew Marcus would let nothing get in the way of the search.

*********************

“He is refusing to eat,” Hira said when she returned with the tray still in her hands.

“He is what?” Sabir shouted.

“He said that he will not eat until you have given him clothes and a blanket.”

Rahmat jumped from his chair and approached her. “You told him to do this! You know that we need him alive.”

“No, I swear I did not.”

Rahmat knocked the tray from her hands, the food went flying. The scrawny dog bolted in from under a table and grabbed at the food, no one noticed.

“You lie, whore!” He slapped her hard, knocking her to the ground.

“I had nothing to do with this,” she whimpered, bowing her head in submission before the men.

“On your feet, you sniveling slut,” Sabir ordered, and Hira slowly stood upright, using a chair as support. She was already sore from the beating she had taken earlier in the day. She was careful to keep her head lowered; her hands behind her back so they could not see her clenched fists.

“Until he eats, you will not eat either,” Rahmat growled, kicking at the dog who snarled back at him. “So you better convince him to eat....or you both will starve to death together.”

“Are you sure that is wise?” Sabir questioned him. He didn't normally question his brother's actions but he was afraid of their charge dying before their leader, Abu Hasal, came to get him.

“When he gets hungry enough, he will eat...and seeing Hira starve will convince him to eat,” Rahmat said, defending his decision.

Hira entered her room and closed the door softly, silently sliding home a small bolt. She had installed it without the men's knowledge, she didn't wish for unwanted company during the night. They would beat her if they knew it was there, she had been careful to conceal it. It would not prevent someone determined from entering, but would discourage a casual invasion.

She pulled off the hated burkha; the dark material covered her from head to toe, leaving only her eyes visible through a small slit. Since she had come to this house, she had been required to wear it. At home she had only worn the hijab, the scarf worn over the head and beneath the chin, but she always pinned it so that it also covered the lower half of her face.

Hira carefully hung the garment on a peg in the wall, glad to have it off. She had to take care of it; she knew they would not give her the money to purchase another if this one was damaged. It had taken her quite some time to get used to it since it limited her visibility and hindered her movements. She had even nearly caught it on fire once while cooking. The material of the burkha was coarse and cheap, it chafed her where it touched her skin. To show off his wealth and status, her father bought her nice clothes but her step mother had taken them away, giving her instead her cast offs. Her step mother’s clothes were luxurious compared to the material of the burka.

“I am going to kill you both,” she whispered as she lay down on her tiny cot. “You are evil and do not deserve to live.”

Hira wondered just how she had gotten into this mess. It had not been her fault that her soon to be husbands had died - how could her father, and the other men in the village, think it was somehow her fault? Men never blamed themselves for anything; it was always the woman's fault. Like when her mother died giving birth - her father had been angry not only at her, but at her mother as well. If only her father had not insisted that she bear a child every other year. She blamed him for her mother's death - she had been exhausted by bearing five children in nine years.

She leaned over and blew out the candle next to her tiny bed; she was not allowed to use the electric light. As she lay in the darkness, she wondered what Howie was thinking about. She knew he was cold; the nights there grew chilly when the sun went down, even in the middle of summer. She wished there was something she could do...and she wondered how she was going to convince him to eat, or convince the men to give him some clothes. A plan began to formulate in her brain, it was risky but the only way to save her new friend.

*********************

Howie looked up when Hira entered his room the next morning. He could see the dark purple bruise around her right eye through the slit in her head covering. The men had yelled at her the night before, he figured they beat her again. It broke his heart, knowing that he was the cause of her pain, and he swore to himself that he would make it up to her.

Huddled in the corner still, he turned slightly so he could see the door. He didn't want to offend her with his nakedness and sat so his privates were as shielded as he could get them. It had been an uncomfortable night; he had shivered through the cold, dark hours.

“They said they will not give you your clothes back until you tell them what they want to know.”

“I have nothing to tell them – and I won’t eat until they give me some clothes,” he said firmly, ignoring the growling of his stomach. He figured it was unwise to get into a power struggle with them, but he had little to bargain with. He felt that their treatment of him was unfair, not realizing that they could be doing much worse to him.

“So be it,” she said, leaving the room and taking both the food and water with her. The men took the tray from her and sent her to her room for the rest of the day.

Howie didn't like being alone all day; he missed his little TV time and his conversations with Hira. He didn't exercise any more, knowing that he would need to conserve his energy. He wondered how long he could go without food or water before giving in.

As he lay in bed the second night, he heard a light scratching noise, like that of a rat. The noise came from his door, but it didn't open. In the faint moonlight, he saw something slide underneath the door.

He waited a few minutes to see what, if anything, would happen next. It remained quiet so he went to see what it was. Laying on a piece of torn newspaper was a slab of bread, soaked in goat's milk. He carefully ate it one little bite at time so as not to cramp his stomach.

Hira didn't come to his room the next day at all. Howie sat and thought about his family, wondering if they missed him as much as he missed them. He felt overwhelmed with sadness; despair ate at him like a cancer. He decided it would be best not to think of them at all. His thoughts kept returning to Hira, her soft voice echoing in his head.

That night, well after the house had gone silent, the bread appeared underneath the door once again. He ate it gratefully; knowing that that little bit of food could make the difference in his survival. He was still ravenously hungry and thirsty, but he felt he could endure a little longer.

On the third night of his hunger strike, he was waiting by the door for the delivery. When the bread slid under, he touched the fingers that just barely peeked underneath the door. There was a soft gasp, and then just the tips of the fingers showed again. He brushed his fingertips against them and then they were gone.

Howie knew it had to be Hira bringing him the food, who else would it be? Even after everything she had gone through because of him, she was still willing to help him, despite the fact that if she got caught the men would beat her bloody.

He once again was waiting for her on the fourth night of his nightmare. His stomach ached and cramped and his thirst was unbearable, but what kept him going was the thought of Hira, risking her life to bring him food. This time her fingers lingered under the door, and he stroked them ever so lightly. He had never touched her before this, their only physical contact had been when she had washed him and combed the lice out of his hair.

The fifth night, Hira's fingers searched for his underneath the door. When their fingers touched, he could hear her sigh. He crouched there, touching her fingers, for several minutes before they were hastily pulled away. He could hear her soft footsteps in the hall.

This routine continued on for several more days, the stealthy delivery of food followed by a brief encounter under the door. Howie began to feel weak, despite the food, and he wondered how long he would last. He knew he was seriously dehydrated; he didn’t sweat during the heat of the day any more.

On the eighth day, Hira came back to his room, but she didn't bring any food with her. Howie tried to read her expression, but she kept her eyes lowered. He wondered if the bread had all been a hallucination as she acted cold towards him, not like a co-conspirator.

“Are you ready to eat?” she asked. At the thought of food, her stomach growled loudly. True to their word, the men had not let her eat or drink anything either. She felt weak and disoriented; she had not gone this long without major sustenance before. Although she had eaten a little of the stolen food, most had gone to Howie.

He wanted to give in, but he was too stubborn to let his captors beat him in this. They had humiliated the both of them in front of the villagers; he would not let them get the better of him in this. He felt in his heart that they would not let him starve to death, he would be useless to them then.

Dread overcame him when another thought came into his head - how would anyone know that he had died? No one would know until it was too late and the men had gotten whatever it was they were demanding in return for his release.

“No, Hira.” He could see in her eyes her disappointment. “Don't you understand why I am doing this?”

“You have never known what it is like to have someone else be in control of your life before. You are spoiled, coming from a land where there is plenty of everything.” She sank to the floor, her legs no longer able to hold her, her muscles trembling. “I understand that you mourn the loss of your freedom and cannot accept the fact that you are a prisoner...”

“But I have a chance still - I can escape...”

“No, you do not. Everyone in this village knows who you are and would kill you on sight if they discovered you outside of this house. You are in an area where foreigners are shot without question - you would not last five minutes unless you had help, and no one can help you now.”

Howie bowed his head; he didn't want her to see the tears in his eyes. “But surely someone is planning to come rescue me.”

“Your government is refusing to even speak to their leader and even the US troops do not come into this area, they have suffered high losses of life when they have ventured in here.”

“So you are saying that I have no hope.”

“I am saying that you have no hope of any outside help. Your only way out is if Abu Hasal tires of this game and decides to let you go, or if Sabir or Rahmat lose faith and decide you are more trouble than you are worth - but then they just might kill you for the fun of it rather than let you go.”

Howie closed his eyes; he was too weak to even get angry at her words. “So I might as well die then. Better now than to sit in this hell and die a slow death, with no hope of rescue.”

Hira cringed at the hopelessness in his voice. She had wanted him to finally face the reality of his situation, not give up hope completely. She rose unsteadily to her feet and left the room, wondering if she should've just let him die. But she couldn't forget the touch of his fingers on hers, the warmth, the hope that they gave her.

“He is willing to die,” Hira told the men as they devoured their breakfast in front of her. Her stomach cramped terribly but she forced herself to show no pain in front of them. “He sees there is no hope left and is not willing to let you slowly starve him. I have talked to him but he doesn't care, not even if I starve along with him.”

That was a lie. She had not told him of her hunger, knowing that he would give in if he knew. Hira needed this victory as much as Howie did; she needed to feel that she had a little control left over her own destiny.

“So he is close to death then?” Sabir asked.

“Yes. He is not used to going without food, he is weak. He will not last more than another day or two.” Another lie, but they didn't need to know the truth. With her sneaking him food, he could last much longer than they thought.

“Abu Hasal would be very angry if the prisoner died,” Sabir said.

“So let our glorious leader be angry, he is not here.” Rahmat coveted the leader's position; he thought by challenging him in this that he would be able to take over their group.

“You are wrong about that,” said a voice from the doorway. A tall and imposing figure stood there, wearing western-styled clothes but with the traditional head scarf over his head.

“Abu Hasal...” Rahmat stammered. The two of them jumped to their feet, the dog scrambled to get away - he had been nosing around for scraps. Hira was not surprised to see him – she had secretly contacted him in order to save Howie from an early demise.

“I came to visit our prisoner - take me to him,” he demanded. Sabir led him down the narrow hallway to a locked door.

When the door swung open, Howie was huddled in the corner still. He was shivering despite the fact it was well over 90 degrees in the room. He didn't even look up when the men walked in, nor did he move when Abu Hasal shoved him with a booted foot.

“Is he dead?” Abu Hasal asked, his face stony.

“No, he has been refusing to eat,” Sabir said. “He has gone for eight days without food or water.”

“And why is that?”

“Rahmat would not give him any clothes, so he went on a hunger strike. Rahmat said he would eat eventually.” Sabir was trying to earn back some points with his leader by sucking up to him. Rahmat shot him a glare. “He even was starving our woman, trying to get the prisoner to give in and eat.”

Howie started at that news, he had been listening to their conversation, strangely enough conducted in English. His heart sank when he realized that Hira had been suffering again because of him.

“We need all of our prisoners alive,” Abu Hasal said, staring at Rahmat, who finally bowed his head in acquiescence. “Give him some clean clothes and food immediately. I am going to come for him soon and he needs to be able to walk and talk coherently.”

They left the room, locking it behind them.

“Why do you need him?” Sabir asked as Abu Hasal prepared to leave.

Abu Hasal turned, filling the doorway. “Because I am going to use him as an example to the American dogs of what will happen if they do not give in to our demands.”

Hira shuddered. In her effort to protect him she might have unwittingly shoved him closer to death. She knew what Abu Hasal had planned for their captive - first he would videotape Howie, begging the US to give them what they wanted. A week later he would behead him and send the tape to the US media. Then a few days later they would find his body left somewhere in the city, mutilated almost beyond recognition. She prayed that she had a few days to get Howie's strength back before Abu Hasal returned.

**********************

The first weeks after the kidnapping, the media went overboard in its coverage, showing clips of the group performing and at home with their families. Paula couldn’t turn on the television to watch the news without seeing a reminder of the nightmare she was living.

The media asked for endless interviews, they granted every one in an effort to keep their cause before the public eye – trying to garner help from any and every sector possible.

Then as the weeks went by, the story lost its luster and no one called asking for interviews, no mention was made during the evening news.

Every avenue turned into a dead end; even Marcus’ heroic efforts in Baghdad were unsuccessful. The once daily phone calls between the families for support became further and further apart as stress threatened to tear them all to pieces.

For weeks, there had been no word from the terrorists, other than their initial demands. They had provided no video of the captives to prove they were still alive and in good health.

Paula turned on the evening news; the anchor came on with breaking news. She gasped as video of Nick and Brian was shown on the air. They sat in front of a black banner, two gunmen stood behind them, automatic rifles at the ready.

Yelling for Hoke, she turned up the volume. It was the typical speech captives were forced to recite – they pleaded for the government to give in to the terrorist’s demands. Paula was glad to see that they both looked well and unharmed – but where was Howard?

“Please God, bring back my son, alive,” Paula whispered in bed that night.

**********************

For the next three days, Hira came to see him several times a day. She brought him delicious, nourishing broths and bowls of rice and vegetables. He drank glass after glass of water, finally starting to feel hydrated again. At night, she would bring him a cup of tea before he was forced to give up his lone candle. He relished these days, for they talked for hours at a time. She told him of her youth, of being sent off to school where she learned to speak, read, and write English - much to her father's displeasure.

He in turn told her of his childhood and of his rise to fame and fortune. Howie could see that his tales seemed fantastic to her. Sometimes he thought that she didn't believe him, but he didn't care - he could tell that she enjoyed his stories and that was all that mattered.

His strength began to return, he no longer felt shaky any more when he stood up. Hira too was stronger, her voice more confident. She often ate with him when she brought his meal, although never removing the veil from her face.

Their friendship grew, Howie could tell that Hira trusted him now. She confided little things to him, much as she would with a close friend. He knew her fears and her desires, her dreams and her nightmares – and she knew his.

On the fifth day after Abu Hasal's visit, Hira entered his room very early, bearing his food. She seemed nervous, and urged him to eat quickly, saying she would return shortly. When she reentered his room, Howie could only stare - she was no longer wearing the burkha. Hira was dressed in peasant clothes, nondescript loose fitting pants and long tunic. A gray hijab covered her head, the silk concealing not only her hair but her face as well.

“Are you finished eating?” she asked and he nodded. She tossed him a bundle of black cloth. “Put this on, quickly.” She kept glancing over her shoulder at the open door.

Howie unfolded the cloth; it was the hated burkha which she had been wearing. Without questioning her, he slipped it over his head, instantly feeling claustrophobic. He wondered how women could wear this, it felt like a black tomb surrounding him.

Hira rolled up his pants legs so that they couldn't possibly show beneath the garment. The burkha wasn’t too short since they were close to the same height.

“It is time to go,” she whispered, taking his hand and leading him out the door.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, stopping her for a moment.

“Do not ask any questions, just do as I say. Keep your head lowered, do not stare at anyone. Keep your hands inside the sleeves and absolutely do not speak to anyone, no matter what. I will do all the talking, you pretend to be mute.”

“But Hira...” he protested.

“Just promise me that you will take me with you?” He could see the tears in her eyes.

“I swear,” he said, squeezing her hand.