TALLY heard the guttural shouts seconds before the gunfire. Dropping to her stomach, she hugged her camera and struggled to protect her head.
âSoussi al-Kebir,â her guide screamed as he ran from her.
Soussi al-Kebir? Tally pressed her forearm to her face, struggling to make sense of the words with the little Arabic she knew.
Soussi were Berbers from the south, those that lived close to the desert. And al-Kebir was big or great. But Soussi al-Kebir?
More gunfire rang in the small town square, the rat-a-tat of machine gunfire and the hard clattering of horsesâ hooves.
Was this an ambush? Robbery? What?
Heart racing, Tally hugged the cobblestones closer, her camera gripped tightly in the crook of her arm, certain any moment a whizzing bullet would hit her.
Not far from her a man screamed and fell. She heard him hit the ground, the heavy thud of body against stone. Moments later red liquid ran toward her, inches from her face and she recoiled, lifting her head to avoid the blood.
It was then a shadow stretched long above her, the shadow enormous, blocking the intense Barakan sun.
Fear melted Tallyâs heart. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut but fear wouldnât let her. She wanted to be brave and bold, but fear wouldnât let her. Instead she huddled there, eyes riveted to the shadow and the foot frighteningly close to her head.
The foot was big and covered in pale suede. The soft leather boot the type desert tribesmen wore, they were made of the softest, most supple leather to protect from the heat of the sand and yet light to make walking in the soft surface easier. White fabric brushed the top of his boot. It was the hem of his robe.
Soussi, she thought, putting it together. The huge shadow. The suede boot. Soussi al-Kebir. Chief of the Desert.
Hands encircled Tallyâs upper arms and she was hauled to her feet. The same hands ripped her camera away from her even as a dark rough fabric jerked down over her head, turning day to night.
Tally screamed as everything went black, but it wasnât the dark fabric that upset her. It was the loss of her camera. Her camera and camera bag were her world, her livelihood, her identity. Without her camera and film, she had no way to pay her bills. No way to survive.
âGive me back my camera!â she demanded, voice muffled by the coarse fabric.
âQuiet!â A harsh male voice commanded.
Suddenly she was lifted, tossed high onto the back of a horse and someone leaped behind her, settling onto the blanket and seizing the reins. Heels kicked at the horseâs flanks and they were off, galloping away from the townâs medina, down the narrow cobbled street into the desert beyond.
Panicked, Tally struggled in the saddle, battling to pull the fabric off her head but itâd been pulled low and it was tied somehow, anchored around her shoulders.
âAsh bhiti?â She choked in broken Barakan Arabic. What do you want?
The only response was an arm pulling her closer, holding her more firmly, the arm thickly muscled, very hard, drawing her against an even thicker, harder torso.
âI have money,â she added frantically, growing hotter by the second inside the dark fabric. âIâll give you money. Everything I have. Just go with me to my hotelââ
âShhal?â he grunted, interrupting her. How much?
âNearly five hundred American dollars.â
He said nothing and Tally tried not to squirm even though the fabric was oppressive, suffocating. She had to stay calm, strike a bargain. âI can get more.â
âShhal?â he repeated. He wanted to know how much more she could get.
It was at that point Tally realized she was dealing with a mercenary. âA thousand dollars. Maybe two thousand.â
âNot enough,â he dismissed, and the arm around her tightened yet again.
âWhat do you want then?â
âFor you to be quiet.â
âIââ
âEnough!â
Fear made Tally silent. Fear made her hold her breath, air bottled inside. Sheâd read about kidnappings in the Middle East. So now instead of fighting further, she told herself not to scream, or thrash. She wouldnât do anything to provoke him, or his men, into doing something that would later be regretted.
Instead she told herself that if she stayed calm, sheâd get out of this. If she stayed calm, things might turn out okay.
Not every hostage was punished. Some were released.
Thatâs what she wanted. Thatâs what sheâd work to do.
Cooperate. Prove herself trustworthy. Get set free.
To help stay focused, she went over her day, thinking about the way it began, and it began like any other day. Sheâd loaded her camera with film, put a loose scarf over her head and set out to take her pictures.
She never traveled alone, had learned the value of hiring escorts and guides, bodyguards and translators when necessary. She knew how to slip a few coins into the right hands to get what she wanted.