Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [111]
A rush of adrenaline coursed through him as he fumbled for the second key. He was already thinking of camera angles and positioning. First-class footage was not required, but material on the P2P networks did need to be trade-worthy. The quality of some downloads he’d watched was abysmal, and once upon a time, quality hadn’t mattered. His earliest ventures into P2P weren’t about titillation. He was studying the ways of encryption and secret communications among pedophiles, seeing how those methods could be applied to al-Shabaab’s communications. Sometimes it angered him the way this dark world had sucked him in. Sometimes.
He turned the knob and pushed open the door.
“Is that you?” she asked.
She always asked that same question, but he knew what she was really asking: What do you want from me? That fear in her voice was a good thing; he wished the camera were already running. He adjusted the dimmer switch on the wall to bring a little light to the room, then started toward her. She lay on the mattress in the corner, which was a good place for them to start. She’d end up on the floor. There was no written script, but as he drew closer, he could hear the first take in his head.
“Who did this to you, huh?”
“You did.”
“No! Tell me who it was.”
“Me.”
“Who made you into such a little slut?”
“I did.”
“No!” he shouted, emerging from his thoughts. “That’s the wrong answer!”
The outburst made him stop, and he worried that his voice might have been heard outside the cellar. The girl looked up from the bed, her eyes wide with fear.
“I didn’t say anything,” she said.
He knew she hadn’t, but the anger inside him was uncontrollable. Girls blaming themselves used to work for him, but not anymore. Not after what had happened in Mogadishu.
A scream—not the girl’s—cut through the silence as the closet door flew open. It was as if the Dark had been hit by a charging rhinoceros. He was suddenly on the floor, flat on his back. The weight of his attacker was on his chest, and a pair of very strong hands was at his throat. He gasped for air, but his windpipe was closed.
There was another scream—it was the girl this time—and the Dark had just enough oxygen flowing to his brain to process what was happening to him. His eyes were bulging, his head was on the verge of exploding, and the man with his hands around his throat was obviously not taking prisoners. The Dark hadn’t come this far to die on the cellar floor. His backpack was within reach, right where it had fallen. Even though it had seemed heavy a minute earlier, he found the strength to grab it by one strap and launch it from the floor with the force of a catapult.
Something cracked inside the backpack—or maybe it was the attacker’s skull. The grip on his throat eased for an instant, as if the blow had dazed his attacker, and the Dark seized the moment. He pushed with all his strength and sent the man flying across the room. But he came right back at the Dark, and the momentum sent them both crashing into the wall. A hot wet spray slapped the Dark across the face.
Am I bleeding?
The man grabbed the Dark by the hair and slammed his head against the floor—once, twice, a third time. Each time, the Dark felt that hot spray on his face, but each blow was weaker than the last. With the fourth, his attacker fell backward, a battered heap.
It’s not my blood!
The Dark tried to push himself up from the floor, but the cellar was awhirl, and he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even turn his head. He thought he saw the girl standing over him, but he was barely able to focus.