INTO THE FIRE
Twenty-eight
Bane would take no chances with the pit prison. Instead of driving a vehicle to the site, he insisted upon a helicopter to transport himself, Talia, Barsad, and Yemi. Four men from the League would come by truck, arriving at the shaft ahead of them, making sure the area was secure before radioing Bane to tell him it was safe to land. Talia had argued against such expensive measures, but Bane would not be denied.
"If you can't think of your personal safety," he had told her, "then you must remember your importance to the League. Everything you do now must take that great responsibility into consideration. To lose you, especially so soon on the heels of your father's death, would be devastating. We can take no chances."
As the helicopter neared the prison, Bane—seated beside Talia—looked across the compartment to Barsad. His friend flashed him a confident smile and gave him a thumbs up. Bane nodded in appreciation of Barsad's awareness of his trepidation. Even Barsad had tried to talk Talia out of returning to the pit, though Bane knew Barsad secretly longed to see the notorious prison himself after hearing Bane's and Yemi's stories. Perhaps, Bane had told himself, Barsad would acquire a better understanding of Talia and gain even more respect for her after seeing what she had survived.
Bane glanced at Yemi. The big man's eyes were closed, but Bane sensed that he was not asleep. If the Nigerian had his own concerns about revisiting the pit, he had not shared such thoughts. In fact, he had volunteered to descend into the pit with Bane, Talia, and Barsad, allowing the League's men to remain on the surface to guard the shaft opening. Yemi's courage validated Bane's reasons for inviting him to join the League. Like Barsad, Yemi had agreed, and once they all climbed back out of the pit, Yemi—with Barsad—would leave with the League's men to undergo training.
"Five minutes," the pilot's words rang in Bane's headset, which pressed awkwardly against the sides of his mask.
Bane looked down at Talia. She appeared so young without make-up and with her hair—at his rueful request—cut short. She pulled from her thoughts to offer him a small smile. Yes, there was courage there—the others could recognize that—but Bane could see much more. He wanted to reach for her hand, to physically convey strength to her, but he refrained in front of the others.
"You don't have to do this," he said into the headset's com.
She nodded, a slight frown of insistence creasing her forehead below her small mole, the one that mirrored a mole her mother had borne on her chin. She touched his pack on the floor between them, the one that contained Melisande's blanket. Bane nodded his understanding, forced a smile.
When the helicopter landed, dust arose in a choking cloud. Bane wrapped a shemagh around his head, hoping to keep as much dirt as possible from the mask. He helped Talia from the helicopter then reached back to grab their gear. From there they wasted no time, marching directly up to the opening of the shaft. Talia spoke briefly to the men who would remain at the surface, guns at the ready, then she began to don her harness, never looking into the shaft.
Barsad, however, could not resist his curiosity. As he strapped on his harness, he edged over to the lip of the shaft and peered downward. Even over the whine of the helicopter's turbines as they powered down, Bane heard Barsad draw out the words, "Jesus Christ."
"Having second thoughts, brother?" Bane teased.
Barsad swallowed and shook his head, unconvincing.
"You may stay on the surface, if you prefer, and I shall take someone else."
"Hell, no. I gotta see this shit."
Bane finished with his harness and stepped over to double check Talia's gear.
"It's fine, Bane," she insisted.
But he ignored her protest, gently pushing away her hands as he made certain of every strap and carabiner. "Take it from one who has fallen in the shaft, you can never be too careful of your equipment."
She frowned, perhaps remembering how she had watched his sabotaged safety line break during his last escape attempt, sending him crashing into the stepwell's pool, breaking his spine in multiple places. With deep regret, her eyes now touched upon his back brace and wrist brace. Bane had climbed that second time more for Talia and Melisande than himself, a reality of which Talia was very much aware, reflected now in her troubled expression and the way she avoided his eyes.
Bane wanted to tip her chin up, but he would not touch her in any way in front of the men. If he had his way, no one in the League would ever know of their intimacy, for he did not want to run the risk of damaging their brothers' opinion of Talia as strong and independent, a woman above all other women.
"You don't have to do this, Talia," he said as quietly as possible, dust swirling about them like a tornado.
"I do."
He frowned. "Remember what I said—we will not linger. No more than fifteen minutes. You will not speak. We will take no chances of your sex being discovered."
Her blue gaze flashed at him once, but as she donned her shemagh she said nothing. She did not need to—the look alone warned him to expect disobedience. It took every ounce of his strength to deny the instinctive desire to forcibly carry her back to the helicopter. Instead he turned to Yemi and Barsad who stood ready beside the shaft, making final preparations with their lines.
Away from Talia's hearing, Bane said, "You must give me your word, both of you, that if something goes wrong down there, you will see to Talia's safety. Hers and hers alone. Any rear action that needs to be taken will be my responsibility. You will get her back up the shaft. Understand?"
They both nodded, suddenly sober and professional.
Bane put a hand on Yemi's shoulder. "Are you certain of this, brother? There is no shame in staying here. Trust me, I will understand."
Yemi offered a brave smile. "I am more than this place made me, Bane."
Bane nodded his gratitude. "Then I have your word?"
"Of course," Yemi spoke for both himself and Barsad. "Little Sister has nothing to fear."
"Thank you." He turned to the shaft. "Then let us go."
For the descent into the pit, Bane had contemplated increasing the strength of the drugs coursing through his mask, for he did not want to risk any unforeseen bout of PTSD. But in the end he had decided against it, concerned that the higher dosage might impair him. Now, as he rappelled down the unending, ragged stone face of the shaft, he was relieved that he felt no anxiety, even though he vividly remembered both of his attempts to scale these walls and the agonizing failures—both physically and mentally. Before boarding the helicopter and during the flight in, he had sufficiently prepared himself through meditation.
He watched Talia closely for any signs of reluctance or apprehension, but she smoothly descended just above him, her movements confident, as if she did this every day. Of course, he had refreshed her rappelling skills prior to coming here as well as her target practice with both rifle and pistol. He smiled when he remembered her marksmanship.
Far below, prisoners watched their arrival from various vantage points in the stepwell which made up the base of the shaft, an ancient bawdi that provided the prison's water for drinking as well as washing, a nearly stagnant, unpleasant pool. But as Bane descended ever closer, the prisoners began to trail away from the stepwell, disappearing into the corridors on different levels. They probably thought the rappelling men were a part of the usual contingent who resupplied the prison. Standard practice among the jailers at such times was to banish all inmates from the stepwell to ensure that they were not overpowered by the prisoners. Only cellblock captains were allowed into the bawdi, tasked with gathering the allotment of supplies for their specific cellblock.
Bane half expected to see Doctor Assad in the stepwell, as he had when he had returned with his grandfather many years ago. But the physician was nowhere to be seen. Assad lived, though; Bane knew this from the roster of prisoners provided when he and Talia had purchased the prison.
"Son of a bitch," Barsad breathed as his feet touched down at the top of the stepwell. Wonder and horror widened his eyes.
"Mind your surroundings, brother," Bane admonished him as he helped Talia the final few feet. "This is no time to be a tourist."
Yemi chuckled as he took the safety off his rifle.
"Fuck you, Yemi," Barsad said good-naturedly. "Now I can see why you're so ugly—spending all those years down here in the dark."
"Yes? Then what is your excuse for your face, Deadshot?" Yemi flashed a grin in the shaft's gray gloom.
Talia paid no mind to their banter as she disconnected her line and took up her pistol. Her gaze was like the stone around her.
Quietly Bane asked, "Are you all right?"
She cleared her throat, her focus taking in the shaft and the cells that looked out upon them. Faces there in shadow, staring with nervous curiosity. As if to herself, she murmured, "They are not the same men who killed Mama and tried to kill me."
"All men are the same," Bane rumbled in warning. "They would do exactly as the others did, if given the opportunity. Make no mistake. Now please, say nothing more, as we agreed. Let's get on with this."
She gave a terse nod, checked that her shemagh adequately covered her face, then started on her way. Bane and Barsad followed closely, guns at the ready. Yemi remained behind to guard their lines.
Talia did not falter as she made her way around the top of the bawdi, her steps as sure as if she had never left this place. From cells, prisoners watched in silence, attention upon the guns, some standing near their doors, fingers wrapped around the cold bars, others trying to remain inconspicuous in the darkness at the rear of their dwellings. Others lay in complete indifference upon their charpoys. Some called out, demanding to know where the hell the supplies were, complaining how low food and medicines were as well as fuel for their braziers. No one answered their queries.
The trio reached the two cells most familiar to Bane and Talia—the one where she and Melisande had lived and Bane's next to it where she had dwelled after her mother's murder. They were both occupied now, of course. Though the prison was not full, the cells closest to the shaft and its weak supply of natural light were understandably the first to be occupied. In Bane's day, these were usually acquired only through purchase by prisoners who came to the pit either with access to funds or those who were skilled enough once inside to eventually accumulate enough wealth through gambling and theft. Bane had never learned how his mother had merited such a cell, but he suspected someone had had pity on her for being the only female prisoner at the time, and she pregnant upon her arrival. Perhaps Doctor Assad had had a hand in it. Melisande, of course, had whatever sum had been required of her. At least her odious father had allowed that much for her comfort.
Talia stood in front of her mother's cell, and the man inside cautiously stared back at them from his charpoy, slowly sitting up.
"What do you want?" the man asked in Arabic.
"Get out," Bane ordered, rifle aiming.
"You going to toss my cell? Go ahead. I have nothing."
"Do as the man says," Barsad snarled. "Or you'll never walk out of that cell again."
With a dark look, the Arab begrudgingly stood. As he neared the door with his key (each prisoner was the keeper of his own key, to lock himself in or to lock others out while he was away), he staggered to a halt, staring at Bane who had unwound his shemagh from around the mask. The key fell to the ground, but the inmate did not move to pick it up, as if afraid to take his eyes off the grotesque mask and the man who wore it.
Bane's hand flashed between the bars, clamped around the inmates' throat. "Open it. Quickly."
For a moment all the man could do was stare, eyes wide. Bane's hand began to squeeze. Barsad crouched down and reached through the bars to grab the key. The prisoner started to sputter, his hands trying to pry Bane away. The inmates in the cells to either side fled in panic, not even bothering to lock their doors after them.
"No need to end his sentence early," Barsad casually said as he unlocked the door. He could not open it, however, with Bane standing in the way. "Brother?"
Bane did not look away from his victim, but what he saw was not this faceless stranger; instead he saw men like Gola and Omar Alam, men who had been the first to rush into Melisande's cell that horrific day. If only he could have fought them off, but instead he had pulled Talia away from the violence, she having buried a knife in Gola's back in a desperate attempt to help Melisande. Before Gola could turn upon her, Bane had rushed her away as she kicked and screamed in protest, calling to her mother.
"Bane." Barsad's calm voice beside him. "Remember, we don't have all day."
The prisoner clawed at Bane's arm, gasping and writhing, trying to kick through the bars. Bane's hand flexed with one final, powerful effort, and a crunching sound preceded the life draining from the Arab's eyes. Bane let him drop.
"Get him out of there," he growled to Barsad.
Barsad opened the cell and dragged the body into the corridor. Bane stepped aside for Talia to enter. She moved slowly but with purpose. Halting in the center of the room, she reached into her tunic and withdrew two red roses. Gently she stroked them to restore their shape, then she kissed their petals before placing them on the stone floor, one crossed over the other. One for her mother, the other for her father. She remained there in a crouch, her back to the door.
Softly Barsad asked, "This is where Melisande lived?"
"Yes," Bane murmured. "And also where she died."
"Jesus," Barsad breathed as his gaze roamed throughout the small, dank cell. "And where did you live?"
Bane pointed to the cell on the left.
"Twenty-five years," Barsad said as if to himself. "How in God's name did you do it, brother?"
Bane nodded toward Talia. "I could not have done it alone." He raised his voice slightly. "We should go now."
Talia stood and stared down a moment longer at the roses, whispered something in Arabic that Bane could not hear. When she at last turned, she met neither man's gaze. Bane had feared that she might shed tears, tears that could hint at her sex should anyone see them, but from what he could see her eyes were dry. With set jaw she marched away from the cell, moving as if she were alone. But she did not reenter the shaft as Bane expected, and he felt cold dread crawl up his aching spine as he hurried to keep up with her as she circled the shaft.
"We cannot linger," he forcefully reminded her, making sure she could hear the displeasure in his tone.
But Talia did not break stride or alter her course. Bane knew exactly where she was going, and if not for fear of her speaking for all to hear he would have grabbed her arm to halt her. He could tell, however, by the purpose in her strides that to try to stop her would only result in a dangerous argument.
