"Mye. Mye, they've given me one phone call. They don't speak English and I convinced them you wouldn't understand. I don't have much time. They want a trade or something. They kept saying the Djin over and over. They want the Djinn. They're going to kill me, I know it. You have to get me out. Please, Mye, get me out. Please! You don't know what it's like, they-"
But he never found out exactly what they were doing. He heard though, under the harsh demand of one of them, the tongue foreign. "The Djinn or the girl dies. You have eight hours."
Her screams echoed underneath, cut short by each blow. He heard her one last time, one last word. His name, turned sour under her agony, cut short by affection. "MYE!"
The line went dead. Mycroft sat back in his chair, feeling as if he had just run a marathon. He cradled his head in his hands, feeling. Feeling so much. Regret and shame and fear. His phone rang again. A single beep. He picked it up and almost immediately dropped it again. It was his sister, his sweet sister, beaten and bloody, barely recognizable except for her auburn curls and her pale blue eyes, barely visible through her swollen lids. Every bit of her face was stretched and distorted, discolored and bloody.
Mycroft felt sick. He gripped the edge of his desk, his stomach rolling. Her final cry echoed in his mind, the sound of her fear struck him like ice in his heart.