Present Day

Annabelle chewed at her lip as the robotic slowly withdrew the filled ampoule from Simone's limp arm. With silent motion, the sample withdrew into the holding area with a faint click before the unit rotated and moved to the door.

"Look at the window Annabelle."

Gritting her teeth, she tightened her grip on Simone as turned her head away from the door, staring at the dripping rain outside as she heard the robotic leave the office. Annabelle unconsciously smoothed her fingers over Simone's shoulder, tracing the soft musculature as she tried to keep hold of her temper as fury and worry twisted her face.

(Fuck fuck fucking asshole motherfuck!)

It had taken less than a minute for Annabelle's yells to bring help to the door. It had taken another five minutes to get her to give Simone's arm to the robotic.

"Annabelle, are you sure you didn't see the man's face?"

Annabelle counted to ten before she answered. "Like I said, all I saw were his grungy ass clothes, and you already picked up the scrubs he left."

"And you're sure you didn't recognize him? His voice wasn't familiar? A smell, anything?" the voice

(McConnell. Her name is McConnell, and she's trying to help)

"Yes I'm sure! Now what the hell is going on with Simone? Why won't she wake up?" Annabelle said with frustration while gently brushing back Simone's hair from her wan face. She had looked tired before, but now…Annabelle kept her cradled in her arms, Simone's head on her shoulder, her own hand high on Simone's chest for when the doctor's breathing grew almost too faint.

"We're running the blood sample now Annabelle, but we won't know anything for a at least an hour."

"Well, did you at least figure out how he got in here?" Annabelle said, closing her eyes. This Nurse McConnell was obviously trying to answer her questions, but…

Simone was so still. Usually when she slept she was like a magnet to Annabelle.

(Hah. I was never a cuddler, but didn't really have a choice with Simone. Honestly, I never really minded either. I wanted her as close as she wanted to be)...

Sudan, 2010

...It was hot. Really hot. And the blanket over her head wasn't helping. She had tried not to breathe so much, but it was so hot…

(it's just a blanket Anna.)

And sooner or later, it would come off. Had to come off. She had done enough interviews with hostages to know that if you had no value, you were ignored or dead. And she wasn't either, so

(I have some value)

She shuddered as she considered what her "value" in this part of the world would portend. The series she and her producer had visualized was from the victim's

(slave's)

point of view, from capture until sale. With a few, major safeguards built in. They wouldn't know her name, but the buyer and terms of sale would have already been agreed upon. The terms were simple.

Limited abuse, no torture. No rape. No irreconcilable maiming.

The buyer was to be in Dubai to minimize "travel damage".

(was, going to, was supposed. Didn't count on a call that Ricky had gotten lucky, that one of his ferrets had found something. Someone)

The grinding car slid to a halt as she was hustled out the backseat, up some stairs, and judging by the drop in temperature, into a building of some sort. Disorientated, Annabelle was sat down hard before the blanket was ripped off. Annabelle steeled herself, knowing what was coming next.

The whistles were loud in the enclosed space as the group of men got a look at her. Her eyes smarted as a lantern was pushed closer to her face, as a grimy hand grabbed her chin, tilting her face this way and that. Another fingered the linen of her shirt, raising it appreciatively before she shoved it back down. A spurt of the same language Simone had used followed, as the men became visibly cheered at her bright blue eyes, and at their good fortune.

Everyone knew that girls with blue eyes sold for more.

One of the men emerged from a side room, carrying a rough dress, apparently made out of sackcloth. He tossed it to Annabelle, gesturing she change.

(no time like the present Anna)

"No."

Her speech apparently startled the men. Knowing it was fruitless, she nonetheless stood, squaring her shoulders and dropping the dress to the ground with disdain.

The thinnest of the three darted over toward her, pointing at the dress with a grim expression. His face grew thunderous as she again refused. Now yelling, he slapped her across the face, again gesturing at the dress.

He was completely unprepared as she uncurled with a roundhouse to his jaw, sending him tripping backwards to the floor in pain, his compatriots bowed over in laughter.

His next blow wasn't a slap. Nor were the ones after, those that eventually sent her unconscious, with blue eyes on her mind.

(think I'm dead)

Tasting the rancid bile in the back of her throat for the third time this morning, Simone leaned her head out from the cot, retching into the nearby bucket and barely missing the side of the tent. The heaves finally tapering off, she rinsed her mouth with warm water, spitting it at the bucket before retreating under the blanket again, hands pressed against her throbbing skull.

(Jesus ow. Sleep just go back to sleep)

Satisfied with this course of action, Simone huddled back into her blanket, her hungover mind jumping from point to point despite her best attempts to shut it back down.

(she looked great. those eyes, so sexy when pissed, how did she?…)

Squinting her eyes back shut, Simone gritted her jaw, willing Annabelle from her mind.

(Like that ever works Bradley)

Sighing, Simone finally began to drift back to sleep, her long night before urging her on.

And then the tent flap was flung back, the obscenely bright light spiking her hangover back into awareness. Dragging the pillow over her head, she determinately stuffed her face against it, ignoring the intruder.

"Dr. Simone…"

"Go away."

"But Dr. Simone, there's someone…"

Simone growled and flipped over on her side, the rickety cot swaying dangerously. "Dr. Petraus is on call. Go get…"

"Excuse me Dr. Simone, but we can't find Dr. John and Melle…"

The blankets exploded off the cot as Simone snarled awake. "Fine! Jesus! For god's sake tell them…" She looked up from buttoning her shirt to an empty tent. "…that I'm coming". Checking her boots for visitors before shoving her feet into them, she flung back the tent flap, eyes squinting against the harsh desert sun of Darfur. She threw her guards a savage look as they fell in beside her, which was promptly ignored by both. A trail of red dust followed them as they began trekking their way through the camp.

Already dappled with sweat after a few paces, Simone's mood was not improved. "You two are supposed to be my guards, correct? Pray tell why" her voice rose dangerously, "I'm awake again, two hours after I went to bed?" She waived impatiently back at a gaggle of kids waving enthusiastically to her.

"Are you not feeling well Dr. Simone?" Ibrahim asked courteously, his eyes roving the refugees along their path as an almost unnoticeable amusement twitched on his lips. A tall, wiry man standing 6'5" in his sandaled feet, Ibrahim made his way through the crowd that gathered whenever one of the doctors was outside the makeshift clinic.

"She has not had her breakfast, that is the trouble" Mischa commented from the rearguard as the daily business of the refugees commenced again behind them. A finely trimmed beard outlined his broad features as he grinned unseen behind Simone. "Yes, no breakfast and no company for breakfast". Ducking as their path took them close to what would generously be called a shelter, he sighed as Simone's shoulders tensed ahead. However, Mischa blinked in surprise as the usual snarl was not forthcoming. Even Ibrahim looked back in surprise before gently wading through the increasing crowd.

The shifting furor in front of the clinic was dazzling before it gradually formed into a bastard queue before the main doors. A variety of volunteers triaged those in line, either passing them forward into the clinic, or gesturing them to sit against the outside wall to wait.

"This early?" Simone questioned, checking her watch. The all night game sessions, either poker or cock fighting, were still underway. They wouldn't see the sore losers from those contests for another few hours. Her early retirement from the all-night poker game she'd found after

(running)

escaping Annabelle had surprised her fellow players. Dr. Bradley was known for outlasting last call. Tearing their way past desperate hands, the three ducked inside.

The wailing gasps of the injured greeted them, as well as Melle, the head nurse who started updating Simone on the various patients as the doctor scrubbed her arms and hands clean with the small solar faucet. Still listening, Simone jerked her head to Mischa to find out what had happened during the night. Gratefully downing the aspirin and water Ibrahim passed to her, Simone began directing the rest of the small staff that had gathered at her appearance. Almost intangibly, the frantic furor settled down into manageable chaos as Simone went from patient to patient.

"Where's Dr. Petraus?" Simone asked, as she finished stitching up another deep cut. Throwing the gloves away in a bin, she took another grateful gulp of water from Ibrahim.

Ibrahim gestured them over to a quiet corner area where Mischa waited by a weather beaten desk. The smaller man spoke quietly as she wiped her face free of the early morning heat. "It's not good Dr. Simone. The Janjaweed raided again last night, over on the eastern edge of the camp, curse them." He spat on the floor before continuing. "Dr. Petraus heard that there were injured…"

"Ah shit." Simone cursed as she rubbed her still pounding forehead. "And so he went out to help, didn't he? There's a reason we only treat at the clinic dammit! Do they have any idea where he is now?"

Mischa shook his head. "He was on the outskirts when the raid came back around. They haven't a body yet so…" he shrugged.

"So he is either cut up into pieces or now a guest of Colonel Isuri. Wonderful. And Dr. Jursen won't be back for two more weeks. Melle," she said, catching the nurse's attention, "notify the Canadian embassy. I doubt it, but maybe they'll be able to ransom him. Damn, a personal doctor is worth his weight in gold to those terrorists. And they know it." She cursed again as she sat down on a folding chair, staring absently at the mud-bricked wall. "I'll be the only one here for the next few weeks, so we'll have to limit the clinic hours…"

"There is something else, Dr. Simone." Mischa interrupted. "A man from Darkwatch Industries arrived the same time as I, and has demanded to see you. He seems quite insistent."

"Darkwatch? What the hell? Why does he want to see me?" Simone shook her head in irritation. "I don't have time for a sales call…"

"I do not believe he is not here to solicit, Dr. Simone." Mischa said carefully. "He said that he has a client missing…"

"And I need your help" interjected the darkly tanned, ubiquitously uniformed man from across the room. Dressed in desert issue BDU's, the man looked at Simone and nodded politely to her guards. At her impatient gesture, he joined the group in the corner. "I'm Captain Reuben from Darkwatch Industries, and my client has been missing for 9 hours."

"Then your client is either dead or on their way south to the diamond mines." Simone said brusquely. "Either way, I'm not sure why you think I would be able to help you."

The man sighed. "Let me be direct. Your aunt is Imogen Bradley, of New Orleans, correct?"

Simone's eyes went flat and still as she crossed her arms, leaning back in the chair. "Yes. And?"

His gaze was steady, even as Ibrahim nonchalantly stepped forward between the Captain and Simone while Mischa yawned and went to the window, eyes fixed on the mercenary's back. "I believe that this client is high profile enough that she will be sold on the private market in the next few days. However, I need someone with…connections… to this industry to tell me the time and place. I've been told that your aunt has the necessary resources to obtain that information."

Ibrahim stirred. "An armed encounter would be unwise".

The Captain nodded. "Which is why the full resources of Darkwatch have been approved for the uh…sale."

Simone snorted as the legs of the chair thumped back down. "IF" she emphasized, "my aunt had that information, she would already have approached your company to negotiate a price".

The Captain nodded. "Indeed. Which leads me to the conclusion that the price for my client is extremely expensive, for a private sale to be this quiet…" he rubbed a hand through his crewcut, "it's special, most likely only the wealthiest four or five buyers in the world."

Simone's eyebrows rose. "Who'd you lose, Chelsea Clinton?"

The soldier pulled a photo out of his folder and handed it to her, watching as the color drained out of her face. "Worse. Annabelle Tillman."

Simone pinched the bridge of her nose as the butler came up to her plush chair, the delicately imported tea tray in hand. Efficient and silent, just the way her aunt liked her staff; he pronged two cubes of sugar into her cup before handing it to her.

"Will there be anything else Miss Simone?" his asked, his cultured voice interweaving seamlessly along the shifting breeze. At the shake of her head, he inclined his head, retreating down below the teak deck.

The tea doing nothing to settle her nerves, she clinked the cup onto the nearby table before pacing along the upper deck of the yacht, waiting upon her aunt's pleasure. The distant twilight skyline of Jeddah glimmered across the straight as she wearily leaned against the rail. She absently brushed more of the clinging reddish dust from her shirt, resulting in a fine amber cloud that drifted down into the water. Plagued by pot holes and flat tires it had taken her, Mishca and Ibrahim over a day just to reach Kassalla. Only a significant amount of American dollars carefully applied to a Colonel had enabled her to charter an overnight, chicken wire flight from there to Port Sudan.

(she'll know where the sale is, she has to)

Forcing herself to take deep breaths Simone locked her hands around the rail

(she's valuable, they won't hurt her)

Wheezing as her panic increased, Simone fumbled a small bottle from her pocket, and quickly dry swallowed four of the pills. Grimacing at the bitter taste, Simone closed her eyes and leaned her head back, her mind's eye bringing up the long ago memory of a beach and warm, smiling laughter as strong arms held her tight.

(Sweet girl)

"I'd ask for three guesses as to what put that smile on your face Simone, but that would be a pathetic commentary of my own mental acuity" the brusque voice said, snapping Simone from her brief reverie. A hand up to ward off the setting sun's glare, Simone turned as Andrew held her aunt's chair. Waving him off as she settled into her own chair, Simone studied her aunt as she was dissected in turn.

Light linen fashion, elegantly cut and dyed a deep indigo clothed her aunt. Still fit into her seventieth decade, Imogene Bradley was the oldest of the Bradley sisters. Blonde hair now gone snow white was pulled back into a severe but comfortable bun, just as designer sunglasses concealed sharp grey eyes, and a sharper intellect.

Silence coated the deck, the distant crying of the gulls the only counterpoint to the waves.

"I see that your quality of help has finally increased, if not your personal presentation", Imogene finally said, focused briefly on Simone's travel stained clothes before she waved her hand toward Mischa and Ibrahim stationed nearby at the bow of the boat.

"They do their jobs" Simone stated, ignoring the first sally and trying to cultivate an unconcerned air as she picked up her tea cup.

Her aunt's eyebrows lifted. "Their jobs and then some Simone. They nearly took the building down getting you out of that hovel yesterday." She sniffed before pushing up her sunglasses and taking a delicate sip of tea. "I hope you gave them a bonus, or at least a nice tea set."

"Aunt"…Simone began before she was abruptly cut off.

"Yes yes" Imogene said with another brief cut of her wrist, "I'd already assumed this wasn't a social call. So. To the business at hand." She took another sip of her tea, grey eyes flat, waiting.

Simone took a breath. "What do you know about Annabelle Tillman's abduction?"

The clink of the fine china against the end table was loud as her aunt eyed her, and settled further back into the voluptuous cushions. "Why" she said, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a gossamer napkin, "do you want to know Simone? As I recall, you went through significant trouble to prevent her from discovering your whereabouts." A curious glimmer flickered through her eyes. "Have you finally decided to have her killed?"

"No!" Simone's breath burst out before she gritted her teeth in an effort to regain control.

"No" her aunt repeated softly, eyes still fixed on Simone. "Not that. So then, why?"

Making the conscious effort to relax, Simone replied, "an officer from Darkwatch visited me. They're prepared to…buy…Annabelle at auction, but need the location specifics."

Imogene smiled. "Ah. Disappointing, however expected. I thought as much. The alternative would be" she paused, "too out of character for you." Motioning Andrew for a refill, she gave a tight smile. "What is Darkwatch prepared to spend on this little cock-up?" She took a sip. "I imagine their reputation will be quite tarnished when this comes to light."

Simone leaned forward, turning the empty cup in her hands before she looked over at her aunt. "They have offered you a finder's fee of five million dollars, as well as a future discount to services…"

Imogene waved her hand, interrupting her niece. "Simone dear, the reserve for the sale begins at five hundred million dollars." She watched as all the blood drained out of her visitor's face.

Simone's jaw dropped. "What? Five hundred million! RESERVE?" Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you…"

Imogene huffed as she added a twist of lemon to her cup. "Certainly not. You would have to be a lunatic to handle a sale of Tillman's magnitude." Dropping the wrung rind into the saucer, "really Simone, to not only address the complications inherent in her celebrity, but work with the buyers as well in this short of period?" She threw a manicured hand up in the air. "Madness. You would spend an absolute fortune in bribes just to get her out of the country. Ridiculous. " The deck was silent for a few moments as Imogene watched her niece in the near dark.

"However…" Imogene tapped a delicate nail against porcelain.

Simone's eyes flicked up. "However?"

"As one of the foremost dealers in this region, I have of course been invited to the sale. One must keep up appearances, and it should no doubt prove to be quite the spectacle." She sipped at her tea, grey eyes fixed on Simone.

Wary now, Simone leaned back. "What's your price?"

Imogene threw her head back with surprisingly light laughter. "Ah, Simone" she said finally, carefully wiping her eyes dry. "I've missed your…direct approach to life. You want something? You go out and get it. Usually." She amended, as Simone tensed. "Anyone else would have assumed I would 'help'" Imogene said, fingering quotation marks in the air,"out of the goodness of my heart." Grey eyes focused on blue, "but not you" Imogene said softly, "no, not you. Have you ever wondered why that is?" She waited a moment as Simone looked at her confused.

Her smile died after a few seconds, and Imogene leaned back against the pillows. "Ah. So not yet." Dismissing the subject with a flick of her wrist, she called, "Andrew!"

Soft footsteps heralded the servant's return. "Yes, Madame?

"Bring Claus here immediately."

"At once, Madame."

"I haven't agreed to do anything for you, Aunt" Simone said, anger bringing her to her feet at the mention of Imogene's business manager.

Imogene gave her first real smile of the night. "Of course you did darling. You wouldn't have come to me otherwise. Now, let us drop this amusing pretense. Your choice is quite simple. Take my terms, or don't. Save the unfortunate Miss Tillman, or watch her…well, you already know the worst case scenario, don't you Simone?"

Simone ground her hands against the chair back, making the wood squeal in protest. "If I do take your terms, what guarantee do I have?"

Imogene chuckled. "None, of course. I simply offer the opportunity for you to help your…friend. There are no absolutes Simone." Brusque footsteps sounded up the stairway behind them. One glittering hand outstretched, Imogene stood. "Decisions decisions darling. Time's up. Do we have a deal?"

It was the damn sand that woke her.

More of it fell off the nearby disintegrating wall as she shifted, rinsing across her in a wave of scratchy, pointed clods. As she groaned and rolled over, it further glued itself to her in a layer of sticky dank sweat between her skin and the rough sackcloth that was her clothes. It was absolutely scratching Annabelle raw. Bracing herself on the narrow cot, she very slowly swung her legs over the side, swaying a bit as she stood, half falling against the wall.

"God fucking…" she hissed, stretching her neck before abruptly stopping with a whine of pain. Her numb arms were bound behind her back, making made a real stretch difficult. Falling more than sitting back down on the rickety cot, she blinked at her surroundings through the fuzziness in her mind.

It took longer than it should have for her to realize that she had graduated to a different cell. Cracked linoleum had taken the place of hard swept sand, and somewhat cleaner and larger than the last. Instead of filth all over, rags and garbage was contained to the edges and corners of the room, with a cleared space in front of the thick door. In between spasms and by craning her neck, she was just able to see the city beyond through the sand caked basement window. Annabelle blinked heavily as she struggled to focus.

"It won't do you any good you know", said a dirty bundle of rags at the far corner of the room.

She blinked. It took almost a minute to voice the question.

"It. Why? Won't?" she finally mumbled.

"Exactly love. That's why." The rags shifted, very, very slowly resolving itself into rags and a pair of glasses. "They doped you to the gills again a few hours ago. Surprised you're this coherent actually". Rags ending in a bruised and scuffed hand lifted and pointed at her needle punctured arm. "Some more brown sugar to keep the process going. Fairly common love. Makes slaves more tractable." He eyed her. "Some anyway. That bloke seemed a bit put out at the mouse you put on his eye." A grimy smile revealed pearly white teeth. "Magnificent shot."

Her will oozed dripped through mental hands as Annabelle made herself focus. "Who are you?" she slurred, almost falling off the cot with the effort.

The ragman's smile faded. "Ah. Dr. R. Jonathan Petraus, cellmate extraordinaire, at your service, Miss Tillman" he said with a tattered flourish, swirling up a sneeze of sand. He cocked his head, looking at her contorted arms. "A bit of a risk, but that needs to come off before you pass out again", he said, gesturing at the bindings. "Hard to be in polite company with hooks for hands". Gentle hands picked at the tight, rough knot, until with a shuffle the strained fiber fell to the floor.

"Ah, there then. This will burn a bit." He continued, slowly easing her arms forward out of their cramped positions as she gritted her teeth against the pull, the pain giving her focus. "Big, wide stretching loops then, let us avoid blood clots if we may". His bare heels scratched against the grimy floor as he settled on his haunches, hands still gentle as he helped move her blood-starved limbs.

Her lips dry, Annabelle still managed, "So you're a Doctor?"

Petraus grimaced. "Indeed. Although I might as well have been a bricklayer for all that it's helped. Bloody idiot." With a wary glance at the door he slowly stood, revealing a rough spackling of mottled bruises along his jaw as he moved over to a covered bucket. He dipped in a tin cup before moving towards Annabelle and helping her drink. "This'll help a bit." Noticing her heavy eyes, he got her another dipper of water, "Drink. You need all you can get with the doses they're giving you." A clang followed by an indecipherable curse sounded through the door, makes both heads jerk up in alarm. Muffled footsteps ran along the corridor, ending with the slamming of a door.

Head cocked, Petraus listened to the quiet for a minute before relaxing again. Ignoring her grimace, he got her another cup of water. "They've been moving around all day. Whatever they're preparing for shouldn't be long now." Holding the cup to her cracked lips, he muttered, "bloody Bradley being bloody right as bloody always".

Annabelle's arms slugged to a stop as she stared at him. "What did you say?"

"What? Oh, not a thing. Just a co-worker of mine." At her intent look, he elaborated. "Irritating actually. She has the simply infuriating habit of being correct. Constantly. I remember only one instance of error, and it was such a grand mistake that by the end, it wasn't a mistake at all."

Ignoring the increasing brightness of the room, Annabelle gave a slow blink before she rubbed her eyes. "Sounds like her."

Petraus looked at her in surprise. "Oh? You know…"

"Simone? Yeah." An unconscious smile fled over her face, inadvertently fascinating Petraus in its intensity. Ignoring the water sloshing around in her empty stomach, Annabelle stood, quickly putting a hand against the wall as the room tilted. Scrubbing her arms to get off more of the clinging sand that was making her skin crawl; she once again came to the small, cracked window.

"Well, what a fantastic coincidence", Petraus finally said, leaning his head back against a stained wall. "Have you known her long then?"

A small twitch, what in another life could have been a smile. "Just about forever. Or a day." Giving up on getting any useful kind of view, Annabelle abandoned the window for the cot. Leaning back against the wall, she focused on Petraus, ignoring the creeping headache. "How long have you worked with her?"

Petraus cursed as he stretched out his own legs, trying to gently rub out the soreness as he spoke. "Keep working out your arms now. Ahh, I've been in this blessed hell for eight months, but only at that camp for six. Bradley was in country when I got here." He shrugged at her inquiring look. "She's not one for socializing, that one".

Annabelle gave a dry laugh, easing along the cot towards the water bucket.

"Ah. Now why do I think there's a story to be had?"

Annabelle drew the warm water, her hands shaking as she swallowed. "No story. Just old history."

It was a minute before recognition flared in Petraus' eyes. "Indeed. I apologize for my slowness. It's 'Annabelle' Tillman, isn't it? I watch the news but the details evade my attention at times. You're quite good, you know."

This time she managed a grin. "All except for the details, right?"

"Ah, well…damn." He blushed, rubbing his jaw in embarrassment. "Sorry".

A grinding clank interrupted them as the door opened.