She tugged the piece of cloth covering her head lower and patted the bottom section that concealed her mouth and nose, while praying she could stay anonymous until they were rescued. If rescue was even on the way. If their captors found out she was an American . . . or worse, who her father was—

The guard gave the barred door a violent tug and she jumped, her heart stumbling into overdrive. The door held fast. She doubted he was worried it wouldn’t. He let out a satisfied grunt and turned to walk down the hallway, his boots pounding the dirt floor before he disappeared from sight. Sarah’s pulse slowed a fraction. The longer he was gone, the better their chances of rescue. However, how long before he returned?

“Sarah?”

The whisper reached her from the corner of the cell. “Fatima?”

“I’m coming over there.” The teenager crawled on all fours, dodging her classmates, to curl against Sarah’s side with a shiver. “What’s going to happen to us?”

Sarah wrapped an arm around the fifteen-year-old. During her weekly guest teaching spots, she’d come to recognize Fatima as a bright, highly motivated young woman with the desire to be a pioneer in bringing change to her country. Sarah had treasured those days at the school and building relationships with the girls. “I don’t know.”

But she did. They all did.

“They’re going to sell us,” Samia said from the other side. “We’re to be brides to the Taliban, aren’t we?”

Brides? More like sex slaves. Punching bags. Assigned to a life of abuse and misery. And terror.

She, Talia, and the twelve students had been taken from the school and loaded into the back of a waiting van. No one tried to stop them and she didn’t dare resist. Approximately twelve hours later, they’d arrived here.

Wherever here was.

“I’m so sorry, Sarah,” Talia whispered, her voice cracking, her fear tangible. “I’ve been there for three years, and while we’ve had a few minor scares, there’s been nothing like this.”

“It’s not your fault, Talia, you couldn’t know.”

“I don’t want to be a Taliban bride.” Nahal, the youngest of the girls at thirteen years old, scooted closer to Sarah, as though Sarah could keep that from happening.

Sarah had been afraid before, but the images filtering through her mind sent the horror clawing inside her to a whole new level. She pulled in a steadying breath, desperate to find a way to remain calm and be strong for the other girls in the ten-by-twelve cell, because while she wanted to fight back, any sign of defiance would only get her—or one of the teens—killed.