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associated with government, a job where he could obtain personal information and gain access.
    Was he some kind of spy?
    If so, for what side?
    He looked and lived in the world of an Iraqi insurgent, but spoke with the fluency of an American familiar with US military life.
    And he insisted he wasn't my enemy.
    He also hadn't played the stereotypical captor. He hadn't tortured me or anything ... yet.
    Like some Hollywood movie plot, I allowed myself to consider the possibility that he might be working covert ops for the US. But then again, he could just as easily be working for some Iraqi political faction.
    Shit.
    I suddenly realized, after all was said and done, that he never did reveal anything about himself—at least nothing concrete. Fuck. Nothing. Not even his name. Even what I had once believed about him as fact was no longer substantiated.
    And here I was, after having my whole life unearthed and paraded about, left utterly open and exposed, my defenses completely obliterated ... and I knew nothing more about him than I did the moment we met.
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    Chapter Seven
    By the time the soup bowl was empty, I was feeling a little better, but not by much. I swear the noodles were slithering around in my tummy ... like little slimy worms.
    Oh, God. I thought. I'm going to be sick.
    Taking a deep breath, I swallowed hard, willing my stomach to calm. It was time to get ready for my escape and I needed to keep the soup down for strength.
    I put on my dog tags and rose from my chair, careful to step around the broken glass lying scattered across the floor. Damn. After I was ‘recaptured'—assuming that I wasn't sent to the torture chamber—I would have to clean all that up.
    Oh well.
    I dragged my tired ass into the bedroom. Standing in front of the wardrobes, I tried to decide what to wear for the great escape. I should put on the uniform, but it seemed like so much work with the boots and all. Plus, if I donned all the gear, it would be too heavy for my poor muscles to carry.
    In the end, I decided on another pair of pajamas. To hell with it. How long could I possibly be gone before I was brought back? I wasn't even up to this now. I had to fight to stop myself from collapsing on the bed and going back to sleep. It had to be after midnight anyway.
    Gathering my bra, panties and other needed items, I went into the bathroom to take a quick shower, wondering exactly where all those hidden cameras were.
    * * * *
    After putting on my PJs, I tied my hair up and went back to the wardrobe. The shower had revitalized me some—just some. However, I was feeling a little more optimistic about my escape.
    I figured wearing the hijab might work in my favor. At least, in the slim chance I did make it past the walls, I could blend in with the locals. I searched through the selection, bypassing the traditional draping styles, choosing instead one of the contemporary abayas that many of the younger women favored, which wore like a loose, lightweight caftan without the sash.
    Donning the black full-length tunic, I hung the head scarf around my neck, not wanting to dampen the silk material by wrapping it over my wet hair. I slipped my feet into a pair of embroidered ballet shoes, pleased that they fit.
    I took a deep breath. This was it. Time to go.
    Leaving the bedroom, I resisted the urge to go back for my purse. It seemed weird to leave all my personal belongings behind, even if I was doomed to be recaptured. My wallet, my identification, my credit cards, my cell phone—which doesn't work anywhere but in America—damn it! It was for the best. Anyway, what was my captor going to do? Steal my identity?
    I smiled at my own joke.
    Passing through the dining room, I found the floor spotless. They must have swept and mopped while I was bathing. Funny, I was actually grateful, being too tired to do it myself.
    I slowed my pace when the front door came into sight.
    It occurred to me that my keepers might have locked the