We ride for what feels like hours. The men make small talk among themselves, occasionally glancing back at me with cruel grins on their faces. They seem to be deciding how to better profit from me.
Finally, we arrive at a campsite surrounded by tall fences made of wooden beams and what looks like barbed wire. The bandits dismount from their camels and roughly pull me down as well. I stumble and fall to the ground, scraping my knees on the rough sand. One of the men laughs and yanks me up by my hair.
"This little thing really is pretty," he sneers. "Should we have fun with this first?"
"Hey! Money is more important than your pleasure," one of the bandits says.
"Don't ruin our product," says another.
I grit my teeth in anger, refusing to let these men see how terrified and injured I truly am.
Then they lead me to a tent where another man is waiting for us. He has a large scar running down his cheek and his eyes are cold and calculating.
