by Loye, Trish
Dressed in black, he no longer held his gun, but a ferocious scowl made him look threatening. He stopped and yelled something at the men, waving his arms at the same time.
A spike of adrenaline rushed through her. She froze, no longer sure whether she was supposed to attack or not. She tensed, waiting for a sign from Dylan.
What the hell? He was yelling in Russian. And slipping into Chechen as well. She didn’t know Chechen, but could understand Russian.
“Otvali ot moei zheni,” he snapped at the leader in Russian.
She frowned. Get away from his wife?
The man seemed to know Russian and moved away from Sarah. Then it hit her. Dylan had said wife. Her eyes widened. Wife?
“Calm down, my friend. You are married to this woman?” the leader asked in Russian.
“Da,” Dylan answered, nodding.
Hisham frowned. “Who are you? When did you arrive? I was here only yesterday and this woman proclaimed herself a widow. When did you get married?”
“I arranged the mehr with her brother by contract. I arrived yesterday and we performed the nikah last night. Her brother left afterwards to give us privacy.”
Hisham studied Dylan, who crossed his arms and waited with an overtly arrogant attitude. Sarah stayed close enough to Hisham to strike out if necessary, but otherwise kept her peace.
“You’re Russian,” he said.
Dylan shook his head. “Chechen. My brother-in-law convinced me to come fight for the true caliphate.”
Hisham nodded. “We welcome all true believers. What is your name?”
“Dalkhan Zakayev,” Dylan said without hesitation.
“Have you fought before, Dalkhan?”
Dylan nodded. “For the Chechen army.”
Hisham’s eyes widened. “A soldier? That is very useful. I am sorry to disturb you on the morning after your wedding, but my commander needs to meet you.” He stepped toward the door. “Please come with us.”
Sarah sucked in a silent breath. They were taking Dylan away.
“Let me get my boots.” He turned back to the bedroom.
Sarah took a chance and followed, keeping her head down. She entered the room to find Dylan lacing up Rakin’s boots, since Dylan’s were American-made combat boots.
“What the hell, Dalkhan?” Sarah whisper-hissed at him. “Why did you mention you were a soldier? Maybe you should have told them you were a pilot too? Why did you even come out? Why not try for the window?”
He stamped into the one boot. “If I had run,” he said, “you would be dragged out into the street and stoned as a woman of loose morals, or married to the asshole neighbor.”
“I would have handled it.”
He snorted.
“Why did you tell them you’re a soldier? They’ll insist you fight with them.”
“Jesus Christ, Sarah. Give me some credit. I have more value to them as a trained soldier. As a man with no skills, I would be easy to interrogate or kill. This way I’ll at least stay alive until the exfil.”
Didn’t the man understand what he’d done? Who he was dealing with? She put her hands on her hips. “Except now you’re going to headquarters.”
He stood. “It’s nice to know you’re worried about me.”
Is that what the black pit inside her was? Worry? It felt more like the first time she’d been captured by the enemy. Gut-twisting fear. She shook her head, her throat tight. “Just don’t die.”
His lips crushed hers in a short, hard kiss. Awareness jolted through her. Then he lifted his head, his gaze steely, and strode out of the room. A moment later he was gone, and two of the soldiers with him. The third took up a post outside the front door—to protect her, he said.
Or to make sure she didn’t leave.
* * *
Outside, the leader waved Dylan to the passenger side of a waiting Jeep, while he slid behind the wheel. His underling sat in the backseat, with his Makarov PM pistol aimed at Dylan’s head.
“My name is Hisham,” he said in Russian, before he glanced back at his friend. “Don’t mind Sa’id. It’s solely a precaution. Until we know for sure you’re who you say you are.”
“Do you have many people posing as Chechen fighters wanting to fight for the caliphate?” Dylan asked.
Hisham narrowed his eyes at Dylan. “You would be surprised. Who was your commander in the army?”
Dylan supplied a name that fit with his persona. Thankfully, he’d done some covert work with the Chechens in the previous year. He hoped he knew enough to get by an interrogation, because no matter what he’d told Sarah, he was certain he was going to be interrogated. The only question was how much pain they would use when they asked their questions. He clenched his jaw, not quite able to dismiss the images of torture his mind dragged out for him to see.
But at least he’d gotten these guys away from Sarah. There was only one guard left and she could handle him easily. If things went south for him here, then she could get out. Her cover wasn’t blown.
Yet.
“When did you decide to get married?”
“Sarah’s brother wrote to me and told me his sister needed a husband,” he answered.
“Where did you meet her brother?”
“When he traveled to Syria.”
“What were you doing in Syria?”
“I was there to train in one of the camps.”
“Which one?”
He supplied a name of a large, well-known camp and hoped they didn’t keep great records. Hisham lobbed questions at him all the way to the headquarters. Dylan kept the answers simple and concise, so that no matter how many times Hisham asked the same question, he wouldn’t hesitate with the answer.
By the time they’d parked in the lot behind the HQ, he felt secure in his story. All Hisham had done was cement his cover in place.
“Don’t worry, Dalkhan,” Hisham said. “My commander would just like to meet you, and then we’ll let you get back to your lovely bride.”
“Shukraan,” Dylan said, thanking him.
“Ah, is your wife teaching you our language?” he replied in Russian.
“Yes. She’s told me that I must learn. I figure if I’m going to spend any time here then I need to.”
“Smart man,” Hisham said.
He led him to an office on the first floor of the headquarters building, past men wearing either the black outfits of soldiers or the white or black dishdashas of holy men. He only saw two women walking the hall, completely veiled. They held short whips in their gloved hands, and wore headbands securing their veils with Arabic script written on them. Members of the al-Khansa Brigade. He consciously ignored them as he strode by, making them move out of his way, as any good ISIS soldier would do.
The office Hisham led him to was empty. It held a single folding chair in front of a metal desk. “My commander will be in to see you shortly to process you. I will drive you back when you’re done here.” He left then, shutting the door behind him.
Dylan knew that if he opened the door, Sa’id would be standing outside. He did a quick scan of the room. A video camera blinked in one corner of the ceiling. The one window had bars over it. The view was of the fenced-in parking lot. He made himself sit in the folding chair, lean back and fold his hands over his stomach, trying to appear confident and relaxed, though his heart beat hard and his muscles were tight.
It took only about five minutes before the door opened again. Two soldiers marched in, followed by two men. Dylan tensed. The one man was lean, with a hook nose; the other was Zahir. He looked different, almost dignified with his clothes on.
Dylan didn’t let any recognition cross his face. Zahir’s eyes widened and he faltered in his step. With a brief glance at the camera, he walked to the other side of the desk and sat.
Interesting, Dylan thought. Zahir was in charge of processing new recruits. And apparently he wasn’t going to give Dylan away, at least not at this moment.
Zahir said something in Arabic.
The lean man stepped forward and spoke in Russian. “I am Commander Yusef al-Basri,” he said. “I will translate for Zahir. Speak honestly and no harm will come to you.”
Dylan froze when he heard the man’s name. This hawk-nosed man was the Executioner. He forced himself to breathe steadily, as if the name hadn’t meant anything to him.
Zahir said something and Yusef translated: “Tell us your name and why you’re here.”
Dylan answered all the questions with the cover he’d created. Zahir’s eyebrows rose once at his name and where he’d come from, but he never said a word suggesting Dylan might be lying. Dylan kept his emotions in check. Obviously, Zahir wasn’t telling them about his visit to his office the night before.
“So Hisham says that you’re an experienced soldier,” Yusef said.
Dylan nodded. “Chechen army.”
Zahir said something. Yusef frowned and replied back to him. Zahir narrowed his eyes and repeated whatever he’d said.
“My colleague,” Yusef said, “would like to know where you and your new bride live.”
Dylan stared at Zahir while he repeated his address. His insides twisted with the idea that this man, who most likely wanted vengeance against Sarah for blackmailing him, now knew where she lived. He vowed he would get Sarah out of Mosul when he left, whether she was willing or not.
Yusef stood. “Come with me, Dalkhan. I want to show you something.”
Zahir said nothing to stop them, but Dylan didn’t like the smile on the man’s face.
14
“Infantry?” Yusef asked in Russian as they strode down the hallway. Four fighters in the usual black clothing followed them.
“Yes. A sergeant,” he said.
“So you’ve seen a lot of combat. You could teach the recruits many things.”
“If you wish,” Dylan said neutrally.
“Have you ever flown in a helicopter?”
Dylan tensed. Why would he ask about helicopters? “Not often.”
“Then you are in for a treat.”
“So the rumors are true?” Dylan said. “You have Black Hawks and Kiowas from the Americans?”
“They left them when they ran scared of us,” Yusef boasted.
Dylan joined in with the man’s laughter, though inside he wanted to strangle the fucker. The Americans had pulled out, not run. “Where are the rest of the helicopters?”
“Most are at the airport,” he said. They reached the back door by the kitchen—the same one that Sarah had picked the lock on. “But we keep two in the city for emergency use.”
“You do?” This was news to Dylan and he suspected would be news to E.D.G.E. as well. “Where?”
The sun shone directly overhead, the heat almost a palpable thing in the back parking lot as the sun scorched the cracked pavement.
“Right here.” A wide grin showed Yusef’s yellowed teeth. The man didn’t point; he just looked at Dylan, like it was a test.
Dylan scanned the area. The back parking lot was about two-thirds full and had a ten-foot-high chain-link fence around it. Beyond it were more office towers like this one. At the far end of the lot, still inside the fence, was an abandoned building.
The two-story concrete structure had lost most of its windows. He could only see the front facing them and a bit of the one side. He nodded at it. “Was that building damaged in the fighting?”
“Very good,” the commander said. He strode across the lot and Dylan followed, matching his stride length to Yusef’s. “The Iraqi Army bombed it. The structure stands but it’s unusable. You can see why.”
They’d reached the far side of the building. It was amazing it still stood. One wall was missing, and another was only partially there. The floors and any rooms were gone, leaving a hollowed shell.
But it was what was inside that shell that drew Dylan. A slightly battered UH-60 Black Hawk sat fully armed and ready to take off. He frowned until he saw the wheeled platform it was on and the cart that would pull it out into the open. A thrill of alarm went through him that these fanatics had access to a machine so powerful and deadly.
Beside it was an OH-58 Kiowa Warrior, an armed reconnaissance helicopter. He wondered if they had any decent pilots to fly these birds.
He whistled, playing the part of an impressed soldier. “Have you been up in them?”
Yusef nodded. “I have two pilots trained. They are teaching me.”
Oh joy.
Four men trotted out from inside the makeshift hangar, pulling the Black Hawk out into view. Two of them jumped inside and started up the rotors. He frowned. Were they even doing a preflight check?
The other two walked around the bird, but the pilots inside didn’t seem to be talking with them.
“We will go up for a flight,” Yusef yelled over the noise of the rotors.
Dylan did not want to get on that bird. He wasn’t sure the pilots knew what they were doing. He hated flying with others at the stick. Sarah would probably call him a control freak.
And when it came to flying, she was right.
Both doors were off and only a few of the jump seats were bolted inside. Dylan followed Yusef and two of his soldiers into the helicopter. He picked a jump seat near the door, slapped on a helmet and buckled in.
Yusef watched him. “You seem comfortable in here.”
“There’s not much to it,” Dylan said evenly, though he cringed inside at his mistake. He was playing the part of a simple soldier, not a pilot or an operator.
The pilot came on the line. “We’re ready for takeoff, sir.”
Yusef leaned out the door and waved to someone Dylan couldn’t see. Two more soldiers strode forward with a third man between them. A soldier by his uniform, but one who’d been disciplined by his split lip and bare feet. Dylan could see how the man tried not to cringe when he met Yusef’s eyes. An uneasy feeling niggled against Dylan’s spine.
The soldiers shoved the man and he fell into the cabin. There was no jump seat for him.
“Take off now,” Yusef told the pilots over the comm.
One of the buckled-in soldiers gave the man a helmet at Yusef’s nod.
“Sir,” the man said on the radio. “Please. I—”
“Quiet,” Yusef commanded.
The Black Hawk lifted fairly steady but no one enjoyed the view. They all stared at the man kneeling in the center of the cabin. They reached an elevation of about one thousand feet and hovered.
“Dalkhan,” Yusef said. “You are newly married, are you not?”
Dylan nodded cautiously.
“Someone on this helicopter has been caught committing adultery.”
“No!” the man on the floor shouted, his eyes wide with terror now. “It wasn’t me.”
The man spoke Russian, not Arabic. What the hell was going on?
“You stand accused of sleeping with another man’s wife,” Yusef said, his eyes glittering.
“I didn’t,” the man shouted. “He wants me dead so he can have my wife.”
Yusef smiled. “You’re accusing your commanding officer of lying?”
“Yes!” the man said. “He lies.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t believe you.” He signaled to the pilot. “Do it now.”
The pilot tilted the bird. The two soldiers strapped in didn’t move and neither did Dylan or Yusef, but the accused man shrieked as he slid toward the open door. He grabbed hold of some cargo webbing and stopped his fall, though his legs dangled over the edge.
Dylan fought the urge to grab for the flailing man. He couldn’t blow his cover, but maybe he could help another way.
“Are you certain this man is guilty?” he asked Yusef in Russian.
“Stop,” Yusef barked.
The pilot straightened out.
Yusef stared at Dylan and the skin on the back of his neck tried to crawl away. Had he just gotten himself killed for a stranger with questionable morals?
“No,” Yusef said finally. “But do you understand why we question all of our new recr
uits, Dalkhan? But especially the foreigners? They accuse us of such horrible things.”
“I didn’t do anything,” the man shouted. “I’m innocent.”
“That is for Allah to decide.” Yusef pursed his lips. “But what you are doing is smuggling cigarettes. I might be able to let that go if you didn’t try to sell them on the street.”
“I’m sorry,” the man begged. He had a death grip on the webbing. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
Yusef sighed heavily over the mic. “You will. Because the worst offense is that you are not a true believer. You were heard cursing the morning prayer. I could forgive those other sins in a good Muslim man, but you.” His voice turned harsh. “You are a filthy infidel.”
The pilot tilted the Black Hawk on its side, flying sideways. Dylan’s body pulled at the straps holding him to his seat. The man squealed and slid along the floor, still gripping the cargo webbing. He dangled from the open doorway, his feet kicking in the air, one thousand feet above the ground. His wordless screaming had no visible effect on Yusef, though it twisted Dylan’s insides. He had to remind himself that this man was no innocent. He was part of the ISIS regime.
Yusef turned to Dylan. “Cut him loose.”
Dylan barely kept himself from shaking his head. The soldier closest to him pulled a knife and handed it to him, his other hand on his rifle.
Dylan’s heart beat hard. He couldn’t save this man. He’d thrown his lot in with these crazies and he hadn’t followed their rules. But that didn’t mean that Dylan wanted to kill him in cold blood.
The Russian dangled outside the helicopter now, crying and pleading for his life.
“Do it,” Yusef ordered. He trained a gun on Dylan.
It would take minutes to saw through the webbing with the knife, minutes that Dylan would be forced to listen to the man’s crying and pleading. Instead, he reached up and found the snaps hooking the cargo net to the cabin wall. He kept his face blank and he went numb inside, knowing this scene would become his new nightmare. He eyed the man who screamed his pleas for mercy.
I’m sorry.
He unsnapped the net.
