All the questions washed over him, things he should have thought of before. The boat. The American. Far too fearless. Too confident. Willing to pay too much money. In a hurry. Insisting on this girl.
A chill ran down his spine.
He reached for the handgun that was strapped to his chest. But the American had already pulled a pistol from some unseen holster under his jacket. A 9-millimeter. Sig Sauer. Phosphate anti-corrosion finish. His eyes widened in great fear.
The Iraqi feinted for his weapon, but the American moved forward with frightening speed, grabbing his hand in a crushing grip. The Iraqi felt a jab of pain as the American put pressure on the joints of his ring and little fingers. He tried pulling back. The grip tightened. “I wouldn’t,” his assailant said calmly, “not if you want to live.”
The huge man next to Azadeh reached out and grabbed her by the throat, his fat fingers crushing into the soft skin on her neck. He jerked a small pistol from his sleeve and jammed it to the side of her head.
The American stared at him coolly, his eyes narrow, his face firm and blank. He showed no emotion, no anxiety, not a worry in the world. The Iraqi watched him, noting the cold look in his eye. That look! How he hated it. So smug and so cool. Looking into the American’s face, he finally understood. This wasn’t some rich boy from the city looking for a thrill. This wasn’t some American thug looking to make a quick buck on a deal.
This was a trained professional.
His world came crashing down.
The first Iraqi felt the American’s grip on his hand, firm as cold steel. He saw the specialty handgun and the confident smile. Then he panicked, his mind clouding, his instincts irrational and self-destructive, a thousand thoughts rushing through his head
Why was the American armed? Was he going to kill him? Who was his friend in the trees?
Were they going to steal the girl? After all the work he had done? No! They couldn’t have her. Not if she was dead. And he would kill her before he’d lose her.
“Let’s keep this simple,” the American said in a calm voice. “No one needs to get hurt here. All I want is the girl.”
The Iraqi hesitated, years of hatred and resentment bursting inside. “You’re going to steal her, my friend!”
“Of course not, you fool—”
The irrational panic welled up in the Iraqi’s mind. He didn’t have that much to live for anyway. He could die now, he could die later, and he didn’t care that much anymore.
The hateful pride inside him took complete control. “Kill her!” he screamed over his shoulder to his friend. “Kill her! They will take her! Kill her before they do!”
The man holding Azadeh tightened his grip on her throat. It was clear from the rage in his eyes that he was going to shoot her. He jammed the blunt end of the pistol into her temple, moved his finger for the trigger, and pushed her head down by his hip so that he wouldn’t get back splattered when he shot her.
The American heard the angry buzz of a bullet not more than a few inches from his ear, and the huge man suddenly slumped, a red circle on his forehead and a large gaping hole where the back of his head used to be. The sound of the gunshot crashed from the trees half a second later. The American twisted the Iraqi’s wrist, hearing the bone snap, and the Iraqi dropped his weapon and cried out in pain. Continuing the movement, the American lifted his pistol and fired through the side window of the car, aiming at the shadow in the backseat. More shots echoed from the trees behind him and the front window shattered, two bullet holes pocking the passenger side.
The injured Iraqi, the only one still alive, screamed, his face pulling in pain and fear. He bent down for his weapon, but his assailant had kicked it away.
The American leaned toward him, twisted his broken wrist, and grimaced, unable to hold in his disgust. “You sell little girls!” he screamed, slapping the man on the head, his anger snarling his breath. “Young women! Helpless children! What kind of sick man are you!”
The Iraqi fell over, holding the top of his head. He whimpered like a puppy that had been beaten with a stick.
The American reached down and grabbed the Iraqi’s hair, jerking his head around until he was staring at his dead friend. “You couldn’t fight me. No! You couldn’t fight like a man! You had to go for the girl, and now look what you did! Your friends are dead. You are alone here. So now, tell me, big man, what are you going to do?”
The Iraqi whimpered, begging, “My Sayid, my Sayid—”
“Shut up!” the American cried, releasing the grip on his face.
The Iraqi fell to the ground and lay on his stomach with his arms spread wide, a familiar position he had forced many others to endure.
Azadeh didn’t move. She was quiet, and a long way from tears.
She moved toward her rescuer, saying something in Persian that he did not understand.
He was five inches taller than she was and he looked down, holding her shoulders in his hands.
“You . . .” Azadeh started, her face scrunching as she struggled to find the right words in English. “You . . . remember me,” she finally managed.
“Yes. I came for you,” he answered.
“I,” she pointed to her chest. “I did what . . . you say to me.”
Sam Brighton broke into a smile. “You did good. You got to Khorramshahr. And now you are safe.”
COMING IN EPISODE FOUR…
READ IT NOW: www.mercuryink.com
American soldiers! Abdullah thought, his mouth growing dry. U.S. soldiers had dared to move openly inside of Iran! There had been rumors, even sightings of Special Forces units working inside the borders of Persia, searching for hints of their nuclear program, listening, watching, looking for things, but this had been different—these were combat troops. And they had shown up at the village at the very worst time.
*******
He heard his office door open behind him. He turned his head just a bit, lowering his chin to the side, but he did not turn around, and he could not see who it was. Then he heard the shuffle of soft feet, and his heart jumped in his chest. He heard the deep breathing, the rattle in the chest, and his lips turned up in a smile. Then he smelled him. The stale clothes. The smell of medicine and disinfectants. The smell of sour breath.
He turned around slowly.
The old man was standing there.
The king bowed at his waist. He didn’t think, he just did it; it was an instinctive reaction, one he could not have explained. Yes, he was king, but this was the Master, the only man on earth that Abdullah feared. He bowed his head, then rushed forward and took the old man by the arm. He felt the thin flesh, the tender skin and weak muscle hanging like limp cloth on the bone, as he guided the old man toward the nearest chair.
*******
“Some people will claim that freedom belongs to all mankind,” the old man said. “That is a lie. Don’t believe it. From the beginning of time that lie has been deceiving the world.
“Some will say that all people have been given the power to choose. Another lie. Don’t believe it. Life is not a matter of choice. It is a matter of strength. It is not a matter of freedom. It is a matter of power. That’s the only thing that matters: who is strong, who is weak, who can convince enough of the others to follow. That is all that matters in this miserable world.”
*******
“Oh, don’t you worry about Abdullah. I can take care of him,” the president said.
Brighton sat forward in his chair. He knew the royal family perhaps better than anyone, and the president’s estimation of Abdullah was clean off the mark. “Mr. President,” he said, “I must respectfully disagree. Abdullah is a dangerous man. Maybe very dangerous. We’ll have to approach him carefully.”
“He’s nothing!” the president shot back. “He’s a spoiled kid, oversexed and over-moneyed. No brains. No ambition. No direction. No core. If he’s the next king, that’s fine. I know how to deal with him. I’ve dealt with worse men before.”
Brighton shook his head sl
owly. “No sir, that’s simply not true. You don’t know Abdullah. None of us do. It would be foolish, even stupid, to underestimate this man.”
*******
As the king studied the head of the mullah, he couldn’t help but think. Yes, many of their best men would die. Tens upon thousands. Maybe many more. The price of their brothers’ blood was substantial, but it was a good price to pay, for what blood was too precious to see their mission complete?
In a week, maybe less, they would see the destruction of their enemies throughout the Middle East. They would see the Great Satan literally brought to his knees. They would see the destruction of his offspring, the goatish daughter herself. She would be pushed into the deep sea, forever destroyed.
Yes, they would pay a price. Many of their men would die. And their wives. And their children. But what choice did they have? The final battle was upon them. The time of the goat’s blood was here.
*******
The timing of the attacks had to be precisely coordinated and extremely compressed. Like an enormous tsunami that would crash over the land, they had to be unexpected and devastating; with no chance of being turned back. The destruction had to be wide and deep, completely demoralizing and debilitating in every way. And they had to create a sense of passing, as if the old world was gone, leaving normal life shattered like broken glass on the floor.
*******
General Brighton stared silently at the monitor on the wall, watching the Israeli pilots fly toward their targets. There were only seconds to release point, and he swallowed painfully against the knot in his throat. Taking a step forward, he muttered under his breath. “No. Call them back. It’s not too late!” he said.
READ EPISODE FOUR NOW…
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* * *
1 “Sexual Slavery in Iran,” Bahareiran’s Blog, http://bahareiran.wordpress.com/2011/03/06/sexual-slavery-in-iran. [Nota bene: I know this is a novel, but there are going to be readers who won’t believe. Hence these footnotes.]
2 U.S. Dep’t of State, Kuwait (Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor 2007), http://www.state.gov/j/drl/rls/hrrpt/2007/100604.htm.
3 U.S. Dep’t of State, Kuwait (Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor 2007), http://www.state.gov/j/drl/rls/hrrpt/2007/100599.htm.
4 U.S. Dep’t of State, United Arab Emirates (Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor 2007), http://www.state.gov/j/drl/rls/hrrpt/2007/100608.htm.
5 Donna M. Hughes, “Islamic Fundamentalism and the Sex Slave Trade in Iran,” http://www.uri.edu/artsci/wms/hughes/iran_sex_slave_trade; see also Andrew Bushell, “Pakistan’s Slave Trade—Afghan Refugees Sold into Prostitution; Indentured Servitude Flourishes; Scenes from a Slave Auction,” http://www.ipoaa.com/pakistan_slave_trade.htm.
6 Donna M. Hughes, “Islamic Fundamentalism and the Sex Slave Trade in Iran,” http://www.uri.edu/artsci/wms/hughes/iran_sex_slave_trade.
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
1
2
3
4
5
6
(Wrath-03)-Son Of The Morning (2012) Page 20
