A slave? A shiver ran through Muhammad, shaking the remote in his hand. ISIS did disgusting things like that.
Alma inclined her head and her long hair fell over her shapely shoulders. “I pay no heed to the affairs outside your house. I wish to see to your comfort here as is my proper wifely duty, not intermix myself with the affairs of men.”
“And mete that is. Nevertheless, this is of import. Invite Mariam over and see what you can learn from her. She will know the truth about Joe.”
The guy talked like he lived in the sixth century. Flopping his head back against the couch, Muhammad clicked his big screen TV on. Joshua Sasse started singing a hysterical musical number. He glanced back at his computer.
“My lord, I miss my family. Does not the Koran say a woman’s family is important? I will never see them here.” Did Alma actually talk like that or was she just imitating Abdullah’s sixth-century phrasing?
“Do you scorn what provision I give you? Dishonor your husband?” Abdullah’s fury mounted, the moles on his chin sticking out as his face reddened.
“No, my husband. Never. But your wives, they are part of our family. Should I not be near them so we can raise our children together?”
Abdullah grunted. “I suppose you could live with my first wife. She knows much about children and would teach you how to raise my children properly for Allah.”
“The Koran says all wives shall be provided for equally. I should get my own house.” Longing burned in Alma’s eyes. Her hand trembled.
Muhammad glanced to the TV screen mounted overhead. Mallory Jansen started in on a drool-worthy dance routine. Her in leather armor, he could look at that all day.
On the computer screen, Abdullah nodded, moving his wiry beard. “You find out from Mariam what Joe intends, and I’ll take you back to Saudi Arabia.”
“What if I discover nothing?” Alma’s voice shook.
“Then you will stay in Yemen. Forever.” Abdullah turned.
Alma knotted her fingers together. Her gaze shifted uneasily. “Mariam’s actually an American. She came here for a PhD dissertation. Joe’s pro-American too.”
“What!” Abdullah lurched right, shoving his thobe over the camera screen. “How do you know this?”
Muhammad jolted out of the couch, spilling tea across his designer workout pants. His niece? She’d sputtered some nonsense like that when he caught her fornicating with Joe too. Wait, that surpassed belief. Maybe he’d misheard. The voices were all crackly through the screen. Why again was he eavesdropping on a fanatic’s plotting anyway? Oh that’s right, for all the peeping tom value.
“Mariam came here yesterday morning. I was too afraid to tell you, my lord.” Alma clasped both hands together, fear in her lovely eyes.
What? Muhammad let his hand fall from the tea stain on his pants. It sounded like Alma said his niece’s name again.
“I will arrest them immediately.” Abdullah stood. “Both their lives will end this very night.”
Both who? Muhammad stiffened. Wait, who cared anyway? He flopped back against the chair. Reaching over to the computer, Muhammad clicked End Call. He seriously had to find a way to disengage himself from all this fanatic drama. With a groan, he clicked the Plus sign on the TV remote’s volume control.
Timothy Omundson’s to-die-for number with the iguana popped up.
Saturday, October 15th, 9:37 a.m.
Sweat dripped across Kay’s eyes as she scrubbed Joe’s bloodstained camo jacket against the edge of the plastic bucket where his pants soaked. Joe had worn his other set of clothes.
Glimmers of morning light shone through the holes in the roof. The beans boiled behind her just like every day in this jail cell. If only she had a piece of paper to forge Joe’s signature.
With a groan, she twisted the camo pants. Water rang out from the stiff cloth.
Wait. In her hands, she held the ticket to freedom. She dangled the damp pants in front of her. Water dripped against the dirt floor. A little big, but they’d do.
She shook out the canvas jacket. Baggy enough to hide all feminine curves. Now where had Joe left that shemagh?
Heat baked the tin roof as she struggled with Joe’s spare ghutrah. The cloth fell over her hair and further obscured her neck. The stench of Joe’s sweat hovered around her face. She screwed up her nose. The movement stretched her lips, widening the chapped crack in them. What she’d give for some Bath and Bodyworks lotion.
Kay angled her head and tried to get a glimpse of her reflection in the corrugated metal walls. What about a beard? Good Muslims grew a beard, which explained the scruffy tufts Joe had allowed to collect on his cheeks.
Kneeling, she rubbed her hand in the dust and ground the dirt into her cheeks. The grime dug into her skin, the AQAP version of exfoliation. She’d attempt to pass for a lad of fifteen or so.
Would this actually work? She knotted the belt tight around her pants. She tugged at the jacket. Her curves didn’t show, did they?
Taking a deep breath, she clenched the door lock. The door pushed open at the pressure of her fingertips. She glanced around the valley below. She could see!
Man, she felt naked. She was wearing long pants, long sleeves, and a turban. How did she feel this naked?
Wind whipped dust over the mountain scenery. Kay brought her chin down. She’d go to Alma’s house and see about rescuing Alma and Rosna.
Saturday, October 15th, 10:05 a.m.
A group of two dozen or so terrorists collected in the flat area. The mountain rolled down to a valley about fifteen feet beyond. Joe stared at the pile of grenades lying in the dust guarded by a middle school-aged kid with an assault rifle.
“You are former Army. Train the mujahideen.” The terrorist with the black turban pointed his Kalashnikov at Joe. He motioned to the two dozen youths surrounding him.
Joe seized a grenade. “Once you pull the pin, the grenade’s fully armed, but it won’t explode until you release the spoon.” In a half hour, Specials Ops would arrive. Were they circling the base even now? Were they bringing a helicopter?
The youths grabbed a grenade each with as little care as if seizing the newest Xbox game. He only hoped they clenched those spoons tight. “After you let go of the spoon, you have five seconds before it explodes. No take backs. No do overs. Spoon released, five seconds until death.” Joe moved his glare across the youths.
Kamal nodded. “How do you throw them?”
“The secret to a long throw is—” Wait, he shouldn’t teach him the best way to do it. “Put your arm out in the direction you’re throwing.” Joe pointed to the valley. “As soon as you throw, hit the ground.”
“Infidel!”
Joe spun.
Abdullah and a dozen men barreled into the valley. Kalashnikovs pointed at him from every direction. “On your knees,” Abdullah screamed over the ever-present wind.
“I am sincere in my devotion to Allah. Ask Imam Al-Ghamedi.” Sweat collected on the grenade’s spoon as Joe squeezed it tighter. He moved his gaze over the Kalashnikovs that made an ever-tightening circle around him. No escape anywhere.
“Would Mariam, or should I say Kay Bianchi, say the same? You are a spy for the CIA. You deserve death.” Abdullah moved his index finger toward the trigger.
Joe dropped his finger from the grenade spoon and hurled it toward Abdullah. As the terrorists gasped, he ran.
Five seconds. The valley dropped down straight, a fifty-foot sheer descent that would kill a man.
Four seconds. He swerved right and increased his stride. No cover in sight.
Three seconds. He’d die along with Abdullah.
Two seconds. At least he’d killed some terrorists and save four thousand American lives at DIA. One second.
What would happen to Kay without him? She’d never escape.
A cry went up. The middle school kid threw himself on the grenade. Dark smoke exploded around him, throwing blood and guts through the air.
Abdullah stepped over the kid who’d sacri
ficed his life for the fanatic. A full three dozen Kalashnikovs pointed at Joe across the bare mountain dirt. “On your knees.”
Joe swallowed.
“Bind him.” Abdullah motioned with his Kalashnikov.
A college-aged kid with a scruffy beard whipped out his phone. “We should live-tweet his beheading.”
A single cricket chirped as Kamal wrapped duct tape around Joe’s wrists. The kid’s big boots bore down on a scruffy weed.
Joe’s heart dropped to his chest. How would he get out of this?
With the butt of his Kalashnikov, Kamal and the others shoved him into some kind of shed.
Cobwebs hung from the metal beams above him. A pole mounted in concrete upheld the center of the building. Abdullah gestured with his Kalashnikov and another terrorist bound Joe’s arms and legs to the pole with three rolls of duct tape.
“Guard him.” Abdullah stabbed his bony finger at Kamal. “I’m going to get his ‘wife’ for the execution.”
No! They’d kill Kay too. Where were the Special Forces?
Abdullah and the others filed out and only Kamal stood in the entranceway, his Kalashnikov crossed against his chest.
“Kamal,” Joe called across the dusty two paces that separated them. He had a connection with the kid.
“Infidel. You betrayed us.” Kamal glared at him. A buzz emanated from the pocket of his jacket. The kid tugged out his phone. “It’s your mom.” Kamal’s voice was husky.
“Please let me talk to her.” Joe strained against the duct tape.
The kid squirmed. “I suppose your mother deserves to hear your voice before you die.” Thump, thump, Kamal’s boots pounded against the concrete floor. He held the phone out and hit speaker.
Dear God let the boy not know English.
“Joe.” Tracy’s voice held desperation. “You’ve got to get out of that camp.”
“Actually waiting for your help with that.” The dust caked Joe’s lungs. Fifteen more minutes until backup. Would the Special Forces arrive in time?
“Joe.” Tracy sounded like tears were rolling down her cheeks. “No Special Forces units were available. Brian chose to send a drone instead.”
What?” Joe jerked against the duct tape. No give in it.
“Your death secures a valuable intelligence asset same as rescuing you would. That entire encampment is going up in flames in fifteen minutes. Get out, Joe!”
“Enough time.” Kamal jerked the phone away.
Joe’s heart pounded lead through his veins. In fifteen minutes, if not before, he and Kay would die.
CHAPTER 26
Saturday, October 15th, 10:07 a.m.
Kay moved through the village streets. No one gave her a sideways glance as she mounted the incline to Abdullah’s house. The arid breeze tugged at the camo jacket.
A black curtain hung over the same window she’d escaped through. Kay pressed her ear to the rusted bars. No voices came from inside. Reaching through the metal, Kay nudged the black fabric aside.
A woman shoved up from a pile of black. New blood covered Rosna’s lip. Yanking against the ankle fetter, Rosna crawled for the window.
The woman gripped the metal bars. “Go quickly. She told Abdullah you were American.” Rosna’s thin fingers circled the metal, her fingernails chewed down to flesh.
“Alma?” Kay jolted back. “She’d never betray me.” The wind blew up her ghutrah, dislocating her tucked up hair.
“She did.” The woman swore in a strange mix of Arabic and native tongue.
Abdullah knew. That meant the entire camp would be looking for her—and Joe. Kay’s heart beat against the Velcro patches on the jacket. She had to warn him!
“When you escape, remember me and my people.” Rosna shoved something through the bars.
Hard metal scraped Kay’s palm. Car keys. “Thank you!” She’d find a file and come back for Rosna.
Gripping the keys in sweaty hands, Kay scrambled down the incline. The jacket scraped her shoulders. Joe’s too-big boots flopped around her ankles. Where did Abdullah keep his car?
An explosion sounded. Black smoke rose over a mountain pass. Had they shot Joe? Men mounted the crest of a hill further on, shouting. They scurried around half a dozen sheds.
Her breath came fast and hard. Where was Joe?
Did Abdullah store his car in one of those sheds? Men swarmed the sheds. She’d have to get past them.
One, two. One, two. She tried to imitate the awkward strut of the teens striving to be cool in this terrorist camp.
Her boots made no imprint in the hard ground. Her heart pounded in her ears as she shoved through the men.
A man in a black turban leaped in front of her. He grabbed her arm. “We are looking for Mariam Al-Khatani. Have you seen an unaccompanied woman?”
She couldn’t breathe! The man stared down at her, his face so close she could smell his breath. His brown eyes looked dead. Her body trembled as she looked up into the face of a killer. “No.” Kay’s voice came out in a squeak.
The man grunted and dropped her arm. At the bottom of the valley, terrorists dragged a bound man. As they shoved him in a building, she caught a glimpse of his face. That was Joe!
Panic washed over her. She had to save him. Taking the hill at a run, she caught black-turban man. “Emir Abdullah told me to clean his car. Where is it?”
He whipped around. Did her voice sound gruff enough for a boy’s? “That way.” The man pointed to the leftmost shed.
Wheezing, she endeavored to keep her nod steady. Other terrorists filed around her.
How long until someone realized she wasn’t a boy? Fingers clenched around the Velcro cuff of the camo jacket, Kay moved to the leftmost shed. The metal slid open. A vehicle sat inside.
The key fit in the lock. Outside, she could hear the voices of terrorists. With a nervous glance to the open door, she cranked the key. Nothing!
On the floor between her and the passenger seat sat a thick black rod and a third pedal dropped down to the left of the brake. Her heart thudded to a halt. This was a stick shift.
Her breaths heaved over each other. Okay, she had to start this Jeep. She pressed all the pedals and shifts at once as she cranked the key.
Nothing. The check engine light flashed on the dash. How did one start a stick shift?
A 1940s film she’d endured in eleventh-grade history class passed through her mind. Squinting, she searched back in her brain for what that chauffeur had said to the heroine.
Put car in gear, shove down clutch, crank key and hit gas. Or had the chauffeur said slam brake in the black and white movie? She thrust her boot against the clutch, knotted laces flapping against cattle hide.
With a whirring noise, the engine started.
Her foot relaxed against the clutch as she slumped against the bucket seat. Now to drive past dozens of AK-47s and free Joe.
With a grinding noise, the engine died! No. She ground the key again, clutch down. The motor whirred back into life.
Taking a deep breath, she slid the gear into reverse. The stick shift lurched, the engine cut out. No!
She hit the clutch and cranked the key again. More whirring, grinding, and lurching. The Jeep heaved backward.
Fingers strangling the steering wheel, she careened down the hill past terrorists as the engine jerked and lurched and threatened to die.
No AK-47 shot rang out. With a whir of gears, the Jeep staggered to the shed where they’d shoved Joe.
A boy stood in the entranceway, blocking her approach with a gun.
“Here to take over guard duty.” She tried to make her voice sound rough.
The boy squinted at her. “Emir Abdullah told me of no change.”
She slid back against the seat. Wind-loosened cloth shifted. Her ghutrah fell at her feet.
The youth raised his rifle, sights aimed at her. “I found her,” he shouted.
She slammed her foot on the gas. The Jeep jerked forward. The bumper smashed against the boy. His gun fell to the
concrete as he crumpled, blood smearing his face. Kay dug her teeth into her lip as she grabbed the door handle. The door stuck. She leaped over the door beneath the roofless structure.
A knife hung at the unconscious boy’s belt. She grabbed it and the AK-47 and ran into the shed, boots pounding against the hard dirt.
Joe looked up from the floor, his arms and legs bound by duct tape.
“Kay, we’ve got to get out of here. A drone’s hitting at 10:35.”
The car clock had read 10:25 a minute ago. Fear stabbed through her. Dropping to the ground, she dragged the knife against the duct tape. The stuff was too thick! She sawed the dull knife over the tape. One strand gave way.
Fifteen seconds passed. Thirty. Joe strained against the tape as she sawed at it. The sticky bonds around his elbows stretched, but more layers of duct tape bound his wrists and legs.
“Quicker,” Joe breathed. He worked his arms, straining against strand after strand of tape.
Sawing, sawing. Two minutes. Three. A few fibers of tape gave way. So many fibers remained. He yanked against the iron post. The rusted pole held fast in concrete.
Three and a half minutes. Four. She worked the knife against the duct tape. “Exactly where’s this drone hitting?”
“Here, I think.” Sweat dripped from Joe’s face. Arms bulging, he held his wrists together then with a jerk ripped against the tape. The tape held.
A noise sounded. “Kafir!” Abdullah stood in the doorway.
Kay’s mouth went dry. Her knife clattered against the concrete as she raised the AK-47.
Abullah strode between her and the Jeep. She aimed the gun at his heart and pulled the trigger.
Nothing! Was there some kind of stupid safety?
Leaping forward, Abdullah grabbed her. She fought against him, fingers locked on the gun butt.
Abdullah grunted. “Kamal,” he yelled.
The youth she’d hit ran in the shed door. A welt rose on the left side of his head, blood spattered across his beardless cheek.
She kicked his shins. The youth twisted her arms behind her as Abdullah wrested the gun from her.
Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1) Page 28
