That night the family slept on the roof to escape the heat. Nadia fell asleep easily, but woke from a nightmare: a man's hand around her throat, one of her family’s guns aimed at her. She sat up with a start. Her father leaned against the parapet, looking out over the village.
He turned to her, his eyes hidden in the darkness. She crawled over to him, and he held out his arm.
She settled against his body, and he kissed her head. "We must have faith." The words vibrated his chest, where her cheek rested. "Our religion is the most important thing."
"Yes, father."
Nadia's owner sat on his bed, wearing just his underpants. He patted the mattress next to him.
They heard rumors that those who had fled were caught in the mountains, without enough food or water…they were dying.
Nadia worried for her friends whose families had tried to escape. Her father had been right to make them stay. At least here they had their house and food from the garden.
Three days passed, and the village remained subdued. The Mayor came to visit…Daesh wanted the entire village to come to the school that afternoon. The streets filled with neighbors and friends, all flowing toward the school building, empty for the summer vacation. The women had covered their heads, trying to appease these fanatical Muslim men.
Daesh soldiers stood on either side of the doorway, in the way that teachers normally did. Nadia gripped her mother, who held Hassan on her hip. Khalid and her father stayed close.
"Women and children upstairs, men down here!" A soldier yelled at the entrance.
The villagers did as they were told. Nadia looked back at her father. "I will see you soon." His eyes held hers, even as she was forced into the flow of bodies moving toward the stairs.
Her mother gripped her hand, and they climbed. None of the women spoke. Fear choked Nadia, and tears burned her eyes, but she refused to cry.
The soldiers pushed Nadia and her mother into a classroom. When it was full, they closed the door. The sound of footsteps continued outside…more women being forced into rooms.
Slowly the women began to whisper, huddled close, asking questions, making up answers. The quiet conversations kindled into talking and slowly rose into shrill demands as the hours passed.
Finally, the door flew open, and a Daesh soldier filled the doorway. His glittering black eyes scanned the room, and a frown creased his bearded face. Behind him several soldiers dressed in black formed a wall, barring the women from pushing out into the hall.
"You cannot go on living as you have." His voice silenced all others in the room.
"We were told—" One of Nadia's neighbors began to protest, but the man spoke over her.
"Silence! Or you will pay with your life."
The crowd of women cringed away from him. Nadia's arm linked with her mother’s, and they stood close, their bodies pressed together, as if their will could keep them from being separated.
"You must become Muslims. There is no room for any idolatry, any devil worship in the Islamic State." His eyes scanned the women, daring them to protest. No one spoke and his lips twitched into a smile of satisfaction. "You can convert to Islam and marry good Muslim men," he made a gesture behind him to indicate the soldiers in the hall.
Marry a Daesh fighter? Was he insane? They were Yazidi.
"And if we don't?" a woman asked, her voice wavering. Nadia looked over at her. It was the school librarian. She carried a son on her hip, and her daughter, a twelve-year-old girl, clung to her waist, her cheek pressed against her breast, eyes wide as she stared at the soldiers.
"You must."
Nadia's owner removed her burka, pulled off her dress, and she let him. Even raised her arms to make it easier for him.
"We won't ever be Muslims," the librarian answered. A murmur of agreement rippled through the group.
"You cannot go on living as you have."
"We will never become Muslim," the librarian asserted again, straightening her shoulders and holding the soldier's gaze.
He frowned. "Fine. But you were given the option. Remember that."
He turned and left, a soldier closing the door behind him.
"How can they do this?" Nadia whispered to her mother. "What will happen to us?"
Worried voices rose all around them.
"They can do whatever they want," her mother responded. "They have all the power."
The sound of a gunshot silenced the room. More followed. So many that Nadia could not keep track of the number. The women began to scream, children cried. They rushed the door but it was locked. They had no weapons. No way out.
Nadia's mother held her hand tight as her little brother wailed, tears streaking down his cheeks.
Tears streaked Nadia's face as her owner thrust into her, his breath harsh in her ear, his stink thick in her nose.
He climbed off her, leaving her on the bed, his seed on her thigh.
Nadia stared at the ceiling, tears drying on her cheeks.
Thirty unmarried Yazidi women filled the seats of the school bus. Nadia recognized it; she'd ridden to school in it for years. Her brother's initials were carved onto the back of the seat. He'd gotten in deep trouble for the graffiti.
She touched her palm, ran her finger over the fresh scratches there, left by her mother when they ripped them apart.
Nadia rolled over and picked up her clothing. Her owner dressed, not speaking. She couldn't look at him. Bile teased at her jaw, threatening to empty her stomach as she wiped him off her.
Where was her family? Had they all died? Was Nadia the only one left? Or did the Daesh soldiers just fire their guns in the high school to frighten the women? Perhaps to make them more compliant?
None of the women on the bus tried to fight.
Some wept quietly, the sound filtering into the background as much as the drone of the tires, while others stared out the window, pale and shocked.
What was happening?
How did they get here?
They were all good girls from nice families. This shouldn't be happening.
Each rotation of the wheels took them further from their home, from their families, closer to danger—right into the heart of Daesh-controlled territory.
As they entered the city, Nadia scanned the familiar streets. She'd been there on a number of occasions with her family. In the warm, hazy light of dusk the city appeared almost unchanged. Men walked in groups, only some of them sported the long beards and scruffy hair marking them as Daesh members. The rest just looked like normal Muslim men. Like her neighbors. The few women she spotted were covered head-to-toe in black, not even their eyes exposed. And on the roofs of the buildings black flags waived. This was no longer her country. It was the Islamic State now.
Nadia's father's words reverberated through her mind. "Our religion, our moral code, is more important than anything else."
Nadia would not convert to Islam. She would rather die.
The bus pulled up in front of a large building and came to a stop. The young fighters guarding them, one of them so new to manhood that his beard was just a shadow on his jaw, began to yell at them in Arabic.
"Get off the bus. Move!"
Soldiers formed a corridor from the bus to the open doors of the building. The guards shoved the women down the steps and the waiting soldiers pushed them along, until they entered the darkened doorway.
The seats in front of Nadia slowly emptied and she followed the other young women from her village. One girl tried to break away from the line and a soldier threw her back, then stepped forward and thrust his gun viciously into her stomach. The girl bent over, coughing, and was pushed down the line, falling into the building.
As long as Nadia held onto her faith everything would be okay.
Nadia sat on the bed while her owner laid down his prayer mat and bowed toward Mecca. He considered this a holy war, and his raping of Nadia to be a holy act. What God would expect men to treat women this way?
Her owner believed that the Yazidi wor
shipped the devil. But it looked to Nadia as if he did.
What they had was a disagreement about the devil.
That's what forced her into the dark, humid room filled with women her own age. Filled with the sound of weeping and the stink of fear. Mattresses covered the floor. Nadia squinted, trying to see in the dim light: high ceilings and boarded-up windows. An exit on the far side of the room was guarded by three men. The door they'd walked through slammed shut and several soldiers took up position around it.
A hand grabbed hers. The librarian's daughter, Farridah, just twelve years old. "What is this place? What are they going to do with us?"
A soldier barked at her. "Shut up!" Farridah cringed and squeezed Nadia's hand. Nadia gave the younger girl a weak smile, but didn't answer her.
How could she tell her they were now slaves? Property. She couldn't say the words out loud.
Nadia's owner finished his prayers and glanced over at her as he stood. She'd dressed and sat on the bed, motionless, her mind wandering through time.
He went to the door and then turned back to her as he opened it. "Clean this place up." Dust swirled in as he slammed the door shut. Nadia followed his orders, picking up his shirt and folding it neatly, placing it in his closet.
She picked up his pants and something fell out, thudding onto the floor. Metal glinted, catching the dull light leaking in through the window. A phone. Her owner had left his phone behind.
Nadia crouched and stared at it, hope rustling in her chest like a bird readying to spread its wings. Maybe this was a gift from God.
Chapter Eleven
Shaheer
The tinkling of the goat bells and the whisper of the wind were the only sounds as Shaheer climbed slowly up the hill. He used his staff to steady his footing, navigating the large boulders, the goats hopping effortlessly around him.
His mother’s and sister’s insolence angered him still, despite the days that had passed.
Who did they think they were? Their behavior put them all in danger.
And not just from Daesh justice, but from Allah's. Shaheer didn't want to face eternal damnation, his skin burned off for eternity. The sun warmed his back, heating the barrel of his rifle and reminding him of the dangers that lay beyond the grave if he did not live a pious life.
He should have struck his mother. That would teach her a lesson and show Allah that Shaheer meant to be a good Muslim man.
But what would his father say?
Shaheer kicked at a loose rock, imagining his father's deep frown. Taking a breath Shaheer consoled himself that soon he would have a wife of his own. A house of his own. And everyone under his roof would follow the Quran closely; his wife would not have so much influence over him, as his mother did over his father.
He yearned to join Daesh, like his older brother had. To be a soldier for that army meant a sweet reward. But his father wanted him to wait another year, said that it was important for him to help with the goats now.
Shaheer stopped to swig from his canteen. The cool water eased his dry throat. There was a stream up ahead where he could refill it, and so he finished the last drops.
The sound of rushing water reached him as he crested the hill. The goats bleated with delight and hurried to the water's edge. Shaheer shifted his rifle as he crouched on the bank, dipping his canteen into the swiftly moving current.
The water ran over his fingers, cold and clear. He took off his headscarf and dipped it in to relieve some of the heat of the day.
It was cooler by the stream where trees grew, which is why he brought the goats here. They could eat anything, and were happy to be in the shade. He settled his back against a tree and opened his bag, pulling out his lunch.
His mother had made it for him. As she should. Whomever he married would need to be at least as good a cook as his mother. Probably even better.
He scanned the forest, his eyes following the familiar countryside. In the distance, through the trees, he saw something that hadn't been there before. Shaheer put down his food and stood slowly, squinting to see through the gently swaying branches.
Was that a structure? A lean-to?
He brought his rifle around and, hopping from stone to stone, alighted on the far bank. Shaheer moved through the woods, the small structure becoming clear to him.
Someone had erected a lean-to, made from the boughs of the trees—it blended into the small forest that ran along this plateau, following the stream down toward the plains.
The scent of astringent came to him on the wind, and he raised his rifle, sighting down the barrel as he approached. Shaheer circled the lean-to, his blood rushing in his ears and adrenaline pumping into his system. Refugees? Infidels? Who hid in this hut?
At the entrance, he stared into the dark shadows. A pale, nude woman, her knees bent, lay on the ground, her arm stretched out. One hand lay in a diamond of sunlight, relaxed in either sleep or death. He inched closer, holding his breath, his heartbeat picking up pace. Bandages on her stomach, shoulder, and neck glowed white in the low light.
An IV hung from the tree trunk next to her, a line snaking down and into her extended arm. He stood in the entrance, the iron tang of blood mixing with the astringent scent in the air.
Her stomach wasn't moving. She was dead.
He lowered his weapon and swiveled around, scanning the forests. There was no one. How did she get here?
Shaheer turned back to her, an urge to reach out and touch her throbbing in his fingers. Was she really dead? The woman looked so strange—out here in the middle of the woods, so pale and lifeless. So exposed.
He stepped under the lean-to, entering the warm, dark space.
His eyes fastened onto her bare breasts, the nipples dark in the low light. His hand itched to feel them. He licked his lips, his eyes traveling down her stomach. The woman's legs were bent to the side, one hip slightly raised, her center hidden from him.
Should he shift her so that he could see?
The woman took a shuddering breath, and he stumbled back, knocking into one of the branches and wincing at the pain. Her eyes fluttered open, and he was stilled, mesmerized by the cold, gray gaze that held him.
There was no expression on her face.
Was she a ghost? A spirit?
Fear thrilled through him, and he stumbled out of the lean-to. A growl made him whirl around, raising his weapon. A giant wolf, its head almost at his chest, one blue eye and one brown, ears perked forward, its rough coat stained and matted, stood before him. The creature's black lip raised, exposing sharp teeth glistening with saliva.
Fear made Shaheer's finger slip off the trigger. Adrenaline surged through him, causing his teeth to chatter. A shot rang in the air; Shaheer's jaw exploded with sensation. A strangled sound escaped him as he fell to his knees.
Consciousness receded as the wolf stepped toward him, its head down, hackles up, and a low growl vibrating from its immense chest. Shaheer's vision narrowed to a pinprick, his entire world becoming the wolf. He closed his eyes as the sensation of falling overtook him.
The creature's sharp bark forced his lids back open, and her face, those gray eyes boring into him, hovered above him…as if she was floating.
Then the whole world went velvety black.
Chapter Twelve
Robert
Robert paced in his quarters, his hand in his pocket, fingering the white fur he'd found fluttering in the woods near where Sydney disappeared. He hadn't been able to sleep, again. He had to go looking for her, again.
Robert picked up the phone by his bed and called Deacon. "Get the helicopter ready. I want to go on a reconnaissance." The man began to speak, but Robert cut him off. "Get it ready now."
He hung up and pushed his hand through his hair. Taking a deep breath, Robert forced himself back under control. The hard shell that kept Robert Maxim safe was cracking. His body felt soft and in danger.
Sydney's mother was in Istanbul. What was she thinking?
She was as crazy as her
daughter.
He strapped on his gun and strode to the airfield. Deacon waited in the helicopter; they were in the air as the sun began to really heat up the day. The pilot didn't ask where Robert wanted to go, and that was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Deacon was as loyal as money and good leadership could make a man. But everybody had a price.
Except Sydney Rye.
Robert wanted to pound his fists on something but he willed himself to stay relaxed. Kept his breathing even. They thundered over the plateau where Sydney killed Phillip, then moved into a more mountainous area.
If she was in there, how would he ever find her?
Unless she sent him a sign.
Smoke caught his gaze. It spiraled up from a wooded area—the forest growing around a stream as it wound between the mountains.
He pointed to it, and Deacon nodded, tilting the helicopter in the direction of the black plumes. It could be refugees hiding in the wilderness, soldiers who'd deserted, a herder who built a fire that got out of control.
Or it could be a sign.
But with Sydney's injuries, how could she possibly have survived? It would be a freaking miracle.
Deacon hovered a safe distance from the smoke, and Robert drew a ring in the air with his finger. The helicopter circled the flames. It was a small blaze, only a few trees. Deacon inched closer, and Robert stared through binoculars. The trees below them waved and shook under the force of the chopper's wind.
A dark-haired figure lay on the ground.
Robert grabbed a pack containing first aid and other survival gear. He indicated to Deacon to go down. The man's expression remained flat. As flat as Robert’s. Two statues speaking to each other—hidden from each other.
Hidden from everyone.
Robert climbed out of the copilot seat and maneuvered to the back, throwing out a ladder for himself. Deacon kept the bird steady above a small clearing fifteen yards from the flames as Robert climbed down the ladder.
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