They'd paused in the deep shadows of a narrow street, pretending to talk, while Farridah crouched down and went to work, her brushes quickly creating the image of the wolf with the profile within…she was enveloped by the wolf as much as April, Nadia, Farridah, Jihane, Berfin, Shayma and Soughayla were hidden within their burkas—their personal identities not exposed.
All of them were the woman within, but also the wolf.
Farridah stood, hiding her weapons of art back under her dress, and the seven of them started moving down the block. "Hey!" A voice called behind them. The dripping, knee-height symbol glistened wet in the early morning light. Seven Daesh soldiers stood at the far end of the narrow street.
They had thick beards, long, bedraggled hair, and Kalashnikovs.
April's heart thudded, rushing blood and adrenaline through her body, tunneling her vision onto the men.
Should they run?
Nadia moved her hand, a small gesture telling them to be still. "What are you doing?" the leader yelled, a fresh scar, pink and ridged, slicing through his dark beard. The soldiers formed into an arrow shape as they moved toward April and her daughters. April turned to look over her shoulder. Ten feet away the narrow street met with one of the main arteries of the village.
Could they make it to the market and blend in with the other shoppers?
Nadia didn't seem to think so.
"Did you do that?" Scar Face yelled, pointing at Farridah's painting.
"No," Nadia made her voice raspy, like an old women. "Of course not, we are good Muslim women." She kept her tone conciliatory.
"Don't believe them," A soldier with a gold bracelet pointed at them. "They are Her."
April didn't suppress the grin on her face as giddiness overtook her. They couldn't see her expression. Nor could they see the weapons hidden under the women's flowing robes.
Nadia tapped her foot.
When she reached ten they would shoot.
April moved slightly, getting closer to the wall, taking aim at gold bracelet. She narrowed her eyes, focusing through the mesh at the young man she hoped to kill.
Her heart rate spiked. Thou shalt not kill.
But Thou shalt not die either. Not for them. Only die for you.
She believed Jesus, believed killing was wrong. They were all God's creatures. But April also believed in the truth these women fought for…equality. She deserved it. They all did.
Jesus agreed. Yes, April, you are righteous.
His hand steadied hers as she dipped into her waistline, retrieving the small pistol that Nadia had given her.
Scar Face turned to his men. "Grab them. Search them."
"You will not touch us," Nadia said. "We are pious Muslim women. You cannot look under our burkas. It is wrong." Her voice wavered, as if she was frightened. Scared of going to hell.
None of them had anything to fear. No matter what happened, they knew their value. These soldiers could try their best, but these seven draped figures would fight with the tenacity of wolves. They were a pack, ready to hunt. Starving for salvation.
Willing to die for it.
Willing to die to spread their message.
Scar Face laughed as his men moved in on them. Nadia's foot tapped the tenth time. April raised her arm, as did the other women. April looked at Gold Bracelet's chest, at the center of him. The biggest mass. The part she was most likely to hit.
She tightened her grip, the trigger pulling back. The pressure of Jesus's hand on her shoulder lent her strength.
Sound echoed around her as her friends did the same. Gold Bracelet started, his hand coming up to his chest, his eyes growing wide as he looked down at himself. She fired again. He stumbled back. But anger caught him then, she saw it in his gaze, saw it chase away the surprise, and rush in to the battle as his gun came up. She dropped to the ground, noise crashing all around her.
Farridah stumbled back, blood exploding from her chest. No! Nadia caught her, continuing to fire, stumbling back under the weight of her friend.
They were becoming martyrs.
This is not your role, April. Run! You must go on. Your job is not done.
April lay frozen on the ground, her friends, her daughters, dying around her, the voice of God telling her to run. But how could she leave them?
Be strong, you must run. Jesus's hand pulled at her, helping April crawl to the edge of the alley. Don't look back.
But April couldn't help herself. She glanced over her shoulder. They'd managed to kill four of the Daesh soldiers, or at least they were on the ground. Shayma fired again and again, a primordial screaming coming from beneath her burka. A bullet ripped into her stomach, folding her over herself.
April turned the corner and ran, her feet slapping on the pavement as she headed for the market, headed to blend in.
Nausea swamped her. She didn't want to abandon her daughters.
But Jesus pushed her on. There is more for you to do.
She turned another corner, seeing a group of women up ahead. They looked just like her, just like her daughters dying in that alley.
April slowed her pace and joined them. There was yelling behind her as she followed the women into the market, joining a sea of black, hiding in plain sight.
A wolf in sheep's clothing.
As she slipped into the crowded market, April concentrated on slowing her breathing, forcing the image of Farridah falling onto Nadia from her mind. The sound of Shayma's scream reverberated in her head.
April's vision blurred with tears. All her daughters had died.
The women she'd entered with stopped in front of a stall selling fresh vegetables, and April moved into the flow of the crowd. Voices yelled around her. A man offered April a slice of apple, his words a jumble.
Noise behind her drew April's attention. Soldiers entered the market. They were dressed in black, the same black that shielded her. The same black of the flags fluttering on the rooftops.
The men yelled and shoved people, grabbing women and searching their skirts— looking for the exit hole from the bullets. April kept moving, her eyes scanning the crowded market, as her mind tried to figure out an escape.
She needed to stay in the market for now, wandering the aisles, circling around to avoid the soldiers. Don't run. Don't bring attention.
April stopped to admire the apricots at a woman's booth. Sweet scented, soft skinned, covered in pale orange fuzz, the round fruits were piled around the woman's cloaked form.
The apricot seller greeted April, and she nodded, not trusting her voice or accent.
The soldiers worked their way down the aisle like a wave coursing down a stream, pushing the people aside like branches onto the banks.
They would find her.
Kill her.
No!
April looked up at the apricot seller. They were both female, but that was all April knew. She had to risk it. "I am Her," April whispered in her newly learned Arabic.
The apricot seller started slightly, but did not speak. She stepped out into the aisle, and looped her arm through April's, as if they were old friends. The apricot seller led April behind her booth, seating her on a small, plastic stool where the woman sat when she grew tired. How old was April's savior? A young, unmarried woman, or a grandmother? It was impossible to tell.
"I am Her," the apricot seller whispered back.
Relief washed over April. The woman selling peaches across the way watched them. The apricot seller gave a small nod, and the peach purveyor stood up, and, taking a pair of scissors, cut a hole in her skirts.
"No," April whispered, her voice a harsh sound under the burka.
The apricot seller petted her arm, saying something April could not understand.
The soldiers arrived, and the apricot seller spoke with them, holding out her skirts. They pointed to April, yelling. She couldn't understand the words spoken, but a calm had fallen over her—so thick that not even the fear of death couldn't penetrate. Faith so solid not even a bullet could brea
ch it.
Shayma's guttural cry filled her mind, reverberating in her chest. The apricot seller said something to the men and patted April's head, as if she was a child, perhaps one with mental handicaps.
The soldier's faces twisted with disgust. What had the apricot seller said? Maybe she told them April had a contagious disease. A giggle almost escaped her. She was contagious. April spread the word of the prophet.
A soldier shouted from behind them, and the men interrogating the apricot seller turned. A soldier, his tangled black hair formed into dreadlocks, hauled the peach seller out from behind her booth. The peach seller stumbled as Dread Locks pointed to the hole in her skirt.
The leader grabbed her and yanked the skirt up, looking at the hole. She pointed to the scissors, clearly explaining that she'd accidentally cut her garment.
He bent his head, looking closely. He asked questions.
The peach seller cocked her head and answered.
He dropped her skirt and, turning to the woman's stand, waved an arm, knocking over a pile of peaches. The peach seller cried out. Dread Locks slapped her, the sound loud despite the noise of the market, despite the blood rushing in April's ears, despite Shayma's scream still echoing in her mind.
The slap joined that loop; slap, scream, slap, scream…the melody of a woman's life.
Not for much longer.
April's fists tightened on her lap. The peach seller wailed, and Dread Locks hit her again. She fell to the ground, a pile of black cloth, her breath coming in heaving sobs.
April went to stand. She could not let this woman die for her. The apricot seller stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.
Dread Locks spit on the peach seller, and then the soldiers continued down the row.
The apricot seller hurried around her table and crouched in front of the peach seller, whispering to her. Both women stood and began to pick up the ruined fruit that littered the aisle. A few of the other merchants came to help as well. April stayed on the stool, watching the black, cloaked figures pick up the yellow fruit, the sticky sweet scent of crushed peaches filling the air, fighting the gun smoke, fighting the tears, bringing her hope.
They were all in this together.
A shot rang out. A real one, not just the ones reverberating in her skull. April's head jerked in the direction of the shot—down the aisle, where the soldiers stood around a pile of clothing, a mound of black, a woman's body.
Dreadlocks yelled loudly, and the market quieted as all attention focused on him. He yelled, holding up a can of spray paint. He must have found it on the woman.
Nausea threatened to empty April's stomach, guilt churning her gut. That woman died because of April.
No. It is all the Lord's plan. Fear not. She died for a reason, and you live for one.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Nadia
Nadia clutched her fallen friend. The wet warmth of blood seeped through her robes, sticky and hot on her stomach. She tried to stand, to lift her gun again, but couldn't let go of Farridah. Not yet. Breath hissed through her teeth, joining the cacophony of sound in the narrow alley.
The stench of blood overwhelmed the acrid scent of gun smoke and the sharp, tongue-coating chemical signature of the paint they'd used to mark the wall.
Out of the corner of her eye, Nadia saw April running, the black fabric of her robes billowing behind her. Her friends were safe now, in heaven, the rewards of their work on this plane being enjoyed.
But Nadia's work was not done yet.
She turned back to the soldiers, raising her pistol. She pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. Two Daesh soldiers closed in on her. The closest, his head almost totally bald and his beard streaked with silver, smiled at the empty click of her weapon.
Nadia scrambled out from beneath the body of her friend, but she'd been hit in the thigh, and the searing pain slowed her. A rough hand grabbed her arm, and Silver Beard held her tight as the other soldier chased after April.
Three more soldiers rushed into the alley. Silver Beard gestured in the direction April had run. "Go after her. I'll take care of this one."
Nadia gritted her teeth as he yanked her out of the narrow passage. Sunlight glowed off the man's bald pate, as he dragged her down the street. Nadia stumbled, her injured leg protesting, but Silver Beard didn't slow until he reached a black pickup truck.
Throwing her in the passenger seat, her captor cuffed Nadia to the dashboard. Her body rebelled at the shackles, and she wrestled against the restraints while Silver Beard circled around to the driver's seat.
Her blood smeared onto the upholstery, and her thigh throbbed. Nadia found her voice as he pulled out into traffic. "Let me go!"
Silver Beard barked a laugh. "I'm not planning on keeping you." His lips turned up into a cruel smile. He planned to sell her.
The sun beamed through the windshield, heating the interior. Sweat coated Nadia's body. She took a deep breath, her heart rate slowing as the adrenaline left her system.
No one could harm her.
Silver Beard parked in front of the hospital, its entry marked by two black flags and soldiers smoking cigarettes, casually holding Kalashnikovs. Silver Beard came around and unlocked her cuffs, pulling Nadia out and into the hospital.
They waited for two hours, the blood from her wound hardening, and her eyes grew heavy with fatigue.
Finally, a doctor saw Nadia. With large pouches under his eyes and a gray cast to his skin, the healer looked worse than Nadia did. He clicked his tongue as he examined the wound. "We'll stitch it up. It will leave a scar." He glanced up at Silver Beard. "Let her rest," he said, his voice gruff. "She needs time off her feet."
Silver Beard laughed. "She is lucky to be alive. I'll do with her as I please."
A nurse sutured Nadia's leg, not looking at her veiled face. After her leg had been bandaged and a bottle of antibiotics thrust in her hand, Silver Beard took possession of Nadia again.
Once again she was a spoil of war. But this was so different. She felt no fear, not even hate. Just a burning righteousness. A powerful sense of calling.
Her clothing was stiff with dried blood, her burka stank of sweat and dust.
As they drove through the streets, Nadia recognized their location—they were returning to the slave market where the Saudi had bought her. Returning to the place where she lost her faith.
This is what God intended. She could spread her message among the women there. She could save so many of them. Her body leapt for joy at the prospect.
Silver Beard pulled up in front, and soldiers came out. She did not struggle as they brought her back into the slave market. Silver Beard headed to the back to negotiate a price. No longer a presumed virgin, and injured, Nadia's value, in their minds, had dropped, and yet she knew her worth so much better than before.
She was not just a daughter, sister, and future wife or teacher. She was Her.
Nadia sought to find compassion for her captors. The horrors of hell and eternal damnation awaited them rather than the heaven they expected. A small smile curled her lips as a guard pulled off her burka.
They would all burn.
While the faces were different than last time, the same quiet, constant weeping filled the space when Nadia entered the slave market. That same stench of sweat and fear thickened the air as Nadia limped to the center of the room.
Soldiers stood guard at the exits. The girls and women sat on the floor huddled together, comforting each other, or staring blankly into space.
Nadia pulled off her robes, the hardened fabric falling to the dirty floor, revealing her bloodied, torn pants and shirt. A ripple went through the room. The guards stood up straighter, watching her, their grips tightening on their weapons.
"I've been sent by the prophet." Nadia's voice rose over the weeping, silencing it. She took her time, scanning the room, holding the gaze of each captive, letting them see the knowledge in her eyes—the value of her soul.
"I have been sent here to free
you."
The room rustled, the women fidgeted, several of them stood. The soldiers by the doors moved forward, glancing at each other.
Their bosses were still negotiating her price. Should they shoot her? What was her value?
"I am Her."
One of the soldiers moved forward, his mouth turned down, eyes burning with rage.
"They cannot take your value from you. You are equal to men. You are more than that. You are goddesses." The soldier reached Nadia and, raising the butt of his gun, rammed it into her stomach. She doubled over, the breath forced out of her.
She couldn't breathe.
The slaves recoiled, fear zinging through the air. Stars danced across Nadia's vision as she stumbled back. Don't fall.
"You are going to hell," she wheezed. "You will be tortured for eternity." Her solar plexus unlocked, and she sucked in a deep breath as the soldier stepped forward, raising his gun again. He aimed for her face, but Nadia ducked and twisted away. "If you do not follow the words of the prophets," she warned, dancing behind the soldier, "your death will only be the beginning."
"Your death is closer than mine," he yelled, turning toward her, the barrel aimed at her now.
Nadia kicked out with her uninjured leg, knocking the gun away and losing her balance, falling backward. A bullet sunk into the floor next to her, and she was caught by strong, thin arms—they pushed her back up, and she leaped at the soldier, grabbing the weapon and forcing it toward the ceiling.
Locking eyes with the soldier, she gritted her teeth, taking strength from the women and girls around her. His eyes burned—he believed as strongly as she did in his righteousness.
Only their deaths would prove who was right.
The soldier pulled the trigger, and bullets fired into the ceiling, raining plaster down onto them, as the gun bucked wildly. Nadia tightened her grip, the loud sound and recoil giving her strength. Her father's voice filled her mind: Hold onto your faith.
I have, Father. I always will.
A young girl jumped on the soldier’s back, and he stumbled. Another guard grabbed Nadia by the shoulders, yanking her off her feet and putting his arm across her throat, cutting off her breath. She thrashed against him, her entire body rebelling as her vision edged with black.
In Sheep's Clothing Page 15
