More of the girls were standing up, crowding in. They were fighting back! Gunfire filled the room, and the girls fell, their bodies crumpling to the floor.
Nadia's heart thudded. They would go to heaven.
The head guard moved into her vision. "Take her to the butcher!" he commanded.
Nadia felt no fear, only faith, as she passed out.
Chapter Thirty
Robert
Robert ducked the punch—Deacon was a decade his junior, but not as fast.
Robert was quick because he had to be.
Deacon whooshed out a breath as Bobby connected with his stomach. The man's sweat sprayed Robert's face. The smell of the gym, the disinfectant and stale body odor, infused Robert with calm.
It was two months since his encounter with Sydney, and Robert was building a new fortune. But it didn't feel the same…not like his youth.
He'd grown up in Miami, desperate for power. Desperate for control. It was Robert's father's fist connecting with his jaw that taught him to be fast, hard, and ruthless.
He'd never gotten the chance to spar with Sydney.
Deacon caught Robert in the side, and he bent into the pain, Sydney Rye's face pushed from his mind as his ribs protested. He spun away, creating space. He bounced on his toes, ignoring the ache radiating from the blow.
At his age, it was better not to get hit at all.
When he started boxing at twelve, it didn't matter. Robert could take a beating and just keep going. Back then, the bruises and swelling, the constant ache of his muscles, urged him to grow quicker, meaner, better.
All his money never made Robert soft. He'd promised himself that no matter what, he'd never be weakened by comfort.
But time weakened all men.
Deacon moved in on Robert slowly. A solidly built, well-trained opponent, Deacon watched Robert from under heavy lids. Blood dripped from a split lip, and his left cheekbone glowed red.
Deacon jabbed at Robert, and he blocked it, stepping away again.
The mats under their feet were getting slippery with sweat. Robert wanted it to be blood.
He kicked out, landing a blow in Deacon's belly. The man bent over his foot, grabbing it and twisting so that Robert flew onto the mat. He rolled away, just escaping a punishing blow from Deacon's elbow. Deacon landed on the mat, rolling in the opposite direction. They both leapt up, grinning.
They sparred for over an hour, and Robert's muscles burned with exertion, his mind gloriously clear, as he entered his room.
His gaze landed on a paper packet in the center of his bed, and a slow breath hissed between his teeth. Robert unholstered his gun from his hip and scanned the room. He approached the closet, his heartbeat steady, breath coming easily. He toed the door open; just his clothing.
The bathroom door stood slightly ajar, a siren calling to a sea captain. Did Robert's death wait on the other side? No, the small space held no danger.
Robert re-holstered his weapon and went to the bed. He picked up the plastic wrapped document packet with JOYFUL JUSTICE printed on the cover.
A laugh escaped him and he shook his head, ripping the cover off and flipping through the pages.
A list of his sins...
Buying oil from Daesh.
Selling weapons to Daesh.
Financial contributions to Daesh sympathizers.
He frowned at that last one. How did they expect him to collect intel without making connections?
After outlining his wrongdoing the document went on to describe how he could avoid the wrath of Joyful Justice: Stop all business with Daesh and stop fraternizing with the enemy.
He shook his head again, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. They just didn't know how the world worked.
Anger sparked in his chest. The millions he'd given to Joyful Justice should have bought him some trust. At least a phone call, rather than this stupid magic trick of leaving an envelope in his room. Joyful Justice…Dan, Mulberry, and the rest of those idiots thought they could treat him like just another scumbag.
Robert rubbed his knee, soothing away his anger. He had no interest in getting into it with Joyful Justice. They'd managed to breach this secure compound, which meant someone here worked for them. Were they believers or just on the payroll?
Robert pulled out his secure phone. Mulberry didn't answer, but Dan did. "Got your letter."
"You're a real bastard."
"And you're an amateur." He kept his voice smooth, unblemished by emotion. "I'm creating inroads, learning about their operations."
"The better to eat them with?" A note of humor lilted Dan's voice.
"I'm trying to find Sydney Rye," Robert lied. He'd given her up. Removed her from his soul.
"Pretty sure you can continue that search without doing what you’re doing."
Robert's grip on the packet of paper tightened. "Don't you think you could have called? We're friends, colleagues even."
"No, Robert Maxim. We are not. Now follow the guidelines set out, or we'll be forced to take action." This wasn't going how Robert wanted. He took a slow, deep breath. "We'll be watching."
Dan disconnected. Robert did not throw the phone across the room. He did not scream or punch anything.
He simply sat on the bed and breathed, releasing all of the anger and pulling a shield of power around himself. No one told Robert Maxim what to do. No one.
Chapter Thirty-one
April
April stared down at her hands. Patches of burgundy polish still clung to the ragged nails. The only evidence of her former life. It was actually hard to even remember what life had been like only a few months earlier.
Wearing beige pumps and a gold cross necklace, floating through the Western world.
And it wasn't just outside appearance—April's faith had been transformed as well.
Where once Jesus and the devil vied for control over her soul, April now had a clear path. Exposed to her by Nadia and her friends, by the sisterhood she felt with them.
And now this, sitting in this stranger's house, a steaming cup of tea in front of her. The black gloves and burka removed, April sat in the apricot seller's kitchen exposed…and yet secure.
Nothing could be taken from her.
She jolted as the image of Farridah falling back onto Nadia burst across her vision. They were in heaven now. Tears stung her eyes and hot droplets fell onto her clasped hands. When would April be allowed to join them?
The apricot seller's home was a humble, simple structure on the outskirts of the village. The woman who had saved April's life lived with her three daughters, alone. Her husband died fighting for Daesh.
It was the video by Abu Mohammad al-Baghdadi that had convinced them of Her.
The oldest daughter, about twelve years old, sat across from April, her hair in long braids, dark and shiny in the low light of the kitchen. "Do you like tea?" she asked, her English accented but clear.
"Yes," April said, reaching out for the steaming cup.
The world was at once crystal clear and hazy. The constant urge to shy away from life, to soak herself in alcohol and escape reality, was gone, replaced with a feverish need to share the truth of her value. To bring others to the realization of their own worth.
To recognize April's value, to believe it in every moment, was at once easier and harder than resisting drink.
"You're very kind." April turned to the apricot seller who stirred a pot of food on her stove. "Thank you again."
The woman nodded and smiled as her daughter translated. Her burka removed, the apricot seller appeared to April to be a few years older than Joy. She spoke to her daughter in Arabic and the young girl translated. "You're welcome to stay."
"I'd like to rest for tonight, thank you. But I must move on."
Where? April didn't know. She just knew that she had to keep moving. Had to keep spreading the word. This woman and her family were already converts. She needed to be among those who did not yet believe.
April shared a
simple meal with the family, then slept on a pile of blankets by the kitchen stove. In the morning April donned her robes and burka, thanked the woman and her daughters, then continued on her quest.
She walked through the village, the heat of the new day beating down on the black of her burka, making her sweat. She carried a small bag with enough food and water for the day. Like most pilgrims, she was dependent on the kindness of strangers to nourish her on this journey.
April walked out of the village with no destination in mind, trusting that the Lord would lead her where she needed to be. She walked all day, and as the sun set April saw two black pickup trucks blocking the road, a village beyond.
A thrill of fear traveled through April, and she stopped, squinting through the mesh of her burka. A Daesh checkpoint. She left the road, walking into the boulder-strewn desert with its scrubby plants, to circumvent the village.
As darkness fell, she settled herself down against a boulder to spend the night. Drinking the last of her water and eating the last of the food, she curled up, the scent of sun-heated sand in her nostrils.
April slept deeply and easily, faith that she was on the right path settling her mind.
She woke to the sound of a gun cocking. Her eyes fluttered open, taking in the figure above her through the mesh of her burka. The morning sun backlit a man dressed in black with a thick beard, unruly hair, and a split lip. A Daesh soldier.
He yelled something she did not understand.
He yelled again, gesturing with his hand for her to remove her burka. April shook her head. A Muslim woman would not reveal herself to a stranger. And April would do nothing this man asked of her. He was a heathen, a confused soul in danger of eternal damnation.
The only way to save him was to show him her value. To convince him of the words of the prophet.
Split Lip stepped forward and kicked out at her. The blow struck April in the shoulder as she turned away. He grabbed her head covering and ripped it off, taking a hank of her hair with it.
The pain brought tears to her eyes, but she did not cry out. April stared up at the man, and he stumbled back in shock, whispering something.
She understood the word "wolf.”
His hand shook on the pistol.
"I am Her," April said in Arabic.
Split Lip shook his head, his eyes widening further. He yelled something, angling his mouth over his shoulder but not taking his eyes off her…like she was a threat. Dangerous. Terrifying. Woman.
Another soldier responded to Split Lip's calls. The two men faced her, April's back still pressed against the boulder. The new soldier was younger, his beard just a shadow on his soft jaw.
April rose slowly to stand. Split Lip yelled, and the new soldier aimed his weapon at her. She put her hands out. "I'm not going to hurt you." She spoke in English.
"You are American?" The young soldier asked, his voice high and accent thick.
"Yes, son, I am."
Split Lip yelled again, his gun aimed straight for her chest.
"I promise not to hurt you." She wanted to save them.
The young man translated, and Split Lip cocked his head, a small smile curling his lips. His finger tightened on the trigger. April caught his gaze and felt the truth of her work, of the word of the prophet. Every atom in her being vibrated with it. With the knowledge that no matter what they did to her, it did not make her less than them. It lowered them, not her. She was going to heaven. They were going to hell.
Chapter Thirty-two
Nadia
The small city of Surama sat in the bowl between steep mountains. The road there was winding and rough. Nadia, pressed between soldiers, sat in the back of an SUV, her hands bound.
"He'll cut you up into tiny pieces," the driver said, looking at her in the rearview mirror.
"Keep your eyes on the road, Naseer," the man in the passenger seat said.
Naseer flicked his eyes away from the rearview mirror. "Then you tell her about it, tell her Abood."
Abood turned in his seat. His beard reached to the center of his chest, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Like most Daesh soldiers, his hair was matted and filthy. "We call him the butcher. He uses a machete. You must have heard of him."
Nadia didn't answer, just held his gaze, repeating in her mind: I have value, I am Her. You can't take anything from me.
Abood grinned; his teeth were crooked and stained yellow from smoking. The scent of tobacco wafted off of him, mixing with the stale body odor of the men on either side of Nadia. "He will start with your feet and work his way up."
"She doesn't looked scared," the guard to her right said.
"She should be, Mujahid, oh, she should be." Abood pulled out a cigarette and placed it in the corner of his mouth. "Her death will only be the beginning. A slow painful death is nothing compared to the hellfires that await her." He lit the cigarette, the smoke seeping from between his teeth as he grinned at her.
Mujahid laughed. "Yes, there is a special hell for women like you."
"You're wrong." Nadia's voice was not her own. The spirit spoke through her. "I will go to heaven. I will be greeted by the true Lord. Those who have worshiped at the spring of life, those who have followed their inner wolf, will be there. Muhammad said to follow his followers—to always do as the first did."
Mujahid shifted in his seat. "That's right."
Abood pulled his cigarette from his mouth.
"That is why you believe in slavery, in torture." Nadia continued. “Because Muhammad and his earliest followers did such things.”
"You have learned the words, but do not follow the path. An even harsher punishment awaits you," Abood nodded, pleased.
Nadia smiled. "You are simple-minded and do not know your history. Have you not seen Abu Mohammad al-Baghdadi's video? The first pious people worshipped the fertility goddess. That is who Muhammad spoke of. Not of himself, but of the descendants of Adam and Eve."
"Abu Mohammad al-Baghdadi is held by our enemy. We cannot believe anything that he says."
Nadia shrugged. "If you're willing to take that chance. But the hellfires await you. Not me. I am a true believer. You are all fools."
Abood pursed his lips. "You will die painfully and spend eternity under the torturous care of the devil you worship." He spit. Nadia flinched when the loogie landed on her cheek. Abood laughed as Nadia reached up, swiping at the disgusting wet spot on her cheek with her bound hands.
I have value; I am Her. You can't take anything from me.
Traffic slowed as they pulled into Surama. The three- and four-story buildings, topped with fluttering black flags, were dwarfed by the towering, rock strewn mountains surrounding the town. The main road led to a central market area. They parked, and the soldiers pulled her from the car, steering her through the stalls, Mujahid on one side, Abood on the other, a fresh cigarette drooping from his lip.
Nadia's heart beat hard in her chest. She was on her way to heaven. The sweet scents of fresh fruit mixed with the dust and stink clinging to her guards. The gazes of the merchants swiveled to follow the procession, a silence falling over all those she passed. She was the walking dead.
The narrow, stall-lined walkway opened up to a central courtyard where a wooden stage squatted. The boards were stained with blood, and a man stood at its center—tall and broad, with a gleaming machete in his hand. Shivers began to chase over Nadia's body, but she kept her head up as the crowd awaiting the spectacle of her execution parted. The burka-covered women, the men dressed in black with long beards and dirty hair, glared at her.
"Whore!" a voice yelled. The chorus was picked up. "Infidel!" The crowd pushed toward her, their voices growing louder. Mujahid and Abood held up hands to keep them at bay. "Let the executioner do his job!" Mujahid yelled.
A shell of faith surrounded Nadia, and while her body shook with fear, her mind remained calm. She had served her purpose and was being called home. To the left of the stage, a video camera mounted on a tripod was aimed at the
stage. Next to it more soldiers waited, with other female prisoners. She caught the eye of each, landing on the last, and with a shock of recognition saw April shackled, her gray eyes bright in the dull light of twilight.
Tears sprung to Nadia's eyes at the sight of her friendly face. They'd go to heaven together.
Mujahid pushed Nadia to the edge of the stage and the executioner bent down, grabbed her arm and hauled her onto the platform. She lost her footing and he dragged her to the center of the wooden stage. The crowd pushed closer, yelling, encouraging the executioner. "Butcher her! Cut the whore!"
The executioner raised his machete, calling for silence as he fisted Nadia's hair and pulled her to her feet. The crowd settled. A black sea of humanity, of fools. Nadia's only regret was that she could not save more of their souls.
"This woman follows a false prophet. She preaches lies!" The crowd booed and spit at the stage. "She has committed a grave sin and must be destroyed."
A cheer went up and the chant began again. "Butcher her! Butcher her!"
The executioner smiled out at the crowd. Nadia closed her eyes, a deep peace coming over her, a warm cloak of faith. She'd lived her life well and would be rewarded.
A solid thawp and the sickening sound of metal hitting bone rang through her body. There was no pain, just a gush of warmth as blood poured from her femoral artery. "I'll cut you piece by piece," his breath brushed against her ear.
"And yet you can never kill me." She opened her eyes and caught his gaze. "I am Her. And I cannot die."
He shook his head slowly as bursts of light began to dance in her vision. A sense of floating overwhelmed Nadia; she was losing a lot of blood.
A shout in the crowd, and the executioner looked up. His face paled. Nadia followed his gaze, over the crowd, past the flapping black flags on the roof tops to the nearest mountainside. A female figure lithely moved down the rocks, a Kalashnikov in her hands—it looked like an extension of her. Behind her a pack of dogs followed, jumping from rock to rock.
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