Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

by Chris Stewart

  Ghesha Ghetto, East of Kirkuk, Iraq

  The meeting had been arranged for 9:40 p.m., enough after sunset to be dark but still early enough to allow the parties to get off the streets before the 10 p.m. curfew. Not being a fool, the American had refused to enter the ghetto—not while carrying $10,000 in cash, and especially not with the enemies that he had already made there. And the Iraqi had been reluctant to allow the transfer without his supporters around. After bitter negotiations, they had decided to meet on the ghetto side of the bridge that joined Ghesha Ghetto to the main highway on the other side of the river. There was a turnoff there, a dirt road that led down to the river that was out of sight of the main road.

  At 9:40 p.m., the American was standing in the middle of the dirt road. Behind him, forty meters in the distance and hidden behind a stand of stunted trees, his friend was waiting, his automatic weapon trained on the road. The moon was still low, and the dirty air stole most of the starlight, leaving the night dark and still. The American glanced at his watch as he waited, and then turned his eyes back to the road. At 9:43 p.m., a dusty Mercedes moved slowly toward the bridge and turned onto the dirt turnaround. The American didn’t move from the center of the road, and the driver of the Mercedes kept his lights on bright as he approached. The American turned away and closed his eyes, eager to retain his night vision.

  The Mercedes rolled to a stop not more than two feet from him. The driver cut the engine and then finally the lights. The American turned back to the automobile. His face was dark and hard, and he watched silently as the back door opened and his contact got out. The American peered past him through the dark tinted glass. Another man was sitting in the front seat, but he was barely a shadow behind the dark glass. There was movement from the backseat, but he couldn’t see who it was.

  The Iraqi slave trader approached the American and stood near the front of the car. They summed up each other with menacing glares.

  “Where is she?” the American asked, a hard edge on his breath.

  The Iraqi didn’t answer. “You got a cigarette?” he asked.

  The American shook his head. Not tonight. No time to be nice.

  The Iraqi nodded to the low trees. “How many men do you have back there?” he asked.

  The American bent down, pulled a blade of dry grass from between the ruts in the road, and stuck it between his teeth. “Where is she?” he countered, ignoring the question altogether.

  “Where’s my money?” the Iraqi asked.

  “Who’s in the car?”

  “Where’s your other man?”

  The two men stared at each other, neither of them wanting to give. The American finally tightened his jaw and said, “I’ve got one friend with me. You met him before. He’s back there in the trees. Other than that, we’re alone.”

  The other man nodded. He believed that was true. They had been watching the riverbank for the past two hours or so. They had seen the American, but not his buddy hiding down in the trees, although it didn’t take a genius to figure that was where he would be.

  The Iraqi studied the American and smiled. There was something about him that he simply didn’t like, something that made his skin crawl. He had no right to be here. Ghesha ghetto was for Iraqis, not Americans. No reason for any Americans, especially one he didn’t like, to be in this world. So he would rob him, and then kill him, along with his friend in the trees. Then he would take the girl and work another deal.

  The Iraqi looked around, searching for the American’s car. “And how are you proposing to get out of here?” he asked.

  The American nodded to the river. Up against the bank, mostly covered over with cattails and brush, a low boat had been hidden, small but speedy and maneuverable.

  Glancing at the boat, the Iraqi sensed for a fleeting moment that something was wrong. If the American was a stranger to Iraq, where did he get the boat? And why was he always with his buddy? The Iraqi’s military background suggested the pattern of working in teams this way, but he didn’t dwell on the thought. His mind was too full with the prospect of a pile of thousand-dollar bills. “Where’s the money?” he demanded again, shrugging off the boat.

  The American reached under his jacket and pulled out a thick wad of cash.

  The Iraqi stared and then turned, slapping the hood of the car. The back door swung open and a huge man emerged. Azadeh followed, a dark coat over her shoulders, a burlap bag in her hand. She looked up in fear.

  And the American smiled.

  * * *

  Forty meters upriver, the man hiding among the trees adjusted his weight on the ground. It was dark now, and he was completely hidden. He was lying on his stomach, his elbows at his side to support the weight of the automatic rifle with its night-vision scope. Watching through the scope, he saw the scene as clearly as if it were day. From his angle, he had a clear view of the American’s back and sometimes the side of his head. He also had a clear view of the Iraqi and the front of the car.

  He saw his target slap the hood of the Mercedes, then another man crawl out of the car, followed by the girl.

  The woman beside him rested her hand on his arm. “Is that her?” she whispered directly into his ear.

  The shooter nodded slowly.

  “Please, will you put the gun down now?” she asked.

  The man only grunted.

  “Please,” the woman begged him.

  “Will you be quiet please?”

  She hesitated, knowing it was not a request, and lowered her head to the grass, peering all the time through the trees.

  * * *

  The American looked at Azadeh, and for some reason he winked. She stared at him, bewildered.

  The Iraqi watched her carefully, noting her reaction.

  The Iraqi was confused. Then his heart slammed in his chest, his instinct for survival finally slipping into gear, forty years of training standing the hairs on his neck on end. The smugness about him melted into a feeling of fear.

  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.”

  * * *

  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.

  BREATHLESS

  WRATH & RIGHTEOUSNESS

  [Episode Four]

  CHRIS STEWART

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used factiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locals or persona, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Mercury Radio Arts, Inc.

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  Original Edition © The Shipley Group Inc. (Published by Deseret Book Company) Condensed Edition © 2012 The Shipley Group Inc. (Published by Mercury Radio Arts, Inc. under license from Deseret Book Company)

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover design by Richard Yoo

  And after their reign, when iniquities shall be grown up, there shall arise a king of a shameless face, and understanding dark sentences.

  And his power shall be strengthened, but not by his own force: and he shall lay all things waste, and shall prosper, and do more than can be believed. And he shall destroy the mighty, and the people of the saints[.]

  Daniel 8:23–24

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  ONE

  The woman rushed to Azadeh, sweeping her up in her arms while turning her head away from the dead man who lay crumpled on the dirt. Bono followed her quickly, his M4 in one hand, the barrel pointing upward, his other hand on the holster that was strapped to his chest. Sam stood over the other Iraqi, who was spread-eagled and very still.

  Bono moved to Sam’s side, breathing heavily. He studied the dead man, and then turned away. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I know you didn’t want this to happen. But he was going to kill her. I saw it through my scope. Trust me, Sammy, it was him or her. I made the right call.”

  Sam nodded grimly. “Yeah,” was all he replied. He looked down at the dead man, and then placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder as he considered what they had done; setting up the fraudulent sale to get Azadeh out of the camp, allowing the flesh peddlers to transport her across the roadblocks and through the hazards that bedeviled their broken nation, manipulating the underground to do things they couldn’t have done by themselves. The end result was the Iraqi had unwittingly saved the girl and then chosen to throw his life away.

  A bad deal for a bad guy.

  Given the chance, Sam would do it again.

  He glanced at the car and the shattered windshield. It was impossible to see through the heavily tinted side window; the bullet had entered it cleanly, leaving a single, small hole. Sam had a good idea what was in there, and he didn’t need to look. He nodded toward the front seat. Bono shook his head. “He had a gun on you the entire time,” he said. “They were going to kill you, get the money and, as a bonus, keep the girl. They set us up. You know it. You could smell it. We’ve seen it before.”

  Sam didn’t argue. He knew it was true.
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  He turned to Azadeh, who was standing a few feet from him now. The woman still held her, her arms wrapped high around her shoulders, her hands covering her eyes. It was as if she wanted not only to protect her but to blind her as well, as if it would all go away if Azadeh didn’t see it.

  But Sam could see that the woman was far more shaken than Azadeh. She’s new to this, he thought. Azadeh’s seen this and worse.

  He walked slowly toward them, his hands at his side. The woman kept her arms around the young girl’s shoulders, but Azadeh had turned her head. She watched Sam carefully. Sam, keeping in mind what the military and real-life practice taught him regarding customs of physical contact between non-Muslim men and Muslim women, stopped three feet away. Azadeh pushed away from the woman, turning to face him.

  “Do you speak English?” he asked her, averting his eyes so as not to stare at her, thereby avoiding zina, or adultery of the eyes.

  She shook her head. “A . . . little. Badly.”

  He turned to the woman. She was thick and husky, and wore a hooded heavy jacket. She had dark hair with light streaks of gray, dark eyes and dark skin. She, too, was an Arab. “Tell her,” Sam said. “Tell her who I am.”

  The woman looked surprised. “Tell her? How much? What do you want me to say?”

  “Tell her I remembered her from the village in Iran.”

  Azadeh was listening intently, and she started nodding before the woman could speak. “You American . . . soldier,” she said, pointing at Sam.

  “Yes,” Sam nodded. “American soldier.”

  Azadeh nodded, understanding.

  “Ask her if she is alone now,” he told the woman.

  The older woman spoke in Persian. Azadeh answered in a low voice.

  The older woman looked at Sam. “She said these men took her from Khorramshahr. And yes, she is alone.”

  “Tell her who you are,” Sam instructed.

  The woman spoke quickly. Sam listened, catching as much of the conversation as he could. “My name is Amina,” the older woman began.