Black Ops Heroes of Afghanistan

by Eric Meyer

Chapter Eight

  It was cold in the cell, like being inside a deep freeze. They'd given her a tattered burqa to cover herself, but it was too thin. As the day wore on, she couldn't stop the constant shivering. It worried her they may think she was frightened of what they planned to do to her. She was frightened; anyone would be when facing such a horrific death. The last thing she wanted was to let them believe they'd broken her spirit. She only had one more day in which to suffer the agony of waiting, and the following morning, they'd force her to endure a show trial and the foregone conclusion of death by execution.

  She mitigated her fear by remembering the rewards her priest had promised her in heaven. She'd offer to go to hell if necessary, to escape the vicious Muslim clerics who trailed bloodshed and misery in their wake. She'd sell her soul, if it meant protecting Greg and saving his life. She knelt in prayer and tried to work out how she'd spend the next day, her last day. Faria brought to mind all of the good times they'd had together. A whole day lay ahead when she could enjoy warm recollections of how good life had been for them. Next morning it would be over.

  She began to relax, and even the shivering eased as her mind ceased to dwell on the present, on her awful fate. At times, she left the dank cell for a better place. Sunny afternoons, strolling with Greg across their fields, laughing at his reluctance to do what normal farmers did.

  "It's hard work," he'd objected, "Besides, what does it achieve? These local farming families live their lives in poverty and hunger. What I do is much better."

  She stopped and stared into his eyes. "What you do is settle scores. Every time you go out, I worry you won't come back. You're as bad as Stoner."

  "I'm not that bad. The people I help, all they want is justice. They're not all wealthy. Some of them are in penury."

  "What you mean?"

  "I mean it's not always about money. These poor bastards come to me after the cops have failed them. Either because someone tossed them a bribe, or they're too lazy to get off their fat asses and do some work. If I don't do it, who will?"

  She smiled in disbelief. "You mean you sometimes work for nothing?"

  "Sometimes."

  "You're a pussycat, Greg Blum," she'd told him, "And I love you for it."

  Faria was still smiling when the key rattled in the lock, and the heavy door swung open. Sheik Habib Daud glared at her, and behind him, two jailers watched her, as if she was about to leap forward and beat him to the ground. She waited, wondering what new torments he'd brought for her, another beating, probably. Her back was already raw and bloody. Still, she refused to plead with him.

  If you want to whip me, go ahead. What was it Greg said when he was angry? Yob Tvoyu Mat.

  "I have good news," the Imam sneered at her, "I decided to change the date of your trial and execution."

  She waited. The man was taunting her, and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a response. When she stayed silent, the sneer left his face.

  "I have moved up the date to tomorrow. At 10.00 these men will bring you to my courtroom for trial, and then take you to the place of execution. I have arranged the stoning shortly afterward. I want to give people time to arrive."

  She stared at him. "You mean to do this in public?"

  "Of course, your execution must be witnessed by all, so they can see the mercy of the Prophet at work. Praise be his name. Do you have anything to say?"

  She kept her face neutral, but her words brought an expression of anger and astonishment to his face. "I piss on you, you treacherous, lying piece of shit. When you die, Habib Daud, you'll rot in hell for the way you've terrorized and murdered innocent people. One day, the truth will come out. Or did you think your drinking alcohol and whoring with women would remain a secret forever?"

  He reeled back with shock and snarled at the jailers, "Get out. Lock her up and don't open the door until you bring her to the trial."

  Before he left, he stepped forward with his right hand raised and delivered a stinging blow to her face. She managed to stay on her feet as he whirled and stomped out of the cell. When he'd gone, and the key had rattled in the lock, she sank to the floor with her head in her hands.

  Oh, Greg, I pray these beasts don't get their hands on you. God protect you from their bestial brutality, and let us meet in the next life.