Chapter 9
Sand, grit, hot air, and stench. Eric didn’t want to get too comfortable, knowing what filled the air as he rode in the Humvee from the airfield to the compound where Joe had been stationed. The moment he’d stepped onto the military plane, all throughout the rough, uncomfortable flight, and then as he stepped off into the waiting Humvee, he had instantly been back on watch. He wasn’t sure how it would feel to be over here, back in action. The fact was that he’d spent most of his military career at sea. The anticipation of a fight, the adrenaline of leaving home, had him instantly watching every move and aware of his surroundings. It was an animal instinct, one he took for granted when he was home.
It was business as usual when he pulled into the military compound. He stepped out and followed the corpsman to the command post, where he ducked under the flap and recognized DeLaurie, who was surrounded by a dozen or so military, some at computers, some standing over a table, everyone performing some task that kept this military camp running.
“Commander DeLaurie, I’m Captain Hamilton,” he began.
The commander extended his hand and shook Eric’s. “Yes, good trip, Captain?”
“As comfortable as could be, considering the circumstances. Listen, what news do you have on the whereabouts of Lieutenant Commander Reed?”
The commander started over to a large square table where a map was laid out. Personnel stood around it, discussing something. “Master Chief Cassidy, this is Captain Hamilton,” DeLaurie said. “He’s here about Lieutenant Commander Reed, who was captured with Tucker, your man.”
The way the master chief took him in, saying nothing for the longest time, made Eric wonder if the man was about to tell him to piss off. Then the master chief seemed to run his tongue over his teeth and shake his head as if someone had distracted him. He went back to the map, jabbing his finger at a spot. “They were taken here,” he said. “The lieutenant commander followed Tucker, and they got pinned down. We followed the insurgents up here.” He circled the spot on the map. “This group, JILA, has been going through the mountain camps, murdering and displacing these villagers. They’ve been beheading, burying alive, torturing, and stealing the women and children. This group is like nothing we’ve ever seen.
“They’re not simple terrorists,” he continued. “I’ve never seen this kind of military power, and from what we’ve learned, this group is well financed. They have military and tactical abilities beyond the norm. They’re recruiting from other countries to join this faction, from across Europe. They’re also systematically gaining ground in Turkey, Iraq, and Syria. This isn’t an easy in-and-out extraction. And the women they took…” Cassidy just shook his head. “Wouldn’t hold out much hope for their safe return.” He walked around the table to a screen with a satellite feed. “This is their camp, one of them, where we believe they have Tucker and the lieutenant commander. They have a dozen buildings. We think they’re keeping the prisoners somewhere in this area. As you can see from the sheer numbers, getting into this camp is next to impossible. These guys are set up well. They have their own satellite and a weapon source in the Middle East. I swear I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Eric didn’t know what to say as he looked at the encampment. What the hell had Joe been thinking, going in there after them? He hadn’t been trained for this kind of extraction. Why did he feel he needed to be the one to save those women? Had Mary-Margaret been right to worry about Joe and his distractions? Eric hoped he was wrong. If they managed to get Joe out alive, he planned to have a heart to heart with the man about what had been going through his head.
“So what exactly is the plan?” he asked, turning to the commander, who directed his attention to Cassidy.
“Captain Hamilton,” Cassidy replied, “we’re going to have to work out a way of getting in there without getting ourselves killed.”
Chapter 10
Joe opened his eyes. Had he died?
The sun was streaming over his face. There was light, and he realized he was comfortable, no longer on a stone floor with the stench of decay and rot around him. He was warm, on a mattress, covered by a blanket.
“You’re awake. That’s good. I was starting to worry that one of my men hit you harder than necessary. No worries, though. He’s been taken care of.”
Joe didn’t know what to say. He stared into blue eyes so hard they could have been made of steel. The man’s face was square, with a strong jaw. He had brown hair and was of average height, with broad shoulders. Joe could see he was a soldier, a man in good shape. He wore a burgundy knit shirt and black pants, and Joe didn’t miss the tactical watch on his wrist. Nothing cheap or average, it was the kind worn by those in the special forces.
He looked up and took in his surroundings. This wasn’t a prison—this was a home, a nice one, judging by the stone walls, the lighting, and the four-poster bed he was lying on. There was an area rug in rich gold, as well as green chairs, occasional tables, and artwork. It was the comfort level that surprised him.
He heard a strange sound. The man spoke perfect English, with no accent, as he sat there watching Joe, arms crossed over his chest at the end of the bed. He was focused on Joe and then glanced ever so slowly across the room, as if leading Joe with his eyes to what had made the noise. Joe followed where he was looking, and it took him a moment to get through the shock of seeing a woman chained to the wall.
She had her legs bent and curled up, trying to hide her naked body. She had dark skin and short, dark hair, and he could see only the side of her face, as she was looking down, her wrists cuffed. The chain was looped to a hook in the wall by her head. It was Grieger, and he realized then that the sound he had heard was her whimpering. What the hell had been done to her?
“She’s a fine specimen,” the man said. “My men have enjoyed her well.” He wandered over to a chair: dark wood with a deep, plush velvet seat. He lounged in it and ran his finger under his lips as he glanced at Grieger and then back to Joe—as if the lieutenant was an animal, not even a pet to be treated humanely. She had been left tied for when he was ready for her. Joe could see she meant nothing to him, and her fate was yet to be determined.
“A man like you shouldn’t have to put up with women in positions of authority,” the stranger said. “It’s not right, what the Western world deems necessary. Women have a place, but war and fighting…those are a man’s role. We need more great fighters to rid the world of immorality, of laziness. Look at the mess your Western culture is in: children who disrespect their elders, daughters who shame their parents with premarital sex and pregnancy, and women who compete with men to do things only a man should do. Islam is the only way. It restores balance. Everything else must be destroyed.”
A man walked in, dressed in a long-sleeved knit shirt and fashionable dark pants. Another soldier, maybe. He leaned down and whispered something to the other, and it took Joe all of two seconds to figure out that the man who had been lecturing him was in charge. He had no idea who he was. The man nodded and then flicked his hand in the air as if to dismiss the other man, whose dark hair, olive skin, and dark eyes showed his Iraqi heritage.
“Come, the show is about to start,” his captor said. He paused for a moment. “Or do you need help?” The way he asked, Joe was smart enough to realize that weakness of any kind in the face of this man would be a mistake.
“No, I’m fine,” he said. He was far from fine, but he made himself roll to his side and put his hand on the bed, pushing himself up as he struggled to hold steady. His arm was shaking, and he fought the nausea, wondering if he had a fractured skull. He knew what a concussion was—he’d had a few. This was worse.
He put his boots on the ground and felt the room sway but grabbed hold of the foot post and held on. He breathed deep, and his vision blurred for a moment. He saw the man was pleased.
Joe realized then that his head was now bandaged, gauze covering his forehead. At least he wasn’t bleeding anymore. The man snapped his fingers, and the s
ame soldier who had been there a moment ago appeared at Joe’s side, grabbing his arm and looping it around his shoulder to help him walk. He panicked for a minute, wondering if maybe this was it for him.
“Do not worry. Mijala will help you walk,” his captor said. “You’ve proven yourself already. I don’t want you falling over and missing this show I prepared just for you.”
Joe didn’t know what to make of this man or his show, but his Spidey senses had been screaming from the moment he woke in that concrete hole. There was nothing he could do for Grieger right now. He could hear her whimpering softly. This show…he didn’t want to know what it was, because his worst fear was that he was walking into his torture or execution.
A door opened, and bright sun and hot air filtered in. There was yelling and shouting and sounds of men celebrating. For Joe, fear underlay everything: the fear of dealing with someone, something, that wasn’t sane.
There were men, fighters, everywhere, scarves covering their faces. All carried guns. It was dusty, dirty, and hot. A long line of people—women, he thought—was being led in. They were covered head to toe, tied together by a long rope. Men were leading them roughly. Joe could hear crying, begging as he took in the man beside him. His captor watched over the proceedings. There wasn’t an ounce of sympathy in his expression.
“I seem to be at a loss. You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” Joe found himself saying. He wondered whether that was smart. Either the man would tell him, kill him, or beat him. He didn’t know what would be worse, but whatever this hell was, whatever he was witnessing, he didn’t believe for a minute he would ever walk out of here alive.
“Ayoud,” his captor said. “I will make this easy for you, as I see you’re trying to piece together who I am.” He nodded at someone in the arena.
“I don’t understand,” Joe said. “You’re white―” He stopped himself before he could say “not Iraqi, not Muslim, not a terrorist.”
“My mother was a white woman, a Christian. My father owned her, bought her, but I am very much here for Allah.”
There had to be dozens and dozens of women in the center of what Joe could only think of as an arena. Men surrounded them, but there was an opening right in front of Joe and Ayoud. The leader wasn’t that old, close to Joe’s age.
Joe was standing on his own now. The man who had helped him onto the balcony had already stepped back. Joe didn’t understand a word being said. A man in the center of the women was talking on a bullhorn, shouting to the crowd. He didn’t recognize the dialect spoken—maybe Armenian, Kurdish? He wasn’t sure.
As he shrewdly watched over the auction, Ayoud said, “These are the brides our fighters have finished with. They will be slaves to Allah.”
The women were treated roughly, forced to their knees. A man ripped one’s garment open to show her white body, her breasts and nakedness below. She was marked, red streaks across her stomach, obviously from someone’s whip. It wasn’t lost on him that Islamic law required women to remained covered at all times in public, yet they were shaming these women, keeping their own faces covered. He was sickened by the brutality. Men were calling out, raising their hands. It was obvious that a woman had been sold, as she was handed, or rather dragged, to another man. Her scarf fell off exposing thick blond hair, a mass of natural curls. There was screaming and crying, women struggling. They knew their fate, and Joe now understood what Tucker had said about it being a mercy to put a bullet in their heads. And he realized in horror Dunlop had just been sold.
The smug bastard beside him was smiling. He winked at Joe, jutting out his chin. “A bargain he got, ten of your American dollars. She was tasty, your Dunlop, but not the innocent she pretended to be.”
Joe saw his hands around Ayoud’s throat before he realized what he was doing. He heard his own shouts before a gun was in his face and an arm around his throat had him dropping to his knees. He’d definitely shaken Ayoud, and the man was angered—he could see it in his face as he shouted something and gestured angrily. Then a man was dragged out, wearing a US military uniform, his head covered with a bag, hands tied behind his back. He struggled and was kicked over and over, forced to his knees, the bag ripped from his head.
Tucker’s face was a mess. He was bleeding, his face swollen and bruised. Joe suspected broken bones, by the way he was leaning. A foot was jammed into his back.
“Your friend. You want to share his fate?” Ayoud yelled in his face.
Joe felt as if he was in the presence of pure evil. It was beyond reasoning, beyond anything. Maybe Tucker was the lucky one. There wasn’t a thing he could do as he was forced to watch one of the most brutal, horrific things he had ever seen: the beheading of the special forces comrade he didn’t know the first thing about. Did he have a wife, a family? All Joe knew was that he had been called Tucker.
He fainted.
Chapter 11
“Here, here, over here! They’ve just uploaded another video. It’s already gone out,” one of the computer programmers yelled out from the confines of the tent in the compound. “Do I shut it down?”
“What is it?” the commander called, and Eric looked over the corpsman’s shoulder. The programmer wore thick glasses and had dark hair. His fingers were racing over the keyboard. He was sweating.
Eric could see the video. “Is there audio?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, there is.” The corpsman pressed a button on his computer, and sound filled the tent. The video showed some camp and what appeared to be hundreds of armed men. A line of women was dragged in, tied together, completely covered. “An auction,” the corpsman said. “This is their camp. The video’s from the same group Dunlop was communicating with. These guys are good, though. They’re always one step ahead. They pop up somewhere else with another satellite, a new IP. They’re hard to track, but not impossible.”
“You sound mighty sure of yourself. What are we watching, here?” Eric asked.
“Oh, shit, sir, do you see this?” The camera zoomed in to a balcony, and there was Joe, a bandage wrapped around his head.
“I do. It looks like we found our camp,” Eric replied. The master chief was snapping his fingers at someone, and the corpsman turned to him.
“Sir, do you want me to shut this down? It’s already gone out on the net, and it won’t take long to go viral.”
“No, don’t,” Cassidy yelled before the commander could give the order. He leaned closer over the corpsman’s shoulder. “Can you get a read on exactly where this is?”
“They’re blocking me, sir.” The corpsman was running his fingers over the keys. “But hell, yeah. I’m a lot better than they are.”
What a cocky attitude this kid had! Maybe it was a good thing he was on their side.
“Look at Joe,” Eric said, pointing to the screen. “He doesn’t look too good. Anyone know who that is he’s standing with?”
“Do we have eyes on this?” the commander called out. “I want face recognition done on that guy standing with the lieutenant commander.”
“On it, sir,” someone called out from across the room.
Eric couldn’t believe what he was watching. Joe was barely standing, but the man he was with had light brown hair, the same height and build. He appeared to be in charge. He wasn’t that old, either. Eric crossed his arm across his middle, rested his elbow over his arm, and ran his thumb over his teeth. “What the hell are we watching, here?” he asked.
On the screen, a woman’s garment was ripped open. She was naked underneath, a faceless blonde. There was crying and shouting and bidding, and the video zoomed in on the women, who were kicked and pushed to their knees. Then the blonde was dragged away.
“Can anyone translate what they’re saying?” Cassidy called out.
A short, dark-haired man with a narrow face stepped forward. “Sir, that’s Armenian. He’s saying these are all brides to the fighters, and they’ve finished with them. They’re being sold now as slaves. The first one is American—spoiled, used, a tricks
ter.”
“Who is it?” Eric asked. He didn’t have a clue, because they couldn’t see a face. There was nothing. She was dragged away, screaming and crying, and the video went to the balcony. Joe was fighting with the man, and then two soldiers had him on his knees, a gun to his head. The man was yelling at him. Joe was angry about something. The video zoomed in on a man struggling, being dragged out, fighting and making it as hard as he could on his captors.
“That’s Tucker. I don’t need to see his face to know it’s—oh, mother of God, please, no!” the chief called out, and everyone in the room fell silent.
“We need to shut this down before everyone in America sees this,” Eric said. He didn’t need anyone to explain what was about to happen, because it was over before he could fully understand it. One of the men they were looking for had just been beheaded.
“Shut it down now!” The commander gave the order, and the corpsman took the video down, but not before millions across the world could witness the atrocity. Eric knew this power was beyond anything the personnel around him had encountered before.
The computer screen shattered as the master chief hurled something across the room.
Chapter 12
She was gorgeous, and she was his. He couldn’t wait to taste her, to have her under him. She appeared so shy at first as he closed the door to their hotel room. It was nothing fancy—he couldn’t afford fancy. Even the cheap bottle of wine chilling by the bedside had been a splurge for him.
“I can’t wait to get you out of that dress.” He started toward his bride as she stood there in a long white gown with lace sleeves, the veil pinned in her short, dark hair.
“There’s a lot of buttons to undo. You may want to get started,” she said, giggling, turning around so he could see the tiny pearl buttons that started at her waist and continued up to the back of her neck.
He moved the veil aside, feeling the texture on his fingers. He could smell her flowery scent, her perfume, and he leaned down to kiss the side of her neck. He started working the tiny buttons one by one. “How many do you have on here, a hundred? Who makes these things, anyway?” He couldn’t believe the work he had to go through to get her out of this dress. “Someone with intent to torment a new husband, I bet.”
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