Veiled by Choice (Radical Book 3)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “It’s just the way Middle Eastern cultures word things. Initial here too.” Joe touched the right-hand corner. “I’ll keep an extra copy to have when you exit Mosul in case the Iraqi government’s memory grows forgetful.”

  “I thought you said I wasn’t making it back out of Mosul alive.” Kaleb quirked half a grin as he flourished his John Hancock across the page.

  “I’ll pray you do.” Joe’s voice was grim.

  Again, religion was kind of what got them into this mess. Laying down the pen, Kaleb stood. “I’ll give Omar a call.”

  Also, he needed to text Cassie and see if she’d picked up his fireproof box before the leasing office discarded it so he’d actually have a bank account and social security number left if he got out of this alive.

  CHAPTER 7

  Mosul, Iraq

  Another night of sentry duty in Allah’s caliphate. Kamal Al-Harbi paced up the Tigris River and gloried in his fidelity. Two comrades marched with him, rifles across their shoulders, the moon shining down on their faces. Though it meant he had to cut his post-sunset Ramadan feast short, he was proud to do his part in keeping the caliphate safe from infidels.

  Beep. A text popped up on his comrade’s phone. The man tugged his skull cap further over his ears. “The emir is in great pain. None of the meds are working.”

  “Have him call for a doctor, not text us.” Kamal motioned for the brother to keep his voice down. The river had swelled to flood stage, but coalition forces lined the opposite bank and bullets could still make it across.

  Also, they had to watch for civilians attempting to escape across the river. The Western newspapers would berate the infidels when their airstrikes killed the elderly and children, which was what would happen in this battle since ISIS had forced all the civilians to stay.

  “The hospital’s out of doctors. They all either fled Mosul months ago, died, or are in hiding. The emir wants us to go house to house until we find a civilian with a medical degree.” The faint glow of the man’s cell exposed him to the aim of any sniper’s bullet.

  “You go. I’ll guard the river.” Kamal shouldered his rifle and paced past shrubs, gaze on the raging torrent, ears strained for any swish of swimming strokes or slap of boat oars.

  “I don’t envy the doctor we find. If he can’t relieve the emir’s pain, the emir will have him killed.” The ISIS soldier shoved his phone into his back pocket.

  A splashing noise sounded from the right. A civilian escaping! Kamal ran toward the noise. Bushes tore at his cargo pants as branches caught in his bootlaces. Water splashed up around his ankles where the flooded river had risen above low-lying shrubs, then he glimpsed something.

  The starlight reflected off light skin. The dark river water churned around a body as a man washed up onshore. He grabbed for a branch. The torrent raged around him. Kamal aimed his rifle at the man’s head.

  The man started yelling in rapid English.

  Kamal had been working on his English ever since last year when an American had escaped under his watch. Kamal strained his ears to hear above the raging water.

  “Omar recruited me! Omar! I’m here to join ISIS. Don’t shoot!”

  Kamal lowered his rifle barrel and motioned to his comrade to handcuff the man. Not many recruits joined these days with Islamic State losing extensive territory so you couldn’t trust anyone.

  The ISIS soldier wrestled the Westerner’s hands behind his back and handcuffed him. The soldier spoke in Arabic. “Six weeks of training and this one will do as a suicide bomber.”

  “I thought we were supposed to make sure the Westerners stayed alive, good PR and all.” Kamal watched the hostage, who knelt in the mud. The handcuffs dug into his wrists, stretching his hands behind his back as he puked up liters of river water.

  “We’re losing Mosul. We need every suicide bomber we’ve got.” The ISIS soldier grimaced.

  With all his might, Kamal cuffed the man across the mouth. “Do not say that. Allah will give us victory. We are God-ordained to hold this ground.” Grabbing the half-drowned man under his shoulder, Kamal yanked him to his feet and switched to English. “We will take you to Omar so you can start training.”

  “I’m a doctor. I’ve got med certificates. I don’t need training!” The hostage yelled and fought against Kamal’s grasp as color returned to the hostage’s face.

  “You’re a doctor?” Kamal dropped the man’s arm.

  “Yes.” The man began fighting against the handcuffs and speaking in too rapid English.

  “What’s the man saying?” the ISIS comrade asked.

  Leaning through the darkness, Kamal tilted his head and concentrated. Sister, that was the word the man kept repeating. “Something about wanting to see his sister, Ava Schlensky?”

  “Oh yes, Raja’s wife.” The ISIS man laughed and spoke in Arabic. “What they say about fat Americans really is true.”

  Whipping around, Kamal glared at the man and spoke in Arabic. “Do not speak so familiarly about our comrades’ wives. It is an insult to Raja’s family.”

  “Yeah, but she’s Western and there are pictures of her all over cyberspace. Besides, I thought Raja was planning on divorcing her.” His comrade scratched behind his ear as he spoke in Arabic. “I’d take her for a Koran-approved temporary marriage. Fat or not, she’s a blue-eyed Westerner. That sounds exotic.”

  Grabbing the handcuff key from his comrade, Kamal twisted it in the cuffs. The metal fell from the Westerner’s wrists. “Take him to the emir at the hospital.” Let the man prove he really was a doctor by relieving the emir’s pain.

  If the man failed to relieve the emir’s pain, well then, Ava Schlensky’s brother likely wouldn’t live until morning.

  Mosul Hospital

  The familiar smell of antiseptics rose from cracked tiles, partially covering the stench of dried blood and urine. Kaleb blinked as his eyes adjusted to the fluorescent lights. He tried to shove aside the brain fog that being almost drowned a half hour ago had created.

  Poorly stocked medical equipment and broken locks confronted Kaleb at every turn. At least the terrorists had taken off the handcuffs. Where was Ava?

  The hospital orderly waved his hands wildly and pushed him toward a room. Broken hallway windows revealed glimpses of the dark night outside. Kaleb shoved the room’s curtain back.

  On the counter of the private room, cracked plastic casing lay around no longer sterile tubing. What did the civilians stuck in Mosul do for medical care? What if Ava got sick? He’d seen janitor closets better stocked than this hospital.

  “Saree, Saree,” the hospital orderly shouted. His scrubs flapped as he gestured wildly to the obese man in the patient cot. No clue what all the Arabic words meant, but it seemed they wanted him to treat this patient.

  Rolling his sleeves up, Kaleb pumped soap from the residue left in the soap dispenser. He cranked the faucet handle. Brown water spurted from the faucet.

  The patient gave an agonized moan and rolled his substantial frame over. He held his left wrist up and shouted gibberish.

  No clue what that meant, but as a doctor he’d sworn to attend to the health of his patients. Also, if he saved this civilian, maybe they’d lose the idea of sending him to a terrorist training camp. Kaleb scrubbed his hands clean with hand sanitizer, then moved to the cot.

  Another man burst into the room clothed in scrubs. This orderly stabbed his finger at the overweight patient, whose greasy facial hair jutted out around his broad cheeks, then tapped the patient’s wrist.

  The obese patient slammed his other hand against the orderly. With a crash, the orderly plopped on his backside on the white tiles.

  What the ####? “I’m a doctor. I’m here to help.” Kaleb tentatively reached for the patient’s wrist.

  With a lusty cry, the patient kicked his rotund foot toward Kaleb’s gut.

  Jumping back, Kaleb stepped aside. The man didn’t appear in any imminent danger so he’d go treat another patient until this one embraced a saner fra
me of mind.

  A gun barrel swung into Kaleb’s face. The new orderly curled his finger around the trigger and spoke in labored English. “Fix pain or I kill you.”

  Whoa!

  The obese patient threw his pillow on the ground and screamed something. The orderly tightened his finger around the trigger. Okay, he was treating the patient now.

  Good thing he’d done a residency shift at the mental hospital. Holding the fat man’s kicking legs down with one arm, Kaleb peered at the patient’s wrist. The skin stretched to the breaking point and a hard sack rose up from the bone.

  Classic ganglion cyst. He’d just need to drain it and the pain would diminish.

  Where could he find a clean needle? Kaleb moved to the cabinet. Dust covered broken plastic bagging. This hospital was trash!

  Outside the room, a speaker blared Arabic words. Was another patient coding? Civilians he’d save. ISIS members maybe, maybe not.

  Kaleb grasped an unopened sharp.

  The patient screamed in Arabic. The orderly tapped his finger against the trigger of the rifle that he still aimed at Kaleb’s head.

  A skinny man in a skull cap ducked in the door carrying an AK-47. He spoke in fluent English. “You attacked the emir—”

  “You’re a translator. Awesome. Tell him this is going to hurt.” Kaleb ripped open the packaging to the syringe and seized the man’s wrist.

  The translator began blabbering in Arabic and waving his rifle.

  Grabbing a bottle of alcohol, Kaleb swabbed the area and yanked on gloves. He plunged the syringe in.

  With a scream, the patient tried to sink his teeth into Kaleb’s arm.

  What he’d give right now for a couple of nurses to hold this patient down. Even better, what if he didn’t have an AK-47 currently pointed at his heart. Jumping on the bed, Kaleb shoved his knee into the man’s gut and held the patient’s wrist steady. Liquid filled the syringe as he drew out the stopper. The entire tube filled. Ouch, that was a large cyst.

  The cyst on the man’s arm deflated and the patient flopped back on the bed as relief washed over his face.

  Ganglion cysts could be wretched painful. By rights, he should run a culture of this fluid. “Do you have a lab?” Kaleb said to the translator.

  Rather than answer, the translator turned to the patient. The patient raised himself on his elbow and chattered away in rapid Arabic.

  Lowering his rifle, the translator turned to Kaleb. “Many thanks. You have spared the emir, the leader of Allah’s army in Mosul, great pain tonight. He wishes to express his gratitude.”

  “The leader?”

  The translator started muttering unintelligible names. Kaleb stared at the syringe in his hand. He’d just helped an ISIS leader. He gripped the syringe stopper and glared at the man’s wrist as he considered inserting this fluid right back into that cyst to put the ISIS leader back in the horrible pain he more than deserved. Forget about culturing this fluid to help the man. Kaleb tossed the needle in the cracked plastic of the sharps box.

  “The emir shall give you a reward.” The translator bowed.

  Kaleb snapped to attention. “Tell him, I want to see my sister.’

  Instead of listening, the translator started pressing buttons on his phone and uttering unintelligible phrases to the ISIS leader.

  An AK-47 barrel pushed back the curtain, and yet another black-clad ISIS foot soldier appeared.

  A baby screamed from outside the curtain. The ISIS soldier shoved a tired-looking woman dressed in black, surrounded by five children, through the curtain. Her face was uncovered, unlike the pictures he’d seen of ISIS women. Snot dribbled down the biggest boy’s nose, and none of the kids looked older than five.

  The woman clasped the screaming baby and two toddlers clung to her dirty skirt. The reek of a diaper that needed to be changed assaulted Kaleb’s nostrils.

  The emir shoved himself to a sitting position, wrinkling papery hospital linen, and started ordering the translator in Arabic.

  The translator twisted on his heel. “As a reward for the great service you have done for the emir tonight, he is giving you this sabaya sex slave, along with her five children to live at your house.”

  “He’s what?” Kaleb felt his eyes expanding to fill the room.

  “Your house is a good house, only a few minutes walk from here. This sabaya sex slave is yours. As the Noble Koran says, all that your right hand possesses is yours to do with as you will, the spoils of war.” The translator made another little bow and gestured to the screaming urchins.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Kaleb’s sweaty hand slid from a stethoscope as his jaw sagged.

  “I shall take her and the children to your house. She will be there when you return.”

  Five screaming children in his house. No! He refused! Kaleb tried to get his shell-shocked larynx working again to say those words aloud.

  The translator happily trotted out of the door, leading the hapless woman and her shrieking children.

  Now, along with saving his sister and helping coalition forces take Mosul, he was also responsible for trying to smuggle this woman and her five snotty-nosed kids out of the city, because that’s what a decent human being would do. Despite that such a plan meant he’d have to endure five screeching kids for the foreseeable future.

  He only hoped this house he’d been gifted had many rooms.

  “I want to see my sister,” Kaleb said. The ISIS soldiers in the room blinked and rotated their heads at the neck, lending an owl-like appearance to their stupid faces. Was one of these men the pedophile who’d abducted his sister?

  With one swift step, Kaleb leaned over the cot. “I want to see my sister!” He yelled the words at the emir’s face.

  The emir shrugged, smiled, then said something in Arabic.

  Where was that idiotic translator? Another soldier passed through the door and gestured for him to follow. Kaleb groaned as he complied and shoved through the hospital room’s curtain. Did no one here speak English?

  Also, what kind of moron thought turning a man’s living quarters into a freaking daycare was a reward?

  CHAPTER 8

  The Al-Khansaa Barracks in Mosul

  The iron bars locked tight around Jessica in the Al-Khansaa barracks. The smell of the latrine pail filled the tiny cell in the suffocating heat. The little girl she’d tried to rescue sat cross-legged at the corner of the cell, staring glumly at the hustle and bustle of Al-Khansaa women in this converted post office. Fatima the girl had said her name was.

  Thirst burned Jessica’s throat. Her empty stomach churned. Al-Khansaa soldiers had brought her nothing but dirty water and moldy rice these past two weeks to break her Ramadan fast. She’d given Fatima most of it.

  Pain seared through Jessica’s shoulders as the handcuffs yanked her wrists together behind her back. The Al-Khansaa guards only unlocked the cuffs at sunset for mealtime.

  With heavy tread, Umm Sultan approached the cell’s door. She twisted the key in the lock.

  Jessica’s stomach clenched. Normally, an Al-Khansaa underling, not the leader, supervised the jail cells.

  Only Umm Sultan’s fathomless eyes showed as she grabbed the barred cell door. “Shower and dress in your finest. It is time for your wedding.”

  The heavy bars swung open with a sigh, opening the passage to death.

  “I refuse!” Jessica stumbled back against the edge of the tiny cell, guarding Fatima with her body.

  Jabbing a rifle into Jessica’s back, Umm Sultan threw her forward. Jessica’s hunger-weakened knees gave out. The concrete floor smacked against her cheekbone.

  Umm Sultan twisted a key in the cuffs.

  Yanking her hands free, Jessica rolled over as blood flowed back into her fingers.

  Umm Sultan’s heavy boot landed in her ribs. “Shower. You smell like a latrine.”

  Jessica’s hair caught under her hands as she struggled to her knees. “Omar will kill me!”

  “Your groom is not Omar.”<
br />
  Bare shins pressed against the baking concrete, Jessica froze. Had Omar died in battle? Praise Allah for his deliverance if that was the case! “Who is my husband?”

  Umm Sultan shrugged, moving the mound of black around her shoulders. “I don’t know. This mujahideen did some great favor for the emir and he decided to reward the man by giving you to him as a wife. Apparently you’re considered a desirable bride, even after your insurrection.” With a snort, the woman shoved Jessica.

  Grabbing the cell bars, Jessica tugged herself to a stand, though pain radiated through her shoulders. Her abdomen contracted.

  “It’s not right.” Umm Sultan glared at her. “Omar paid the dowry to the emir already. He is furious.”

  The man was alive then. A numbing fear passed through Jessica. She grabbed Fatima’s hand and pulled the terrified girl toward the bathhouse at the back of the Al-Khansaa barracks.

  “You can’t take her with you. I’m giving the girl to Omar.”

  “You defy Allah’s law by seizing her from my husband. Does not the Noble Koran say all a woman has belongs to her husband to do with as he pleases?” Jessica trembled as she met Umm Sultan’s gaze. She tugged the mute girl tight against her heart. Adrenaline raced through her.

  Would this new husband want to marry the child off to a friend too? Maybe she could lie about the girl’s age. Fatima looked scrawny for nine and could probably pass for seven, too young to marry by Koranic law.

  With a grunt, Umm Sultan lowered her rifle. “If your husband divorces you, then the emir will give you to Omar. He’s promised that anyway.”

  No! Terror glued Jessica’s feet to the concrete floor. “Why would this man divorce me?”

  “He’s Western. Half the Western mujahideen get bored of their wife in a month or two and divorce her. It is the way of the evil West to only value a woman for sex and not want sons and a family.”

  Had not her own father, and a multitude of British stepdads, acted that way? Terror tore through Jessica’s heart.