Fatima turned big, round eyes to her.
Jessica tugged Fatima into a hug, but her arms could bring no comfort to the child, for Umm Sultan spoke the truth.
Though Taban had beaten her, he’d never divorced her, nor cast her aside to be passed from temporary husband to temporary husband in Allah’s caliphate. As an Eastern man rather than a Western one, Taban had spoken eagerly of raising children together and wrestling with his future sons around the dining room table. He’d wanted family ties and a lifetime with a woman, not just sex.
For a wild moment, Jessica darted her gaze to the door. ISIS patrols guarded the streets night and day. She’d never make it out of this barracks with a child. Besides, even if she did hide in an abandoned building, as a single woman unable to get the daily food allotments, she and Fatima would starve.
Cuff. Umm Sultan’s gloved hand hit Jessica’s face. “Prepare for your wedding.”
Tears collected behind Jessica’s eyes. Beside her, Fatima whimpered.
Al-Khansaa women lined the converted post office, their hands on rifles as they forced her to marry a stranger. This new husband could marry off Fatima to a monster. He could beat her or the child. He could divorce her, throwing her and Fatima into Omar’s murderous hands, and yet no possibility of escape existed. Jessica’s heart beat against her ribcage.
Fatima shook, tears rolling down her cheeks as she clenched Jessica’s hand. The child turned big, brown eyes up to Jessica, so much trust in that little face.
Holding her chin high, Jessica stiffened her shoulders. She’d not fail Fatima’s trust. If all this Western man wanted was sex, then that’s what he’d get.
Moving into the Al-Khansaa barracks, she tugged her suitcase out from under her old bunk. The lacy folds of lingerie she’d bought three years ago shimmered in the dusky light.
Her only chance to protect Fatima was to please this new husband.
Mosul, Iraq
A House’s Backyard
The sun beat down on Kaleb’s head. He prodded the blister his water-logged boots had made above his peroneus tertius tendon as he sat cross-legged on dirty weeds in the backyard of a house that made his Denver apartment look huge.
ISIS expected him to share a five-hundred-square-foot house with five bawling children? Yep. Which is why he was sitting out here in the grass-covered weeds trying to block out all the small child whining and bodily noises that rose from inside. Also, the oldest boy was tumbling around the weed-covered dirt and if the kid wandered off and managed to get himself killed, he’d feel kind of responsible.
The sun reflected off the shiny plastic of a cell phone. One good thing about the emir’s favor, the man had given him a phone. Flipping up the cover of the ancient phone, Kaleb punched in Joe’s number.
“As-Salamu Alaykum.” Joe spoke on the other end of the line.
“I don’t speak Arabic.” Kaleb dropped his voice to a guarded whisper as he watched the neighboring houses. “I have no information on where you should send airstrikes, or really any idea where I am. I accidentally saved an ISIS emir, and no one’s letting me see my sister.”
“You’re still alive.” Joe’s smile shone across the phone.
Kaleb groaned. “You wouldn’t happen to have a boat stashed anywhere inside Mosul, would you? Ava can swim, but we need to get five infants and toddlers and a native woman out too because the emir ‘gifted’ me some kind of sex slave.”
“He did? Let me talk to her.” Joe’s voice was eager. “She might have intelligence that can help us.”
“Is it safe to reveal my identity to her?”
“She was sold as a sex slave by ISIS, after, no doubt, seeing all her male relatives beheaded. Trust me, she’s on our side.”
Standing, Kaleb walked toward the house. Thorny grass crunched under his feet, stabbing through his epidermis layer of skin all the way to his dermis.
Oww! He hopped over the last eighteen inches and landed on the broken concrete step by the back entrance. The glass door creaked as he slid it open. “Hello, um, I don’t speak Arabic and you don’t speak English, but if you could come over here, I really need to talk to you.” Kaleb hit Speaker on the phone.
The ISIS captive rounded the corner, her spine rigid, terror stiffening every muscle beneath her pasty skin. A toddler clutched her skirt, the child’s eyes round too.
Arabic words spilled from the phone’s receiver as Joe spoke. Soon, the woman’s big eyes relaxed and her expression softened. She started to smile. The woman began talking at an insanely rapid rate and wringing her hands.
Eventually, Joe switched to English. “I told her, I’ll try to find a smuggler leaving the city by boat to get her and her children out.”
“Sounds great.” If he could just hurry up and find Ava, they’d all be out of here.
“Crossing the river isn’t safe. There’s a large possibility of getting shot either by friendly fire or ISIS, but the woman said she’ll risk it. Think before you decide to accompany her.”
As if there was a decision to make? What else could he do? Stay here and hope the coalition forces took this street soon?
“What are the conditions like in the city?” Joe asked.
“There’s not much food or clean water.” Kaleb turned his gaze to the captive woman. Her ribs protruded from her dress and the children looked malnourished.
“ISIS launched a rash of suicide bombers this week, killing dozens of coalition forces. If we can’t find where to launch airstrikes, this battle could drag on for months yet.”
“I’ll head out first thing tomorrow to look for airstrike targets.” Static crackled and the line went dead. Kaleb laid down the phone.
At his feet, the toddler girl stretched up to tippy toes and made Arabic sounds as she reached for the food bubbling on the stove. Only one plastic bag of beans and some withered vegetables sat on the shelf above the stove. A carton of bottled water stood beside them. Kaleb took a ceramic bowl and dished the steaming goop into a bowl for the child.
The kid sat cross-legged on the floor and started shoveling the stuff into her mouth like she hadn’t eaten in days.
The tromp of many feet sounded in “his” front yard. Thud. Thud. Knocks thundered against the front door.
Stuffing his phone in his pocket, Kaleb strode to the front window. His heart pummeled blood through his veins as he tugged back the black curtain. Amidst the sun-hardened dirt and thorny grass of his front yard stood a horde of ISIS soldiers.
Epinephrine surged through Kaleb. The rusty door hinges creaked as he walked outside, without a gun, to face a dozen ISIS soldiers. He pulled the door shut behind him with a click.
The wispy translator from the hospital moved across the broken concrete walkway to the front of the soldiers. The emir waddled up behind him, the drained cyst on his right wrist exposed to the germ-ridden dust.
The emir owed him and this time he intended to start off the reward negotiation. Kaleb spread his feet and tried not to focus on the grenades hanging off each of the men’s belts. “I need more food and I want to see my sister.”
“Has the gracious emir not given you much food?” The translator gestured through the scorching heat. “You cannot eat an entire bag of beans in a day.”
“I can’t, but there are six other people in this house now. The bottled water’s already almost gone.” Judging by the stench that came from the water spilling from the house’s pipes, he didn’t dare let the children drink it, even after boiling it.
The translator made a scoffing noise. “You don’t need to feed the slaves. Eat your fill.”
Starve the children, great, perfect solution, problem solved. “I need more food and I want to see my sister.” Toddlers needed at least twelve hundred calories a day to provide for optimal brain growth.
“It is not even sunset. No one can eat or drink yet.” The translator pointed to the streaks of orange and gold that had begun to color the sky.
Ha! He’d downed half a gallon of water as soon as he ent
ered that house just to make up for what he’d lost in perspiration. “It’s for the children.”
“The children must obey Allah’s law and fast as well.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Kaleb stared at the translator.
Behind the men, black-clad women moved. Most of the women slung rifles over their black body veils. Were they part of the feared Al-Khansaa brigade?
The armed women pushed another slightly shorter lump of black forward. A child clung to the black lump’s gloved hand.
“The emir has honored you with a wife.” The translator bowed, his jacket shifting around his scrawny chest.
No! Kaleb stared. “You already threw a native woman and five poopy-bottomed kids into my five-hundred-square-foot house. Take the wife person back.”
“The woman’s orphan charge will also accompany her, though she is old enough to marry and we suggest you choose a husband for the girl soon.” The translator drew the skin around his chin tight as he pressed his mouth into a firm line.
Splendid, another kid in his house. Kaleb turned his back on the woman and looked at the translator. “Tell the emir, the only reward I want is to see my sister. I’m not getting married.”
The translator turned and spoke in Arabic syllables to the ISIS dirtbag. Good, because there were already six people in that miniscule house with only one sack of beans to feed them all. He was not upping the number to eight.
Turning, the translator glared at him and motioned to the lump of black, who promptly waddled up to his front doorstep. “I told the emir that you are grateful for the gift of a wife. You’d be wise to keep your remarks in a similar vein next time you address the emir, especially since you missed the mandatory afternoon prayers.”
Stupid Muslim prayer services. He’d already attended three too many of them and been forced to render obeisance to the god who hated Jews. “I want to see my sister.” Kaleb stepped around the woman toward the emir. “Tell him that.”
The translator inclined his head and spoke Arabic words. The emir leaned close to the translator’s ear, then the translator turned to Kaleb. “The emir says, ‘He shall see his sister if her husband will permit it.’ ”
Great, ask the rapist for permission, wonderful idea. “I’m her brother! I thought ISIS was all about the closest male relative thing.”
“She is married, so her closest male relative is now her husband. And didn’t I already tell you it would be wise to keep your mouth shut?” The translator narrowed his hooded eyes into slits, only the blackness of his pupils visible.
Fine, shutting up now, but he needed to find Ava.
“The emir says, ‘Enjoy your bride, doctor.’ ” The translator made a little bow.
Oh yeah, a dumpy woman clothed in a garbage bag who doesn’t even speak the same language as you gets thrown on your doorstep, with yet another snotty-nosed kid. So sexy.
“Didn’t Muhammad go on and on about the importance of familial ties?” Kaleb raised his voice toward the departing horde.
The translator whipped around, hand on his rifle. “Say P-B-U-H after you say the prophet’s name.”
“Say what?” Kaleb quirked one eyebrow. The men’s AK-47 barrels glinted in the hot air. Apparently, the emir’s newfound trust in him didn’t carry so far as to provide him with a weapon.
“P-B-U-H, it is short for ‘peace be upon him’ and should always be said after any prophet’s name.” The translator waggled his self-important nose.
P-B-U-H stood for ‘peace be upon him?’ More like peanut butter be upon the wretched prophet who had got his sister caught in this death trap with a rapist.
Kaleb glanced at the black-shrouded woman currently standing two paces away on the front step of his house, as confidently as if she expected to enter that house as his wife.
CHAPTER 9
Mosul, Iraq
A House’s Front Garden
Through the folds of black, the hard angles of the front door of the house that was to be her prison dug into Jessica’s back. She peeked through the worn spot in her veil as the ISIS soldiers spoke to the man who the emir had given her to as a wife.
Unlike the last nine months she’d patrolled these streets, she no longer had a Kalashnikov on her shoulder. No longer could she cradle her hand around the spot where the paint had rubbed off and at least pretend that rifle would protect her from anyone who wished her harm.
No, her fate and that of Fatima’s now entirely rested on the whims of this new husband. Several black-clad ISIS men gathered around a man wearing blue jeans and a plaid button-down shirt that screamed American cowboy.
The man’s beard was soft, no more than brown peach fuzz gently outlining his solid jaw, so unlike the wiry projections of other ISIS men. He must be a new recruit, because ISIS mandated at least a fist-wide beard.
Red rose across his cheekbones and he waved his hand and spoke English.
Clasping Fatima’s hand, Jessica strained her ears to hear what the translator was saying, but the cloth blocked the sound.
An Al-Khansaa soldier gestured at her with an AK-47 and shoved marriage papers under her nose. The moment felt surreal, as if she’d jumped out of her body and hovered above it, watching herself move. She must follow the same advice she gave that girl, Ava. She must please this new husband.
How did Ava fare? It’s not as if she could visit her. Wrapping her gloved left hand around the pen, Jessica clumsily made her signature. So much for the idea of a community of sisters in Islamic State that Taban had sold to her when he insisted she join him in ISIS territory.
Her blood pounded in her eyes. She would pray for Ava during the five prayers, which she would now observe alone, locked in that house in front of her. Would she ever feel the wind on her face again like she had in England?
“Doctor,” the emir said.
Her husband was a doctor? Jessica’s heart skipped beats. That was good. Surely a doctor would be less prone to violence than a warrior? Then again, if he worked at the hospital instead of leaving for days at a time on jihad, she’d never be able to escape his violence.
Her stomach twisted over itself. Taban had told her that she could drive any man to violence by her immature habits.
Her new husband shouted something and waved his hands again. He seemed on edge, like those tigers one saw stalking their cages in England. An ISIS soldier shoved a pen at her husband. He scowled as he signed the proffered marriage papers.
The man did not seem thrilled at who he’d gotten for a wife. Had he heard tales of how she’d pulled a gun on Omar? Jessica’s breath came in uneven gasps.
If this man had heard that story, he’d divorce her! Jessica sucked in oxygen through the suffocating black fibers. She had to find a way to please this husband, because if he divorced her, the emir would marry her to Omar, and Omar would force the little girl beside her to bear children for her mother’s murderer.
With one more angry wave of his arms, her husband shoved the door to his home open, marriage ceremony complete.
Jessica’s feet went numb, but she forced herself to step inside that arched doorway as Fatima trailed behind her.
As she moved past her husband, her shoulder brushed his chest.
Through the layers of veils, all she could smell was sweat. Was it his or hers? He wasn’t inordinately tall, but she was short and her head didn’t come much past his shoulders. If only she still had her Al-Khansaa rifle.
The door fell shut behind her, closing out the last she’d see of the sun for how many days, weeks, or months? With Al-Khansaa, she’d had an excuse to travel all across the city and she knew every street by heart, but most female citizens of ISIS never left their own doorstep.
A dining room spread out about her in the dimness. Only a few slivers of natural light made it past the heavy curtains overhanging the window. A narrow doorway led to what looked like a kitchen and freshly cooked beans and rice sent up an appetizing aroma. Her stomach growled.
Why was the food out now? No one cou
ld let food or water pass their lips until the sun set completely and that would be another half hour at least. Jessica swallowed dry spittle as her head spun and faintness overcame her.
A Yazidi woman moved out of the kitchen with a baby on her hip.
Her husband owned a sex slave? Jessica cringed for the woman, for the woman’s children, and for herself and Fatima. She’d heard rumors from other ISIS brides about how owning a sex slave inspired their husband to divorce them.
With a gulp, Jessica swallowed down the bile inside her.
Her husband kicked a pottery urn. It broke and he swore to raise the ceiling and launch it all the way to Allah’s paradise.
The man did hate her already. Jessica lost feeling in her feet. Cold wrapped around her limbs even in this stifling heat.
Fatima cowered behind her, rightfully afraid of what this man would do to them. Jessica studied the man in front of her, who now represented her only source of food, clothing, shelter, or ability to protect Fatima.
He had soft hair, brown tones mixed in the dirty blond. His eyes were dark. He had an athletic build, but more in the strong runner style, than weight lifter. Great teeth. Most importantly, however, he had a temper.
Panic flashed through Jessica. She glanced to Fatima. If she displeased this husband, which it seemed she already had, he’d divorce her. All he had to do was say “I divorce you” three times. Then the emir would marry her off to Omar and he’d hand this prepubescent girl over to be raped by her mother’s murderer.
With a whimper, Fatima shrank back against the black and gold curtains, her narrow shoulders trembling.
Jessica reached behind her and clutched the girl’s hand. In Arabic, she whispered, “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
Dropping the girl’s hand, she turned to her new husband on whom all her promises of safety to Fatima depended.
Bracing her chin, Jessica reached for her veil and steeled herself for the task ahead. She had to somehow ingratiate herself with this stranger so he didn’t divorce her, beat her or Fatima, or do any of the other terrifying things that were perfectly legal for him.
Veiled by Choice (Radical Book 3) Page 7
