Sidney did manage to get a little sleep, but someone came to wake her up in the middle of the night. The flap of her tent was pulled back, and a cold wind rushed in. The icy blast woke her, and she saw a Brother stood in the doorway. He didn’t say anything; they never did. He just stood there.
She opened her eyes but apparently, he couldn’t see her.
“Yes?” She said.
He studied her for a minute. Then, in Arabic, he said, “Get dressed. Abu Kishaa has been arrested.”
He closed the flap, and everything was dark again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It wasn’t wholly accurate to say Abu Kishaa was arrested. He was more like kidnapped. He was being held on a cargo ship floating in the Red Sea. It was a narrow shipping lane that was claimed by both Egypt and Saudi Arabia. They fought over it in courts and not with warships. So, it was essentially a lawless pass.
A Brother piloted the boat as they made their way up to the container ship. It was a fishing boat with two outboard motors. Somebody must have stolen it because it looked more expensive than anything Abu Kishaa’s band could afford. Sydney sat on a bench seat in the back of the boat with another follower named Al-Misri, the Egyptian.
Al-Misri changed out of his linen pants and shirt and into a dark business suit. He wore leather wingtip shoes, a white shirt, and a red tie; it was the quintessential power suit. He looked every bit the high-powered lawyer he was back in Saudi Arabia.
They pulled up alongside the container ship. A guard stood on the ship with an AK-47 strapped to his chest wearing black fatigues and beret. Al-Misri shouted up to the guard in Arabic. “We are followers of Abu Kishaa. We’ve come to have a word with you.”
The guard said something to another guard nearby, who then threw down a rope ladder.
Al-Misri motioned for Sydney to go first. Why am I always included in this, she wondered?
Sydney climbed up the shaky ladder buffeted by salty wind. Al-Misri followed her.
When they got to the top of the ladder, the guards helped them onto the boat. The first guard frisked her, both too roughly and too gently for what was necessary. He squeezed her arms and thighs, slapping her across the back, searching for guns. When he got to her butt and inner thighs, his touch turned gentle, almost like a caress. Sydney’s skin crawled, but she was thankful he was more interested fondling her because it made him sloppy, and he missed her slim satellite phone.
So much for not lusting after thy neighbor’s spy.
After the guard was finished sexually harassing Sydney, he slapped her on the butt to tell her he was done frisking her. She clenched her jaw and instinctively tightened her fist as she reached for the pistol she usually wore in the back of her waistband. Of course, it wasn’t there. All the same, if she’d shot him, it would probably really mess up the negotiations.
The guard frisked Al-Misri, suddenly becoming much more professional. Once he was done checking Al-Misri for guns, he waved for them to follow. They walked through a maze of shipping containers. Conex containers were stacked three high and lined up like rows of buildings with narrow alleys in between. They were in all different conditions. Some looked brand new with glimmering stainless steel, and others were rusty and dilapidated. Was this a working container ship?
Al-Misri tried to brief her on the way over, but he didn’t know much about Abu Kishaa’s captors. They were a group of militants who called themselves the Custodians of the Two Mosques. They were Sufi Muslims who believed in mysticism, a restored caliphate, and extreme violence.
The guard led them through the maze until they came to a container. It was rusty red in places and drab blue in others. It looked to have been painted a few times, but the most recent coat was wearing down, showing the old coats underneath. Another guard stood outside the container with a rifle.
The first guard said to him in Arabic, “Open it.”
The guard produced a key from his waistband and unlocked the padlock. The container door opened with a creak.
Al-Misri and Sydney walked into the dark, dank heat of the container. The only light came from the open door.
Abu Kishaa sat on a metal folding chair with his hands cuffed behind his back. He lifted his head when they walked in. His lip was burst, swollen, and bleeding. One of his eyes was purple and green and completely swollen shut. His cheek was also terribly bruised. He wasn’t the worst looking captive Sydney ever saw, but they’d worked him over good. His hair hung limp and sweaty against his head.
The son of God got the crap beat out of him and captured? Chemosh has a weird way of showing his love.
Abu Kishaa smiled. His teeth were bloody, but they seemed to all be there.
“I know what you are thinking,” he said.
Do you?
“You are wondering how the son of Chemosh found himself in such a pitiful state.”
Okay, I guess you do. Lucky guess.
Al-Misri said, “Don’t worry, Prophet. We’ll get you out of here.”
Abu Kishaa sighed. “Even now, at this late hour, you still do not believe. Do you believe the son of Chemosh needs your help to escape these shackles?”
Sydney looked around at the steel walls of the container and the men with guns outside. Uhh, yes, I do.
Abu Kishaa said, “I brought you here that you might witness. I need you to see and understand that you might spread my message to all nations.”
Abu Kishaa leaned around Sydney and Al-Misri so he could speak to the guards. He raised his voice enough that they could hear him without yelling. He was quite forceful in his way, though. “I would see your caliph now.”
The guards mumbled to each other, and then one of them walked off.
After a few minutes, a man walked up to the door of the shipping container. He wore a long black gown with trailing sleeves and a high collar, with a black turban on his head. He walked into the shipping container and almost disappeared into the darkness in his all-black attire.
He spoke in a soft voice that was almost a whisper, a kind of put-on effect to make him seem like a learned scholar. In Arabic, he said, “I am Ibn Kitab, leader of the Rightful Custodians of the Two Mosques.”
Abu Kishaa replied, “A salaamu alaikum. I am Abu Kishaa, son of Chemosh, the one true God.”
“Blasphemy,” Ibn Kitab replied.
Abu Kishaa smirked. “Caliph, do you trust your men? Do you believe they have chained me securely?”
“Is that a threat?” Ibn Kitab hissed.
Abu Kishaa shook his head.
Ibn Kitab answered, “I trust my men with my life. They are warriors of the caliphate.”
Abu Kishaa lifted his hands from behind his back. He held the unlocked handcuffs in his right hand, holding them up so everyone could see. Ibn Kitab’s eyes widened, and he took a step backward.
Abu Kishaa tossed the handcuffs at Ibn Kitab’s feet, where they clattered against the bottom of the steel container.
The corner of Ibn Kitab’s lip curled up in anger. He gritted his teeth and growled. He shouted to his guards. “Ali, Ahmed. Come here.”
The two guards shuffled in with their heads down. They looked like kids being called to the principal’s office. Ibn Kitab’s eyes were wide with anger and a vein pulsed in his forehead. He flung his hands towards Abu Kishaa.
“Who handcuffed this man?” He shouted.
Ali timidly raised a hand. Ibn Kitab pointed at the other one, who must have been Ahmed. “Did you check the restraints?”
Ahmed shook his head.
“I can’t hear you,” Ibn Kitab growled.
Ahmed whispered, “No, Caliph.”
Ibn Kitab held out his hand to Ahmed. “Give me your rifle.”
Ahmed’s hands trembled as he held out his AK-47. Ibn Kitab snatched it off his shoulder. He pointed it at Ali and, without hesitation, pulled the trigger once. The gun barked. The sound thundered so loudly in the steel box that Sydney’s eyes crossed, and pain shot across her forehead. The sound vibrated her teeth. When the stars
cleared from her vision, she saw the first guard lying in a spreading pool of blood. Bone and blood spatter painted the wall of the container.
The other guard stood frozen and shaking. Ibn Kitab pointed the gun at his forehead. Sydney managed to clap her hands over her ears this time. The gunshot still rattled her teeth and vibrated her bones. A small red dot appeared on Ahmed’s forehead. Behind him, blood and gristle splattered as if a water balloon was thrown at the wall. The essence of Ahmed stained the wall and slowly began to slide towards the floor. Ahmed stayed standing for a moment, his eyes still open. Eventually, the weight of his own death became too much, and his corpse crumpled to the ground.
Sydney looked away, Abu Kishaa sat stoically, and Al-Misri, the lawyer, trembled. He opened his mouth as if to say something but just vomited instead. He spewed lamb and rice over the floor of the steel container. Snot ran out of his nose, and tears streamed down his cheeks. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his suit.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” he stuttered.
Abu Kishaa rose to his feet.
Ibn Kitab pointed the gun at him, “Sit down, blasphemer.”
Abu Kishaa shrugged and said, “It was your prophet who said, ‘whoever believes in God and the Last Day, let him honor his guest as he is entitled.’ I am your guest, and I seek fresh air.”
That must have been one of the Hadiths, traditional teachings of Muhammad because Sydney never heard that one before. It could have been a Quran verse, she guessed. Her Quran knowledge wasn’t very comprehensive.
Abu Kishaa’s confidence seemed to shake Ibn Kitab because he didn’t do anything as Abu Kishaa stepped over the vomit and tiptoed past the bloody remains of the guards. He strode out into the fresh air and took a deep breath. Rimmed by early sunlight, Abu Kishaa stretched his hands out to his sides. Light gleamed all around him, and Sydney would be a liar if she said he didn’t look like a messiah painted by sunlight.
Ibn Kitab followed him out into the light, with Sydney and Al-Misri coming behind.
Ibn Kitab jabbed Abu Kishaa in the chest with the barrel of the AK-47. Abu Kishaa seemed unbothered.
Ibn Kitab said, “I don’t know what you paid my men for this stunt, but I am not fooled. There is no god but God and…”
Abu Kishaa pushed the gun barrel aside. “There is no God but Chemosh and I am his son.”
Ibn Kitab bared his teeth to say something else, but Abu Kishaa held out his open hand. He held a handful of AK-47 rounds. Abu Kishaa turned his hand over and let the bullets clatter to the ground. Ibn Kitab’s mouth opened in disbelief.
The caliph yanked the charging handle of the AK-47, expecting a round to fly out and another to ram into the chamber. The bolt clicked back and stayed there; seeing the gun was empty, he dropped the magazine out and looked at it. No ammunition. All of it was rolling around on the deck of the ship.
“How?” He whispered.
Abu Kishaa said, “Chemosh has blessed me with gifts that you might see and believe.”
“Sleight of hand,” The caliph remarked.
Abu Kishaa wandered over to the edge of the ship and leaned against the railing there so he could watch the waves splash against the side of the boat far below. “What would you do to further your caliphate?” Abu Kishaa asked.
Ibn Kitab replied, “God has placed me on this earth to spread his earthly kingdom. I would give my life and all lives needed to bring about his glory.”
Abu Kishaa spun around and leaned against the railing with his back. “Excellent. Do you know why I allowed you to capture me?”
“Allowed?” Ibn Kitab spat.
Abu Kishaa kept on as if he didn’t hear him, “You have three container ships of this size. Each is capable of holding roughly one thousand containers. In two months, I will have hundreds of kilograms of a new drug, something the world has not seen in two thousand years.”
Oh, so now it’s a drug? No more of this holier-than-thou BS. The man of God is just as unseemly as the rest of the pirates I hunt.
Abu Kishaa kept talking. “This will bring me followers beyond measure. I will need supplies and transport for my new masses.”
“You want my ships. These are God’s ships,” Ibn Kitab replied.
Abu Kishaa said, “God’s ships run on fuel. God’s shipmates need food and bullets. My new drug will bring you wealth unimaginable.”
Ibn Kitab narrowed his eyes. “And why would you, the son of this Chemosh, work with a Muslim? Am I not an unbeliever to you?”
Abu Kishaa replied, “You are, but your god worked with Nebuchadnezzar, did he not? I will be Daniel, and you can be the Babylonian king.”
Ibn Kitab said, “I’ll use your money to further the kingdom of the true God.”
Abu Kishaa nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you will.”
Looks like Ibn Kitab isn’t much better. The kingdom of God is just a drug empire.
Ibn Kitab slung the rifle over his shoulder. “You cover all production costs. I ship this new drug. We split the profits 65% and 35%. My caliphate keeps 65%.”
Abu Kishaa smiled, “As a show of good faith, 70% and 30%. My lawyer, Al-Misri, will write the contract.”
Oh, so that’s why Al-Misri is here. Why am I here, though?
Abu Kishaa pointed at Sydney. “This is Sydney. She is American. She will be your contact. She will sell my drugs and handle my affairs in this matter.”
Oh. Kishaa still thinks I’m American. And to think Logan says my American accent is crap.
Abu Kishaa motioned to them. “Let’s go. We have arrangements to make.”
Sydney and Al-Misri started walking back towards the rope ladder. Abu Kishaa stripped off his linen shirt. His chest was a solid layer of muscle. His stomach was a taut board of muscles with deep lines of definition with a layer of muscle over his hipbones that disappeared underneath his waistband. Sydney gasped slightly.
He was certainly the best-looking cult leader she ever saw.
Abu Kishaa took a breath and dove off the edge of the cargo ship. She shrieked. He cut gracefully down the fifty or so feet to the water. He entered the water like a dolphin, slipping under with a tiny splash.
Sydney would have been lying if she said it wasn’t impressive. Did he have to be so hot?
Abu Kishaa emerged from the water. He bobbed up to his shoulders for a moment, treading water. He swam towards the boat with the awaiting Brother. When he got to it, he placed his hands on the back and levered himself up. He pulled his knees up and put his foot on the surface of the water. Then, he stood.
Sydney’s mouth fell open. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Al-Misri and Ibn Kitab staring too. Their mouths were also slack. For a moment, Abu Kishaa stood on blue water as if it were solid ground. He walked across the water a few steps and stepped into the boat.
Ibn Kitab whispered in Arabic, “This is not but obvious magic.”
Sydney shook her head. It was anything but obvious.
* * *
Logan kept pressure on Eric’s bleeding shoulder with one hand while steering the boat towards the bank with the other. The craft’s nose hit the riverbank with a thud, and Eric whimpered a little on impact, but he didn’t wake up.
A fisherman sitting on a bucket watched them crash-land the boat on the bank.
In Arabic, Logan called out to him, “Help me. Help.”
The fisherman threw down his fishing pole and grabbed his tackle box as he ran over. He was young, probably no older than thirty. He was shirtless and tanned from fishing all day. He set the tackle box down next to the boat. He said something in whatever language he spoke.
Logan shook his head. “Umm, English? Do you speak English?”
The man replied, “In school.”
That would work.
“My friend has been shot.”
The fisherman instantly straightened up and took a step back. He waved his hands and said, “No, no, no. No trouble.”
Logan replied, “No, no. It was poachers.”
The man didn’t
know the word, so Logan mimed shooting a bolt action rifle. He used his arm like an elephant’s trunk and made an elephant noise. Then he went back to mimicking a bolt action rifle. “Hunters. Poachers.”
The fisherman sighed with recognition. He said something in a string of his language and went to digging in his tackle box.
He said something and pointed at his back. Huh? Oh, exit wound.
Logan rolled Eric over to look at his back. Blood gushed over every inch of his shirt but there was no rip there. The bullet was still in Eric’s shoulder. If he were in a sanitary environment, he would pull it out. He didn’t know what it was blocking, though. The bullet could be sealing off an artery. Pulling it could cause Eric to bleed out, so it would have to stay in.
Logan made a hand motion like he was sewing. The fisherman shook his head. “No, no.” He dug around and pulled out a fishhook and some fishing line. He held it up with a shrug.
Oof. It’s a good thing Eric’s unconscious.
“Yes. Here. Give it to me.”
The man gave Logan the fishing line and the fishhook. Logan stepped on the edge of the fishing hook and pulled on it with both hands to straighten it out like a sewing needle. He threaded the fishing line through the eye of the hook, tied it off, and started sewing. Every time he jabbed the needle through Eric’s skin, the boy whimpered a little but didn’t wake up. Compared to medical sutures, this fishing line was about as big as rope. It would leave some nasty scars on Eric’s shoulder, but he wouldn’t bleed to death.
Logan tied off the stitches.
The fisherman said something, but Logan shook his head to say he didn’t understand.
The fisherman said, “House. Food.”
“Oh, your house? Yes, thank you.”
Logan slung Eric over his shoulder and followed the fisherman as he marched away from the river. He shouldn’t leave the boat there, and he shouldn’t head to a strange person’s house. But, it was at least twenty-four hours since they last ate. His only water was river water strained through a t-shirt. More importantly, Eric needed something to keep his wound from getting infected.
The fisherman who said his name was Abiy led them through the shrubs and low grass around the river. Logan struggled as he carried Eric up a sandy hill. His feet sank into the soft dirt with every step, making every one a struggle. Eventually, he made it to the top of a berm behind Abiy. Abiy’s car sat on the edge of a single-lane road. It was a dirty Toyota Camry that was probably as old as Logan. They loaded Eric into the backseat and were off.
East of the Jordan (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 2) Page 7
