Secession II: The Flood

by Joe Nobody

  Zach didn’t react to the comments, his mind trying to separate jailhouse rumor from fact. While the Crenshaw city gulag wouldn’t be the first to abuse its guests, the Texan found it unlikely that prisoners suffered much more than a little intimidation.

  Yet, what he’d encountered so far was overflowing with duplicity and absurdity. Maybe the stories about Moose were to be believed.

  The ranger’s thoughts then directed to Sam. If male suspects were mistreated, it was almost sure that females received the same, if not worse treatment. Given his partner’s well-proportioned, physical attributes, he wondered if she was in any danger. If they hurt Sam, well, Zach wasn’t sure how he would react.

  “You okay? You going to bet or fold?” a man asked, waiting for Zach’s play.

  “Sorry. I was just thinking of my girlfriend. They arrested her when they hauled me in.”

  The poker game and conversation was interrupted by the sound of a guard at the door. “Please move to the far side of the room, gentlemen. Mr. Piedmont, please show your hands and approach the door.”

  With a few grumbled remarks, the other inmates stood and moved to the back wall. One of them whispered as he went by Zach, “Good luck.”

  The ranger was then led down a short hall to a small room equipped with a heavy, metal table and a chair on each side. Zach was handcuffed to a heavy-duty steel ring that had been welded to the surface.

  And then he was alone again, his thoughts returning to his partner and wondering how long he should let the investigation go.

  Ten minutes later, the door opened to reveal the man Zach believed was the chief. Without any formalities, the gray-haired officer entered and took a seat opposite the ranger.

  “Mr. Piedmont, I’m here to take a statement from you. After we’re finished, you’ll be granted a phone call with which I suggest you contact an attorney.”

  “I’m not going to make any statement or answer any questions without a lawyer present. I’d like representation right now, please.”

  The chief leered at Zach, a momentary, but unmistakable expression of annoyance crossing his face. “That’s not your best play, son. If you cooperate without raising a big fuss, I’ll speak to the city attorney. While I can’t make any promises, I’m sure things will go easier on you and your girlfriend if you play ball.”

  “I take the Fifth,” Zach replied without hesitation. “I’d like a lawyer, right now.”

  “Have it your way,” replied the old cop, and with that, he rose and made for the door.

  Zach was then escorted to a telephone and explained the rules. No long distance calls. Five minutes max and the call was over.

  For a moment, the ranger tried to put himself in the average guy’s shoes. Here he was, in a small town lockup, probably hundreds of miles away from home. It was after 5 o’clock, a factor that might or might not be intentional. How would the typical Joe Nobody get in touch with a lawyer back home?

  Fortunately for Zach, he had a phone number memorized, and he was confident the folks on the other end would accept the charges. Dialing the operator and giving her the Little Rock area code and number, he listened as the call was connected to a no-contract cell phone purchased just a few days before.

  “Law office,” answered Major Putnam, the duality of the greeting not lost on Zach.

  “I have a collect call from one Mr. Richard Piedmont. Will you accept the charges?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The operator came back and informed Zach that he could now speak with his party. “I’ve been arrested in Crenshaw, Texas,” the ranger explained. “They’re holding me in jail, and the bail and terms are outrageous.”

  Zach was accomplishing two things with the call. First, he was giving his boss a status report. Secondly, he was letting the senior ranger know that the investigation was still active and manageable by the script that he followed. The words, “I need help,” had been predetermined as the trigger for Putnam and the cavalry to arrive post haste.

  “I don’t think I can get anyone there until tomorrow. Will that be soon enough?”

  “My girlfriend and I have an arraignment on Monday, but the local cops are really putting on the heat.”

  “I understand,” came the reply, signaling Putnam would wait before showing up with the reinforcements and warrants. “I’ll get in touch with the Houston office and have someone up there as soon as possible.”

  “Don’t wait too long,” Zach closed.

  Following Ghost’s lead, Salim and his fighters had carried the crate shipped from Texas across miles of war-ravaged land, avoiding the hotspots and traveling mostly at night.

  The place and time of the meeting had been changed twice, the caliphate’s leadership blaming the delays on the management of a two-front war. Secretly, Salim wondered if the constant presence of NATO bombers and cruise missiles contributed to their shyness.

  The tiny column, humping the crate produced by the young country, was directed to the city of Raqqa. As they entered the outskirts of Syria’s sixth largest city, the sound of a large crowd reached Salim’s ears.

  “Something is going on in the square,” reported the lone scout. “There are hundreds of people gathered there.”

  “So early?” asked Ghost, apparently puzzled by the occurrence. “No matter. We mustn’t keep our masters waiting. Proceed with caution.”

  A few blocks later, they could observe the outer ring of local residents, filling the street with a throng of humanity and blocking the team’s route. It soon became obvious that everyone was staring and pointing at the roof of a bordering apartment complex.

  “Stay here,” Ghost ordered. “I’ll go find out what is going on.”

  As Ghost approached the solid wall of men, women and children, the focus of their attention came into view.

  On the roof of a seven-story building gathered several ISIS fighters, complete with AK rifles, ebony-colored clothing, and wrapped faces. One was holding the movement’s now-infamous black flag.

  In their midst was an older man, identifiable as a local mullah or holy man. His ongoing prayer was barely audible through the handheld megaphone.

  At the edge of the roof stood two younger men, each with his hands bound tightly behind his back. In a moment, Ghost knew they were the accused.

  Shouldering his way into the mob for a better view, Ghost navigated alongside another man about his same age. After making eye contact, the guide said, “I just arrived a bit ago. What are the sinners accused of?”

  The stranger shook his head with disdain. “A grave sin against Allah for which the sentence is clear,” came the response. “Homosexuality.”

  The mullah then began speaking again, his voice now laced with ire and venom. “Lying with other men is against nature,” he preached. “It is an act of Satan, a sin against humanity, and punishable by death.”

  And with that, the holy man turned and nodded to a dusky-garbed enforcer.

  Without hesitation, the executioner stepped forward and shoved one of the accused off the building’s uppermost perimeter, the man’s wailing scream barely audible over the crowd’s gasps and moans. The sickening thud of the prisoner’s impact was clear to all.

  Peering down at his co-captive’s crushed body, the remaining detainee tried to turn away from the edge, at first vomiting from the horror of the scene below, then begging for mercy between his sobs of fear and grief. His pleadings were met with a rifle butt to the stomach, and then he too was sent sailing over the edge.”

  A murmur rumbled through the gathered onlookers. After a few moments, it became clear that many in the crowd didn’t approve of their new government’s system of justice.

  “They had committed no crime against another citizen,” whispered one woman to a friend. “Why did they have to die in such a horrible way?”

  “There were no witnesses or proof,” complained another. “That could have been any of our children flying off that roof.”

  And then armed men were circulating thr
ough the masses, their AKs pointed skyward as they urged the crowd to disperse. “Justice has been served. Satan’s followers know they are no longer welcome in Raqqa. God is great.”

  Ghost returned to the team, wondering if the display of Sharia law he’d just witnessed had anything to do with the powerful men they were preparing to meet.

  On their way again, Salim and his fighters didn’t seem to be phased by the event.

  What did draw a reaction was the news that, yet again, the rendezvous point had been changed, requiring another desert trek.

  “Do they expect us to march forever?” one of the men grumbled, the remark drawing a harsh scowl from the others.

  “Do you have wings?” another teased. “It seems the locals might wish to test your ability to fly.”

  Zach’s lawyer arrived just after lunch the following day. The Texan almost broke out laughing when he was shown into a room and found his old friend Ranger Hinton sitting at the conference table.

  According to the Texas code, the police were not allowed to record or listen in on any conversation between an attorney and client. Zach wasn’t about to take any chances given the locals’ recent history. Eavesdropping would be the least of their sins.

  The two men managed to introduce themselves as if strangers, even though they were anything but. Hinton had been a state trooper until the recent expansion of the ranger force. The fledgling government’s need to expand the organization, combined with Hinton finally completing his law degree, had resulted in the career lawman’s promotion. Zach had put in a good word for his colleague as well.

  “I’ve reviewed the charges against you,” Hinton began. “I’d like to hear your side of the story.”

  And so Zach told it like it was, all the while knowing his fellow ranger would report every word back to Major Putnam.

  When he’d finished, Hinton smiled knowingly and said, “I’m also representing your girlfriend while I’m here. I’m meeting with her next. After that, I’m going to head on over to city hall and see if I can arrange a reasonable bail.”

  Both men knew such an event was impossible on a Saturday, but the fake lawyer had to play out his role. Zach, for one, was glad the big cop was now assigned to the case.

  Hinton signaled for the guard outside by knocking on the door, scratching notes while he waited for the jailer to retrieve his client. Instead, the chief opened the door and strolled inside.

  “We want to interrogate your client, sir. He refuses to talk to us without you being present.”

  Waving his hand in a welcoming gesture, Hinton said, “Be my guest.”

  For twenty minutes, Crenshaw’s top lawman fired questions at Zach. The answer was always the same, “I choose to remain silent.”

  Sighing, Hinton raised his hand and interjected, “Chief, you’re wasting your precious time. I’ve instructed my client to make no statements that might incriminate him. And by the way, you’ll receive the same responses from the young lady arrested with Mr. Piedmont.”

  Frustrated, the old cop finally capitulated, storming out of the room in a huff. One of the guards soon appeared, motioning the accused out of the room.

  On the way back to the cell, Zach and his escort turned a corner and nearly bowled into the chief. With a low, growling hiss, the top cop rumbled, “I tried to warn you, asshole. I attempted to give you the easy way out. Now, you’re going to pay.”

  Before Zach could respond, the chief pivoted and stormed off.

  “Now you’ve gone and done it,” the guard whispered. “Been nice knowing ya.”

  Several hours later, Ghost guided them into the small village outside Raqqa. Salim noted the ever-increasing rings of security. Serious-looking men guarded every doorway and questioned every shadow, their level of alertness and equipment far beyond any typical band of freedom fighters or black-hooded enforcers. These were professional soldiers.

  At one point, they passed a barn housing three Range Rover off-road vehicles and surrounded by several sentries. Salim had never seen such a collection of automobiles – at least not since the civil war had erupted.

  Another block passed, and then the short column of freedom fighters was intercepted, stopped in the street by a mullah and several bodyguards. They were relieved of their weapons, thoroughly searched by unapologetic, gruff men who took the task seriously. Salim and his team didn’t like handing over their firepower to anybody, but the reassurance of a trusted imam had smoothed the disarming.

  The warehouse had housed pottery in a previous life, a fact that Salim found prophetic in a small way. Clay jars were critical items in rural Syria, a place where plastic shopping bags and bottled water were anomalies.

  For over three thousand years, the essential elements of life were stored in the terra-cotta vessels. Now the warehouse held something just as valuable. The Daseh.

  With dilapidated walls of local brick, a packed, dirt floor, and rust-streaked sheets of tin roofing, the ancient structure hardly seemed a place worthy of hosting some of the most influential men in the region.

  Yet, here they were.

  Inside the warehouse, Salim spotted three men seated in folding lawn chairs. Black, tightly wrapped shemaghs covered their faces; dark sunglasses obscured their eyes.

  Ghost was evidently an old friend and trusted comrade.

  At the mysterious guide’s appearance, the stoic, emotionless faces of the caliphate’s leaders changed instantly, broad smiles and enthusiastic greetings replacing the somber fog that had dominated the room.

  Salim’s men presented the small cargo crate, setting it down in front of the governing threesome like victorious Roman generals trying to impress the emperor with their legion’s treasures of war.

  The ISIS leadership paid little heed to the crate, giving the wooden container nothing but a quick glance. It was the memory cards containing the video recordings of Salim’s adventure that brought curt nods and gestures of approval.

  After a short speech, another series of handshakes, and a small bag of money to be divided among his men, Salim and his fighters were dismissed. Of the raiding party, only Ghost remained.

  As soon as the small group of fighters had vacated the warehouse, another chair was brought forward for the guide. The conversational tone quickly became casual.

  “We will receive great value from this new development, my friend,” one of the leaders informed Ghost. “We’ve been looking for a wedge to divide those that oppose our cause. Our internet experts will make Texas look like the misbehaving child of the United States.”

  Another nodded his agreement, “As soon as that uproar fades from the headlines, we’ll take the same incident, embellish the story with even more heinous details, and the world will see Texas as a loyal supporter of Assad and Damascus. Only a few hours of effort will enable us to accomplish this in such a way that the web’s conspiracy machines will have months of fodder to fuel their powerful voice.”

  Ghost merely nodded, “I’m happy you find the information useful.”

  The response served as a reminder, one of the leaders gesturing to a nearby guard. The burly soldier strolled quickly to Ghost, holding out a grapefruit-sized leather bag. Payment for services rendered.

  Ghost accepted the offering, first hefting the weight and then pouring out a small sample into the palm of his weathered hand.

  Peering down, the guide spied three gold coins of different denominations, a ring of the same metal, and two dental fillings - the latter most likely having come from prisoners or criminals.

  His face remained emotionless as Ghost returned the precious metal to the sack, a mere nod of thanks his only discernible reaction to the compensation.

  With a grunt, one of the leaders seemed amused, “I told my comrades that you weren’t the squeamish type. I hope you don’t mind the source of your payment.”

  Ghost shrugged, “Gold is gold, my friend. The source matters not.”

  Everyone seemed satisfied with the response. Again, one of the dark men waved at
a subordinate, the command initiating a flurry of activity.

  A folding table appeared, quickly adorned with pristine, white linen. Next, an abundance of gleaming trays laden with smoked meats and tangy cheese arrived. Strong tea was poured into polished silver cups.

  For the first time that afternoon, Ghost was surprised. In their culture, the breaking of bread was reserved for only the most auspicious of occasions. His immediate thought was of treachery, but that was quickly dismissed.

  “Do you speak English?” asked another of the trio.

  “Yes. It is passable,” Ghost replied, dipping a piece of flatbread into a small bowl of spiced olive oil.

  The three ISIS leaders exchanged glances, an unspoken agreement passing among them.

  “We would like for you to return to North America and initiate what we hope will be a lucrative endeavor for both our causes and your personal bank accounts. We will arrange all of the necessary background and documentation.”

  “What kind of endeavor? And how will this engagement benefit me?”

  The remainder of Saturday passed slowly, the boredom weighing heavily on Zach’s psyche. The only break came when the ranger and his fellow prisoners were escorted outside and allowed one hour of physical activity. There were no exercise facilities or equipment, so Zach spent the period walking around the small, chain-linked area with his fellow jailbirds.

  On Sunday, Hinton returned, but only for a few minutes. “I tried to contact the prosecutor, judge, and clerk. No one answered my calls. You’re going to have to cool your jets in here until Monday morning.”

  Shrugging off the bad news, Zach merely commented, “It’s no 4-star restaurant, but the food’s not so bad.”

  By Sunday afternoon, Zach knew the entire life history of each of his cellmates.

  It was twenty minutes before lights-out when the poker game was interrupted by an authoritative voice just outside the room. “Mr. Piedmont, approach the door. All other prisoners to the back wall.”