by Amy Jarecki
“Do it!” Logan shouted, waving his pistol toward the road.
The truck rocked over on its right wheels as Alif bore down on the steering wheel. Logan and Mike countered, shifting their weight left, crushing the NATO operative against the driver’s side door. The truck thudded down on all four wheels, then fishtailed in the dirt as Alif gunned it.
Logan checked the mirror. “Perps following.”
Mike smacked the magazine of his M4 with the heel of his hand and shifted it to his shoulder. “Coming up on my right.”
The sound of machine gun fire cracked at the back of the truck on the passenger side. Bullets pummeled and hissed. Mike shoved his rifle out the window and held down the trigger, using his mirror. Once he’d created a diversion, he twisted around and fired off two clean shots. “Motorbike one down.”
Logan watched the second approach in Alif’s side mirror. The shooter aimed as they grew nearer, but he didn’t offload his magazine into the van of the truck like the first guy had. The motorcycle’s engine rumbled louder as the driver pushed the throttle.
“Lean back.” Logan squared his shoulders, shoving Alif against the seat. He raised his pistol. The biker’s head of black hair came into view. He fired. Before he blinked, he shifted his hands slightly left, and took a second shot. Two bullets hit their marks in less than a second. The driver and shooter were dead before they hit the ground. “Bike two down.”
“Any survivors?” asked Mike.
“Nope.”
“You pair ought to be in the movies.” Alif grinned as he tapped the brakes and slowed the truck. “But I think we might have been hit. She’s not running too good.”
“How far to the nearest paved road?” Logan asked. The motor had acquired a low whir, but it wasn’t knocking…at least not yet.
“Maybe four miles to the north.”
“Carry on, then.”
Alif gaped. “But that’ll take us three hours out of our way.”
“I dunna care if it takes us all night,” said Mike. “If we make can make it to a paved road, anyone who finds those goons willna have a chance in hell of tracking us.”
Logan sheathed his weapon and leaned back. Unfortunately, ISIS now knew someone had found their hideaway, though there had been no hostages outside—if any were still alive. Logan erased that thought, hanging on to the hope that al-Umari had more enemies in the Middle East than anywhere. With luck, ISIS would blame the Syrian Opposition forces who occupied the northwest.
After two hours, the truck’s engine started knocking, but later managed to roll into their base camp sputtering and hissing. Finally, the motor died in the yard and the men had to push the truck under the lean-to.
“How long to fix?” Logan asked.
Alif shrugged. “Depends on what’s wrong.”
Great. They were stranded in ISIS territory without wheels and the NATO reinforcements were at least four days out. Logan turned to Mike. “Did you get any footage we can use?”
“Nothing we don’t already know, mate.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The sound of the drone’s dying motor howled through the compound as it came crashing to the ground. Immediately, the yelling started. Across the courtyard, the male guards sprang to action, running for the contraption with their weapons drawn.
Olivia and her team had been scrubbing the tiles under the awning. She stood and looked on, hoping the drone would explode with a spray of steel darts, but as the men surrounded it, nothing happened.
The woman guarding Olivia’s group brandished her AK47 like it was a policeman’s traffic baton as she herded the girls into the mess where the others had been mustered as well. The girls all sat at the tables, as a low hum of murmurs swarmed through the air. Olivia didn’t follow suit. She moved to the window where she could see out and leaned against the sill, looking nonplused. She picked under her fingernails for added effect.
Once the hostages were assembled, Jadaa took the female guards to the courtyard and met with the officer who had taken Olivia’s picture. She panned her gaze across the room until she stopped at the door. For once, every single guard was outside. The noise in the room rose to a cacophony of animated chatter as if the girls realized it, too.
She moved to the doorway and stood there for a moment. No one seemed to notice. Even Camile was engaged in conversation.
Olivia slipped out into the hall. Seeing no one, she ran on the balls of her feet, dashed straight into Jadaa’s office, and closed the door. Her palms perspired as she slid behind the computer. She didn’t sit. The screen was black. With a quick move of the mouse, a password dialogue box appeared.
Shit.
She typed the first thing that came to mind: al-Umari.
A rainbow circle indicated the computer was thinking.
Olivia’s finger twitched on the mouse.
In the next millisecond, Jadaa’s emails appeared on the screen.
Olivia’s heart skipped a beat as she covered her mouth—at the top was an unopened e-mail from “The Caliph”. That could only be one man. Damn, she needed to send word to ICE, but this was too bloody tempting.
She clicked it open and read. The memo was addressed, Dear Mother and went on to complain about being tired. The bloody bastard was out there murdering innocent Christians and Kurds, and he was effing tired?
Hesitating, Olivia reread the salutation. Dear Mother? Holy shit, Jadaa gave birth to the evilest despot since Hitler? She thought back to al-Umari’s profile. His mother was Syrian, which made sense. No wonder she’d adopted the Arabic name, grandmother. It would be suicide if anyone knew the truth.
Reading on, he complained about his wives’ fighting and how he wished they’d get along. Toward the end of the e-mail he finally got down to business and said his army would soon be victorious in cleansing the lands of the Euphrates from defilement by the infidel.
Olivia scrolled down, looking for a battle location she could report to Logan, but the bastard just signed off: Your loving son.
Shit.
In the distance a door closed.
Olivia hastily opened a new e-mail typed in a cryptic address that would be rerouted to Logan and Garth:
Still alive.
Need exfil for 53 including me.
O
She clicked send.
The computer dinged.
You are presently not connected to the internet.
She stared in disbelief.
WTF?
She clicked send again.
Same message.
Footsteps approached.
Her fingers shook as she deleted the e-mail.
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
Jadaa’s voice reverberated from the hallway. “That drone is a piece of crap. It has to be the Syrian Opposition. They’re the only idiots stupid enough to try something like that.”
“We’ll find them,” said a man.
“The English girl is missing!” yelled a voice.
“Who was watching them?” Jadaa shouted.
Two sets of footsteps clattered away.
Olivia let out a breath, listening for movement on the other side of the door before she opened it. Hearing nothing, she slipped out and dashed for the mess hall on the balls of her feet, not making a sound.
“Where have you been?” Jadaa demanded into her cell phone translation app as Olivia approached.
She spread her palms. “The loo.”
Letting out a frustrated groan, Jadaa grabbed Olivia by the hair and dragged her down the corridor into the shower room—the place where they pressure-washed newcomers. The hag threw a bucket and a scrub brush against the wall, then spoke into the app again. “You will clean the shower from top to bottom and I will lock you inside until it’s done.”
Jadaa’s black garments billowed as she turned and left, the lock clicking.
Olivia looked to the bucket and ran her hand down her mouth. She’d taken a risk and had cut it too damned close. If only her e-mail had been
sent successfully, the risk mightn’t have been for naught.
***
Jadaa had released Olivia from the shower room in time for supper. Then another day passed without an indication that ICE had any idea about her location—aside from a piece of shit drone that was probably from the Syrian Opposition. If something didn’t happen soon, she’d have no choice but to take matters into her own hands.
On her hands and knees, Olivia scrubbed the tiles alongside Gabby and Mina. They hadn’t given Gabby a moment of respite. And in the few days Olivia had been there, all they’d done was clean under the watchful eye of armed guards. Today, they were in the hall outside Jadaa’s office, forced to scrub the floors with brushes not much bigger than a kitchen sponge.
Gabby dropped her brush and grabbed her wrist with a grimace.
Olivia scooted in beside her. “Let me see,” she whispered.
Gabby shook her head, but Olivia grasped the girl’s arm and pushed up her sleeve. Her wrist was swollen twice its normal size, and her knuckles were grazed.
“Can you use your left?” Olivia asked.
Gabby pulled back her sleeve far enough to reveal a crusty puncture wound looking as if she’d been stabbed with an icepick.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Back to work,” said the guard, pointing her AK47.
Obediently, Olivia reached for her brush but the fire burning in her chest forced her hand to still. Meeting the guard’s gaze, she rose to her feet. “Gabby is injured. She needs medical attention…a tabib.”
The guard pointed the gun at Olivia’s chest. “Work!”
Gabby picked up her scrub brush and dropped it, gasping in pain. She clutched her wrist against her body, her expression filled with anguish and fear.
“Work, you lazy child!” the guard screamed, her eyes wild with rage. She flicked off the safety and yanked back the charging handle. A bullet clinked in the rifle’s star chamber. “I’m sick of watching the infidel’s slothful daughters act as if they cannot labor through pain. Pain is life!” She jammed the muzzle of the gun against Gabby’s temple, moving her finger over the trigger.
Olivia shoved the girl aside and faced the barrel of the AK47. “If you’re going to murder someone, murder me!” she roared in Arabic. She’d gone long enough feigning ignorance. By God, if it would save a life, she’d confess to espionage.
The guard hesitated, blinking.
Olivia reached back, ensuring Gabby was safely behind her. “This girl’s right wrist has been dislocated at best, and she’s been stabbed in the left. She needs to see a doctor. Now!”
The guard shifted her gaze to the hostages, huddled together, looking at Olivia like she’d just announced her own funeral.
Thank God the woman released her finger from the trigger. “You speak the language?”
“Clearly.” Olivia moved closer, nearly close enough to reach the AK47’s muzzle.
“Who are you?”
“Olivia White.” She took another step.
“Where are you from?”
“England, but you already know that, don’t you?”
“I knew you were trouble the day you arrived. I told Jadaa the same.”
“Why? Because I’m not afraid of you?”
“You’re arrogant. You think you’re better. And come to find out you’ve deceived us all! Are-are you a spy?”
“Of course not. I’m a hostage just like everyone else.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“How could I be a spy?” Olivia looked the woman directly in the eye. “There aren’t even any other Englishwomen here. The British have no skin in this game.”
The guard shifted her finger back to the trigger.
Olivia lunged to the side, shoving the muzzle upward.
A line of bullets peppered the ceiling.
Screams of terror echoed through the corridor.
Shouting for backup, the guard fought to twist the gun’s barrel away from Olivia’s grasp, but the woman obviously had no real training. Sweat beaded the jihadist’s forehead. Olivia slid one hand down the barrel and thrust hard, making the butt of the AK47 ram the guard’s solar plexus. With a grunt, she recoiled. Olivia wrenched the gun from the woman’s grasp and ejected the magazine, sending it clattering to the floor. “You idiots don’t need rifles to guard a few teenagers.”
After ensuring the chamber was empty, she dropped the weapon, sending it clattering to the floor. If she tried to escape, she might save herself, but even Olivia’s odds of survival were unlikely. Shaking, she regarded poor Gabby. The girl cowered against the wall with the others as they wept.
More guards clambered into the hallway, their guns raised to their shoulders.
Olivia again moved in front of Gabby and raised her hands. “It was a misunderstanding. My fault!”
Jadaa followed while three rifle barrels pointed at Olivia’s head. She heaved in a calming breath and looked al-Umari’s mother in the eye. “Gabby needs a doctor.”
Frowning, Jadaa glanced from the unarmed guard to the girls to the discarded AK47. “What did you say?”
“My parents were missionaries. I speak Arabic.” Keeping her hands raised, Olivia nodded toward the Dutch girl. “Please…have someone look at Gabby. She can’t keep working with a broken wrist.”
But her request wasn’t even acknowledged. Jadaa crossed her arms. “Why didn’t you tell me you could speak the language?”
Olivia slowly lowered her arms. “I-I was afraid.”
The woman sauntered forward, her eyes narrowing. “What else have you lied about?”
Olivia hadn’t exactly lied, she just hadn’t volunteered. “I’m a victim here, a hostage.” She gestured toward the cowering group of teens. “Just like they are.”
Jadaa paced and looked to the discarded rifle and magazine. “Is this your handiwork?”
“She took my gun and disarmed it,” said the guard.
“Is that so?”
Olivia thought fast. “I did it so no one would end up shot. That woman pointed her gun at us and moved her finger to the trigger.”
“The commander warned you were a courageous one. But you’re a deceitful firecracker. I must take extra precautions with you.” Jadaa jabbed her finger into Olivia’s sternum. “You must be punished. Take her to the pit. See if that readjusts your attitude. If you ever act out again, you will lose your head!”
One of the guards poked her shoulder with the point of a rifle. “Move it.”
Though Olivia wanted to fight, to send al-Umari’s mother to her grave, every retaliatory response had the potential for disaster, not only for her, but for Gabby and the others. And her mission wasn’t accomplished by half. Growling under her breath, she put on an act of defeat while they pushed her into the pit and locked a steel grate in place above her head.
“Jadaa,” she yelled at the top of her lungs, her fingers wrapping around the grillwork. “You can’t do this to me. I am innocent!”
The guard who’d held the gun to Gabby’s head kicked dirt into Olivia’s face. “You are filth. The infidel’s spawn. You will die a painful death and I will laugh as I watch.”
Then Jadaa’s face came into view. “Tell me the truth. Why didn’t you admit that you speak the language?”
“I-I was terrified. I was kidnapped. Then you blasted me with a pressure washer that took off a layer of skin. You gave me no reason to trust you.”
“Trust? What do you know about trust? Your kind have done nothing but try to tell us how to live our lives. Well, no more. You are my slave. The sooner you accept it, the better.”
Olivia gripped her fingers tighter. “I am a free subject of England.”
“No longer. You are the property of al-Umari. A holy battle will soon be won and the soldiers of Islam shall be rewarded…and that prideful smirk will be wiped off your face forever.”
Olivia’s stomach flipped. Jesus Christ, she was trapped in a pit and hell was about to be unleashed? Her mind raced. How could she ask without revea
ling her hand? “A battle against the infidel?”
“That is none of your concern.”
Damn it.
She had to keep the woman talking. “Please…you’re not going to hurt the girls—”
“Shut up! You are forbidden to speak.” Jadaa kicked again, more dirt showered into Olivia’s face as the evil witch strode out of sight.
Sliding down the dirt wall, she ground her molars. How could she get a message to the allies? Where the hell had the drone come from and who had been flying it? Where in God’s name was Logan? Had ICE lost her signal?
Her shoulders sagged as she shook her head. Just when things started to heat up, she had to be a bloody hero and end up locked in the pit. She slammed her fist against the wall.
What if a rescue never comes?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After hiking five miles to the compound, Logan waited with Mike until after midnight. In order to run this op, he needed eyes inside. Disappointing, but no surprise there hadn’t been any contact from Olivia, hostages were always locked up and guarded around the clock. And if he knew the duchess, she wouldn’t do anything to put the girls in danger or expose the op.
Logan put on a pair of night vision goggles and grabbed his backpack. He was going in. At the top of the hill, Mike would wait with a sniper rifle, just in case things didn’t go as planned.
“You need anything else?” asked the Scot.
“You got any whisky?”
“Those words will get you killed around here, mate.”
“It’s not what you think. I call it a SEAL insurance policy.”
“Aye? Then I think I can help.” Mike hopped into the cab and opened the glove box. “Here it is. Insurance.”
Logan took the fifth of Jack. “A Scot with some taste.”
“That stuff is rubbish. The best whisky on the planet is made on Islay. It’s peaty.”
“You don’t say? You’ll have to introduce me after we get out of here.” Logan stashed the bottle in his pack.
“I’d be happy to.” Mike slapped his shoulder. “You certain you don’t want me to come?”
“Reconnaissance is better done alone.”