by Tony Bulmer
Stealthy feet moved past the window—slowly—ever so slowly. The night sounds encroached—the creak of floorboards on the verandah—the throb of insects and the distant call of some ghoulish animal saluting the night. How primal, unpleasant and thoroughly Spartan this place was.
A thick waft of body odor—
There was somebody out there—pervert eyes watching her.
Lauren Whitaker drew the thin sheet tighter against her chin. There was no safety here. No safety at all. Just the fervent hope that the flimsy fabric would separate her from the encroaching world as it pressed in around her through the tissue-thin walls.
The stealthy feet paused as they drew level with the screen window.
Only blackness outside; so dark it seemed as though the light had been chased beyond the edge of eternity, never to return again.
The feeble candle at her bedside fluttered, casting shadows that struggled towards the edge of the room before they were beaten back by the encroaching darkness. Lauren’s skin crawled. The eyes were watching—peering in at her from the darkness. Who knew what narratives they told? Who knew the depths of the animosity that lay behind them? She felt thin-veiled hatred reaching into the tiny room. How easily this place of refuge could be snatched away. With its flimsy window screens and air-blown draperies. Her refuge was achingly vulnerable. When the monsoon rains drew in each day at noon, battering on the rusting tin roof, it seemed as though her whole life would be washed away—flooded into the oblivion of an unknown land—a vast country of mountains and orchards and endless grass-filled meadows.
Another creak from the verandah.
Foot falls heading reluctantly away.
The pervert eyes had gone for now, but how soon would they return?
Lauren eased her head back on to the coarse pillow and stared at the rusty ceiling. What would her friends in Washington be doing right now? Did they even know she was alive? If they did, they would surely be campaigning for her release. Organizing fundraisers, making calls, knocking on every door, to ensure that every media outlet and decision maker across the world was speaking her name.
Hope, doubt and uncertainty, battled through her mind.
Everyone was looking out for her. Fighting to ensure her freedom.
Of course they were. Weren’t they?
But as Lauren considered the marvelous effort her friends were surely making to affect her release, darker thoughts encroached. The American Government didn’t pay for hostages—not now, not ever. How many times had she heard her own husband utter those words to a TV audience of millions? But surely, they would make an exception for her, wouldn’t they? She was important. She was the wife of Secretary of State of the United States Truman Whitaker, a future president for sure. It was a happy thought, a reassurance that allowed the overwhelming fatigue to overtake her mind and transport her into a discordant world of nonsensical dreams—she imagined the Kane woman haughty and aloof, departing with her husband and screwing him in their marital bed—the Kane woman had haunting eyes—molten bronze and amber—strange, lustful, animalistic. The feeling of flight came upon her, circling down from the orgiastic clouds, into a world of trees. The face of Ambassador Campanella rising up before her now, asking, “How are you my dear, is there anything I can get for you?” His face was white, haunted, and unwholesome. The top of his head was missing. Blood oozed thick and black from the yawning cavity. He smiled kindly. But the reassuring look suddenly turned vicious, transmogrifying into a werewolf snarl. A clawed hand reached out and grabbed her. She woke up with a start, rising up, clutching the soiled blanket to her and entering into a new and very real nightmare.
The man with the black eyes was sitting on the end of the bed.
He stared at her for a long moment, licked his lips and said,
“You awaken.”
“It is the middle of the night. What do you want?”
“The Godless forces of American imperialism never sleep Lady Whitaker; nor do the Shaitan forces of the Chinese oppressors. I have come to ask you to partake in the sacred obligation of Fajr prayer, so that you might welcome the wisdom of Allah into your soul.”
“I want to go home.”
“Your presence here is a gift from Allah Lady Whitaker. Inshallah it has been preordained. Mighty Allah, in his wisdom and supreme majesty over the affairs of man, has seen fit to gift me, his humble servant, with your presence. To release you under such circumstances would be a sinful act. You would not wish me to countermand the will of Allah Himself, would you Lady Whitaker?
“I do not know much about the word of Allah, but I am sure that he does not approve of kidnapping.”
“Kidnapping? You are a slave of the Mujahidin; the word of Allah dictates this. The Godless forces of the crusader west are allied with the Chinese oppressors; therefore the forces of ummat al-Islamiyah have risen in the holy duty of Jihad. The Holy Koran dictates that all prisoners should be slaves of the Ummah, to use as we see fit.
“Hey, screw you Jack. I’m no slave to anyone, If you and your pals want to make a better world, why don’t you go take a wash and grab yourself a job just the same as everybody else has to? Or maybe you think your shit-don’t-stink revolution is going to get you somewhere? Well, I got news for you. Your plans of creating some Islamic paradise state are going to get you precisely nowhere. At best you will get dead, at worst you will be living right back in the ruins of the world you couldn’t break out of in the first place.”
“Silence. You are the property of the Mujahidin. The penalty for disbelief is death.”
“You want to kill me, get it over with. Anything would be better than living in this backwoods toilet. You ever think about that Tomur, when you are formulating your big-assed plans for world domination? If Allah loves you and your people so much, why are you living in this squalid little encampment?
“Faith brings its rewards in heaven.”
“Uhuh—that’s real convenient isn’t it. You do all the grunt work down here and your Imam gives you some promissory note sermon, to let you know things are going to get better when you die. But what if they don’t get better? You will hardly be in a position to ask for compensation will you?”
“I understand your weakness Lady Whitaker. Such heresy comes easily to the lips of the kafir. You cannot help yourself. I understand this. The Holy Qur'an tells us that men and women who love the life in this world more than the promise of the hereafter are unbelievers and for this they will be assuredly punished.”
“See, that’s the problem right there. All you got is punishment and a life list of unattainable obedience. You ever think you could have a happier life if you eased back on the judgment calls?”
“You forget Lady Whitaker. I have been to America. It is a land of Godless perversity. All there will be punished for their sins. Allah dictates this.”
“You have got to be a special kind of mad if you think that is ever going to happen. You want to run your backwater world like some kind of Sharia paradise, then go ahead, but if you think for a second you are going to inflict your ideas on the rest of the world, you have got another thing coming.”
“Your words have assured your damnation Lady Whitaker. The odious world of the kafir will be destroyed. The cursed forces of crusader evil will suffer humiliation at every turn and all who stand in the way of Allah’s will, shall be slain.”
“A better world by killing people? Every madman the world has ever known has tried that already and you know what? That crazy plan never came good for anyone.”
“Kufrul-Kibr—the disbelief of devils. Your arrogance and pride will be punished Lady Whitaker. The blessings of the Almighty Allah are already working to this end. But first, you will send further word to the Infidel hoards that their time of judgment is at hand.”
“Haven’t you got a prayer meeting to go to?”
“Any woman acquired by war, the right hand possesses. The Ayah dictates this. It is therefore lawful that you do my bidding.” Tomur edged forwards acr
oss the bed, his dirty peasant hands clutching greedily at the grubby bed sheets.
Lauren Whitaker squirmed backwards, gaining the tiniest edge on her looming adversary. “Stay the hell away from me,” she snapped.
He reached out then, faster than a coiling snake. He grabbed her by the wrist, brutally wrenching her fingers away from the edge of the bed sheet.
The sheet sagged downwards around her waist, exposing her breasts to his triumphant gaze.
She stared through him contemptuously; then swung a furious right-handed slap at his face.
He fielded the blow effortlessly, catching her hand before it could strike home. His grin was toothy and contemptuous. “You really think resistance will help you?” He was close now. Real close. He smelled of hot sweat, cardamom, and the sweet-spiced aroma of Arabian coffee.
He forced her back against the rough pillow. Throwing the full leverage of his body against her.
She gave a soft gasp, as the air was forced out her lungs.
The dark bearded face came closer. He tried to kiss her.
She turned her head away.
His breath came hot and heavy.
He was rough and inexperienced.
The candle flickered through the crazed glass shade, casting monstrous shadows on the ceiling.
He jerked roughly, trying in vain to pull the twisted sheet away from her naked body. He struggled and rolled and cursed and writhed, battling to consolidate his position.
She fought him hard, matching his every move.
Ugly curses, vulgar and guttural, hissed across his tongue. His dirty hands clutched for her throat. They were rough and heavy as they sank into her flesh. The tightness coiled about her, closing off her mind by degrees. She felt the bright lights of her unconscious mind rush up to greet her. She struggled to gain a breath—but he held her down—pressing ever tighter with his pervert fingers.
She had no idea where it came from—somewhere deep within—somewhere sacred and holy. It was as though she were protected, by the sanctity of a higher hand. The energy reached out to her, flooded every part of her being, guiding her with its gift of unlimited power. When it happened, she didn’t know how she did it. But it happened just the same. Her arm swung upwards, the blow powered by the pure, limitless energy of survival. She didn’t slap him this time, nor hit him either. Instead, her fingernails sank into his face, level with the eye, and tore deep into his flesh. Blood came quickly to her fingers. But her nails tore ever deeper. They raked across his face, tearing into his scraggly boy-beard. She pulled hard, ripping hair and flesh.
He tried to twist away then, but it was no use.
She had him.
He squawked and yelped and cursed and howled.
She kept tight hold, twisting on his beard until his head angled sideways. He flailed uselessly, but the blinding intensity of the pain left him powerless to defend himself.
Lauren had no idea what she was doing.
She had no plan—no endgame. All she knew was that she had to hold on—swing the cobra by its tail, because the moment she let go, he would be upon her again. The whole world was spinning in slow motion now, a vast horrible landscape of encroaching terror, hovering in the dark, shadows of this tiny, fragile room. Thoughts raced through her head—crazed, euphoric thoughts, devoid of consequence. In this moment, she was free once again, maîtresse of her own destiny.
But the euphoria had to end. The limbo of empowerment was as fleeting as the candlelight that danced across the room.
Tomur the Uyghur tore himself away from Lauren’s grip. Or more accurately, the portion of his beard to which she had been gripping so tightly tore free of his face. The pain was sharp and immeasurable. He doubled over, clutching his torn face, as tears of molten torment boiled from his eyes. He staggered, whimpered and reached out blindly towards her.
Lauren didn’t think. She reached for the flickering candle in its glass holder and it drew it back forcefully.
Tomur lunged forwards, thrashing blindly, seeking vengeance.
But she was on her feet now, clutching the fetid bed sheet to her, as she danced away from her attacker.
He staggered and cursed then surged forwards once again. He hit the wall heavily. The whole summerhouse shook with the impact. He wobbled drunkenly, shaking his head as the power of the collision rang through his brain. He couldn’t clear the fug. He just stood there, swinging his arms blindly, trying to grab hold of something, anything, that could offer him purchase.
Lauren shrank back against the wall and edged towards the doorway.
“I will have you,” he hissed. “Your violation will be brutalized.”
He took a step forwards, then another—every second the pain receding—replaced now by a cruel anger, boiling up from the depths of his soul.
The next step he took, she was ready. She swung the glass candleholder forward with punishing force and struck Tomur hard, aiming the blow as near as she could to his good eye. The hot wax hit him first. He tried to feint away, but it was no use, the molten wax blinded him completely, followed by the grinding, broken impact of the jagged glass. His hands rose up to meet the horror of the immolation.
The candle fell free. It bounced, it rolled; it came to rest against the edge of the bed and the flame rose up hungrily, reaching out to consume everything within its reach. Lauren was already through the door, running blindly into the darkness, drawing the fetid sheet around her as she fled. She was panicked, fearful, and blind to the consequences of her actions. She ran down the dirt track then veered off into the orchard. Dark branches clutched the night sky. She ran until the metallic taste of blood rose up in her throat, only then did she slacken her pace. The endless night folded in upon her. A breeze filtered in through the trees, bringing with it the soft scent of jasmine.
The screeching calls of the night birds seemed ever closer now.
The hum of alien insects closing in from the fevered darkness.
She drew the thin sheet around her, covering her nakedness.
Where the hell was she? Which way should she go?
The night noises grew ever louder.
A hundred-thousand miles of danger stretching in every direction.
Lauren bit her lip. She had to be strong. She was going to come out of this, of course she was. Soon she would be back in D.C. She would meet up with the girls Alisa, Channing, and Madison; hook up for drinks and lunch at Club Cocktail on the Dupont Circle. How enraptured they would be, by her stories of adventure!
Her breathing stabilized, her mid growing clearer by the moment. She was growing more accustomed to the darkness now, she could make out the looming shapes of trees and the black mountains rising in the high distance. But there was something more—something cruel and unmistakable—looming out of the encroaching night. The darkness was alive with the gaze of a thousand eyes.
37
Maharashtra Police HQ, Mumbai, India
The bearded figures stepped through the wreckage of Maharashtra police HQ. They were a ragged band, moving forwards with their rifles shoulder high. Karyn stood very still, her hands raised. There were a dozen weapons sighted on her. If even one of these guys got twitchy they would cut her into pieces in an instant.
The lead gunman strode towards her without a word, his weapon trained on her centre mass. As he moved ever closer the gothic D on his shabby baseball cap was picked out in the flaming half gloom.
Karyn raised her eyebrows. “Really, a Tigers fan?”
The bearded figure gave a low chuckle “De oppresso liber baby. Where are the bad men at?”
“We took them out.”
“All of them?”
“Apart from the ones you heroes splashed all over the soft furnishings. Do we have a perimeter?”
“Hell, yes Marm—but it is a short window perimeter—we got all kinds of panicked civilians running lickity-split in every direction. We are in the eye of the storm right now and there’s no telling how long the lull will last.”
Jack Se
negar said, “We ain’t here for a soft-soaped diplomacy mission soldier. Keep things tight and clean. This operation is now in extraction mode. I don’t want to see any faces on Cable Television. Am I clear?
“Sir, yes sir. DEVGRU are in bound, touch down in ten.”
A short burst of gunfire sounded out from just outside the building. Tracer rounds flashed through the night.
Karyn snapped a fresh magazine into her SIG and strode forwards. The men from the CIA Special Operations Group were Jack Senegar’s Praetorian Guard; he never went anywhere without the SOG. They were the pointed-spear of the Central Intelligence Agency’s National Clandestine Service. An elite band of operatives composed of co-opted members of DEVGRU, ISA and Delta Force; every one of these men were top-tier operators in the war on international terrorism. The kind of men who could meld seamlessly in to any given environment and come out on top, no matter what the odds.
Karyn stepped out of the police headquarters building, through a jagged hole that had been blown in the wall by a rocket-propelled grenade. Probably the entry point of the dude she had popped in the stairwell she thought angrily. The SOB had nearly taken her out. That kind of screw up would never have happened if she had been running the gig on her own. No doubt about it, Senegar’s presence was throwing her game off. Luckily the moron with the grenade launcher had no idea what he was doing. He had fired an armor-piercing round at her, rather than a high explosive warhead. The A.P. round was designed to penetrate heavy armor before exploding. That meant a longer delay, so that the molten copper in the shaped charge could boil through armor before the warhead detonated. The walls of the police headquarters were no-match for such a ferocious weapon; the shaped-charge had cut through them with a rapier thrust before detonating. That is what saved her. The full blowback of the explosion hit the wall. If the projectile had exploded inside the stairwell it would have smashed them all to Jell-O.