Grabbing his elbows, hands crossed above his chest, he hissed air in and out as fast as a fire hose.
The flames of hell burned around him. The burning licked at his feet. No! Kamal screamed out.
“Be quiet, kid.” The man on the upper bunk grunted. “Five a.m. wake up tomorrow. Never knew I’d get this little sleep when I joined Al Qaeda of the Arabian Peninsula.”
Drawing his threadbare sheet around him, Kamal shivered inside the translucent fabric. The Al Qaeda leaders would kill him if they knew he believed Islamic State’s fatwas to be the law of Allah. Al Qaeda and ISIS despised each other. He stretched out one trembling hand to the backpack shoved between his bed and the wall. Kamal yanked out a hoodie. King Saud University emblazoned the light blue fabric in swirly white letters.
He shoved his head through the hoodie opening, taking what warmth he could from the soft material. Still, cold sweat dribbled down his neck and his heart pounded in his chest.
He should have started at King Saud University last fall, but he had joined Al Qaeda of the Arabian Pennisula instead. His entire family had disowned him for that. Pain seared through his heart.
With a shake of his head, Kamal whipped hair that he hadn’t trimmed in months against his cheeks. Let his father die in his rage. He, Kamal, would serve Allah until the black flag flew over the Washington Monument and the White House green.
Throwing himself back on the bed, Kamal closed his eyes. The bottom of the bed blazed into flames. He could see the evil jinn. Clanking pounded in his ears as the jinn dragged chains toward him. They grabbed at his arms, yanking him down into hell-fire.
“No!” Kamal jerked to a seated position. Sweat drenched his covers.
He had sinned against Allah, lying with that sex slave, Rosna. Kamal shook. Allah would ban him from jannah paradise.
It wasn’t his fault! The girl’s owner had told him it was halal, allowed, and given the girl to him and every other man in that room.
The darkness around him opened its wide jaws, ready to devour him. The muffled breathing of the other fighters, steady in sleep, filled the room. They would go to jannah paradise, but not he. Kamal shook until the whole bunk bed trembled. He had broken Allah’s law.
Elbows quivering, Kamal clenched his hands until his muscles ached.
He would pray, that’s what he would do. Kamal balanced his spectacles on his nose and sprang from the bed. He ran through the rows of sleeping men to the corrugated door. He threw it open. The moon rose high above him. The desert breeze whipped through the mountain pines, carrying the fresh scent of the Yemen mountains.
Kneeling, Kamal twisted the rusted faucet. Water dribbled out. He splashed the cold water over his limbs in the ablution necessary before prayer. Once, twice, a third time.
He’d participated in the rape of the girl along with the nine others. They’d told him it was halal, allowed, but it was not. Only Rosna’s owner had the right to the girl’s body.
Would Allah bar him from paradise? Kamal washed the water over himself. Cold fear soaked through his skin. No, he must reach jannah! His sin ate at him. He’d taken pleasure in the sin too as he touched the curves of a woman for the first time.
The searing heat of hell-fire singed his fingertips again. No! His heart beat as if to break from his chest. He fell to his knees, prostrating himself before Allah. “I have sinned, my God, oh I have sinned. Forgive me, Allah. Forgive me!”
No answer.
Chills ran through Kamal. Allah’s wrath must burn hot against him now.
Over and over, Kamal prostrated himself in the prayers. Thistles dug into his knees, hard rocks scraping against his face as he bowed and prostrated, bowed and prostrated. Still, hell-fire burned around him.
Perhaps he could make atonement. Hope soared through him. What task would Allah have him do?
The answer swept over him as clear as the cold water that had run over his skin in the ablutions.
He’d buy the sex slave, convert her, then marry her, giving her access to paradise. Rosna would no longer be a despised slave whose nakedness served at the whim of an owner, but a cherished wife and mother of children. She would bear him children, not as his primary wife, but as one of the four. He must begin accumulating four wives. Allah wished it.
Tomorrow at the daily slave market, he’d do it. Kamal prostrated himself on the dark ground. “Allah, I pledge to you I will make this sex slave a Muslim and then marry her. Do so to me and more also if she is not my wife by the end of this month.”
The Yazidi devil worshipper had a reputation throughout the camp as rebellious, but he would beat her until she converted. No matter the price at market, he would buy this girl and break her, his immortal soul the collateral.
CHAPTER 2
Her so-called owner shoved Rosna into the marketplace for the sex slave auction. Unlike everywhere else in this terrorist camp, in this 15x15-foot patch of dirt, women stood unveiled. Why cover the women when they were to be paraded as objects of lust?
Forty-eight hours since she’d taken the last blue pill. Sweat dribbled down Rosna’s skin, wetting the black neck of the dress of her captivity. She couldn’t bear the enemy’s child. She, like the other Yazidis, was from the uncontaminated line of the Peacock Angel. Yazidis never even married outside their tribe. A mixed-blood child would be an abomination to her people.
A girl who appeared no older than ten shivered beside a woman who might have been her mother. Two teenage girls held hands, desperation stretching their hollow faces. They were Jews or Christians, not Yazidi, and they spoke in foreign syllables. Rosna turned her face up to the burning globe above her that she’d seen all too few times these last thirty months.
Even the sun brought no comfort. Melek Taus, the lord of the sun, had forgotten her. Rosna’s chest heaved.
Noises pounded against her eardrums. Jihadists cat-called as they elbowed and shoved to get a closer look at the “merchandise.”
The sun burned hot on her hands, heating the black fabric of the misshapen dress, the cloth as ugly as the deeds that had been done to her while wearing it. The terrorists’ weapons clanked against their body armor as they circled the girls.
If only she could use one of those guns on herself and wipe away this shame. Rosna’s hair fell around her face in strings as her tears splattered against the sunbaked dirt.
Her stomach growled. The bones on her elbows proved how much weight she’d lost these last thirty months.
Dozens of men pressed past bazaars and carts into the marketplace. Which one of these men would hand over money or a box of cigarettes and declare himself her new owner?
A shiver ran through her. Like every time she’d stood in a terrorist marketplace, an itching feeling started around her throat and burned up to her lips. The urge to vomit swelled inside her.
In mere moments, one of these men would pay money and announce that they’d acquired the Allah-given right to rape her. A metallic taste engulfed her throat. Her chapped hands shook as she looked desperately around the swarming terrorists. No path of escape existed.
At least let the monsters finish this atrocity of selling human life quickly. She needed those blue pills.
A man shoved her chin up. Another tugged at her hair. He spat on Rosna. “Eyes as blue as clear water, despite the shayton inside her.”
The terrorists always wanted the blue-eyed girls most. Rosna shivered uncontrollably in the arid breeze.
A kid walked closer. With each step he took, the Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder beat against the dozen knives stuck in his vest. He towered a head taller than her, but he still possessed the lean chest of a boy.
A few months ago, her owner had given her to him for the purpose of rape. Kamal, the other men called him.
A hulking shadow fell across the dusty ground. A giant of a man towered over her, blocking the sun. His skin was as black as his evil heart. The knife on his belt curved like a scimitar, the metal shined to the same gleam as his Kalashnikov.
&nb
sp; Terror streaked through Rosna.
He focused his gaze on her. A finger-width scar scraped down his neck. His hands dwarfed the knife he touched. When he fisted those hands, the blackness would consume her.
Her legs weakened, her heart pounding against her aching ribs.
The black man glanced to a paper in his hand, then to her face. “Is your name Rosna?”
Not him, anyone but him!
“How much for the girl?” The black man looked at the terrorist who called himself her owner.
With a cry, Rosna ran from the black giant. Other men blocked her exit. One grabbed her wrist. Another touched her chest. A man in a camo vest laughed. “The little devil worshipper is frightened.”
Cold sweat broke out on Rosna’s neck.
A slender hand touched her arm. “Do not fear. I will buy you.” The kid, Kamal, looked at her.
She recoiled.
He dug his long fingers into her arm, yanking her to a stop.
Her gaze locked on him. Unlike the others, he’d not beaten her when he raped her.
“You need not fear.” He stared down into her eyes, his gaze harsh. “You will be my honored wife. You will bear my children.”
No! “You cannot marry me. I am Yazidi, not Muslim.” She drove her knuckles into his narrow chest.
“I will make you a Muslim.” Kamal yanked her toward him, his skinny arms as tight as iron.
Bruises formed on her wrists. “I will never convert!” Rosna kicked against him.
A cloud passed over the sun as Kamal dropped his hands, stance casual. “Yes, you will, Rosna. You, like the servant of Muhammad, peace be upon him, Abu Sufyan, merely need proper motivation.”
“How much for the girl?” The black giant motioned to her “owner.”
Rosna’s heart thumped against her protruding ribs. Let the black monster buy her. Let him kill her. Anything so she’d not revile her people by having a non-Yazidi, killer’s son invade her womb.
Her owner shook his head, flapping black curls against his skullcap. “I’ve already promised her to the kid.” He nodded toward Kamal.
Her throat constricted, choking her. She looked into Kamal’s eyes. A few straggles of hair came from his chin where, according to Al Qaeda rules, a beard should have grown. Her hoarse voice quavered. “I need birth control. Give me the pills.”
“No.” Kamal spread his long legs across the dusty earth, clanking a grenade against his belt. “Have I not already said, ‘You will bear me Muslim children, cubs for the caliphate.’ ”
Ali scanned the women lining the marketplace. No veils covered their heads, instead their naked faces soaked in the sunshine in a lewd manner. He glanced at the tattered picture in his hand.
That girl, the one with fair hair and skin the color of milk, she was definitely Rosna. He just needed to get her into his truck and he’d be twenty thousand dollars richer.
The girl shivered even in the hot sun. Disgust roiled Ali’s innards as he looked at the dejected women, all dishonored, all shamed. A few years ago, they’d have been honor-killed by the men of their family, but the Yazidi emir had proclaimed a special dispensation for Yazidi girls captured by ISIS. Not that honor killings didn’t still happen. Such things were too deeply ingrained in Iraqi culture for any edict to wholly eliminate them.
Turning from the girl, Ali looked at the man in the skullcap. “I’ll pay a hundred and fifty dollars for her.”
“You are not a mujahideen. How do I know you will not just sell her back to her family?” The man in the skullcap crossed his arms over his gun.
A few paces away, Rosna cowered as Al Qaeda fighters pressed in from every side, tormenting her.
“That boy,” Ali pointed to the skinny kid, “will give you but a pack of cigarettes. I am offering you real money.”
The man in the skullcap spread his feet on the dusty ground. “Okay. You give me seven thousand dollars and I’ll sell her.”
Seven thousand dollars! He could pay the man’s price, but he’d collect almost nothing for rescuing the girl. He’d already spent two thousand buying fake IDs and bribing his way through Saudi Arabia, let alone the price of gas. Ali felt beneath his leather jacket for his shoulder holster. The steel of his Colt Python made a reassuring bulge. He glanced to his truck. He could machine gun down the jihadists and grab the girl.
Ali scrunched up the left side of his face. If he shot his way out instead of paying, he could still make decent money from this heist. His breathing increased. He could almost taste the adrenaline surging through his body. Ali touched the scimitar-shaped dagger that had been his lucky charm since orphanage days. If he refused to pay, he might wind up dead.
Ah well, if Allah willed. He shrugged and glanced at the jihadist. “I will go get the money.”
In a pace, Ali reached the toolbox in his truck. He twisted his key in the lock. The dark metal of a machine gun absorbed the sunlight.
A few dozen jihadists armed to the teeth would be on one side, he and a machine gun on the other. Ali smiled. He’d faced worse odds every day at the orphanage. He reached underneath the passenger seat. His hand scraped against a flashbang.
Allah Akbar, here goes nothing. Moving his upper arm over his eyes, he hurled the flashbang. It exploded in a blinding burst of light. As men leaped back, he pulled the machine gun trigger.
Returning shots peppered the dust around his feet. They’d better not make bullet holes in his brand-new truck. He held down the trigger a moment longer, pulsing bullets through the air. Shoving the gun under his arm, he ran for the girl.
Dazed men stumbled back. He grabbed Rosna’s arm.
“Let go of me!” She pounded against him with her fists.
A jihadist grabbed a grenade. Ali tossed the girl over his shoulder and dove toward his truck. She weighed no more than a bird, as if her bones were hollow, too. He slammed his thumb against the start engine button on his key fob.
If they survived the next ten minutes, they’d probably make it out of here alive. Two jihadists yanked out pistols.
Ten minutes was a long time.
Gunfire blazed across the marketplace. The black man grabbed her and dove behind a tree trunk. Rosna clawed against him. More gunshots.
The man with the skullcap who had called himself her owner fell to the ground. Blood filled the air.
All the slave women dropped to the dust. Men yelled and grabbed weapons. A grenade exploded.
The black giant took off at a run. She clawed her fingernails against his eyes.
With a cry, he dropped her.
Breath coming in gasps, she swiveled left and right, but no direction led to escape. The black man grabbed her around the waist. “Stop fighting me. Your uncle sent me.”
Her uncle! She stared at the black man. Dare she believe this behemoth had come to free her? Blazes of light and heat exploded around her.
The black giant threw her into his truck and wrestled his machine gun through the driver seat window. His hot breath made mist on the windshield as he yanked in on the machine gun trigger. Fire exploded from the barrel.
Gunfire boomed in her ears. Rosna clung to the seat.
“Buckle up,” the black giant shouted. Bullets peppered the truck door as he rammed the vehicle into gear.
Behind them, the jihadists raised a yell. Machine gun cradled against his huge knees, the black man fired back.
The truck lurched down the winding mountain road as he fired the gun. With his knee, the black man shoved the steering wheel. The truck careened down the mountain pass at breakneck speed, taking shrubs and rocks with it.
The road curved. A concrete barrier rose. Men with guns surrounded the waist-high structure.
Rosna screamed. “That’s an Al Qaeda checkpoint!”
“Not for much longer it isn’t.” Reaching under his seat, the black man grabbed some kind of metal object with wires sticking out of it.
Jihadists with guns rose from behind the barrier.
The black giant slammed hard on t
he gas and hurled the bomb. Blazing white flames leaped up.
Everything around her turned white. Specks of black glinted in her blindness. Screams rose. Debris crashed against the truck frame. At the edges of her vision, jihadists swarmed.
The black man lobbed something else. An explosion rang in her ear as the man swerved around barriers.
The whole truck would go up in flames! Rosna dug her fingers into the seatbelt as she catapulted back and forth across the leather seat.
The men faded behind them and all went silent. Rosna slumped into the seatbelt. Flashes of fear still flickered through her limbs. Miles and miles of dirt, rock, and sandy barrenness stretched out in front of her.
The man’s truck rolled past the mountain incline down onto flat ground. “Two more hours until the Saudi border. Get some sleep.” Reaching behind him, the black man grabbed a striped blanket. He shoved it at her.
Cringing against the door, Rosna looked at him. Bullet casings tumbled across the floorboards, lending a tinny music to the roar of dusty wind and nothingness. Blood streaked the side of the man’s face and he held the machine gun as if born with a weapon. “Who are you?”
“Does it matter?” The black man shoved the machine gun behind their seats and spun the truck left down a side road.
Her heart pounded unevenly. Sweat slicked her skin and her breath came in hacking gasps. What if he lied to her? What if he was a terrorist taking her to a different kind of hell? “But—”
“I’ll have you home by the end of the week. My solemn promise on it or my name’s not Ali the Wanderer, smuggler extraordinaire, and master of all things black market.” He glanced away from the road to her. His mouth split into a grin, his teeth pearly white against his dark lips.
She couldn’t really be free after all this time. She trembled. The dashboard faded in and out as her head spun. To get home, they’d have to cross the Saudi border and then navigate an ISIS-torn Iraq.
Daesh would capture her again! She’d be a prisoner. Rosna clung to the door handle, her fingernails breaking underneath the pressure of her grip. “Daesh will find us.”
Veiled by Coercion (Radical Book 2) Page 2