Veiled by Coercion (Radical Book 2)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “Stop worrying.” Reaching across the console, Ali shook the blanket out over her and smiled. “Your uncle put a twenty-thousand-dollar bounty on you and I’ve never passed up twenty thousand dollars in my life.”

  As she drew the warm cloth around her, she tried to make herself believe him. Could she really be free or would daesh reach out its devilish claws and trap her in their clutches again?

  The thick scent of blood hovered in the stale air. Kamal cinched gauze around his calf where a bullet had seared through his flesh.

  Grabbing the barrel of his AK-47, he limped to the center of the barracks. All around him mujahideen bled out because of that accursed infidel.

  “May the black devil burn in hell.” A man in a skullcap, the emir of the encampment, shoved blood-soaked gauze deeper into the gaping hole in his jaw. “He took my sabaya sex slave too.”

  The infidel had Rosna? Kamal’s pulse took off as his breathing turned to asthmatic wheezes. If he did not marry Rosna, Allah would cast him into hell-fires.

  “I will pursue them. I will never stop until I have found her, emir.” Kamal grabbed for his camelback. His unsteady fingers slid across the rubbery nozzle.

  “No,” the emir shook his head. “We need every man to defend this encampment against the Saudi invaders. You will not leave.”

  How would he make atonement? The flames of hell-fire burned through his aching leg. “But, emir.” Kamal’s voice shook.

  The emir drove his fist against a rickety metal table. “If you try to leave, I will have you shot.”

  A cold sweat broke out underneath Kamal’s T-shirt. Whipping away from the bleeding men, half of whom would probably earn the glory of martyrdom from those wounds by dying since they had no medic in the camp, Kamal burst through the barracks’ door.

  The sun sank beneath mountain tops as wind whipped over hillocks, waggling the leafy fronds of the penta flower.

  The others would gain martyrdom, and he, Allah the Forbearing would cast away from him to burn.

  With shaking hands, Kamal cranked the rusty faucet and splashed water up over himself in the ablution.

  He kneeled. The sharp points of thistles dug through his pants on this hard ground. “Oh, Allah the Magnificent, the devil worshipper has escaped.” Kamal ground his teeth. If he tore his clothes too, would Allah the Forgiving realize he had not wished for this to happen? No, Allah demanded perfection.

  Fingering the Koran he always kept in his breast pocket, he glanced to the AK-47 at his side. Pressing his palms down on the rocky sand, he prostrated himself. “Oh, Allah the Giver of All.” He prostrated himself and bowed, prayed, and prostrated again. “Oh, Allah the Forgiver and Hider of Faults, give me a sign.”

  The wind whistled through the rocky waste carrying the hum of generators with it.

  Despite the emir’s orders, he would abandon Al Qaeda and track the devil worshipper down. Allah willed it. Al Qaeda no longer served Allah’s purpose. Allah had given ISIS a caliphate because he honored them above Al Qaeda.

  Bringing his head up from the ground, Kamal hardened his gaze. May the infidel who’d stolen from God’s people die in his rage.

  The Noble Koran said, “The recompense of those who war against God and his Apostle . . . shall be that they shall be slain or crucified. . .” He should kill the devil worshipper along with the black man, for she had stolen property from Allah’s anointed by running away.

  Kamal clenched the barrel of his AK-47.

  The words from Al-Kabir’s famous work about the prophet’s, peace be upon him, life echoed through Kamal’s mind. He’d memorized the passage last month for extra credit in the barrack’s Koran memorization contest. In the passage, the prophet, peace be upon him, took a beautiful slave called Mariyah who had fair hair and blue eyes and made her his wife.

  The prophet, peace be upon him, had elevated a lowly slave girl to the high status of wife to the holy prophet, peace be upon him, and so showed the mercy of Allah the Loving One. In the footsteps of the noble prophet, peace be upon him, he, Kamal, would do the same for this Rosna. Like Mariyah, this Rosna also was fair-skinned and very pretty indeed.

  The arid air stung Kamal’s nostrils as dust collected on his lips. He shoved a clip into the automatic. He would track the sex slave down, then he would take her as his, convert her, and she would bear his children just as Mariyah had for the prophet, peace be upon him.

  Scrunching up his brow, Kamal ran his tongue over his upper lip. If the black man had been sent by the sex slave’s family, then the man would bring her back to one of the refugee camps near Mt. Sinjar.

  With a smile, Kamal swung his Kalashnikov over his shoulder. He’d been studying Iraq since ISIS started their caliphate, and he knew just the road the black infidel would use.

  CHAPTER 3

  Ali rode the brake as his truck swerved down the bumpy road. Only a few houses spotted this desert getaway surrounded by the sands of Saudi Arabia.

  On the passenger seat, Rosna curled her feet up under her, a vacant look in her blue eyes. They’d passed the Saudi border guards, no problem. Once again, the fake IDs he’d commissioned had served him well.

  Rosna gripped the passenger door window. The edge of the rolled-down glass dug into her skin. Dry air whipped her hair back from her face.

  A yellow road sign poked up from the thoroughfare, lending an angle to the flatness.

  “What if the Saudis catch us?” Rosna’s jaw trembled. The poor girl had endured more than any person should.

  “Peace. You have no room for fear.” Ali waved his hand over the aluminum cup holders, a custom-ordered touch. “Ali the Wanderer always returns safely.”

  The girl sat rigid, her body tense against the door.

  He’d never had a sister or a mother, but he could only imagine what kind of events had preceded her hyper-vigilance. The girl could relax now. He’d have her back to her uncle in two days time. Ali pointed behind him with his thumb toward the little window opening that revealed his truck bed. “Six months ago, I smuggled five hundred pounds of opiates in this truck right under the Saudi officials’ noses. I’ll get you back safe.”

  “You’re a drug dealer?” The girl jammed back against the seat. Her eyes widened in loathing.

  His fingers tensed against the steering wheel. The woman gave him the same look of disgust as everyone gave Ali the Wanderer, but she could add some respect to that look. He would get her home safe.

  Contempt radiated from every stiff line in Rosna’s body, of course, because that’s what all of Iraq felt for Ali the Wanderer—disgust.

  Shoulders tight, Ali forced a shrug. His bulletproof vest scratched his skin. “You should have seen the seven hundred bottles of scotch I transported. I had a decoy box of R-rated DVDs in the front seat. The guards got so distracted, I rolled right through their checkpoint.”

  Smuggling didn’t exactly give any man respectability, but it earned a lot of money. Ali shoved hard against the shiny accelerator pedal as a thousand moments flashed through his mind. The noise of sirens pursuing him, the smell of gunpowder as he narrowly dodged bullets, the slippery feel of forged IDs as he snuck in and out of countries. A sick feeling boiled up his throat. Allah commanded men not to steal. He defied the law of Allah by aiding drug dealers and criminals.

  Pushing aside the guilt, Ali rammed his foot harder on the gas. His gaze flicked over the woman who no doubt despised the orphan who had grown up to be a criminal, just as the rest of Iraq despised him. She only deigned to sit next to him because she had to.

  For a moment, the tension faded from Rosna’s face. The tips of her lips curved, stretching the darkest part of her mouth. “You boast a lot.”

  Instead of contempt, her voice held . . . Ali shook his head. He couldn’t even name the emotion her voice expressed, but the sound was as beautiful as a songbird.

  Her deep eyes looked as vivid as clear skies and even abuse and starvation couldn’t hide her beauty. No wonder Khadir had chosen her. Chosen her before I
slamic State enslaved her, that is. No man would take her now. Ali turned his gaze back to the road. Rosna really should cover her hair, though of course she wouldn’t. Yazidis were immoral that way.

  As the sun fell toward the carpet of sand, he drove through the gate, past the high concrete fence. He rolled the steering wheel left. The truck crept up a bumpy desert road until tall bronze gates confronted them.

  A security guard he’d hired nodded to him and rolled open the gate. The look of prison had not yet washed off the man. Ali scowled. Society’s cast-offs were the only sorts who wanted to associate with Ali the Wanderer.

  A mansion shimmered in the desert sand, framed by the setting sun. Scaffolding and plywood still covered the front entrance and blue painting tape wrapped its sticky tendrils around everything. Another half-million dollars and he’d finish the place. Even now though it had a splendor he’d never known as a child.

  Date palms covered the avenue, their silky trunks rising high above him. Crimson and saffron-colored flowers overflowed inclined beds in lush towers, paid for by high-priced irrigation. Ali twisted the steering wheel and turned onto the circular drive that wound around the house.

  Brilliant painted doors rose twice as high as a person, orange, turquoise, pink, and purple all mixing into a rainbow of color. He shoved the truck into park for the valet to take care of and strode up the stone steps. Blowing sand whipped at his leather jacket.

  No footsteps followed him. Ali looked back.

  Rosna sat frozen in the truck, her blue eyes as big as the desert sky.

  With a groan, Ali retraced his steps. Metal scraped as he pulled the passenger door open.

  The girl shoved back against the leather. A fragile vein jutted out from her slender neck. The vein pulsed as she stared at him.

  He pointed through the glass truck window to his house. “Come inside.”

  Slowly, Rosna slid off the leather seat. Sweat plastered the fabric of her dress to her lithe body. She followed him, her worn flip-flops making a pattering noise against the concrete steps.

  Door jambs scraped against metal as he shoved open one side of the double front door. “This is my house.” He motioned her first.

  Still, the girl said nothing. Her fair hair fell around her ashen face, her lips glued together like some mannequin.

  Inside, plastic sheeting covered everything, the floors still unfinished, walls unpainted. Cabinets without doors looked down over the granite countertops in the kitchen.

  The spiral staircase to the left had a marble banister, but the plywood stairs still needed tiling.

  Rosna dropped her chin, stretching her pink-tinged cheeks. Her fair lashes fluttered over eyes as vivid as topaz. For certain, Allah had bestowed a double portion of loveliness on his creation.

  “I’ll get us some refreshment.” Ali grasped the handle of the stainless steel refrigerator, whose contents would soon wash away the many parched hours he’d traveled today. “Please, go out on the porch and enjoy the view.” An eagerness rose in his soul. She was the first guest he’d ever brought here. What would she think?

  Rosna looked like she’d collapse on his marble kitchen tiles. With a deep breath, she straightened her shaky limbs.

  He pushed the lever by the stainless steel refrigerator. With the creak of gears, the veranda’s broad glass doors slid open. Swiping a stack of plates, he extended one to her.

  Her eyes as big as the plate, she let her one finger just trail over the metal edge. “Why would you buy gold plates?” Her voice barely rose above the whistle of the dry breeze.

  Yes, gold. See the boys from the wealthy Shia Muslim homes mock him, the black orphan boy, now. Ali kept his face blank and shrugged, though smiles lit his eyes. “Because I can afford it.”

  He filled up a tray and carried it out onto his back porch.

  The water of the swimming pool he’d installed glistened in the intense rays of evening sun, contrasting with the sweeping sand all around them.

  Concrete and tile adorned the space between impressive colonnades on this veranda. More stone steps led down to a sand-covered yard. Beneath the stairs, the glistening waters of the swimming pool spread out. The last rays of sunshine sparkled against the water as the horizon glittered pink, the clouds coral by the failing light.

  He sat cross-legged on the polished inlaid stones of the veranda and extended a plate up to her.

  Rosna’s golden hair fell down over her shoulders, caressing her shoulder blades and curving over her back. She had such long hair, past her waist, and she wore no covering on it. Slowly, she parted her stone lips. “I’ve never seen a home like this.” Her voice was breathy, like the wind, pain etched in every syllable she uttered.

  An image from many years ago floated through Ali’s mind. His stomach had growled with hunger as he rummaged through fish heads by the Euphrates River. A little girl with long, fair hair had exited her house and extended a naan flat bread to him.

  Scowling, he shook his head. He was no longer Ali the despised orphan who dug food out of the garbage. He owned the wealth of nations and tonight he’d drink in the bedazzlement of his first-ever guest.

  Not that a female guest was half as good for ego-building as a male one, but the local sheiks refused to visit him. Ali slammed his plate on the ground. The sheiks despised him for his skin color and his lack of a people. Sheik Al Harbi, his next door neighbor, had spat in his face and told him he’d not keep company with an abd, a black slave, no matter how rich. The man’s firstborn son had abandoned the family to join a terrorist group and still the sheik found room to judge him, Ali.

  Ali clapped the pitcher of fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice against the concrete dais. Date cakes circled the gold platter around a crystal dish of caramel sauce. He’d baked them yesterday morning.

  Rosna’s cheap plastic sandals slapped against the polished stone of the stairs as she moved past him. Gaze on the pool, she walked toward it, then knelt beside the tiled edge. Awe in her eyes, she trailed her fingers through the water.

  He moved down to the pool. “Thirsty?” He extended the glass of pomegranate juice. The crystal shimmered as sun reflected off sand. If Sheik Al Harbi had accepted his invitation, the man would have been stupefied by this splendor.

  Rosna twisted. Her hair blew back, revealing her delicately curved ear as she looked up at him, one hand touching the pool edge. A tear shimmered in her eye. “It is so beautiful here.” She took a breath, which sounded more like a sob. “Last night when I laid down my head, I never would have thought tonight I’d be here.”

  He pressed the pomegranate juice into her hand. The base of his thumb touched her skin. The pink of her fingernails appeared almost translucent. Her slender fingers possessed the delicateness of Aisha, the wife of the prophet, peace be upon him. Something flickered inside Ali.

  A smile started in her eyes, but quickly died before lighting her lips. Rosna cast her gaze to the sandy tiles. “Thank you. Your hospitality is as fine as your pool.”

  “You can swim if you wish. I have towels inside.” He gestured out over the twenty-foot oval he’d had custom built. Sheik Al Harbi possessed no such grand pool, but Sheik Al Harbi despised him too much to even discover that fact. Ali glared at the sparkling water.

  Shaking off her footwear, Rosna trailed her toes across the pool’s surface. She gazed at the water as if it beckoned to her the same as him. Each morning he rose and swam here. A sigh slid through her lips. “It would not be appropriate. Not here with an unrelated man.”

  Ali felt his eyes round. The girl considered swimming inappropriate? She’d been used by every terrorist in the vicinity for three years. Her shame knew no end. Swimming, though obviously not an activity for a chaste Muslim girl, was nothing compared to that.

  Rosna drew her knees up to herself. The black fabric of her dress rode up, exposing her bare ankles. Her skin was so light, fairer than any Arab woman he’d ever met. Not that he’d met many. No man would consider giving Ali the Wanderer his daughter as w
ife.

  No, men hid their women away from outcasts and street scum like Ali the Wander. He kicked the sand. It splashed up over his Gore-Tex boots, same as when he’d been a barefoot kid digging through garbage heaps for the next meal.

  “Do you know …” The girl held her breath. She tucked her head down, her black dress wrinkling around her hunched shoulders. Then, taking a great gulp of air, she met his gaze. Her hand trembled. “When you were at my village, did you see a man named Khadir?” The vein on her throat pulsed in and out.

  Khadir, as in the girl’s fiancé, the one who said he didn’t want Rosna anymore? Ali swallowed.

  A wail screamed from Rosna’s throat. Gaze toward the setting sun, she threw her hands up. “No, Melek Taus, do not let him be dead! Do not let daesh have killed him!” She fell to her knees in a fetal position. Her thick hair knotted around her arms as she shook.

  “Khadir lives. I spoke with him at the UN refugee camp.” Ali stretched out his hand toward her.

  Rosna’s chest still heaved and she made no attempt to rub away her flowing tears. “Refugee camp?”

  “Daesh destroyed all the Yazidi villages.”

  A cry escaped her lips. She trembled, face flushing even as chills wracked her emaciated limbs.

  Disregarding the impropriety, he closed his hand over hers. She clung to his hand, her grip as tight against his knuckles as if she meant to strangle him.

  What horrific memories played through the girl’s mind even now? Ali ran his gaze over Rosna. Her hand felt so frail in his, as if the slightest pressure would break her bones. She’d experienced horrors even he could only imagine.

  Dropping his hand, she lurched away from him and fell to her knees again, trembling, shaking, mouthing words to some sun god or other pagan deity she worshipped.

  Iraqis called the Yazidis devil worshippers and mocked their uncovered women and strange rites. He’d participated in such mocking before. Ali’s insides twisted around the pomegranate juice.