Then he frowned as he spotted the trash bin in the corner, filled with bridal magazines.
And the binder for their wedding.
52 |
Pope Army Airfield Pope Field, North Carolina
Niner stepped to the tarmac, tired, sore, and sad. It was rare they came home down a man, but it happened. The next few days would be rough. They would mourn their loss, say goodbye, then shove it deep, getting back to the job, and honoring their fallen comrade by being the best they could be, and learning from what had happened so it never happened again.
Yet it would.
The next time it could be him, Jimmy, Atlas. He glanced over at the big guy and his eyes widened slightly as he saw him saluting along with the others.
Huh?
He looked ahead and spotted the Colonel with Dawson.
Oops.
He snapped to attention, his hand executing a perfect salute.
It was returned.
“At ease men.”
Niner relaxed and Colonel Clancy signaled for them to gather around. “Sorry we blew it this time, Colonel.”
Clancy eyeballed him. “Bullshit, Sergeant. You men did everything you could. If anyone screwed the pooch on this one, it was me. I should have contained our security leak sooner than I did.”
Niner’s eyes narrowed, glances exchanged with the others. “Security leak?”
“Maggie’s replacement, Gina. She was working for ISIS. We suspected her and used the op to prove it. What we didn’t anticipate was she’d be able to send another message out after we arrested her.”
Niner’s face burned, the veins in his neck bulging. “Leave me alone with her for five minutes and I’ll save the taxpayer a lot of money, sir.”
Clancy smiled slightly. “I understand your feelings, Sergeant, but she’s already in the FBI’s hands and is no longer our problem.”
Atlas grunted. “Yeah, we just get to live with the consequences.”
“Yes, consequences I’m responsible for.”
Niner stared at his commanding officer. “Bullshit.”
Clancy’s eyebrows went up. “Sergeant?”
“Sorry, sir, but that’s bullshit. If it’s bullshit that it’s our fault, then it’s bullshit that it’s yours. It’s her fault, and it’s those ISIS bastards’ fault.”
Clancy’s head bobbed slightly. “Thanks, Sergeant, eloquently put.”
Niner exchanged a fist bump with Atlas.
“When’s the funeral, sir?”
Dawson answered Spock. “Three days.”
Atlas’ voice rumbled across the tarmac as Colonel Clancy turned, leading them toward their awaiting transports. “How’s Shirley doing?”
“About as you’d expect. The wives and CAO are helping her right now.”
Niner stopped. “Jesus, she’s going to have to move off base! Where’s she going to go?”
Dawson frowned. “I don’t know. Back to where she’s from, I guess.”
Niner shook his head, his stomach churning with the pent up emotions. “This sucks!” He sighed, then looked at Clancy. “Sir, do we have any intel on the target? I’m itching to get back in there and kill some of those bastards, and I’d like a legit reason for doing it.”
Clancy smiled. “You’ll get your pound of flesh, Sergeant. Of that, I can assure you.”
53 |
ISIS Held Territory Al-Raqqah, Syria
Mary Todd shoved a finger into each ear, trying to block out the horrors around her. The whimpers and sobs from the girls, she was used to. It had been over a week now since she had been taken, perhaps even two, she not clear on how many days had passed, having seen the sun on only one of those days. The suffering of her fellow slaves, for that was how she now thought of herself despite not yet being sold, was something she had become accustomed to.
It was the screams of pain coming from the other rooms in their new prison.
The cries of raped women were disturbing, though she had heard that at their old prison.
No, it wasn’t that, it was the men that sent chills up and down her spine.
Men being tortured, beaten, and worse. Every time the lone light in the room flickered, someone was being electrocuted nearby, there always an accompanying wail of pain. How anyone could endure such torture, she’d never know. If she had anything valuable to tell, she was certain she’d spill everything she knew within seconds, the idea of pain something that terrified her.
Hammering on their door sent anyone who sat near it scampering away, it swinging open a moment later, slamming against the concrete wall. One of their captors stepped inside, and she recognized him as the letch, Marwan, who had met her at the border. It was the first time she had seen him since that night. His head slowly turned as he scanned the room, everyone avoiding eye contact. She turned her head, though not fast enough, the shock of seeing him again causing her to hesitate.
Their eyes met for a brief moment.
“You!”
She could tell he was speaking to her and she nearly peed. She tentatively turned her head, ever so slightly, moving her eyes as far to the right as she could, to catch the barest of glimpses of him in the hopes he wasn’t speaking to her, terrified he might change his mind and choose her instead of someone else if he were to catch her looking.
But his finger was pointed directly at her.
She trembled all over.
“Come!”
She sat, frozen, her friends holding her tight.
“Now!”
She struggled to her feet and started toward the man, her friends reaching out, maintaining some sort of human contact for as long as they could, the others touching her legs and hands as she walked by them, numb to the sensations.
For there were only two reasons you left this room.
To be sold.
Or to be raped.
54 |
Arlington National Cemetery Arlington, Virginia
Dawson lifted Maggie into the passenger seat of his car then folded up her wheelchair as doors slammed around them. The funeral had been well attended, and emotionally draining. It had been tough hearing the family expressing their shock—and disgust in some cases—of how someone in logistics could be killed in a training accident.
It broke his heart to know they’d probably never be told what a true hero Red was—or rather, had been.
He still thought of him as if he were alive, just away somewhere. In time, that would change, though the wound his passing had left would never completely heal.
Not this time.
He had lost friends before, but never his best friend, never someone he had been so close to. Red had been in his life for a decade, and they had been almost inseparable. And now not only had he lost his friend, he was losing his godson, Bryson.
Shirley had announced this morning she was moving back with her family, the packing having already begun. She was waiting for some paperwork to come through, then she was gone. Delaying things was just too hard, and he understood that. They all did. It wouldn’t be so bad if she were from the area, even from the East Coast, but she wasn’t. She was from Oregon, so he’d likely rarely, if ever, see her again.
It was crushing.
It felt like a betrayal to his friend. He had sworn he’d take care of her and his son, but how could he if she moved them to the other side of the country? Red would never expect him to quit the service and move to Oregon to make sure she was okay. He would keep in touch by phone, email, social media, whatever, help her through the paperwork if he could, yet in time they’d drift apart, and eventually, there’d be just Christmas cards exchanged, then one year, nothing.
And that could be sooner rather than later, should she decide contact with him was too painful a reminder of what she had lost.
Then there was the problem of having to kill whoever she would eventually end up dating.
He sighed as he climbed into the car.
“What’s wrong?”
He glanced at Maggie as he started the en
gine. “Just thinking about Shirley. What’s going to happen to them.”
Maggie placed a hand on his leg and squeezed. “She’ll be fine. Her family will take care of her. There’s nothing you can do now except let her heal, and if she reaches out to you for help, do whatever you can.”
Dawson put the rental in gear, pulling away from the curb. “Back to the clinic when we get home?”
Maggie shook her head. “No, I want to spend one night in my own bed.”
Dawson risked a glance at her. “May I join you?”
Maggie sighed. “I’ve been horrible to you, haven’t I?”
Dawson resisted the urge to confirm her statement. “You’re going through a lot.”
“And so are you. I know you. You’re blaming yourself for his death, and I’m not helping by taking my frustrations out on you.”
He didn’t say anything, instead feigning concern for a blind left turn.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice cracked and he glanced over at her then back at the road. He took her hand, still on his leg, and squeezed.
“It’s okay. Let’s just get home and forget about everything for one night, okay? We’ll order pizza, watch a couple of movies, then just have a good night’s sleep in our own bed.”
She squeezed his hand hard and he looked over to see tears rolling down her cheeks, a big smile on her face. “Sounds perfect.”
55 |
ISIS Held Territory Al-Raqqah, Syria
Mary Todd was shoved into another room, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dim light, the hallway brightly lit. Her captor, Marwan, stepped in with her when she spotted a bed in the corner, already occupied with whoever would be treating her like a piece of meat for the coming hours. The gruff man grabbed her by the shoulder, spinning her toward a table in the corner.
“Food, water, medical supplies.” Marwan jabbed a finger at the man in the bed. “You take care of him. If he dies, you die.” Marwan stepped back into the hall and slammed the door shut, the latch clanging into place with such force she flinched.
She stared at the table, the food and water tempting, debating on whether to simply partake of it herself, when the man on the bed moaned. She took a tentative step forward, peering at him, and gasped.
He was naked from head to toe, his face grizzled with blood-caked whiskers, his entire body covered in cuts and bruises, blood covering most of him. His lips were parched as if he hadn’t had anything to drink in days, and his frame seemed a shadow of what she suspected he once was.
“Are-are you okay?”
He moaned.
“Do you speak English?”
“Wa-water.”
American?
She hurried to the table and poured a glass of water, bringing it to him. She sat on the bed and lifted his head, letting him sip as much as he could take before it began dribbling down his cheeks. She took the glass away.
“I’m Mary. What’s your name?”
He mumbled something, something she couldn’t make out, before he collapsed, his head lolling to the side.
If he dies, you die.
“Oh, God, please don’t die on me!”
56 |
CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia
“I’ve got his new phone. Sort of.”
Chris Leroux looked up as Randy Child stepped into his office, waving a tablet. “Hadad’s?”
“Yup. Looks like your hunch paid off. You were right. He scrapped his phone as soon as he knew it was compromised. I’ve been going through all the new phones activated in the area and was able to voice match him to a new cell. He’s already stopped using it and we’re trying to track down his current one, but we’ve been able to track his movements over the past week.”
Leroux smiled, leaning back in his chair. “And?”
“He’s been to his house and that building where they first brought Alia Monroe. Nowhere else.”
Leroux pursed his lips, rocking back and forth slightly in his chair. “Any chatter on Monroe?”
“Echelon recordings have him referring to a valuable package on several occasions.”
“Ransom?”
Child shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’s been talking to their PR people.”
Leroux drew in a slow, deep breath as he processed this new information. He frowned. “They’re going to publicly execute her.”
Child nodded. “Makes sense. They’ll probably torture her on camera, rape her, kill her, and send the video to the President and broadcast it all over the Internet.”
Leroux leaned forward, shivering, the mental image almost overwhelming. “Any clue as to where she is?”
Child shook his head. “But I’d have to think he’s holding her close. She’s too valuable to them.”
Leroux agreed. “So either his home or that building.”
“That would be my guess.”
Leroux made a decision. “We need to know. Send in a UAV equipped with radar motion detectors.”
Child grinned. “Already done.”
Leroux smiled, appreciating the initiative. “And?”
“There’s someone in his home that never leaves the bed. It could be her.”
“We need to know.” He rose. “Let’s pay a visit.”
57 |
ISIS Held Territory Al-Raqqah, Syria
Mary Todd slowly, carefully, washed his body, finding it irresistible to not stare at some parts of the male form she had little to no experience with.
Do I wash it?
She wasn’t sure.
What if it…reacts?
She decided to leave it for last. She had taken a nursing course in high school as an elective, and knew she had to do an assessment of him. As she washed off the blood, she discovered mostly healthy skin underneath, though there were dozens of small cuts, and several large ones, some appearing as if a sharp knife had been drawn slowly down his chest on several occasions. His fingers appeared broken, probably individually, and she had to set them soon otherwise they’d start to heal and he may never use them properly again.
She finished sponging off his chest and realized she had run out of water.
What do I do?
She needed water. He needed water.
But if he dies…
She was already dead. If it weren’t today, it would be some other day. Nobody was searching for her, her family poor and unimportant. She had already decided she’d rather die than become someone’s sex toy, and today was as good a day as any to die.
But not this way, not by letting someone else die.
She couldn’t face her god knowing she had let an innocent man die simply to end her own suffering.
She hammered on the door several times, then stood back. It opened a few moments later.
“What?”
She held up the empty jug. “I need water. A lot of it. And I need more food.”
“No.”
She shrugged. “Fine, but he’s going to die.” She dropped the plastic jug to the floor and held out her arms. “Kill me now.”
The man eyed her for a moment then slammed the door shut, muttering something in Arabic. She picked up the empty pitcher and placed it on the table, her stomach grumbling at the food. The latch creaked and the door was thrown open, two women, covered head to toe in black robes, rushed in with jugs of water and two large plates of hot food. A finger was jabbed at her by the male guard.
“He die, you die.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
The door slammed shut and she attacked the food.
I can’t help him if I die from hunger.
Alia Monroe lay on a bed, her hand chained to the frame. She was still a prisoner, but she was alive and being treated better than she had been in months. They were feeding her regularly, providing her with water, and let her use proper toilet facilities twice a day. She was starting to feel human again, and it terrified her.
They were preparing her for sale, perhaps trying to put some meat on her emaciated frame, some high roller fr
om Saudi Arabia probably after a hot piece of American ass. Her mouth filled with bile at the thought of becoming some oil sheik’s concubine, the latest addition to his sordid harem.
It disgusted her.
I have to get out of here.
Yet there was no way. And even if she were to escape the room, where would she go? She was in the middle of ISIS held territory, and from as far as she could tell, there were no true Muslims here, none who would help a woman in need. If she were to escape, she’d probably be turned in by the locals.
She pulled her knees up against her chest, hugging them as she rested her chin on her kneecaps. She had come here willingly, though she had hidden that fact from her parents, so they had no idea where she was. But she had told others, and surely by now they had told her parents where she had gone.
Though that wasn’t necessarily true.
She had sworn them to secrecy, and the only ones who knew were ones she was trying to get to join her in the cause.
She just prayed none of them had taken her up on her offer of true heaven on earth, for if they had, they were likely being treated as badly as her.
I wonder what would happen if they knew who Dad is?
She perked up for a moment. If they knew she could be valuable to them, then maybe they might treat her better. Keep her around rather than sell her.
She flinched as the door opened, one of the robed women that had been tending to her entering, her face covered leaving Alia with no way to know if it was the same woman, or someone different. She placed a tray with food and water on the table by her bed.
“I need to talk to someone.”
The woman shook her head, wagging a finger at her.
Alia leaned forward, taking the woman by the arm. “No, please, I need to tell them who I am. I’m important. I’m not like the others.”
The woman placed a hand on hers and leaned in, hissing in her ear.
Forgotten Page 12