No Girl Left Behind: A Jamie Austen Spy Thriller (THE SPY STORIES Book 5)

by Terry Toler

  “Roger,” I answered. “All clear here.”

  If he ran into any trouble, I’d kill the lights. A-Rad had night-vision goggles on his head, so he’d be able to see in the dark by simply flipping them down.

  I could hear yelling coming through A-Rad’s headset.

  Then a blood curdling scream.

  A woman.

  I could hear A-Rad breathing heavily. Like he was running.

  As much as I wanted to say something, I was trained to keep quiet. A-Rad would tell me what I needed to know. If I needed to infiltrate the house, I could within seconds. As excruciating as it was, I had to hold my position.

  Another scream.

  Coming through the headset. Only this time louder.

  A-Rad must be getting close to the commotion.

  What’s going on?

  “I’m at the Sheikh’s suite,” A-Rad said. “The door’s shut. The screams came from inside.”

  Before I could ask if he needed me, he said, “I’m going in.”

  21

  Anya

  Sheikh Saad’s suite was the most luxurious room Anya had ever been in, but it still felt more like a prison than anything else. Tonight was her night to be with the Sheikh, and she was dreading it. She’d lost count on the number of times she’d had to endure his rough and unwanted advances. Eleven or twelve was her guess. Since she’d only been in the UAE for three months, she had dozens more to go to before her twelve months of hell was up.

  She’d done the math in her head. Three hundred thousand euros was twenty-five thousand a month. She had to be with Saad three or four times a month. About 6250 euros each time. That thought made her feel worse, not better. No matter how much she was getting paid, she was nothing more than a prostitute. In reality, a sex slave. She’d never voluntarily do it for any amount of money. She’d rather be back working at the diner for a pittance than enduring one more night with the monster.

  How did I get into this mess?

  One day she was working as a waitress in Denmark, struggling to pay her tuition at the University of Copenhagen. The next day she was being whisked away to Abu Dhabi to start a new job as a model. How could she have been so stupid? Her dad always told her if it seemed too good to be true, then it was.

  As luck would have it, she happened to be working on the day the Arab man, Zain Cahn, entered the diner and sat down at one of her tables.

  “Why is a pretty girl like you slaving away in a restaurant?” he had asked when she brought him the check.

  The man was smartly dressed. Expensive suit and tie and wearing a Rolex watch. He was smooth and debonaire. Charismatic and persuasive. Believable.

  “I don’t mind. It’s a job that pays the bills,” Anya said.

  “Have you ever thought about being a model?”

  “No!”

  The truth. She’d never even thought of the possibility that she was pretty enough to be a model.

  “How would you like to make some real money?” he asked.

  Alarm bells went off in her head right from the start. The man was feeding her a line, and she could tell it. Girls were recruited all the time to go to Amsterdam to work in the red-light district. Promised more money than they could imagine, many fell for it. Anya wanted to study literature. Maybe go to America someday.

  “I’m not interested, but thank you,” she said politely.

  “How do you know? I haven’t even told you what the job entails.”

  “I think I can guess.”

  “It’s not what you think. I work for a fashion magazine. We’re always looking for girls to be on the cover and work photo shoots.”

  He handed her his card. It looked legitimate. Raised gold lettering. An Abu Dhabi address. She’d never heard of the fashion magazine, which should’ve been her first red flag. Actually, one of about a dozen. Mostly, she should’ve listened to the voice inside her head and just walked away.

  “I’m not pretty enough to be a model,” she answered instead.

  “You’re exactly what we’re looking for. An everyday girl. Today’s models look just like you. Pretty. Wholesome. Nice figure. An honest face. That’s what we want in our girls.”

  Anya could feel her cheeks blush. “I don’t know anything about modeling.”

  “We’ll train you. Don’t you want to travel the world? Get out of Copenhagen? The pay is three hundred thousand euros for a one-year contract.”

  Anya could almost feel her eyes widen and her mouth fly open. Now she knew the deal was too good to be true. Why would anyone pay her that much money to be a model? Out of the blue.

  The money would be amazing if it were true. She’d have to work ten years to make that much as a waitress. That much money would pay for her college. Maybe she was pretty enough. Her dad always said she was beautiful. What about school?

  She could take classes online for a year.

  Stupid.

  Anya wanted to cry.

  Now that Bianca was gone, she was all alone. Two other girls were in the house, but they didn’t understand the torture she was going through. They liked working for the Sheikh. Anya was taught to value herself more than that. Her dad would roll over in his grave if he knew what she was doing.

  What choice did she have?

  Bianca had told her about girls disappearing. If she didn’t do what the Sheikh wanted, he would have her thrown in jail where she’d be tortured and raped by the guards. Or worse. Make her disappear like Odille did. The best thing for her to do was to tough it out. Make the best of it. Hope she got paid.

  To this point, she hadn’t seen any money. Except ten thousand euros for signing the contract. Nor had she been on the cover of any magazines. She wondered if she ever would see the rest of the euros. All she could do was keep forcing herself to pretend like she was enjoying herself. Make the Sheikh happy and hope for the best.

  She knew what was expected. He’d left a skimpy lingerie on the bed for her. She put it on and sat on the chaise lounge waiting for him. Feeling insecure. Nervous. It didn’t matter how many times she went through this, she’d never get used to it.

  Her heart started racing when she heard footsteps. Not the normal sound she heard when the Sheikh was coming. More stomping. Like he was angry.

  The door flew open.

  The Sheikh’s eyes were ablaze like burning embers of coal.

  She instinctively put her hands over her chest and cowered back.

  He was on her in a second. The Sheikh grabbed her by the hair. Anya let out a scream. By the look in his eyes, he was going to kill her. She wanted to scream again, but no one was around who could help her even if she did. The other two girls were in the house, but what could they do?

  The Sheikh was spewing out words like venom. Expletives. Something about Bianca and Mrs. Steele.

  “You’re hurting me,” Anya said as she tried to tilt her head, so it didn’t hurt so badly.

  The Sheikh let go of her hair but then stood over her. Crowding her. Pushing her roughly with his hands.

  “What did you say to Bianca?” he shouted in her face.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  The Sheikh backhanded her across her cheek.

  It stung like a thousand wasps had landed on her face.

  For a moment, things went black.

  “What did you say to Mrs. Steele?” he demanded.

  “I didn’t say anything. I’ve never spoken to her.” Anya scooted back on the chaise lounge, but she had nowhere to go to get away from him. He held her down with one hand and had the other raised like he was going to strike her again. Anya let out an even louder scream.

  “Did you say to Mrs. Steele that you wanted to leave here?” he asked.

  “I’ve never talked to Mrs. Steele.”

  He grabbed her hair again and jerked back hard. She could feel chunks being ripped out. The pain shot through her like a knife. Between her throbbing cheek and burning scalp, Anya was racked with searing pain.

  “You’re lying! W
as Bianca really kidnapped? Did Mrs. Steele help her escape?”

  “I don’t know. I swear. Please don’t hurt me.” Anya was desperately begging the Sheikh to calm down.

  He looked like he was going to hit her again.

  Anya saw movement out of the corner of her eye. The Sheikh must’ve heard it too because he turned around.

  Suddenly the Sheikh was on the ground.

  A masked man stood over him with his foot on his chest and a gun pointed at his head. The Sheikh’s hands were in front of his face, as if that would stop a bullet.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” the Sheikh said.

  The man answered him in Arabic.

  Something about a bomb. He mentioned a name. Rafiq.

  The masked man waved his gun at Anya. “Go to your room and get dressed,” he ordered. “When you’re done, come back down here. You have three minutes.”

  Anya was too terrified to even move. Her mind couldn’t process what was happening.

  “Go! Now!” the man said. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

  Anya covered herself with her hands and ran out of the room. She went upstairs. The other two girls were at the top.

  “What’s going on?” one of them whispered.

  “There’s a gunman in the house,” Anya said. “He’s got the Sheikh.”

  The girls hurried back to their rooms.

  Anya only had three minutes. She had to hurry. She went into her room and rapidly changed clothes and put on a pair of sneakers. Her heart was still pounding in her chest, but she was beginning to think more clearly.

  I have to get out of here.

  Once she was dressed, Anya grabbed her phone off the table by the side of her bed and stuck it in the back pocket of her jeans. She then tiptoed back to the top of the stairs and listened for any signs of the gunman. The Sheikh’s master suite was at the back of the house. She could sneak out without the gunman knowing. Were there more masked men outside?

  A risk she had to take.

  Anya went down the steps and opened the back door carefully and slipped out, shutting the door gingerly so as to not make a noise.

  She paused to get her bearings. From her vantage point, she was looking out on the Persian Gulf. A moment of indecision froze her. Should she run north to the road and try to catch a ride or run along the beach and try to find a house where someone might help her?

  She chose the beach. Anya went down the steps, past the swimming pool and onto the beach. Her heart was still racing and her breathing labored, but the adrenaline propelled her forward. Running on the beach was hard. She might’ve made the wrong choice. On the road, she could get away faster.

  Anya was suddenly tackled from behind.

  When she landed, the person fell on top of her knocking the wind out of her.

  She tried to scream, but nothing came out.

  A gloved hand was on her mouth.

  The man was holding her down even though she tried to fight him off.

  Maybe a woman?

  For some reason, it seemed like the man might be a woman.

  “Anya,” she said. “Don’t scream.”

  Definitely a woman. How did she know my name?

  “I’m here to help you. I’m going to take my hand off your mouth, but don’t scream.”

  Anya was on her stomach and the woman was on her back, holding her down with her hand over Anya’s mouth.

  “Promise me you won’t scream,” the woman said.

  Anya nodded her head.

  “I’m here to help you. I helped Bianca, and I’m going to get you out of here.”

  The voice sounded familiar. The night was dark, and the moon was blocked by the clouds.

  Mrs. Steele!

  Anya rolled over. The woman was still on top of her. Anya’s eyes began to water, and tears started to escape her eyes and run down her cheeks.

  “Can you really get me out of here?”

  “Yes. But we have to be quiet until we’re safely away. Let me help you up.”

  The woman took Anya’s hand and lifted her up from the ground.

  They both shook off the sand.

  The woman listened to something in her ear. A radio or something.

  “Let’s move,” she said.

  The last thing Anya wanted to do was walk back toward the house.

  It seemed like she had no other choice.

  ***

  The Sheikh was trying to process what was happening.

  A man was in his house. Wearing a mask. Pointing a gun at him. Where were his guards? How did the man get past the security system? He could only assume his guards were dead.

  The gunman had mentioned Rafiq. Obviously, he was with the White Wolves. From his manner, it appeared the man was there to kill him. Maybe Mrs. Steele didn’t have anything to do with Bianca’s disappearance or the stealing of the painting after all.

  “I’ll double whatever they’re paying you,” Saad said.

  “You killed Rafiq. He was my brother.”

  “You stole my painting and kidnapped one of my girls.”

  “You should’ve sold me the painting when you had the chance.”

  “I’ll buy it back from you.”

  The man laughed. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you.”

  That caused Saad to let out a sigh. The man wasn’t there to kill him.

  “What do you want?” Saad asked.

  “I want you to know that I can get to you anytime I want. Even in your own house.”

  “I can get to you, too!” the Sheikh said, even though he immediately regretted the words. That only made the gunman angrier. He waved the gun in Saad’s face again like he was going to pull the trigger. The Sheikh was a proud man. He’d rather die than let someone disrespect him in his own house.

  The man took a piece of paper out of his pocket and threw it on the bed. “Check your bank account,” he said.

  What did he mean? What bank account?

  Before he could ask, the man was gone.

  The Sheikh jumped to his feet and ran to a room off his master suite. There he found a gun. He looked at the security cameras. What he saw had him perplexed. The guards were still at their posts. How did the man get inside without them knowing it?

  Saad heard a car speeding away. He looked on the camera feed and didn’t see one. Then he noticed that the feed wasn’t changing. It kept showing the same movements from the guards. Clearly, he’d been hacked. The White Wolves were playing a loop over and over again. He’d underestimated them. The White Wolves were much more sophisticated than he’d imagined them to be.

  He went back into his room and looked at the note.

  To avenge Rafiq. Check your Turkish bank account. WW.

  A wave of panic went through him like he’d been hit by a lightning bolt. He had almost a billion dollars in his Turkish bank account.

  Saad practically ran to his office. He furiously typed in the secured link to his bank. He typed in the username and password.

  His heart sank when he saw the numbers.

  00.06

  All zeros in the account except for a few cents. His money was gone!

  The White Wolves had retaliated. They hit him where they knew it would hurt him the most. His money. They may have also taken Anya. He couldn’t care less about her.

  All he could think about was the money.

  And revenge.

  He picked up his phone and dialed Zamani.

  When he answered on the first ring, the Sheikh said, “I want to strike the White Wolves again. This time it must be big. We must bring them to their knees.”

  22

  MJ

  Siraj Jabara Correctional Facility for Women

  Two days later

  For the last three weeks, MJ had lived in constant pain.

  Ever since that fateful day when her father doused her with kerosene and set her on fire. Sometimes, she woke up in the middle of the night sweating in terror as she relived the moment over and over again in her dreams. Wha
t started out as the happiest day of her life—her eighteenth birthday and marriage to Christopher—had turned into the biggest nightmare with no end in sight.

  All because she couldn’t keep her big mouth shut.

  They’d gone back to Aunt Shule’s house to get her birth certificate because some fool at the passport center lost the copy she provided to them. They knew they were taking a risk going back to the house, but she couldn’t get her passport without the certificate. With the passport she could leave the country with Christopher and start a new life in America.

  The plan was to get in and out of Aunt Shule’s house as quickly as possible. Three minutes. That’s all she needed to find the certificate, and she’d be away from her father forever.

  Then he showed up.

  In a good mood.

  After all, he was going to collect a huge dowry that day from Abdul. She’d relived the conversation again and again in her mind. Now, she knew exactly what to say. Then, she was a stubborn and obstinate teenager who thought there was nothing her father could do to stop her from leaving the country.

  “Are you excited?” her father had said to her. “You’re getting married.”

  All she had to do was play along.

  Instead, she said defiantly, “I’m not marrying Abdul,” immediately escalating the situation.

  Her father went into a rage. He hit her in the face which only made her angrier. That’s when the pain started and had continued to this day. His thick and rough hand stung her cheek.

  Then he saw the ring on her finger and the cross around her neck.

  “What’s that?” he said pointing to her hand and neck.

  Now she knew what she should’ve said. “Aunt Shule’s. She let me try them on.”

  Instead, she said, “I’m already married! That’s right. I’m a Christian now. I married a Christian man. There’s nothing you can do about it!”

  She thought he was going to hit her again, but he suddenly left the house.

  Aunt Shule came rushing in and said to her in a panicked voice, “We’ve got to get out of here. He’ll be back.”

  Before they could leave, he was back. He tried to grab her hair, but she pulled away and ran to her room. He followed her and busted through the door before she could shut it. He then hit her so hard, she fell back onto the bed. Then he did the unthinkable. Poured kerosene on her.