Veiled by Choice (Radical Book 3) Read online

  A prickly feeling raced through Jessica’s veins. She’d certainly not be the first woman an ISIS emir had compelled to marry against her wishes.

  “I can’t wait to get out of this awful barracks and start my romance with Raja. He sent me this, you know.” Though her eyes were still red from crying, the teenager beamed and held up a love sonnet scribbled on a pink paper heart.

  How little the girl knew of Islamic State. Another tear ran down Jessica’s nose and fell through the air. With a splash, the tear splattered against the concrete floor, never to be seen again.

  What kind of husband would Al-Khansaa force her to wed?

  Mosul, Iraq—the Hunchback Mosque

  The mujahideen holy warriors rose from morning prayers in the back room of the hunchback mosque. Kamal raised his coffee mug high. “To our martyred brothers. They have preceded us into glory and we envy.” He rubbed his shoulder where his AK-47’s recoil had bruised his muscles earlier today.

  “May they enjoy their houris concubines in paradise.” Omar clashed his mug against Kamal’s, halfway through his bite of biryani. On the other side of Kamal sat Raja Khan, who spoke English fluently and had been tutoring Kamal.

  The other men laughed and cheered, voices loud as they celebrated another day in Allah’s caliphate and the victory Allah would soon give them over the infidels. Kamal smiled. Tipping up his mug, he chugged the sweet coffee scented with cardamom spice. Today they’d driven back the infidels from an entire neighborhood.

  The emir of the encampment rose to a stand. “Brothers, holy warriors, you have fought well today. We are winning the fight against the infidels who press in against us.”

  Sure, the infidel news reports told of Islamic State warriors surrounded in Raqqa, Syria, and losing ground throughout their caliphate, but it did not matter. The infidels would fall back and Allah would prevail. The imams at this mosque had promised it. Kamal rubbed the crick in his neck that the strap for his AK-47 had made. He’d gunned down a dozen coalition forces in today’s battle and many more traitorous civilians.

  “Now for the spoils of war.” The emir pushed aside his plate of date-filled cookies.

  The holy warriors cheered and stuffed their mouths full of steaming shwarma and savory rice.

  Men rose as the emir called out the names of those who had fought most fiercely against the infidels today.

  “You shall be rewarded with a sabaya sex slave. A young one whose breasts are still round with the smooth skin of a girl.” The emir clapped his sticky hand on one holy warrior’s shoulder.

  The men applauded as the emir read out the sex slave’s assigned number and her ISIS-registered picture flashed on the projector screen.

  The man whistled. “Look at that—” The man stabbed his finger at the sex slave’s anatomy and used explicit words that would be very wrong to use about a Muslim girl. But this was a sex slave, so, of course, it was appropriate. Indeed, Allah had commanded treating the spoils of war so in the Noble Koran.

  Steam rose from Kamal’s coffee cup, fogging his spectacles. He drank another sip of the sweet liquid.

  Another man limped to the emir’s podium, the blood-soaked bandage on his leg proving how valiantly he had fought against the infidels.

  “I shall grant you a wife for your bravery, my brother.” The emir raised the soldier’s hand high. “Umm Sultan has told me that a man close to this mosque has an unmarried teenage daughter in his household.”

  The man grimaced, whether from the injury or the emir’s words, who knew. “What dowry price will her father ask?”

  Laughter rang through the hall. The emir grinned. “We are the mujahideen, holy warriors, we need not ask permission or pay dowries to get a wife. We command with the authority of Allah and take the most beautiful women.”

  The emir turned to Raja Khan, whose black cargo pants still stank of blood from the battle. “Ava Schlensky, the American girl you recruited, arrived in Mosul this afternoon. Miraculously, she got through Syria despite the Great Satan’s forces.”

  With a cheer, Kamal jumped to his feet. “Surely Allah is on our side and we will soon fly the black flag over the Great Satan’s White House and Congress.”

  Holy warriors hollered and stomped their feet in agreement.

  Satisfaction rose through Kamal’s soul as he sat back down on a saffron cushion. Despite the many news reports of Islamic State losing territory, ISIS would prevail against the infidels.

  “Do you want the American girl as your wife, Raja, since you’re the one who convinced her to come?” The emir gestured with one regal hand, his expression benevolent as befitted a commander of Allah’s armies.

  Screwing up the left side of his black beard, Raja shrugged. He wiped his sticky fingers across a cloth napkin. “She’s kind of dumpy, but my other wife is back in Saudi Arabia, so why not?”

  “Very good.” The emir fidgeted at the splint on his left arm. His mouth contorted.

  The emir must be in great pain indeed, for normally a true warrior of Allah taught himself to ignore all mere physical suffering. Kamal itched his shoulders against the wall as he tried to ignore the headache that was progressing toward a migraine thanks to the constant gun smoke and noise of rifle fire.

  Expression virtuous, the emir looked to Kamal’s left at the holy warrior who had killed the most infidels every day this month. Omar. “You have fought well. You deserve a reward too, Omar.”

  Swaggering to a stand, Omar spread his sturdy legs, highlighting his thick frame and swarthy coloring. “Emir, I want Jessica Walker as my wife.”

  The emir took a sharp breath, roiling his pot belly. Angry red rose across his round, and righteous cheeks. “I choose what women to give out as rewards, not you. If I allow you to have a wife, you will—”

  “I don’t just want a wife. I want Jessica Walker.” Omar rested his hand on the grenade on his belt. “I won today’s battle for you, Emir, by gunning down that drone and then forcing the chicken-hearted civilian to drive the car bomb.”

  Omar had threatened the civilian’s toddler son. Of course, after the civilian had driven the car bomb into coalition forces, Omar had beheaded the toddler anyway since the civilian’s widow had refused to become an ISIS wife.

  A mujahideen snickered. “He wants Jessica Walker. Taban’s widow.”

  Kamal drew his frown into a disapproving line. These men had better not be passing around naked face pictures of the Islamic State women. In Allah’s holy caliphate, a woman’s modesty was her highest possession, not like in those evil Western nations where men attempted to taste of the fruits of marriage before the marriage certificate.

  In the West, even the national TV showed women parading in scraps of fabric scarcely large enough to clothe an infant. In ISIS, men respected women and covered them accordingly. Kamal turned his glare to Omar.

  Omar shoved his worries aside with a flick of his muscled hand. “I follow Allah’s law regarding modesty, but my friend’s sister served inside the Al-Khansaa barracks with Jessica.”

  “I heard him talking too. This Jessica Walker is very beautiful.” On Kamal’s other side, Raja whistled.

  “Not just very beautiful.” Omar leaned around Kamal to meet Raja’s gaze. “Her looks rival porn stars.”

  What did these holy warriors know of porn stars? Kamal drew his eyebrows down in a condemning line.

  The emir coughed. He held his left hand limply at his side, and he looked in a foul mood, but Omar had won the battle and killed many infidels. “Very well, Omar. I will give you Jessica Walker as your wife for a reward.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Wheat Ridge, Colorado

  Kaleb jammed the accelerator against the floor as he broke the speed limit on I-70. A few truckers crept around the dark curves. Clouds obscured the moon. His head pounded.

  Mom’s voice blared through his rental car’s speakers. She stumbled over words as her tears made a pattering noise against her cell phone. “These last six months, Ava spent a lot of time online.
She bought a Koran and started objecting to the clothes her classmates wore. I didn’t suppose it mattered. It’s not as if we actually attend synagogue, except maybe for a bar mitzvah.”

  His little sister had joined a terrorist organization. No matter how many times he said it, the words didn’t seem real. “Mom,” Kaleb’s voice caught, “why didn’t you tell me?” He veered onto the Ward Road exit. A familiar hill rose up above him.

  His headlights illuminated old houses in a rundown neighborhood. He skidded off Ward Road onto a local thoroughfare. Police car sirens sounded through the darkness to the east.

  “You were busy finishing up your med school residency. I didn’t want to worry you.” Mom sobbed louder.

  Kaleb threw the car into park in a narrow driveway. The front porch’s floodlights flipped on, illuminating the cracked concrete. The front door of the townhome exploded open. Mom ran down the snow-covered steps barefoot. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She trembled in the freezing Colorado air.

  He flung the car door open. Snow crunched underneath his boots. He stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked at Mom.

  She reached for him, wordless horror on her face. Last time he’d seen her like this was when Dad got sentenced to forty years in jail, his dad, that is. Ava’s dad had just disappeared without even prison as an excuse for being a deadbeat.

  As he stared at Mom’s neon pink housecoat, the situation sank in. Kaleb choked.

  Ring. Mom’s cell vibrated. An international area code popped up on the Caller ID. Both of their gazes riveted on the phone. She hit Speaker.

  “Is this Ava Schlenksy’s mahram?” A man’s voice crackled through the plastic. His English had an accent.

  “I am Ava’s mom.” Mom flashed a desperate glance at Kaleb.

  “No, her mahram, her male relative. We must speak to her male relative.” The cell’s connection flickered. A whirring noise, then sound carried through the phone again.

  “Mom. How are you?” Ava’s voice traveled through the cell.

  “Ava!” Mom clenched the phone in both hands, gaze glued to where her baby’s voice rose into the darkness of the Colorado night.

  His sister’s voice trembled. She sounded like she’d been crying.

  They probably had a gun to her head. The male voice barked over the line in a command that threatened violence if he was disobeyed. “Not you, Ava’s brother.”

  Fear burning in her eyes, Mom handed the phone to him.

  They needed a phone tap! What would that even accomplish? Even if they had Ava’s location, she was in ISIS-occupied territory. How could he get Ava back to America? Kaleb stared into the piece of plastic that connected him to the sister who the FBI said he’d never see again.

  The man with the accent cleared his throat. “Do you give your permission for your sister to marry me?”

  “No ####-ing way! Put her back on the plane to America, you ####. Now!” Kaleb screamed into the receiver. The wannabe fiancé of his fourteen-year-old sister was older than him, let alone a terrorist. He shook the phone. It rattled inside its case.

  “Well, Allah wills it, and that is higher than her mahram’s male relative’s will. Allah Akbar,” the male voice said. The line went dead.

  Kaleb dropped the phone. It clattered against the snow-covered sidewalk. Even now, ISIS was handing his sister over to a pedophile.

  Mom bent and picked up her phone. Her chest heaved with shallow breaths. She moaned, a deadness in her eyes. “I’ll never see my baby girl again.”

  Kaleb touched Mom’s arm. “I’ll get Ava back. I promise.” Or die trying. The day Ava was born, he’d cut middle school classes to see this tiny, red-faced person at the hospital. Ava’s dad had been out at a bar “celebrating,” of course.

  When he’d snuck into Mom’s hospital room and poked one exploratory finger against his sister’s shriveled, newborn face, Ava had clasped his thumb. He’d known that day he was going to look out for Ava, because her alcoholic dad sure wasn’t going to.

  “How will you get Ava back?” Mom looked at him, eyes wide.

  If only he knew. “I’m going to make a call to a guy I served with in the infantry right out of high school. Joe Csontos is CIA now and last I heard he’s in theater.” Kaleb tried to radiate a calm he didn’t feel.

  Mom choked on tears. The spring wind drove fallen snow against their faces. Sliding her fingers over his, Mom clenched his hand. “I will pray that you succeed.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Mosul, Iraq

  The hem of Jessica’s black abaya touched Ava’s robe as she stood next to the girl in front of a latticed panel. Outside the government building, the sun rose over tall buildings and clear skies. A painted screen decorated the door of this marriage hall.

  Across the room, stood Umm Sultan and the rest of the Al-Khansaa brigade, the imam, and Ava’s groom, Raja Khan. The man’s posh beard jutted out a hand width from his cheeks as ISIS law required. He wore no mustache.

  Ava trembled beneath her robes. A line of sweat ran down her nose behind her niqab, her blue eyes just visible through the veils as the summer day overheated the building. The stench of sweat rose beneath Jessica’s robes and she could smell the perspiration of the other dozen Al-Khansaa women.

  Raja Khan clicked End Call on the mobile, putting a stop to the stream of filthy, God-dishonoring words that Ava’s brother had shouted over the phone. He sounded like a wicked, godless man. Probably the same kind of bar-hopping, womanizing heathen who populated Western lands. With relatives like that, no wonder Ava had wanted a more devout life.

  Jessica’s lower lip trembled. A breath of air blew the door open, carrying the sickening smell of dead bodies with it. She’d dreamed that ISIS would be a beacon of purity, where religiously faithful husbands provided for their children rather than skipping town, like her dad had. She’d never imagined all the murder and sadistic cruelty in ISIS.

  Jessica wrapped her arm around Ava, black surrounding black. Her gloves prevented skin contact. What kind of marriage would Ava enter into this day?

  Umm Sultan glared at Jessica as Ava cried into her shoulder. If only she could do something to send Ava back to America. She couldn’t though, and the girl had to marry because it was brutally hard to survive as a single woman in ISIS’s caliphate.

  Ava hiccupped beneath the shield of black. A few dozen paces away, her groom stood tall, hands on the gun at his belt, his gaze averted from the women.

  Jessica squeezed Ava in a hug. A burning sensation rose across her cheeks as her legs went heavy. This marriage was her fault! Months ago, she had the opportunity to warn Ava about ISIS, and she hadn’t used it.

  How would Raja treat the girl? Raja’s dark hair waved over a sharp forehead that led down to his aquiline nose. Strength filled his broad shoulders, but would he use that strength to protect or harm the girl?

  “Approach for the wedding vows.” The imam spoke in a gravelly voice.

  Terror shot through Jessica’s heart.

  Ava dropped Jessica’s hand. “I love him.” Through the black cloth, she made a sniffling sound as if fighting back tears, then smiles filled her voice. “It’s just like that pop song. Raja is my everything.”

  Pitiful girl. She only hoped Raja lived up to Ava’s dreams better than Taban had to hers. The faded pink strap of Jessica’s Kalashnikov dug into her shoulder, the strand the only brightness in her black attire.

  Umm Sultan stabbed her finger at the street. “Come,” she hissed. “Ava will go home with her husband.”

  A wave of black moved in front of Jessica as the Al-Khansaa women followed Umm Sultan. Blindly, Jessica planted one foot in front of the other and clomped down the court’s stairs to the street below.

  Would she ever see Ava again? Most of the mujahideen holy warriors did not allow their wives to entertain guests. Taban sure hadn’t.

  The courthouse doors clanked shut behind them. In the street, an uproar sounded. Civilians and mujahideen gathered around the spectacle.

>   ISIS soldiers surrounded a gaunt man and woman with their child, a prepubescent girl not old enough yet to don the veil.

  A stocky mujahideen swaggered closer. Jessica squinted. She’d seen his avatar on the group texts Islamic State sent out. His name was Omar and he was one of ISIS’s fiercest and most decorated fighters.

  Omar’s thick lips parted, revealing dark gums as he smiled and pulled the trigger. The man beside Omar, Bakir according to the group texts’ avatars, fired a second bullet into the fallen man.

  The gaunt woman screamed and threw herself over the man. “No! My husband.”

  “Your husband was a traitor.” Omar yanked a mobile from the man’s pocket. It glistened in the intense heat. “Only Islamic State soldiers are allowed to have phones.”

  The little girl trembled in the refuse-covered street. A mute cry passed her lips. She reached one quivering hand toward her mother as her straggly hair fell over her bruised cheek.

  Rising from her dead husband, the woman shrank back to her daughter. Her sunken eyes matched her hollow cheeks as she stared at the ISIS mujahideen. The mother and child would starve now with no man in the house to collect the daily food ration from Islamic State.

  Tears burned behind Jessica’s eyes, but she didn’t dare shed them. She dug her fingers into the forestock of her gun to keep her arm from quaking.

  “Treachery is never just one man. An entire family gives aid to a traitor.” Omar grabbed the woman by the elbow, yanking her to her tiptoes.

  Terror shone in the worn lines of the woman’s face. Omar cracked up, looking chuffed. The gaunt lady screamed. She lunged for her child.

  With a swishing noise, Omar drew the scimitar at his belt. He swung it.

  Even as Jessica squeezed her eyes shut, the woman’s blood splattered against Jessica’s abaya. A single ruby drop glistened on the thumb of Jessica’s glove, red against the black.

  With a grunt, Omar heaved the woman’s headless body toward the sewer. A plopping noise sounded as a once living person landed on top of piles of rotting flesh and rubbish. Omar grinned, flashing large teeth that gleamed despite the rancid odor that filled this city. He elbowed the black-clad man next to him. “Good one, eh, Bakir?”