Veiled by Coercion (Radical Book 2) Read online

  How did a God coming to serve even work? Ali prodded the Bible with his toe.

  Did God give the alms to the poor while you just sat back and enjoyed things? Religion was supposed to take hard work. The sacrifices you made for God were what transformed you into a better person.

  Stooping, Ali tossed the Bible under the stairs. A footstep sounded above him as Rosna descended to the circular driveway. Her eyes, though beautiful, looked lifeless. Her arms hung by her sides, a deadness in her face.

  Some of the Yazidi women whom smugglers rescued just went on to take their own lives, haunted by the visions of their shame. His guts churned. Daesh were criminals, not religious men as they claimed. All the jihadists deserved to die.

  He swung open his truck’s passenger door and held it as Rosna scrambled in.

  “I can’t believe I’m going back home.” A wan sort of peace emanated from her this morning.

  Back? She’d find containers converted into houses in a refugee camp. Most of her relatives would be dead. Ali shoved the truck into gear.

  “Khadir lived at the next village over.” Rosna rested her delicate hand on the dashboard. Her long lashes swept up to her eyebrows. “He and I met each summer in the valley of Lalish for the Days of Summer festival. My wedding dress was beautiful, sequins, lace. Khadir planned to wear his gray suit. My sister and I collected dried rose petals for the wedding tables.”

  Why was she talking to him, an unrelated man, about this? Probably because he was the first friendly soul she’d seen in thirty months. Ali shoved his boot against the accelerator and his truck lurched into high gear. “Don’t you have other dreams besides some overblown wedding?”

  She’d need other dreams. Khadir wouldn’t marry her, nor would any man. Rosna was contaminated now in the sight of all Iraq, but how did he break that to her after all the girl had already suffered?

  “Of course.” Rosna smiled, the expression brighter than the moonlight. “We will have ten children. I will teach the girls to bake naan flat bread. He will show them how to play biranee with our relatives in the valley below his parents’ house.”

  A heaviness descended over Ali even though a sun-kissed wind blew through his truck window as they breezed across desert sands. He whipped the car right, toward the petrol station.

  Rosna could consider herself lucky the leader of the Yazidis had issued a statement against honor killings, not that they didn’t still happen. Thanks to the Yazidi emir, she’d been allowed to live, but that was all. Daesh had killed any dreams of happiness. He pulled off the road under the neon sign announcing petroleum.

  Rosna startled. “What are you doing?”

  “We need petrol and more air for the tires. I plan to drive through the night.”

  “Oh.” Rosna subsided into the seat like a shadow.

  A Mercedes-Benz stood by the closest pump. Sheik Al Harbi lounged in the front seat as the attendant pumped gas.

  Rather than flipping the bird at Sheik Al Harbi, which was his first inclination, Ali swerved up to the next pump. As the attendant approached, Ali tried to partake of some measure of that benevolence that Allah the Giver of All extended to mankind, and focus on Rosna.

  “Do you need anything at the station?” Ali nodded to the broad glass windows. “A soft drink?”

  She shrugged up her thin shoulders. Her pale fingers shook. “I’m not hungry,” she breathed, voice frailer than a locust’s chirp.

  Had she not touched breakfast either? The girl needed to eat. She looked like the wind would blow her away. Twisting behind the seat, he yanked out a Styrofoam cooler. “Eat.”

  She waved her thin hand across her face. A hacking cough made her rib cage lurch. “The petrol smell is too strong.”

  “Then go there.” He jabbed his finger at the date palm overhanging the sandy patch of ground to the west of the gas station and shoved the food cooler at her. “I’ll meet you.”

  Slowly, Rosna rose and slipped out the truck door. The truck window grated as Ali rolled it down. He motioned to the station attendant to fill his tank.

  The man turned his back on him!

  “Excuse me.” Ali stuck his head out the window. Normally, he fueled up farther out of town to avoid the annoyance of the prejudices of men like Sheik Al Harbi, but he’d run the tank to almost empty last night.

  The attendant turned back, narrow chin held high. “We don’t serve your kind here.”

  Anger swelled through Ali. “What do you mean my kind? Men who have money?” Ali waved a fistful of hundreds.

  “You’re an abd, a black slave.” The crease in the attendant’s pressed white trousers bent with each precise step he took.

  No! He didn’t have enough fuel to get to the next station. Shame washed over Ali, but today, like so many other days, he couldn’t afford pride. Jumping out of his truck, he ran toward the attendant. “Please let me buy petrol.”

  With a harrumph, the attendant turned back. “Fine, but you’ll pump it yourself.” The man stabbed his finger at the fuel pump.

  Across the concrete, Sheik Al Harbi kicked his feet up on the dashboard as an attendant washed his windshield while making frequent obeisance. The sheik sneered over the distance.

  With a curse, Ali shoved the fuel nozzle into his tank. Petrol sprayed across his new leather jacket.

  The smell of petrol still clung to him a few minutes later as he topped off the wiper fluid and shut his truck’s hood.

  Turning, he stomped toward the date palm where Rosna sat.

  She held a piece of chicken between her dainty fingers. Her hair glittered in the sunshine, seducing any man to run his fingers through it. A good Muslim girl would not display her naked face in such a wanton way. Of course, he didn’t keep company with good Muslim girls, because no man would allow his family to socialize with the despised Ali the Wanderer.

  Rosna’s gaze rose toward his. No expression crossed her face.

  As he attempted to remember the pledge he’d made to Allah to dwell on the misfortunes of others rather than his own anger, Ali dug into the Styrofoam cooler.

  Rosna took one bite of chicken. The act of swallowing seemed to choke her, as if after what she’d endured, even taking nourishment was too burdensome a task.

  If only he could make her laugh again like last night. Ali grabbed a naan sandwich.

  Why did he care if this girl laughed or not? He’d smuggled people before in his line of work: a political prisoner in Iran, a wealthy European wife flouting Saudi Arabian travel laws to flee her husband, a sheik who’d gotten on the wrong side of the black market. Never though had he felt like this. The other people he’d smuggled had great lives he’d been chauffeuring them to, or at least he’d assumed they had better lives than he did.

  Rosna touched the cooler rim, the Styrofoam the same color as her skin. Her long eyelashes fluttered up against her perfectly curved brow.

  Though according to Allah’s law he probably should have, he couldn’t bring himself to rip away his gaze.

  “My father used to say, the man who protects you in weakness, he is the man to trust.” Rosna met his gaze. “Khadir and I, we will name our first son after you.”

  “You’ll what!” Ali stopped dead in his tracks.

  “It is a Muslim name, but we will name him that, for you are the reason that we shall have our happiness.” Rosna wiped her delicate fingers on a paper napkin.

  He had no people, no tribe. No man had ever counted him brother enough to share a meal with him, let alone name their son after him. His voice caught as the words he thought to say choked him. Wetness stung his eyes.

  “Are you displeased?” Rosna stood. Her flip-flops indented the desert sand beside him as the wind blew her skirt around her knees.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I’m honored.” His throat ached. If only she could have that son with the fiancé she esteemed. For certain, custom said Khadir should turn his back on a shamed woman, but Khadir would lose a good woman.

  Rosna’s blue eyes sho
ne with a light to put the sun to shame as if, even now, she contemplated her fiancé and firstborn son.

  “You should eat more.” Ali passed her a honeycake and placed dates in her fragile fingers.

  She pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, her locks as exposed as the other Yazidi women.

  A sneer sounded behind them. Sheik Al Harbi planted his sandaled foot on the curb of the gas station. His Rolex watch overawed whatever Bedouin simplicity his robe-like thobe would have given him.

  Hooking his thumbs in his leather jacket, Ali swiveled toward the man. Behind the sheik, two dozen Al Harbi men circled.

  “Should I ask what kind of prostitute bares her face for all to see?” The sheik motioned to Rosna.

  Ali stepped in front of her, gaze fixed on the knife at the sheik’s belt. He, for one, intended to exit this confrontation peacefully, for he had a twenty-thousand-dollar job to deliver safely to her uncle and he’d long ago promised himself to never elevate slurs above money. Ali clenched his fist. For years now he’d worked for men like Sheik Al Harbi who despised him, and in so doing he had accumulated enough wealth to build a mansion.

  “No, a better question is, what man gives his daughter to an abd, a black slave?” Sheik Al Harbi spat on his face.

  Jerking back, Ali clenched his hand over the butt of his Colt Python. Powerless fury pounded through him. Grinding his teeth against each other, he forced his hand away from his gun.

  The sheik knew he wouldn’t so much as raise a hand against him here where any confrontation with the most powerful man in these parts meant years in jail for the foreigner.

  The gloating in the sheik’s black eyes and contemptuous mirth on all his men’s faces proved the Al Harbis were enjoying the situation immensely.

  Something warm brushed his arm. Rosna touched his shoulder, her fingers light against his body. She clashed her gaze against the sheik. “He is a good man. I am fortunate to be married to him, which is more than I imagine your wives would say.”

  Ali whipped toward her. Whatever further words Sheik Al Harbi said were carried away by the wind as Ali stared at the girl. The rustle of thobes heralded the men’s exit, but still Ali gawked openmouthed. She’d stood up for him as if they were of the same tribe, the same people. No one had ever done that for him.

  Rather than despising the three-day connection to him that this smuggling operation had necessitated, she’d touched him and spoken bold words in his defense. Her gaze remained on him yet, a supportive warmth in her blue eyes.

  Disbelief stretched his eyelids as he looked down at her. “Do you make a habit of bawling out sheiks in defense of a stranger? You have no idea if I’m a good man.”

  A flicker of a smile rose across her dust-tinged lips. “I’m free today because a stranger fulfilled his promise to my fiancé. I know in my innermost being that you are a good man, Ali the Wanderer.”

  Khadir was a fool to not marry this woman, for this was the kind of woman who would stand at your back no matter what fortune the winds brought you. Like the famed love-struck heroine, Zin, Rosna Jaziri would have stayed true to her fiancé regardless of his people or lineage.

  Only Khadir had rejected her.

  CHAPTER 5

  Kamal clenched the torn seat as the bus grated to a halt before the barricade. Above the concrete barrier, the black flag flew over huddled men, showing the glorious sight of a state devoted to the will of God.

  Swinging the duffel bag over his shoulder, Kamal bounded out the door. “I’ve come to join Islamic State.”

  A man in a black skullcap swung his Kalashnikov off his shoulder and motioned him to an aluminum guard shack.

  Of course they would need to interview him before they accepted him. Kamal adjusted his backpack. “Also, my sabaya sex slave has escaped. I must find her.”

  The man straightened beneath his high quality tactical vest, helpfulness in his eyes along with the accepting warmth that marked all who had joined Allah’s caliphate. “Do you have a picture?”

  Blindness, he should have asked for a picture from her former owner before leaving Yemen. Kamal’s shoulders slumped as he shook his head. He’d never find Rosna now. Allah would bar him from paradise.

  “No worries.” The Islamic State emir slapped him on the shoulder. He grinned, stretching his six-inch-long beard. “We’ve got a database. Name?”

  Wow, Islamic State was efficient. What a good place to raise a family. “It’s Rosna Jaziri.”

  Whipping out his phone, the ISIS emir scrolled through pictures of women labeled by name and number. Images of Rosna painted like a prostitute popped onto the screen. A column of numbers followed the pictures, detailing price paid for each sale transaction when a new owner had purchased her.

  Kamal’s stomach churned. Every one of his soon-to-be comrades had seen pictures of his future wife’s naked face. He pushed down the loathing. Despite the shame, he would marry Rosna and make her a cherished wife as he had promised Allah. He would do his faithful duty and so earn jannah paradise.

  “Come.” The emir put his hand on Kamal’s shoulder. “You will start your training in Mosul, my brother.”

  Familial affection surrounded him. Even here in this new state he had never seen, surrounded by strangers, he felt like he was at a gathering of relatives. Such was Allah the Preventer of Harm’s bounteous pleasure toward those who followed him with their whole heart.

  “I’ll text a news bulletin with her picture to all the security patrols. We will find your sabaya.” The emir motioned a white pickup truck closer.

  “Good.” Kamal swung into the truck bed and clutched his duffel bag. It contained all he had to call his own in this world because he had turned his back on his father’s wealth to serve Allah. “Last time I saw her, an enormous black man accompanied her. He has a scar across the left side of his neck.”

  Next stop, Mosul. Kamal smiled as the wind whipped his hair against his forehead and joy lifted up his heart on this perfect, sun-filled day.

  The wind blew the emir’s shemagh scarf across his face. “You’ll be needing your Kalashnikov, boy, not your underwear.”

  What? Kamal spun toward the man. The white tip of his T-shirt spilled out the open side of his duffel bag. Awkward. He shoved it down. His father had always used leather luggage created by European designers, not these ungainly canvas sacks.

  “We take Salaam village within the hour.” The emir pointed across a valley. Smoke rose from flat-roofed houses on as beautiful a day as when Allah made the earth.

  “Allah Akbar!” Kamal shouted as praise rose through his heart. Unlike at home, surrounded by Western wealth and groveling servants, here in Allah’s caliphate his life had purpose. He looked across the valley to where the square houses faded into the haze of the noonday sunshine.

  What a day of rejoicing for the Salaam villagers this would be, for soon they would become part of Allah’s caliphate. Kamal straightened the nose piece on his spectacles.

  Of course, many would die by the sword in Salaam village first. They’d also have to kill all the unbelievers and sell their wives and daughters as sex slaves.

  The unbelievers should rejoice over that though, for if Islamic State had not conquered the unbelievers, they would have been condemned to hell. Now though, after this short moment of life ended, the sex slaves would inherit jannah paradise in the hereafter as slaves of their masters, the righteous jihad fighters.

  Replacing his spectacles, Kamal smiled. Truly, he was doing Salaam village a great favor this day.

  Painted concrete buildings rose around his truck. Ali stifled a yawn as he pushed in on the brake. The little village a few miles from Basra spread out about him and Rosna in all its poverty. The darkness of night had long since given way to morning sunshine as the road wound on. He now had officially passed the limits of coffee endurance and needed shut-eye if he was to make it to Rosna’s uncle by evening.

  Pulling into an empty park, Ali pushed his seat into the reclining position. Not too many
miles from here, he’d languished for years in a dilapidated orphanage. How many times had he dreamed of a family coming for him to welcome him into their people and tribe? Unfortunately, Islam prohibited adoption.

  Ugh, so much for his resolution to focus on those less fortunate than himself. Ali groaned. With a whir, his seatbelt slid out of the latch and into the compartment above.

  Across from him, Rosna uncurled from her blanket and sat up.

  “I’ve got to sleep. At least for a couple hours. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Rosna nodded. Her smile rose even to her eyes. Her skin had picked up color from the sun in the last twenty-four hours. “Do not rush on my account. I’ll explore.” She pushed open the truck door and slid into the sunshine.

  Ali sat back up. “That’s a bad idea. They don’t like Yazidis here.” Or uncovered women. Or women not accompanied by their male relative.

  “Oh.” The light in Rosna’s eyes died as she stepped back toward the cramped quarters of the truck.

  “Sorry.” Ali took the blanket from her side and wrapped it around himself. He’d have to take the longer route to avoid ISIS-occupied territory and that meant three extra hours of driving. . . ugh. The thick blanket fibers smelled of Rosna, exuding the unfamiliar scent of femininity. The heat of her body still warmed the cloth where it fell across his shoulders.

  “Please, sleep.” Rosna raised her hand to stop his apology, but pain etched her face.

  Overhead, a sound grew louder. A western plane flew through the sky. Ali groaned. “Wonder who’s getting bombed this time.”

  “America needs to send more airstrikes to defeat the daesh fiends.” Rosna twisted her hands together. “How much longer will daesh hold my people in captivity?”

  “America tried to save Iraq once before under Saddam. See how well that worked out.” With a snort, Ali shoved his seat farther back. “The Peshmerga is who we need to stomp out daesh. They’re Iraqis who understand our culture.”

  “If America would only send more airstrikes against Mosul perhaps my cousins could escape daesh.”