Veiled by Coercion (Radical Book 2) Page 8

  “Crass man. You distract from the glory of Allah by reveling in pain.” Kamal drew his narrow nose in, pushing up his spectacles. “Just behead him. You must kill for Allah’s glory, not for your own pleasure.”

  With a chuckle, Omar stepped out of the cell and slapped Kamal on the back. “First, I’m going to get myself some coffee. Can’t properly enjoy an execution without coffee.”

  A half hour respite from death? Ali’s burning throat and aching body removed any pleasure from the stay.

  Another daesh soldier twisted Ali’s hands behind his back and cinched a zip tie tight. The cell door slammed behind him. The metal bars grated shut, locking out all hope of escape.

  CHAPTER 8

  The sickly sweet smell of anesthesia washed over Rosna. She opened her eyes. An IV needle stuck into the vein in her right arm and gauze wrapped around her rib cage. Rosna shoved her feet out of the bed.

  A metal handcuff clinked against the bedrail, pulling her short. Pain shot through her rib cage. She tried to suck in a breath. Agony overwhelmed her.

  Across the room, a black-clad woman fingered an AK-47. “You’re awake.” Jessica, that was the woman’s name. Slinging the gun over her shoulder, she bounded closer. “Are you hungry?”

  Words died on Rosna’s tongue as the pain stabbed through her.

  Dipping a washcloth into a kidney-shaped water basin, Jessica wrung it out. She massaged the damp cloth over Rosna’s forehead.

  The pale pink stain of blood came off on the washcloth. Rosna yanked against the handcuff. The tightly clasped metal dug into her skin, creating a sore that would take weeks to heal. Each ragged breath brought pain. “Unchain me, please.”

  Unchained, perhaps she could escape before the fiend came back. Kamal could not marry her. He could not! She would not bear daesh soldiers in her womb. The sick taste of fear rose through her throat.

  Where was Ali? She needed Ali. He always knew what to do. He’d escaped from hundreds of such situations. What if daesh had killed him?

  A vision of his dark eyes staring out, vacant in death, appeared before her, a sign from Melek Taus. No! She grabbed for Ali’s big hand, but clasped only the bedrail. Rosna yanked against the handcuff. “Unchain me.”

  “I cannot.” Jessica averted her gaze. The smell of bleach-cleaned terry cloth rose to her nostrils as Jessica dabbed it against her skin.

  A hacking cough tore through Rosna. Pain seared through her. She could hardly breathe.

  Jessica dropped the washcloth. Wrapping her arm around Rosna’s shoulder, the woman laid her back. “I can ask a doctor for more morphine. The siege has cut into our supplies, but we have a few narcotics left.”

  Sticky strings of hair slapped Rosna’s face as she shook her head. She needed to be alert to escape. She’d never escape. Despair tore through her as tears ran down her cheeks.

  “At least take some aspirin.” Jessica dumped white pills into her palm. The back of her hand touched Rosna’s cheek as she extended a full glass of water.

  Pills! Rosna turned her face away from the aspirin as a desperate hope rose through her. “I want the blue pills to prevent . . .” She choked. This daesh woman knew her shame. Her ears rang as the daesh men’s voices pummeled against her eardrums. They had taken her honor, her honor! She steeled her lower lip. “To prevent babies. Please ask the doctor.”

  Jessica dropped her hand. The white pills bounced across the tile floor. “Your owner ordered that you have none.” Gaze downcast, Jessica mouthed the words.

  “No!” Rosna yanked against the chain that held her to the hospital bed. “You cannot let him do this to me. I am Yazidi, I am not Muslim. I cannot have his child!” An Islamic State murderer could not invade her womb! She cast a desperate glance at the covered window.

  A slit in the curtain revealed they were above ground level. How many floors above? Could she jump? She would join Ali in death.

  One hand on her Kalashnikov, Jessica laid her other on the handcuff locked to the hospital bed. “I’m doing you a favor. If I unchain you and let you run away, you’ll only get beaten again.”

  The woman had guessed her objective. Rosna’s heart dropped to her stomach. Still, what could this woman do to her that Kamal had not already done? She kept her gaze lowered, voice a whisper. “If you unchain me, I could escape.”

  “There is no escape from this place.” The girl looked as pale as death, not a single freckle spotting her skin.

  Rosna fell back against the bed. “Then give me the morphine.” Perhaps if the incompetent daesh doctor overdosed her, she would never wake again.

  Jessica’s voice carried back across the sterile room. “Your owner said he would come to collect you before dusk.”

  A pasty feeling spread through Ali’s mouth as thirst consumed him. His stomach churned from hunger. Hours had passed since Omar left. Or had it been mere moments?

  In the darkness, Ali tossed on the ripped mattress. His bound hands caught against the foam, digging his elbows into his bloody back. Omar had said he’d return after lunch, but surely evening had fallen by now. Did the sun already move toward its morning journey? He couldn’t tell in this concrete tomb.

  Wooziness swam through his aching head. He flipped onto his stomach. Pain from the lashing seared through him.

  His eyes glazed over. The room shifted around him, floating into a surreal vapor.

  A voice spoke. “I am going to free you.”

  Ali jerked to his knees. He scrubbed his eyes against his upper arm. Only the dark walls looked back at him.

  A man attired entirely in white stepped through the solid wall.

  Perhaps Allah had sent some angel of light to speak to him?

  A cloud of pure light surrounded the man. He raised his right hand, revealing a scar that pierced through his palm. “Go and do likewise.”

  Fear struck at Ali’s heart. He shoved back against the opposite wall. Like what? “Who are you, emir?”

  “I am Jesus. I am God’s son.”

  “You speak blasphemy. Allah never had relations with a woman. God has no son.” Ali twisted against the bonds to rub his shoulder against his eyes, willing the apparition to depart as sweat drenched his T-shirt.

  “I am God and I am God’s son. I am the first and the last. Go and do likewise.”

  “Like what?” This was a dehydration-produced mirage, that was all. A blasphemous, dehydration-produced mirage. Ali swam in his own sweat. Casting his gaze at the ceiling, he shook his head and tried to shake the mirage from his brain. “I swear Allah, I’ve never contemplated the blasphemy of You having a son.”

  The man clothed in light stared at him. “Free others as I am about to free you.”

  Free people? He was about to die. Would Allah receive his soul? Had he been a good enough Muslim to earn jannah paradise? His head reeled. His brain ached with pounding.

  “You need not fear.” The man reached out and laid his hand on Ali’s left shoulder. The warmth of sunshine flowed through his touch as the kindest look Ali had ever seen radiated from the man’s deep brown eyes. “I receive all who come to me. There is no condemnation.”

  All? The man spoke blasphemy. If Allah received all who came to him, what would motivate a person to strive for virtue?

  The man stepped toward the right-most wall. “Remember, they will lie to you.” He rose up through the steel beam ceiling and disappeared from sight as if into heaven.

  Ali ground his eyes against his sleeve again. He felt groggy. His throat ached. Obviously, the man clothed in light had been a hallucination.

  Many people had dreams sent from Allah. Ali fingered a crack in the concrete wall behind him with his bound hand. Allah had no son. This man who had appeared spoke blasphemy.

  Could the man possibly have spoken the truth? If the man was God, then his words would be fulfilled and Ali the Wanderer wouldn’t die this day. Ali strained against his bonds. The zip tie dug into his bleeding flesh.

  Outside the cell, heavy footsteps sounded. With
a grating noise, the door swung inward.

  Heart slamming into his chest, Ali pulled back against the wall.

  Daesh soldiers lined the hallway, Kalashnikovs in their hands. The cruelest one, Omar, stepped into the entranceway. “I have decided how you will die. You shall become a suicide bomber for Islamic State and so send many infidels to damnation by your death.”

  Ali stared. Could this be happening?

  Extracting an all-purpose tool, Omar cut the zip tie that bound Ali’s arms.

  Blood flowed back into Ali’s veins. He glanced to the wall where the man clad in white had appeared.

  Omar shoved a camelback at him.

  Water! Grasping the canvas, Ali drank deeply of the life-giving liquid. Daesh had just given him a few extra hours and an unlocked cell door from which to plan his escape.

  Kamal stepped around Omar. Face haughty, he rested his hand on the grenade at his belt. “Before we allow you the honor of a martyr’s death, repeat the shadada.”

  Holding one finger up to symbolize Islamic monotheism, Ali repeated the comforting words he’d said a thousand times before. “There is no god but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet.” The rhythm of the shadada beat against his heart, giving him new courage to escape as he spoke the words that generation after generation of Muslims had spoken before him.

  Even now though, he stood unbound, as the man filled with light had said in the vision. The man had said he was God’s son, which, if true, was a direct contradiction of the shadada he spoke.

  CHAPTER 9

  As Ali’s eyes adjusted from the dark jail cell to the sunlight, the jihadists circled tighter. Ahead, the crooked minaret of the hunchback mosque gave character to the neighborhood. Underneath that very mosque, these murderers perjured Allah’s name. Ali eyed the weapons on the jihadists’ belts.

  “You will drive straight.” Omar stabbed his finger down the street. Sheets spread over the narrow path, cover from U.S. airstrikes. The desert air whipped down the tunnel between houses.

  Men pointed AK-47 barrels at him. Omar shoved him into the seat of a Jeep. A huge fuel can filled the passenger seat and wires wove around the cab.

  Ali gulped. Perhaps he should run now and let the jihadists gun him down. They couldn’t threaten to kill his family like they did to others, one advantage of not having a single person who cared if you lived or died.

  No, Ali the Wanderer did not go out like that. With a swallow, Ali laid his hand on the steering wheel. If he so much as sideswiped a light post, this whole contraption would blow, let alone if the coalition forces landed a hit.

  Ali focused on the blowing sheets marking the road in front of him. He just needed to make it a hundred and fifty meters without this rig exploding, then he’d be across the coalition line, free of ISIS territory.

  And every member of the coalition forces would start peppering him with bullets. Ali stared into the daesh gun barrels behind him. Who shot straighter, daesh or coalition forces?—because in the next five minutes he’d be getting shot by somebody.

  What if he jumped out of the Jeep right before the coalition line? The coalition forces would shoot up the car bomb while he ran to safety.

  Reaching over him, Omar grabbed the seat buckle. He clicked the buckle tight across Ali’s hips. The polyester webbing dug into his legs. No! He needed to be able to dive out of the Jeep. Ali reached for the seat buckle.

  “The seat belt fastener is the switch.” The death cult follower smiled. “When you push the unlock seatbelt clip, the car will explode.”

  He was trapped.

  “Allah Akbar!” The jihadists surrounding him raised their hands.

  Cold sweat iced Ali’s chest despite the 120-degree weather. The jihadists pointed their guns at him. Ali twisted the ignition.

  The buzzing noise of a drone sounded overhead. Bullets whizzed through the air. Behind him, Omar motioned Ali forward.

  Ali stared at the thin barrier of sheets that separated daesh territory from hundreds of coalition forces intent on shooting down any man navigating a car bomb.

  Omar fired a warning shot. If he hit the car, this whole rig would explode!

  Ali stepped on the gas. The white sheets blew around him as he sped toward coalition forces in a lethal death trap that would kill him if coalition forces didn’t gun him down first. Craning his head, he looked back at the daesh soldiers. Maybe he should hit reverse and die ramming this car bomb into daesh.

  He wanted to live.

  The seatbelt tightened against Ali’s thighs, that latch the only thing standing between him and this bomb exploding. Thirty meters. Fifteen meters.

  Five meters until he reached the thin sheet separating him from coalition forces. Omar shouted something. If he shoved the truck into reverse now, daesh would shoot him before he even got close enough to bring a few daesh men with him.

  If he continued on, he’d either kill coalition forces and himself in an explosive fire bomb or be killed by gunfire.

  Ali gazed frantically around the maze of wires and fuel canisters for a napkin or cloth. If he waved a white flag of surrender, was there any chance coalition forces wouldn’t shoot him down?

  Four meters. Three meters until he passed the barrier and came into full view of coalition forces and certain death.

  They will lie to you. The words that man robed in light had spoken rang in Ali’s ears.

  Ali glanced to the seat belt fastener. Did daesh truly have sophisticated enough technology to wire a bomb to the latch sensor?

  Two meters. One meter. Sweat dripped from Ali’s hand onto the seat buckle latch. Daesh possessed good enough technology to build drones and dominate social media. The white sheet hit the car bumper, like the clothing of some evil jinn.

  Ali hit the seat belt latch. A wire shifted. The smell of smoke rose from the duct tape covered contraption on the passenger seat. He grabbed the seatbelt lock, holding it in place. The smoke stopped.

  The Jeep rolled through the sheets. In a sea of camo, coalition forces rose above barriers. Soldiers aimed guns at the car bomb.

  With one motion, Ali yanked out the seatbelt lock and dove through the car door. No explosion of fire rocketed him skyward to spread his limbs among the rubble. He landed in a ditch behind blocks of concrete.

  Relief hit him, along with a torrent of shots. Bullets ricocheted off the concrete. The car exploded into flames, spraying shrapnel as coalition forces took cover beneath a barricade.

  “I was held captive. I am not daesh!” Ali yelled through the seething air. He waved his hands above the rubble.

  Would they believe him or shoot first?

  A coalition commander shouted at him to approach.

  “He stopped short with the car bomb. See.” A camo-clad man pointed to the smoking rubble. “We would have lost a dozen men if he’d continued.”

  The Iraqi commander nodded and pointed right to a holding cell where escaped Mosul men burned in the intense sunlight. Sweat streamed off the mass of men. Not where he wanted to end up.

  “I am called Ali the Wanderer. I am Shia, that’s why Islamic State tortured me.” Ali gestured to the commander. That lie would help. Shia Muslims hated Sunnis and took every opportunity to kill them. The Shia orphanage workers had always given him less food because he was a Sunni.

  “Detain him with the rest. We’ll question him later.” The commander pointed and Shia soldiers shoved him into a barred cage.

  Shirtless men surrounded him in the burning heat, their sweat dripping on dry flagstones.

  A few hours, then hopefully freedom. Ali stepped up to the iron bars. He could almost taste the fresh air.

  Though broken concrete surrounded him and the sound of weaponry pounded a few hundred yards away, men and women milled the streets, starting the long process of rebuilding. No amount of dollars was worth re-entering occupied Mosul and risking torture or death.

  Minutes turned into hours and there was no water in this holding cell.

  After a dozen men had passed out
of heat exhaustion and the sun had started to sink, finally, a Shia soldier swung open the gate to the locked pen. He gestured to Ali. “We checked your credentials. You’re free to go.”

  Free! Ali leaped toward the exit. Now to find some water and food. Wait, what about Rosna? Ali’s heart sank.

  The soldier handed him a canteen. As Ali greedily drowned his thirst, he turned his gaze to the east where daesh still occupied Mosul. Had Kamal killed Rosna? She had no way to escape. Ali pointed inside daesh’s lines. “There’s a woman in West Mosul who—”

  “Is likely already dead.” The soldier pointed to the bursts of smoke and explosions of gunfire that dirtied the beauty of the sunset.

  “I have to try to get her out.” Ali stared down at his empty hands. Had he really just said that? He touched beneath his jacket. No revolver or knife materialized beneath his fingers.

  The tan-clad soldier reached for a pair of handcuffs. “You’re under arrest. Only a daesh member would want to return.”

  The frontline loomed not a dozen meters ahead. Ali glanced to the line. Why was he even considering this? If he ran, both the coalition forces as well as daesh would gun him down.

  Even if he could get back inside Mosul, in this city of millions that now reeked of death, how would he find Rosna?

  The morphine shot through Rosna’s veins. She stared at the wall in front of her while Jessica adjusted the IV. As the painkiller spread through her body, she regained the ability to take full breaths. Numbness overtook her, dulling the anguish.

  “I had just started phlebotomy in high school, you know,” Jessica chattered, one hand on her gun, other on the equipment. “I meant to go into nursing. I thought when I came to Islamic State, I’d be able to do humanitarian work with—”

  Rosna jerked her chin up. “You’re an idiot.” She spat on the woman. The daesh women were worse than the men, for they knew what it felt like to be a woman, and yet they still chose to be party to this genocide. Tugging back against the handcuff, Rosna waited for the Al-Khansaa woman’s blow.