he glanced at Grieger and then back to Joe—as if the lieutenant was an animal, not even a pet to be treated humanely. She had been left tied for when he was ready for her. Joe could see she meant nothing to him, and her fate was yet to be determined.
“A man like you shouldn’t have to put up with women in positions of authority,” the stranger said. “It’s not right, what the Western world deems necessary. Women have a place, but war and fighting…those are a man’s role. We need more great fighters to rid the world of immorality, of laziness. Look at the mess your Western culture is in: children who disrespect their elders, daughters who shame their parents with premarital sex and pregnancy, and women who compete with men to do things only a man should do. Islam is the only way. It restores balance. Everything else must be destroyed.”
A man walked in, dressed in a long-sleeved knit shirt and fashionable dark pants. Another soldier, maybe. He leaned down and whispered something to the other, and it took Joe all of two seconds to figure out that the man who had been lecturing him was in charge. He had no idea who he was. The man nodded and then flicked his hand in the air as if to dismiss the other man, whose dark hair, olive skin, and dark eyes showed his Iraqi heritage.
“Come, the show is about to start,” his captor said. He paused for a moment. “Or do you need help?” The way he asked, Joe was smart enough to realize that weakness of any kind in the face of this man would be a mistake.
“No, I’m fine,” he said. He was far from fine, but he made himself roll to his side and put his hand on the bed, pushing himself up as he struggled to hold steady. His arm was shaking, and he fought the nausea, wondering if he had a fractured skull. He knew what a concussion was—he’d had a few. This was worse.
He put his boots on the ground and felt the room sway but grabbed hold of the foot post and held on. He breathed deep, and his vision blurred for a moment. He saw the man was pleased.
Joe realized then that his head was now bandaged, gauze covering his forehead. At least he wasn’t bleeding anymore. The man snapped his fingers, and the same soldier who had been there a moment ago appeared at Joe’s side, grabbing his arm and looping it around his shoulder to help him walk. He panicked for a minute, wondering if maybe this was it for him.
“Do not worry. Mijala will help you walk,” his captor said. “You’ve proven yourself already. I don’t want you falling over and missing this show I prepared just for you.”
Joe didn’t know what to make of this man or his show, but his Spidey senses had been screaming from the moment he woke in that concrete hole. There was nothing he could do for Grieger right now. He could hear her whimpering softly. This show…he didn’t want to know what it was, because his worst fear was that he was walking into his torture or execution.
A door opened, and bright sun and hot air filtered in. There was yelling and shouting and sounds of men celebrating. For Joe, fear underlay everything: the fear of dealing with someone, something, that wasn’t sane.
There were men, fighters, everywhere, scarves covering their faces. All carried guns. It was dusty, dirty, and hot. A long line of people—women, he thought—was being led in. They were covered head to toe, tied together by a long rope. Men were leading them roughly. Joe could hear crying, begging as he took in the man beside him. His captor watched over the proceedings. There wasn’t an ounce of sympathy in his expression.
“I seem to be at a loss. You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” Joe found himself saying. He wondered whether that was smart. Either the man would tell him, kill him, or beat him. He didn’t know what would be worse, but whatever this hell was, whatever he was witnessing, he didn’t believe for a minute he would ever walk out of here alive.
“Ayoud,” his captor said. “I will
“A man like you shouldn’t have to put up with women in positions of authority,” the stranger said. “It’s not right, what the Western world deems necessary. Women have a place, but war and fighting…those are a man’s role. We need more great fighters to rid the world of immorality, of laziness. Look at the mess your Western culture is in: children who disrespect their elders, daughters who shame their parents with premarital sex and pregnancy, and women who compete with men to do things only a man should do. Islam is the only way. It restores balance. Everything else must be destroyed.”
A man walked in, dressed in a long-sleeved knit shirt and fashionable dark pants. Another soldier, maybe. He leaned down and whispered something to the other, and it took Joe all of two seconds to figure out that the man who had been lecturing him was in charge. He had no idea who he was. The man nodded and then flicked his hand in the air as if to dismiss the other man, whose dark hair, olive skin, and dark eyes showed his Iraqi heritage.
“Come, the show is about to start,” his captor said. He paused for a moment. “Or do you need help?” The way he asked, Joe was smart enough to realize that weakness of any kind in the face of this man would be a mistake.
“No, I’m fine,” he said. He was far from fine, but he made himself roll to his side and put his hand on the bed, pushing himself up as he struggled to hold steady. His arm was shaking, and he fought the nausea, wondering if he had a fractured skull. He knew what a concussion was—he’d had a few. This was worse.
He put his boots on the ground and felt the room sway but grabbed hold of the foot post and held on. He breathed deep, and his vision blurred for a moment. He saw the man was pleased.
Joe realized then that his head was now bandaged, gauze covering his forehead. At least he wasn’t bleeding anymore. The man snapped his fingers, and the same soldier who had been there a moment ago appeared at Joe’s side, grabbing his arm and looping it around his shoulder to help him walk. He panicked for a minute, wondering if maybe this was it for him.
“Do not worry. Mijala will help you walk,” his captor said. “You’ve proven yourself already. I don’t want you falling over and missing this show I prepared just for you.”
Joe didn’t know what to make of this man or his show, but his Spidey senses had been screaming from the moment he woke in that concrete hole. There was nothing he could do for Grieger right now. He could hear her whimpering softly. This show…he didn’t want to know what it was, because his worst fear was that he was walking into his torture or execution.
A door opened, and bright sun and hot air filtered in. There was yelling and shouting and sounds of men celebrating. For Joe, fear underlay everything: the fear of dealing with someone, something, that wasn’t sane.
There were men, fighters, everywhere, scarves covering their faces. All carried guns. It was dusty, dirty, and hot. A long line of people—women, he thought—was being led in. They were covered head to toe, tied together by a long rope. Men were leading them roughly. Joe could hear crying, begging as he took in the man beside him. His captor watched over the proceedings. There wasn’t an ounce of sympathy in his expression.
“I seem to be at a loss. You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” Joe found himself saying. He wondered whether that was smart. Either the man would tell him, kill him, or beat him. He didn’t know what would be worse, but whatever this hell was, whatever he was witnessing, he didn’t believe for a minute he would ever walk out of here alive.
“Ayoud,” his captor said. “I will
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