make this easy for you, as I see you’re trying to piece together who I am.” He nodded at someone in the arena.
“I don’t understand,” Joe said. “You’re white―” He stopped himself before he could say “not Iraqi, not Muslim, not a terrorist.”
“My mother was a white woman, a Christian. My father owned her, bought her, but I am very much here for Allah.”
There had to be dozens and dozens of women in the center of what Joe could only think of as an arena. Men surrounded them, but there was an opening right in front of Joe and Ayoud. The leader wasn’t that old, close to Joe’s age.
Joe was standing on his own now. The man who had helped him onto the balcony had already stepped back. Joe didn’t understand a word being said. A man in the center of the women was talking on a bullhorn, shouting to the crowd. He didn’t recognize the dialect spoken—maybe Armenian, Kurdish? He wasn’t sure.
As he shrewdly watched over the auction, Ayoud said, “These are the brides our fighters have finished with. They will be slaves to Allah.”
The women were treated roughly, forced to their knees. A man ripped one’s garment open to show her white body, her breasts and nakedness below. She was marked, red streaks across her stomach, obviously from someone’s whip. It wasn’t lost on him that Islamic law required women to remained covered at all times in public, yet they were shaming these women, keeping their own faces covered. He was sickened by the brutality. Men were calling out, raising their hands. It was obvious that a woman had been sold, as she was handed, or rather dragged, to another man. Her scarf fell off exposing thick blond hair, a mass of natural curls. There was screaming and crying, women struggling. They knew their fate, and Joe now understood what Tucker had said about it being a mercy to put a bullet in their heads. And he realized in horror Dunlop had just been sold.
The smug bastard beside him was smiling. He winked at Joe, jutting out his chin. “A bargain he got, ten of your American dollars. She was tasty, your Dunlop, but not the innocent she pretended to be.”
Joe saw his hands around Ayoud’s throat before he realized what he was doing. He heard his own shouts before a gun was in his face and an arm around his throat had him dropping to his knees. He’d definitely shaken Ayoud, and the man was angered—he could see it in his face as he shouted something and gestured angrily. Then a man was dragged out, wearing a US military uniform, his head covered with a bag, hands tied behind his back. He struggled and was kicked over and over, forced to his knees, the bag ripped from his head.
Tucker’s face was a mess. He was bleeding, his face swollen and bruised. Joe suspected broken bones, by the way he was leaning. A foot was jammed into his back.
“Your friend. You want to share his fate?” Ayoud yelled in his face.
Joe felt as if he was in the presence of pure evil. It was beyond reasoning, beyond anything. Maybe Tucker was the lucky one. There wasn’t a thing he could do as he was forced to watch one of the most brutal, horrific things he had ever seen: the beheading of the special forces comrade he didn’t know the first thing about. Did he have a wife, a family? All Joe knew was that he had been called Tucker.
He fainted.
Chapter 11
“Here, here, over here! They’ve just uploaded another video. It’s already gone out,” one of the computer programmers yelled out from the confines of the tent in the compound. “Do I shut it down?”
“What is it?” the commander called, and Eric looked over the corpsman’s shoulder. The programmer wore thick glasses and had dark hair. His fingers were racing over the keyboard. He was sweating.
Eric could see the video. “Is there audio?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, there is.” The corpsman pressed a button on his computer, and sound filled the tent. The video showed some camp and what appeared to be hundreds of armed
“I don’t understand,” Joe said. “You’re white―” He stopped himself before he could say “not Iraqi, not Muslim, not a terrorist.”
“My mother was a white woman, a Christian. My father owned her, bought her, but I am very much here for Allah.”
There had to be dozens and dozens of women in the center of what Joe could only think of as an arena. Men surrounded them, but there was an opening right in front of Joe and Ayoud. The leader wasn’t that old, close to Joe’s age.
Joe was standing on his own now. The man who had helped him onto the balcony had already stepped back. Joe didn’t understand a word being said. A man in the center of the women was talking on a bullhorn, shouting to the crowd. He didn’t recognize the dialect spoken—maybe Armenian, Kurdish? He wasn’t sure.
As he shrewdly watched over the auction, Ayoud said, “These are the brides our fighters have finished with. They will be slaves to Allah.”
The women were treated roughly, forced to their knees. A man ripped one’s garment open to show her white body, her breasts and nakedness below. She was marked, red streaks across her stomach, obviously from someone’s whip. It wasn’t lost on him that Islamic law required women to remained covered at all times in public, yet they were shaming these women, keeping their own faces covered. He was sickened by the brutality. Men were calling out, raising their hands. It was obvious that a woman had been sold, as she was handed, or rather dragged, to another man. Her scarf fell off exposing thick blond hair, a mass of natural curls. There was screaming and crying, women struggling. They knew their fate, and Joe now understood what Tucker had said about it being a mercy to put a bullet in their heads. And he realized in horror Dunlop had just been sold.
The smug bastard beside him was smiling. He winked at Joe, jutting out his chin. “A bargain he got, ten of your American dollars. She was tasty, your Dunlop, but not the innocent she pretended to be.”
Joe saw his hands around Ayoud’s throat before he realized what he was doing. He heard his own shouts before a gun was in his face and an arm around his throat had him dropping to his knees. He’d definitely shaken Ayoud, and the man was angered—he could see it in his face as he shouted something and gestured angrily. Then a man was dragged out, wearing a US military uniform, his head covered with a bag, hands tied behind his back. He struggled and was kicked over and over, forced to his knees, the bag ripped from his head.
Tucker’s face was a mess. He was bleeding, his face swollen and bruised. Joe suspected broken bones, by the way he was leaning. A foot was jammed into his back.
“Your friend. You want to share his fate?” Ayoud yelled in his face.
Joe felt as if he was in the presence of pure evil. It was beyond reasoning, beyond anything. Maybe Tucker was the lucky one. There wasn’t a thing he could do as he was forced to watch one of the most brutal, horrific things he had ever seen: the beheading of the special forces comrade he didn’t know the first thing about. Did he have a wife, a family? All Joe knew was that he had been called Tucker.
He fainted.
Chapter 11
“Here, here, over here! They’ve just uploaded another video. It’s already gone out,” one of the computer programmers yelled out from the confines of the tent in the compound. “Do I shut it down?”
“What is it?” the commander called, and Eric looked over the corpsman’s shoulder. The programmer wore thick glasses and had dark hair. His fingers were racing over the keyboard. He was sweating.
Eric could see the video. “Is there audio?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, there is.” The corpsman pressed a button on his computer, and sound filled the tent. The video showed some camp and what appeared to be hundreds of armed
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