Infidels (12 page)

That
must be them.

He sent
a text message, readying his men.

Falling
in behind, leaving a ten foot gap while keeping his eyes on his phone, he
almost missed the elevator. Leaping forward he jammed his hand in and forced
his way between the doors and into the crammed car. There were several none too
subtle complaints from behind him, including a crack about him being Muslim.

How
can you tell, you ignorant pig?

He could
just as easily been a Christian from Lebanon or Egypt or any other Middle
Eastern country where Christians were being forced to flee for their lives
since the Arab Spring threw the region into chaos.

But not
his country.

The official
number of Christian Saudi citizens was zero.

There
were over one million Christians in Saudi Arabia, but they were all foreigners,
mostly Filipino temporary workers who weren’t allowed to practice their
religion while in the country, or to possess any of its symbols including
Bibles and crucifixes.

And if
anyone dared try to convert from Islam to Christianity, influenced by one of
these infidels?

It was
apostasy, punishable by death.

For
both.

There
were few conversions.

The
elevator opened and he stepped out, heading for the main doors under the
assumption his targets would too. The man looked strong, dangerous even, and
his plan of simply sticking a gun in his back was quickly being rethought.

This
guy looks military.

He
wished he had a dossier on Professor Acton. At least then he’d know whether or
not he had to be worried, but he couldn’t take the chance. Worst-case scenario
would be they take the woman then use her to force him to surrender.

That’s
the new plan.

Holding
the door open, several people walked through, one even thanking him, then
Professor Palmer stepped through followed by her husband. He pulled his weapon
from its shoulder holster, gripping the barrel and raising it high.

Maggie stepped through the doors, the outside air a welcome change
from the claustrophobic hospital. She hated hospitals. Hated being in them,
hated being near them. She had been there too many times when she was younger
to ever want to set foot in one again voluntarily, but BD had insisted and he
was right—they could hardly not thank their two benefactors.

She
found the relationship between these two professors and her boyfriend’s team
odd. Something had happened between them, something bad, and she wasn’t sure
what it was. She had learned quite quickly that things were not to be overheard
where she worked, and if she were hearing something she wasn’t supposed to, she
would remove herself from the situation, either by leaving, closing a door or
putting earbuds in.

But she
was luckier than many of the women that dated Delta operators. None of them
knew what their boyfriend actually did for a living. The wives knew of course,
but not the girlfriends. And even the wives never knew where their husbands
were being sent or when they’d be home.

It was a
difficult life.

It would
be
a difficult life.

Should
they get married.

She
heard BD grunt behind her and she turned to see him falling to the ground, the
Middle Eastern man from the elevator swinging a gun.

She
screamed.

Suddenly
two men appeared on either side of her, their hands clamping around her arms as
they began to haul her away. She tried to yank herself free, kicking at the men
and crying for help that didn’t come, the onlookers simply staring in shock, at
least one pulling out their cellphone to record what was happening.

She
twisted around and caught sight of BD punching his attacker then taking him
down.

“BD!”

She was
lifted from the ground and she turned to see the gaping side door of a black
van in front of her. Hands inside seized her, pulling her into the darkness and
throwing her to the floor as the two men who had grabbed her climbed in. A
question was asked in Arabic, the others hesitant, as if their plan had somehow
not gone as expected.

They
didn’t expect BD to take out their man.

She
leapt for the door but was caught and painfully slapped across the face. “Stay
down, Professor Palmer, and you won’t be hurt.”

Something
was shouted in Arabic and the door slid closed, the van surging forward,
sending her tumbling backward, her head hitting something hard.

The next
few minutes were a blur, a cacophony of squealing brakes, revving engines and
panicked shouts from her kidnappers. The sound of a police siren behind them
gave her hope that her ordeal may soon be over, and if she could just get out,
she’d be safe. She eyed her assailants, three of them in the back with her and
two in the front.

And none
looking at her. She reached for the side-door handle.

Someone
grabbed her shoulder and hauled her backward, a hand pushing on her bum and
shoving her against the rear window. She reached up to brace herself as the
driver hit the gas, shoving her face into the glass.

Where
she caught sight of the police motorcycle pursuing them.

With BD
on it.

A surge
of hope and pride rushed through her body at the sight of the man she loved
racing toward her, his spring jacket fluttering in the wind behind him, the
expression on his face not one of worry or panic, just all business.

A man on
a mission.

A man
she had no doubt could defeat all five of these assholes with one hand behind
his back.

The van
jerked to the left and she lost her balance, falling back to the floor.
Something hit the side of the van as she struggled to regain her balance, then
she heard a crash, catching a glance out the window to see the police
motorcycle flip end over end as it careened into a row of parked cars.

BD!

Something
hit the roof and the driver began to swerve from side to side, hope returning
as she realized her hero had survived.

Someone
pulled a gun.

She
screamed.

A shot
fired, then another.

Then she
flew forward as the van came to a shuddering halt.

She
pushed herself to her knees and saw BD rolling on the pavement then suddenly
rising, marching directly toward the van. One of the men grabbed her hair,
twisting it around his hand, then shoved her head forward, between the seats
and only inches from the front windshield.

Then
pressed a gun against her temple.

She
watched the love of her life stop, his hands slowly rising as he glared at the
men who would do her harm.

And as
the van pulled away, the gun still pressed against her head, she collapsed, all
hope lost as the one man who could have saved her was left in the distance.

Defeated.

Unknown Location, Saudi Arabia

Abu Tahir al-Qarmati watched the video that had been transmitted,
the last few frames showing the American soldiers heading toward the camera
from the Houthi camp they had assaulted the night before. His men had shown
initiative by leaving the camera on the hilltop after pursuing the Houthi rebels
into Yemen. It was standard practice to have these setups with mobile satellite
connections monitoring things from a distance, just in case something were to
go wrong.

Like it
had two days ago.

But now
they had crystal clear footage showing American soldiers with the Black Stone,
which meant they had no way of getting it back from them short of an all-out
assault. And any attack of that type, even if it could be mounted, would most
likely fail, and should it succeed, the victory would only last until the
Americans could deploy their airpower.

No,
there was no hope of getting it back.

He
pursed his lips, pushing a breath out between them, causing them to pucker even
more.

What
to do? How can we capitalize on this?

He had
hoped to destroy the blasphemous artifact on international television, Prince
Khalid himself being the instrument of Allah’s will. But now that was no longer
possible. The Americans would no doubt return the Black Stone to the Saudi
government very shortly, within hours most likely, and then it would be under
extremely heavy guard probably for decades to come if not longer.

Their
only opportunity to destroy it had been lost.

So
how to make the best of the situation?

If the
Saudi government regained control of the relic, there would never be another
chance of destroying it.

But
what if the Saudi government were to fall?

He
leaned back in his chair, the footage of the Americans with the Black Stone
playing on a loop.

Then
smiled.

Unknown Location, Paris, France

The hood was suddenly jerked off Maggie’s head, leaving her to blink
several times before her eyes adjusted. The van had come to a halt after a
rather sedate drive once her captors had escaped from BD. The hood had been
placed over her head after they had escaped, blocking her view of where they
were going. All she knew was it hadn’t taken too long and the sounds of the
city had been constant.

She was
still in Paris.

One of
the men turned to her. “You will remain calm and say nothing. If you try
anything we will kill you.”

She
nodded, her lip trembling slightly as she tried to keep things together. Her
heart had been slamming in her chest the entire time, every word of Arabic—or
what she assumed was Arabic—evoking images of horrendous torture and eventual
death.

Or
worse, she’d be sent into Syria or northern Iraq as a sex slave, handed around
like a piece of meat until she finally died from the ordeal or was able to kill
herself and end it.

She
hated having time to think.

Her
imagination was out of control, she having read too many stories about what was
going on with these terrorist groups. She couldn’t understand how anybody could
possibly oppose fighting these groups when the evidence of what they were doing
to women and children was overwhelming. Mass murders, mass rapes, women being
handed over to fighters as rewards, children raped and buried alive.

How
anyone could call themselves a feminist and oppose stopping these maniacs was
beyond her.

But now
here she was, caught in the middle, all because they thought she was Professor
Palmer.

Something
she hadn’t yet corrected them on.

In her
moments of lucidity, which were few among her near constant panic attacks of
the past half hour, she had come to the conclusion that she wouldn’t tell them
the truth, at least not yet. If they had meant to kill her, they would have
done so already, or if they did mean to kill her, they were in no hurry.

And the
longer she could stay alive, the more likely it was that BD could find her.

For she
was certain of one thing.

He would
stop at nothing to find her.

She just
prayed it wouldn’t be too late.

The side
door slid open and she stepped out into a small parking garage, a handful of
high end vehicles neatly parked with no one but her captors in sight. As they
led her quickly toward a nearby door, one of them gripping her upper arm tight,
she continued to contemplate her situation.

They
tried to abduct Laura.

Which
meant they were after a specific person, not just any random woman, which meant
she most likely wasn’t being prepped to be a sex slave somewhere. That thought
did comfort her slightly, though she swore if it looked like that might happen,
she’d kill herself the first chance she got.

But they
wanted Laura.

What
wasn’t clear was whether or not they had wanted BD as well, and if they had,
did they know he wasn’t Professor Acton?

They
stepped through a door secured by a keycard then strode quickly down a long
hallway, dim yellow lights in the ceiling covering the state of decay of the
walls, the paint peeled and chipped, the floor scuffed and cracked from years
of neglect.

One of
the lights flickered overhead then went out, only to snap back on a moment
later with a buzz.

Her
biggest fear now was what would happen if they started to ask her questions.
She wasn’t an archeologist, and knew very little about the two professors
beyond their names and a little bit of background BD had given her. She
certainly knew nothing of their personal lives, where they worked, who they
worked for.

I
don’t even know where they live!

A door
at the end of the corridor was opened and she stepped into a dimly lit basement,
an elevator directly ahead, two women dressed in what she thought was called
the niqab, the head to toe black outfits oppressed Muslim women were forced to
wear in some countries, the garb only revealing their eyes. They quickly
stepped forward, holding up a niqab that they quickly put on her. Within
moments she was wearing the human tent, her body already beginning to get
uncomfortably warm, the cloth covering her face almost claustrophobic.

How
could anyone claim to wear this voluntarily?

She felt
dehumanized, anonymous. With this loose cloth over her entire body she looked
like nobody, unidentifiable, no longer a person, no longer an individual. She
realized the purpose at the moment was to make her just that—just another
Muslim woman, not to be paid attention to.

But the
activist in her realized that it was much more than that. As she looked at the
other two women through her now narrow view of the world provided her by the
men who forced their women to go through life like this, she grew angry. She
could tell nothing about them beyond their height and eye color. They were
nobodies, neither man nor woman, young or old, thin or fat. They were bundles
of flesh hidden away because a culture of men had told them it must be so,
otherwise they’d prove too tempting to the men around them who couldn’t be
expected to control their sexual urges.