Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (63 page)
Read Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 Online
Authors: Chris Stewart
The American nodded to the river. Up against the bank, mostly covered over with cattails and brush, a low boat had been hidden, small but speedy and maneuverable.
Glancing at the boat, the Iraqi sensed for a fleeting moment that something was wrong. If the American was a stranger to Iraq, where did he get the boat? And why was he always with his buddy? The Iraqi’s military background suggested the pattern of working in teams this way, but he didn’t dwell on the thought. His mind was too full with the prospect of a pile of thousand-dollar bills. “Where’s the money?” he demanded again, shrugging off the boat.
The American reached under his jacket and pulled out a thick wad of cash.
The Iraqi stared and then turned, slapping the hood of the car. The back door swung open and a huge man emerged. Azadeh followed, a dark coat over her shoulders, a burlap bag in her hand. She looked up in fear.
And the American smiled.
* * *
Forty meters upriver, the man hiding among the trees adjusted his weight on the ground. It was dark now, and he was completely hidden. He was lying on his stomach, his elbows at his side to support the weight of the automatic rifle with its night-vision scope. Watching through the scope, he saw the scene as clearly as if it were day. From his angle, he had a clear view of the American’s back and sometimes the side of his head. He also had a clear view of the Iraqi and the front of the car.
He saw his target slap the hood of the Mercedes, then another man crawl out of the car, followed by the girl.
The woman beside him rested her hand on his arm. “Is that her?” she whispered directly into his ear.
The shooter nodded slowly.
“Please, will you put the gun down now?” she asked.
The man only grunted.
“Please,” the woman begged him.
“Will
you
be quiet
please
?”
She hesitated, knowing it was not a request, and lowered her head to the grass, peering all the time through the trees.
* * *
The American looked at Azadeh, and for some reason he winked. She stared at him, bewildered.
The Iraqi watched her carefully, noting her reaction.
The Iraqi was confused. Then his heart slammed in his chest, his instinct for survival finally slipping into gear, forty years of training standing the hairs on his neck on end. The smugness about him melted into a feeling of fear.
All the questions washed over him, things he should have thought of before. The boat. The American. Far too fearless. Too confident. Willing to pay too much money. In a hurry. Insisting on
this
girl.
A chill ran down his spine.
He reached for the handgun that was strapped to his chest. But the American had already pulled a pistol from some unseen holster under his jacket. A 9-millimeter. Sig Sauer. Phosphate anti-corrosion finish. His eyes widened in great fear.
The Iraqi feinted for his weapon, but the American moved forward with frightening speed, grabbing his hand in a crushing grip. The Iraqi felt a jab of pain as the American put pressure on the joints of his ring and little fingers. He tried pulling back. The grip tightened. “I wouldn’t,” his assailant said calmly, “not if you want to live.”
The huge man next to Azadeh reached out and grabbed her by the throat, his fat fingers crushing into the soft skin on her neck. He jerked a small pistol from his sleeve and jammed it to the side of her head.
The American stared at him coolly, his eyes narrow, his face firm and blank. He showed no emotion, no anxiety, not a worry in the world. The Iraqi watched him, noting the cold look in his eye.
That
look! How he hated it. So smug and so cool. Looking into the American’s face, he finally understood. This wasn’t some rich boy from the city looking for a thrill. This wasn’t some American thug looking to make a quick buck on a deal.
This was a trained professional.
His world came crashing down.
The first Iraqi felt the American’s grip on his hand, firm as cold steel. He saw the specialty handgun and the confident smile. Then he panicked, his mind clouding, his instincts irrational and self-destructive, a thousand thoughts rushing through his head
Why was the American armed? Was he going to kill him? Who was his friend in the trees?
Were they going to steal the girl? After all the work he had done? No! They couldn’t have her. Not if she was dead. And he would kill her before he’d lose her.
“Let’s keep this simple,” the American said in a calm voice. “No one needs to get hurt here. All I want is the girl.”
The Iraqi hesitated, years of hatred and resentment bursting inside. “You’re going to steal her,
my friend
!”
“Of course not, you fool—”
The irrational panic welled up in the Iraqi’s mind. He didn’t have that much to live for anyway. He could die now, he could die later, and he didn’t care that much anymore.
The hateful pride inside him took complete control. “Kill her!” he screamed over his shoulder to his friend. “Kill her! They will take her! Kill her before they do!”
The man holding Azadeh tightened his grip on her throat. It was clear from the rage in his eyes that he was going to shoot her. He jammed the blunt end of the pistol into her temple, moved his finger for the trigger, and pushed her head down by his hip so that he wouldn’t get back splattered when he shot her.
The American heard the angry buzz of a bullet not more than a few inches from his ear, and the huge man suddenly slumped, a red circle on his forehead and a large gaping hole where the back of his head used to be. The sound of the gunshot crashed from the trees half a second later. The American twisted the Iraqi’s wrist, hearing the bone snap, and the Iraqi dropped his weapon and cried out in pain. Continuing the movement, the American lifted his pistol and fired through the side window of the car, aiming at the shadow in the backseat. More shots echoed from the trees behind him and the front window shattered, two bullet holes pocking the passenger side.
The injured Iraqi, the only one still alive, screamed, his face pulling in pain and fear. He bent down for his weapon, but his assailant had kicked it away.
The American leaned toward him, twisted his broken wrist, and grimaced, unable to hold in his disgust. “You sell little girls!” he screamed, slapping the man on the head, his anger snarling his breath. “Young women! Helpless children! What kind of sick man are you!”
The Iraqi fell over, holding the top of his head. He whimpered like a puppy that had been beaten with a stick.
The American reached down and grabbed the Iraqi’s hair, jerking his head around until he was staring at his dead friend. “You couldn’t fight
me.
No! You couldn’t fight like a man! You had to go for the girl, and now look what you did! Your friends are dead. You are alone here. So now, tell me, big man, what are you going to do?”
The Iraqi whimpered, begging, “My
Sayid,
my
Sayid
—”
“Shut up!” the American cried, releasing the grip on his face.
The Iraqi fell to the ground and lay on his stomach with his arms spread wide, a familiar position he had forced many others to endure.
Azadeh didn’t move. She was quiet, and a long way from tears.
She moved toward her rescuer, saying something in Persian that he did not understand.
He was five inches taller than she was and he looked down, holding her shoulders in his hands.
“You . . .” Azadeh started, her face scrunching as she struggled to find the right words in English. “You . . . remember me,” she finally managed.
“Yes. I came for you,” he answered.
“I,” she pointed to her chest. “I did what . . . you say to me.”
Sam Brighton broke into a smile. “You did good. You got to Khorramshahr. And now you are safe.”
1
“Sexual Slavery in Iran,”
Bahareiran’s Blog
,
http://bahareiran.wordpress.com/2011/03/06/sexual-slavery-in-iran
.
[
Nota bene
: I know this is a novel, but there are going to be readers who won’t believe. Hence these footnotes.]
2
U.S. Dep’t of State,
Kuwait
(Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor 2007),
http://www.state.gov/j/drl/rls/hrrpt/2007/100604.htm
.
3
U.S. Dep’t of State,
Kuwait
(Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor 2007),
http://www.state.gov/j/drl/rls/hrrpt/2007/100599.htm
.
4
U.S. Dep’t of State,
United Arab Emirates
(Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor 2007),
http://www.state.gov/j/drl/rls/hrrpt/2007/100608.htm
.
5
Donna M. Hughes, “Islamic Fundamentalism and the Sex Slave Trade in Iran,”
http://www.uri.edu/artsci/wms/hughes/iran_sex_slave_trade
;
see also
Andrew Bushell, “Pakistan’s Slave Trade—Afghan Refugees Sold into Prostitution; Indentured Servitude Flourishes; Scenes from a Slave Auction,”
http://www.ipoaa.com/pakistan_slave_trade.htm
.
6
Donna M. Hughes, “Islamic Fundamentalism and the Sex Slave Trade in Iran,”
http://www.uri.edu/artsci/wms/hughes/iran_sex_slave_trade
.
WRATH & RIGHTEOUSNESS
[Episode Four]
CHRIS STEWART
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used factiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locals or persona, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Mercury Radio Arts, Inc.
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New York, NY 10036
Original Edition © The Shipley Group Inc. (Published by Deseret Book Company) Condensed Edition © 2012 The Shipley Group Inc. (Published by Mercury Radio Arts, Inc. under license from Deseret Book Company)
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Cover design by Richard Yoo
And after their reign, when iniquities shall be grown up, there shall arise a king of a shameless face, and understanding dark sentences.
And his power shall be strengthened, but not by his own force: and he shall lay all things waste, and shall prosper, and do more than can be believed. And he shall destroy the mighty, and the people of the saints[.]
Daniel 8:23–24
ONE
The woman rushed to Azadeh, sweeping her up in her arms while turning her head away from the dead man who lay crumpled on the dirt. Bono followed her quickly, his M4 in one hand, the barrel pointing upward, his other hand on the holster that was strapped to his chest. Sam stood over the other Iraqi, who was spread-eagled and very still.
Bono moved to Sam’s side, breathing heavily. He studied the dead man, and then turned away. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I know you didn’t want this to happen. But he was going to kill her. I saw it through my scope. Trust me, Sammy, it was him or her. I made the right call.”
Sam nodded grimly. “Yeah,” was all he replied. He looked down at the dead man, and then placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder as he considered what they had done; setting up the fraudulent sale to get Azadeh out of the camp, allowing the flesh peddlers to transport her across the roadblocks and through the hazards that bedeviled their broken nation, manipulating the underground to do things they couldn’t have done by themselves. The end result was the Iraqi had unwittingly saved the girl and then chosen to throw his life away.
