Traffick Stop, an American Assassin's Story (Paladine Political Thriller Series Book 3) by Kenneth Eade

Author:Kenneth Eade [Eade, Kenneth]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Times Square Publishing
Published: 2017-02-23T23:00:00+00:00

***

Robert noticed a lone woman being escorted from the compound on foot by one militant. They walked down the street a bit to an apartment building and disappeared inside. After about ten minutes, the militant emerged alone and made his way back to the compound.

That had to be Ayisha.

Only time and astute observation would reveal to Robert whether or not his charge was in the apartment building, had been shuttled out on one of the many vehicles he had seen leaving the compound, or was still there.

Ayisha followed the militant up the stairs to the third floor corridor. He opened one of many doors into a small room and handed Ayisha the key. After successfully passing her vetting process, she had been assigned this room, which they called her “apartment” on an all-woman floor. Four empty walls and a bare floor with some blankets for sleeping. There was a sink bolted to the wall, but the toilet was communal and only accessible through the corridor. Electricity was rare – and her apartment did not have it at all. There were candles to provide light and matches to light them in the corner of the room. There was no kitchen, but there was no more gas in Raqqa to cook anyway, so it didn’t much matter. She had a window that looked out onto the depressing streets. There was no mirror – nothing to remind her of who she was becoming or the girl she used to be. But her mission was clear – to find out what had happened to Zia and reign down hell and fury on all those who were responsible. She was not allowed a phone or any communication to the outside world. Her room was a virtual prison cell.

She looked out the window at the end of the afternoon, as her stress unwound and turned into heavy fatigue. No children playing in the streets, no markets filled with fresh fruit and vegetables. The black flags of the caliphate rippled in the dry wind from the top of every building. Men, some dressed in black costumes and others in western-type wear, and women dressed only in black abayas, drifted through the streets like black ghosts. It was a world without color, a bizarre and twisted All Hallows’ Eve. The streets were silent, save for the sound of the occasional car or truck. Music was non-existent. It was haram, and it had been banned.

Ayisha sat on the floor, straightened one of the blankets out and lay on it. She curled the other one up like a pillow and put her head down. It smelled musty and of dust and was itchy to her cheek. She resisted the urge to cry and pushed the tears down, way down into her stomach and locked them away there. There was work to be done and tears would not help.

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