Veiled by Coercion (Radical Book 2) by Evans Anne Garboczi

Author:Evans, Anne Garboczi [Evans, Anne Garboczi]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2018-05-21T16:00:00+00:00

The warm sensation of blood oozed from Ali’s back, thanks to a daesh beating. He’d shaken the white bars in the door of this prison cell a dozen times already. No give in them. A single lamp bulb illuminated the darkness of the low-roofed hallway outside the cell.

Signs covered the hallway, proof of the Iraqi government presence in this building another lifetime ago. Would daesh kill him? He’d find out soon.

A brute of a man stood inside the cell, flanked on either side by youths. “You are a thief. You stole a mujahideen’s sex slave.” The man, whom the others had called Omar, gripped a hacksaw. “You shall lose a hand for what you did.”

No! Ali’s wrist muscles convulsed where Omar eyed them. “I did not know she was a mujahideen’s slave, I swear. I met her on the side of the road.”

“Then you are immoral also. Perhaps you should lose two hands?” Pleasure shone in Omar’s eyes.

Blood pulsed through Ali’s fingers, perhaps the last blood ever to fill those veins. The cold taste of fear penetrated his mouth. Daesh would make him a cripple. What good would his money do him then? He never should have taken this job. He should have tried to shoot himself free when he saw that daesh barricade and taken his chances. He only hadn’t because Rosna would have died. Where was Rosna?

“Please, sirs, I did not know.” Ali’s tongue felt thick as he stumbled over the words. He couldn’t think. Pain burned through him. Pinpoints of glass pricked his bare feet. His toes swelled up, broken in many places. The stench of death surrounded him in this prison.

“You are a kafir, an infidel.” Omar smashed a pipe down across his head.

“I am a Muslim.” Blood dribbled down his temples as Ali brought his hands up to protect his head, the last time he’d move those hands. “A Sunni, not a Shia.”

“You are named Ali, a Shia name. You are a Shia Muslim, an infidel.”

“No, I swear. Behold the prophet, peace be upon him, his nephew was Ali. My parents wished to honor the prophet, peace be upon him. They did not worship a man like the Shia infidels.” The words tumbled out of Ali’s mouth.

While he found Shias distasteful, he considered them good enough Muslims, certainly not infidels. Now though, did not seem the time to share his broadminded views. His head lolled forward. Thirst parched his tongue. His limbs shook from lack of food.

“Infidel!”

Ali touched the dusty wall, steadying himself with his still-attached fingers. If only he could escape. He’d smuggled two ISIS deserters out last year. They’d paid a pretty penny for his life-risking services.

A metal bar slammed against his hand. Bones shattered.

Another voice spoke. The kid who had grabbed Rosna in Yemen stood outside the white bars. Kamal they’d called him.

Kamal looked directly at Omar. “The black man is a liar. Cutting off his hands is too merciful. Behead him and so bring great glory to Allah the Forgiving.”

Had daesh given Rosna back to Kamal? What fear she must be facing now.

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