“Layah Anwar of Nineveh,” he said, bowing. “I knew your brother.”
She spat out a piece of straw. If she could spit in his face, she would.
Al-Bayat held two passport books in his hands, hers and Khalil’s. She must have left them behind in the melee at Nordooz. “Perhaps I knew your husband, as well. Was he in Palmyra?”
Tears filled her eyes, against her will. She didn’t answer.
“I removed the heads of so many rebels, it is difficult to keep track. But one stands out in my mind. If I remember correctly, he begged for mercy and swore his fealty. He kissed my hand so sweetly. So sweetly.”
She tugged at the plastic tie binding her wrists, her throat tight.
“What happens when an Assyrian woman marries a Sunni dog? She becomes a mongrel, fit only for an American.”
“He’s ten times the man you are.”
“Which one? Your husband or your lover?”
“Both.”
He walked in a circle around her. When he stopped, he trapped her hair under his boot. She hadn’t put on her hijab before she’d fled the hotel. “Look at you. Uncovered and dirty.”
The SUV backed out of the garage, leaving them alone together.
Al-Bayat knelt to stroke the hair he’d soiled. “For an Assyrian mongrel, you have a pleasing face.”
Layah tried to generate enough saliva to spit again, but her mouth was dry.
“I will strip you and bathe you in the blood of your American. Then I will purify you with my essence.”
“I will purify you with my vomit.”
He yanked her hair cruelly. Then a phone sounded in his pocket. He straightened and walked toward the barn doors to answer the call. She couldn’t hear the conversation. He seemed agitated, as if his plans had been thwarted.
She curled up on her side and prayed for Hudson.
The SUV reappeared outside the barn. The driver slammed on the brakes, kicking up a cloud of dust. A man was dragged from the vehicle. His face was covered, but she recognized his clothing as Hudson’s. Her heart seized in her chest.
No. Please, no.
Khalil had been executed while wearing a hood. The Da’esh had videotaped the mass shootings in Palmyra. She hadn’t been brave enough to watch the footage, but she knew he’d been among the victims. His body had been positively identified.
Now she was confronted with the same nightmare, all over again.
The Da’esh militants dropped him to the straw-covered ground. The pillowcase over his head was from their hotel room. His hands were bound behind his back, like hers, and his shirt was covered in blood. He didn’t move.
He was dead.
She scrambled onto her knees, smothering a sob. This couldn’t be happening. Her mind went blank with grief. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe.
“I told you I wanted him alive,” Al-Bayat said. “I told you to shoot the Iranians.”
Three men bowed their heads in shame.
“Were my instructions difficult to understand?”
“No, sir.”
“His hands are tied! How can you shoot a man whose hands are tied?”
“It was an accident. There were bees—”
“Who is responsible for this travesty?” Al-Bayat interrupted.
The three men looked at each other. One had reddish lumps all over his face. His eyes were swollen, his hands bumpy. He stepped forward to be judged. “I am.”
Al-Bayat drew a gun from his waistband. “Kneel.”
The man knelt.
“Pray.”
He bent forward, his lips moving in silent prayer. Al-Bayat shot him in the back of the head with cold precision. He slumped onto his side, eyes open. Layah’s stomach lurched with nausea. She stared at the horrific scene, unable to look away. She couldn’t process what she was seeing, or accept it. There were two corpses on the ground, and one was...
No.
That man wasn’t Hudson. It wasn’t him. The clothes didn’t quite fit his body. His muscle mass and skin tone were different. The dead man was larger than Hudson, with a heavier build. It wasn’t just a trick of her desperate imagination. Her heart knew the truth, too. She searched for the tattoo on the inside of his forearm. It wasn’t there.
Hudson wasn’t dead. He was alive, and fighting!
Al-Bayat seemed aware that something was amiss. He followed her gaze to the body. Striding forward, he yanked the pillowcase off the man’s head.
It was the border guard.
“This isn’t him,” Al-Bayat said.
His men looked perplexed. “It isn’t?”
“No,” he roared. “Where’s the guard?”
“He ran away.”
Al-Bayat paced the dirt floor, swearing at the top of his lungs. He didn’t execute any more men, but he shot several holes in the roof of the barn.
Layah was amazed by the turn of events. Hudson must have switched clothes with the guard. He’d made it out of Iran. He’d survived a clash with Al-Bayat’s men. Now he was free, and he would save her.
“Should we go look for him?” one man asked.
“No,” Al-Bayat said. He gave Layah a measured glance, as if weighing her importance. “He’ll come to us.”
Chapter 19
Hud was saved by a swarm of bees.
Bees.
After he dropped to the ground, the third assailant fired a few shots that went widely off target. One of the bullets struck the guard in the side of the neck. He fell to his knees, making choking noises. Hud drew his gun to return fire, but the bees did all the work. They descended on the Da’esh terrorist like a tornado, stinging his hands and face. Hud jumped up and ran away while the man was distracted. The other two rushed forward to check the guard, who was bleeding out in the dirt.
Hud escaped with a few bee stings and no tail. The militants didn’t even follow him. Two of them were focused on the accidental shooting of the man they thought was
