“Yeah, yeah,” Dro said on his way to the entrance. “He considered helping you out, but I made no such promise.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
After an impromptu consultation with Sheikh Kamran at his conference center, he signed a decree that gave them permission to raid El Zalaam.
He looked up from the document and let his gaze skim the men and the sole woman at the multimedia table. “I believe if we are doing a job, it should be done properly. That means every female must also be removed from El Zalaam.”
Hassan and Bashir wore identical expressions—brows raised and mouths slightly open.
“Yes. The time is now,” Sheikh Kamran said. “My wife and I have been waiting for the ideal time to address that situation.”
The Sheikh ran one hand down the front of his gold tunic. “The Nationals and Durabia Tribunal would not hear of it. They swore only women were brought in.”
A ripple of disapproval rose in the room, but the Sheikh raised one hand, and continued speaking. “I warned them, but they didn’t listen. Owning these women and children is not illegal at this point, but we will be closing El Zalaam.”
“Why not pass it into law, Uncle?” Hassan asked.
The Sheikh scanned the faces of the men at the table. “That is exactly what will happen. At the next tribunal gathering, I will make it clear that we cannot operate as a modern metropolis and have this ugly underbelly that would be considered an atrocity by human rights activists.”
Hassan nodded. “That part of our image does need a makeover.”
“What does this mean for men like Madhav Hadad, who are in government but practice this kind of evil?” Ryan asked. “Surely kidnapping is a crime.”
Sheikh Kamran inclined his head toward Ryan. “Indeed it is, and as long as we have proof … ”
Tapping the glossy surface of the table, Daron said, “If there’s any to be found, we’ll find it.”
“Thank you.”
“I have another question,” Ryan said. “Won’t it be extraordinary to have this decree signed and acted on immediately?”
A steely glint lit the Sheikh’s eyes. “It is the prerogative of the Sheikh to act on any urgent matters in the way he sees fit. I will notify the police, so they can provide a security presence, but they won’t interfere. They will meet you outside El Zalaam.
“My wife and I will put transportation and housing arrangements in place. We will have everything ready and provide support staff by the time you’re finished at El Zalaam. This meeting is at an end. Let me know the minute your mission is complete.”
The group of eight Kings, Knights, plus Nicco and Angela filed out of the multi-story building and gathered around the F 150 truck and a midnight black metallic Toyota Land Cruiser. Rahm and Ryan had been introduced earlier, but didn’t have the opportunity to exchange more than a few words. The tattoo artist didn’t speak much, but had a commanding presence. After a five-minute conversation, the team organized themselves into two parties and drove to the far end of Hanan.
El Zalaam was a tiny city of its own, behind high walls and an ornate metal gate that ensured the privacy of those who took their pleasure within its confines.
When they arrived at the gate, Hassan got out as the two halves slid open on silent hinges. He opened the parchment document that carried Sheikh Kamran’s seal. The man in front of him stepped back, included a guard in the conversation in a rapid exchange of Arabic, then hurried into the building.
Hassan returned to the window. “He has gone to fetch the woman in charge.”
“Technically, we don’t need to wait for anyone,” Vikkas said. “Not even the police.”
As Ryan stepped out of the truck, a marked vehicle pulled up behind them, while ahead of them the gate attendant returned with a middle-aged female wearing a European-style dress. “Why are you here?” she asked, her eyes flashing with irritation. “We have the protection of the Sheikh.”
“Not anymore,” Vikkas said. “We have an order, which will be enforced.”
She refused to step aside. “Let me call—”
“No.” Vikkas’ tone was more forceful. He looked over his shoulder. “Angela.”
She came forward. “You and I are going to your office, room, or whatever space you occupy on these premises.”
The woman narrowed her eyes, thought better of defying Angela, and left with her.
“As agreed,” Vikkas said, scanning the group, “we’re going to do what we have to do.”
They moved toward the building as a unit. Closed doors lined a long corridor and branched into another passage. All of them spread out, took a section of each aisle and banged on the doors. As they opened, the men walked inside and scanned the rooms.
Eastern music pervaded the air and in several instances, teenagers clad in sheer material danced in front of men old enough to be their fathers and grandfathers.
Ryan’s gaze swept over the well-kept salons, equipped with a sizeable bed and several sofas.
For men to play out their fantasies, some of them perverted.
He pounded on one door, which an annoyed, bare-chested man yanked open. His demeanor changed when he spotted the gun Ryan held against his thigh. As fright replaced annoyance in his dark eyes, Ryan ignored him and spoke to the tiny girl of African descent, who crouched on one side of the mattress.
Ryan looked her in the eyes, ignoring her hands covering her chest. He pointed to her blouse. “Put on your clothes.”
The pain and relief in her eyes revealed how much of her childhood had been stolen at this tender stage of life.
The man found his voice and cursed Ryan, who quieted him with a hard stare.
Ryan’s attention cut back to the girl, who now stood next to the bed. With his thumb he pointed over his shoulder, then followed her to the door. Young women of various nationalities stood outside several rooms. From the back of the building Angela approached, carrying an accordion file, while the woman who ruled the place trailed her and waved both
