“Sure.” Mansur stepped off the side of the road and moved toward a patch of long grass.
“Let’s go, Steve.”
Steve turned and walked quickly toward the building, John following slowly behind him. He understood Steve’s eagerness to find his niece, but John wanted to be careful.
Steve stepped onto the concrete parking area and approached the building. The windows had long been blown out, and the front door was flat on the ground outside, leaving a black hole leading into the house. Steve stood in front and called out.
“Mia? It’s Uncle Steve.”
There was no reply. John caught up and stood beside him, his forehead creased in a frown. He turned around and scanned the fields on the opposite side of the road while Steve called out again.
“Mia?”
Still no response. Steve pulled out his phone and dialed her number. It took a moment to connect, then they heard a phone ringing from inside the building.
“She’s inside.”
John turned back to see Steve rushing forward toward the building. John opened his mouth to say something when a figure appeared in the doorway. A bearded man in camouflage fatigues held a ringing cell phone in the air, his mouth open in a sinister grin, exposing a row of yellowed teeth.
“Iqboth ‘alayhom!” he shouted. “Seize them!”
John sensed someone behind him, but before he could turn, someone grabbed him by the arms, and he tried to break free. He heard sounds of struggle nearby and shouts in Arabic. He pulled his arms harder, the grip loosening on his arms, and he stumbled forward, losing his balance. The last thing he felt was a sharp blow to the back of his head.
66
John groaned and blinked his eyes open, but it was still dark. He felt something against his face. His head appeared to be covered. What the...? He struggled to remember what happened… the man with the phone, the blow to the head. Fuck! John should have trusted his gut. He should have thought it had been too easy, but he had wanted so much for Steve to succeed. Shit! How did they find them? Where was he? Where were the others? He tried to move his arms, to sit up, but his arms were bound behind his back.
His head throbbed, and there was the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He tried moving his legs, but they were bound together at the ankle. He stopped moving and tuned into his surroundings. The floor was hard and cold, probably concrete. He could see a faint light through the fabric of his headcovering, not bright enough to be outside, so he must be in a room. Slowing his breathing, he strained to hear any sounds that could help identify his surroundings—Arabic spoken in low tones outside the room, the distant thump of artillery on the frontline, a vehicle crawling slowly past, then stopping, a dog barking in the distance.
He heard a rustle of fabric and then a cough.
“Who’s there? Steve?”
“John, are you okay?”
“Steve... I’m okay. You?”
“Yeah. Sorry, mate, I should have listened to you. Bastards.”
“Did Mansur get away?”
“I’m here too, Mr. John.”
“Shit! What happened? I blacked out when someone hit me on the head. Where are we? Can you see?”
“The bastards have put hoods on us. Can’t see a fucking thing,” Steve growled.
“I can’t see either. They caught me in the field, put us in a pickup, drove for about thirty minutes, then brought us into this building. We came up one flight of steps. That’s all I know,” Mansur explained. “They don’t know I can speak Arabic. I heard them arguing. They can’t decide what to do with us.”
“He had Mia’s phone,” said Steve.
“Yes. They were arguing about her, too. But...” Mansur’s voice trailed off.
“What?”
“I don’t know. They left the room, and I couldn’t hear anymore.”
“Fuck,” Steve cursed. “What do we do now?”
John couldn’t answer. He had no idea.
They heard footsteps outside, and John tensed, listening for clues as to what was happening. A door crashed open, then a shout in Arabic. He heard footsteps in the room, and a pair of hands grabbed his arm, dragging him backward until he was propped against a wall. The hood was pulled off his head, and he blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the light. He sensed Steve and Mansur beside him. As his vision cleared, he saw three men standing in front of them, each with their weapon held ready, the barrels pointed at their chests. Checked shemaghs covered their faces, leaving only their eyes visible. They stared, not saying anything, waiting.
John heard more footsteps, and another figure appeared in the doorway. He stepped closer, and John recognized him from the farmhouse.
67
The man stood in front of them, looking at each one in turn with dark hooded eyes set deep in his face. He was thin, his cheekbones pronounced over a grey-flecked beard that reached to the middle of his chest. He stood with his hands on his hips, his lip curled in a sneer. He locked eyes with John, and John forced himself to maintain eye contact before the man looked away. He tilted his head to one side, then stepped forward and kicked Steve’s feet with his boot. When he spoke, it was in thickly accented English.
“You are... Uncle Steve?”
Steve said nothing, staring back in defiance.
“I have your girl.”
“Motherfucker.”
“Ha,” the man scoffed. “She is mine now.”
“You bastard, rag head son of a bitch, I’ll....”
One of the fighters stepped forward, reversed his Kalashnikov, and drove the butt into Steve’s stomach.
Steve gasped, doubled over, then flopped to one side, the air knocked out of him.
The man switched his attention to John.
“Who are you?”
John ignored the question. He raised his chin and looked him square in the eyes.
“What do you want?”
The man grinned. He turned and said something to the fighters, who laughed. Turning back, he squatted down in front of John until his eyes were at the same level. John’s nose wrinkled at the smell of stale sweat and unwashed clothing.
“What do I want?” he
