The Blood of Patriots: Lawson Holland Thrillers, #2

By M. P. MacDougall

Lawson Holland thought he'd lost everything.
In the aftermath of an assassination and a spate of terrorist attacks, Lawson Holland finds himself chasing a ghost, daring to hope that a lost family member can somehow be found.
With his country on the brink of destruction at the hands of enemies both foreign and domestic, Holland pursues justice, revenge and healing.
Finding any or all of them, however, will exact a heavy price.
Holland will soon learn that the most precious things in life are NOT free – and they sometimes require payment in blood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dysfunctional Dozen Press
• Release date: Mar 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780990978138

M. P. MacDougall

M.P. MacDougall is an American historian, voice actor and author of political/military thrillers, humorous satire and fantasy. The youngest of twelve children, he grew up on a suburban farm, spending much of his free time chasing cows, perfecting bicycle stunts and playing in the dirt, and he never had to wear a helmet or use anti-bacterial soap. He was a professional air traffic controller for more than 26 years, serving in the US Air Force, Oregon Air National Guard, Department of Defense, and finally the Federal Aviation Administration. He controlled traffic in eleven different control tower and radar approach control facilities in three different countries on three continents, as well as in four different US states. He retired in 2017 to pursue his lifelong dream of writing. MP lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and three children.

Book preview

1

PRAEDICTIO

Badakhshan Province

Northeast Afghanistan

Two Years Ago

His memory of the attack was spotty, convoluted. What recollection he did have came through in bits and pieces, but he couldn’t make any sense of it all.

One moment, Lieutenant Burdin was shouting ‘EYES UP, MARINES!" The next instant, a rocket shrieked overhead from out of nowhere. Dust and gravel flew everywhere, the air filled with its earthy scent, mixed with the sharp taint of gunpowder. Sounds came to him muffled, as though he were underwater. The butt of his sniper rifle kicked at his shoulder in slow motion, as men in Afghan garb streamed past his position, oblivious to him as he snatched their lives away.

Bagley’s broken corpse stared up at him with lifeless eyes.

Lieutenant Burdin on his knees, surrounded by insurgents.

Pain.

Weakness.

Then he was on his knees too, looking up as a man leveled an AK-47 at his chest.

Then, blackness.

Tony Holland woke to the sound of bells.

He groaned and tried to sit up, but found that he was too weak. His eyelids felt glued shut, and his throat was on fire. Something smelled awful, and it was difficult to breathe the stifling air surrounding him. He struggled to figure out where he was, how he got there; but the feeling of disorientation was all-powerful. He rolled his head to one side and groaned again.

Do not move. The heavily-accented voice was accompanied by a firm hand pressing down on Tony’s shoulder, keeping him from rising. Not that he could have got up if he’d wanted to. He felt like he was mostly dead already.

Drink.

A container of some kind was pressed gently to his lips. Tony could smell water, mixed with a dirty, metallic scent he couldn’t place. Any misgivings he might have had over its purity were far outweighed by his raging thirst. He tried to gulp the stuff down, only succeeding in choking himself on it. The coughing fit that followed was pure agony. He wanted to get up, to get away, but his body was like a wet rag. Whoever was tending to him had to be an Afghan, but Tony had no way of knowing if they were friend or foe.

Peace, the voice said, as the unseen hand pressed him to the ground. Safe, here. Tony heard water splashing, followed by the sensation of cool wetness around his eyes as the stranger gently washed his face, dabbing at the crusted blood and filth with a rough cloth.

Help, Tony tried to say, but all that came out was a gravelly Hurgh. The man seemed to understand, in spite of that.

Be still, he said. He took Tony’s hand and gently guided it up to his face, where he pressed the cloth into his fingers. Keep here, he said, pushing the compress against Tony’s eyes. Tony clung to the cloth and held it in place as he was told, then slumped back on the ground, exhausted. He heard the man’s receding footsteps before he slipped into unconsciousness again.

Tahir came out of the stable with his hands spread wide and low, gently herding his goats away from the doorway and back up the hill behind the low building. He scattered some grain and vegetable scraps around until the goats lost interest in the stable. Then he turned back to the house.

Fawzia, his wife, was standing next to the house, staring at him, her brown eyes full of confusion and fear. Tahir forced a smile and went to her. He cupped her cheek in one hand. Do not be afraid, my love, he said. We are doing the right thing.

A tear ran down Fawzia’s cheek. She covered Tahir’s hand with her own. Ahmad is upset.

I know. Tahir tried the smile again. My uncle is happiest when he’s upset.

Don’t mock me, husband, Fawzia said. I am upset, too.

I know, Tahir said. I am sorry to upset you, you know that. But I could not simply allow this man to die on the mountain. I would have had that on my conscience forever.

He is a foreigner.

He is injured.

It is not our affair.

But it is, Fawzia! Tahir pulled his hand away. He watched her for a moment, then lowered his voice. "I told Uncle Ahmad the same thing. What good was it, for him to teach me Pashtunwali as a boy, if I am only to ignore it now, when I am a man? This American is under our protection. He is here, because I have granted him nanawatai, do you not understand?"

Fawzia lowered her eyes. I understand that you have placed our family in danger, Tahir.

"I am doing this for our family, wife! Why do you resist me in this? Our children must learn right from wrong!"

At what price, Tahir? Fawzia looked at him, pleading. Is teaching a lesson in morality worth making our children into orphans, or their mother a widow?

Tahir had to struggle to stifle his anger. Uncle Ahmad had been whispering in Fawzia’s ear, planting seeds of fear and doubt. He was sure of it. Tahir raised his hand toward Fawzia’s face, his index finger extended. You, he said, will not speak to me in this manner.

Fawzia didn’t back down. "I will not see you killed for an idea, Tahir. Another tear ran down her cheek. Bluster all you like, I know you are not a violent man."

Tahir slowly lowered his hand in shock.

I do not want to lose my husband, she continued. "Not for this stranger, not for Pashtunwali, not for anything, do you understand?"

Tahir thought for a moment. What if I promise you that he will leave as soon as he is able?

How soon will that be?

Tahir shook his head. I don’t know. He’s badly wounded, too weak to stand. But if I can help him regain his strength, I can get him to the border and away.

Fawzia’s face fell again. Tahir, you cannot take this man to Pakistan! The border is too dangerous!

Not Pakistan, my love, Tahir answered. Tajikistan.

Fawzia was incredulous. Are you mad? She looked at him through widened eyes. Eshkashem is more than forty kilometers away! How will you get him there? On the back of a goat?

I will find a way.

"You will not, Fawzia insisted, scowling. You will only get yourself killed, Tahir!"

Tahir looked away, trying to get his thoughts ahead of Fawzia’s argument. I will take Ahmad’s donkey cart, he said, turning back to her. I’ll cover the American with feed sacks, and drive some of the goats along with me. It will seem I’m taking them to the market in Eshkashem.

You’ve never sold any of the goats so far away, Fawzia scoffed. People will wonder.

I will leave early. No one will see us.

You said he is too weak to even stand! How long must we hide him here, waiting for him to regain his strength? How long can we hope that no one will find out? She stepped close to him, taking him by the hands. "Someone will learn of it, Tahir. This village is too small for secrets."

Tahir looked at her for a long moment. She was right, and he knew it.

Two days? he asked. Will you allow me two days? Then I swear to you I will move him.

What of his injuries?

As you say, my love, the village is too small for secrets. If he is found out, he will be dead, not injured. You are right - I must take him away.

I am sorry, Tahir.

Tahir reached up and stroked his wife’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. No. You have nothing to be sorry for. He smiled. You bless me, even when you defy me.

Fawzia returned the smile. I will make some broth for him. She turned and vanished into their tiny stone house.

Two Days Later

2:30 A.M.

The American moaned softly as Tahir half-dragged, half-carried him out of the stable and carefully stood him against the upright bed of the donkey cart. Fawzia held the little donkey still near the front of the cart, which was simply an old truck axle attached to a wooden box, with two wooden shafts attached at the front as traces. The donkey would be harnessed between the shafts with a system of leather straps, and the driver could then walk alongside or ride on top of the load. The positioning of the axle at the center of the wooden box allowed the box to be tilted upright when the donkey was not in harness. Tahir had done that now to make loading the American easier.

Now he leaned the delirious man against the inclined cart and steadied him carefully. He nodded to Fawzia, who reached up with one hand and grabbed one of the traces, pulling it down. Tahir leaned down and grabbed the rear of the cargo box and pulled up, and the whole cart pivoted on the wheels and leveled out, lifting the American neatly into the bed as it came level. Tahir hustled around the front and quickly attached the traces and reins to the donkey. Then he and Fawzia hurried to stack bags of wheat and bushels of thin grass around the man, concealing him from view. Tahir tried to reassure him, but he couldn’t be sure the man was even conscious.

When all was finally loaded, Tahir folded Fawzia’s hands into his own and drew her close. Four days, my love, he said. Five at the most. Then I will return to you.

Fawzia’s eyes were wet. She said nothing, just stared into her husband’s eyes, trying to memorize everything about him in the pale starlight. Tahir kissed her hand and turned quickly away, making hissing noises to get the ten goats they had chosen to move along ahead of the cart. Fawzia stood there watching him go, until the darkness swallowed him. She lingered still, listening to the creaking of the harness and the clicking of hooves as the little herd moved down the track toward the main road at the bottom of the valley.

When she could finally hear nothing more, she turned and went back inside. Tahir’s uncle Ahmad snored softly in his little room adjacent to the common room. Fawzia went quietly to her bed and slid in next to her two children, but she could not hope to sleep.

Not until her husband returned safely.

Tahir walked steadily for more than an hour, driving the goats by alternating soft commands and throwing pebbles when they refused to listen. He was making good time. He’d already passed through the larger village of Zebak and had just turned onto the Saricha road, which would take him all the way to the Afghan-Tajik border at Eshkashem, another thirty-five kilometers away. He’d managed five kilometers already, in the dark and worrying about drawing attention as he hurried through Zebak. He knew there were members of several different militant groups living in Zebak, including ISIS, the Taliban, and some ethnic Hazaras, so he was relieved to have the village well behind him.

He paused for a moment to drink some water. The sky was still dark, but he thought he could see the slightest hint of light growing in the east. He pushed some of the bushels in the cart aside so he could barely see the American’s face. The man’s eyes were shut, but Tahir could see he was breathing.

Stay quiet, my friend, Tahir murmured. We have a long journey ahead.

Ziak, Afghanistan

5:25 A.M.

Fawzia awoke with a start, sensing someone had entered the room. She moved to get up, but a strong hand clamped over her mouth, another on her upper arm, holding her still. A dark silhouette loomed over her.

"Where is he? a voice hissed. It was Ahmad. Fawzia struggled against his grip, trying to get up. He removed his hand from her mouth and suddenly yanked her to her feet. Where has he gone?" he demanded.

Ahmad, Fawzia said. Please. The children. She glanced down at the low bed where her children were still sleeping. Ahmad glowered down at them, then answered by dragging Fawzia from the room by her arm. She stifled a cry, stumbling along in his wake, trying to be quiet. Ahmad dragged her out the front door and across the narrow dirt courtyard to the stable.

Where did they go, woman? Ahmad shoved her roughly through the stable door.

Ahmad, please, I - Ahmad struck her across the jaw with a vicious backhand, dropping her in the dirt at his feet.

You will answer me! he snarled. Where has Tahir gone with the American? He couldn’t have gotten far without your help. You will tell me what you know!

Fawzia’s eyes were watering, and blood was trickling from a cut on her lower lip. She looked up at Tahir’s uncle. "Why, amu? Why is it so important?"

Ahmad bent over and grabbed her by the hair, hauling her to her feet. She slapped at his hands, but he shook her until she stood still. Listen to me, child, he said, placing his mouth close to her ear. There are men coming for the American. Coming today, after the sunrise call to prayer. Do you not understand? They will be here in little more than an hour! Do you know what they will do if the American is not here?

Fawzia suddenly felt sick. She looked sideways into Ahmad’s eyes. "How would you know who is coming, and when, uncle?"

Ahmad grimaced. He shoved Fawzia back onto the ground. What have you done, Fawzia? Did I not warn you of the danger? Did I not tell you that this American would bring death to your house?

Fawzia glared up at him. "Who is bringing death, amu? The American? Or is it you?"

I warned my brother’s widow that you were no good for his son, Ahmad spat. You don’t know your place.

Fawzia pulled herself to her feet. My place, she said, leaning close to Ahmad, "is to support my husband and protect my family. I helped Tahir to get the American away, yes. But I did that to protect our family. What have you done?"

Ahmad avoided looking her in the eyes. I promised the American to a man in Zebak.

"What?!? Why, amu? Why would you do that?"

I knew the secret would come out sooner or later, Ahmad protested. Tahir would not listen to reason, so I spoke with my friend Isaad in Zebak. He knows the leader of one of the factions there, and he introduced me. He was a reasonable man, Fawzia!

"Reasonable? Fawzia hissed. It was all she could do not to scream at the man. Why would you do such a thing, Ahmad?"

Because, if Tahir was found to be hiding an American, he would have been killed! This way, it appears that we are willingly turning the man over. No one will harm us for that!

Which faction? Fawzia murmured. Her stomach was churning.

What?

"Which faction was this ‘reasonable man’ attached to?"

Isaad didn’t say, but I assumed it was the Hazara. Why?

Fawzia shook her head. I know Isaad’s wife, Ahmad. Shahzadi talks too much, about everything.

What does that have to do with anything?

She was bragging last week that her husband was becoming a very valuable asset to one of the factions in Zebak.

There, Ahmad interrupted. You see?

You are a fool, Ahmad. Fawzia’s voice was flat.

What? How dare you -

She cut him off. "Tahir was taking the soldier away, Ahmad - taking him to Tajikistan. He was trying to keep us safe, and still remain true to the spirit of Pashtunwali that you taught him! Now you’ve gone and made promises to a gang of terrorists? They’ll kill them both!"

I do not believe the Hazara are terrorists, Ahmad protested. They were friendly to the Americans in the past.

Times change, Fawzia said. Besides, Shahzadi wasn’t speaking of the Hazara. She shoved past him and headed for the house. Her husband is a puppet of ISIS.

Ahmad gaped at her retreating form. He heard her waking the children inside, then bustling about in the kitchen, hushing repeated sleepy questions from the little ones.

He stood in dread, rooted to the spot. He didn’t trust the Hazara much, but he trusted ISIS even less. He knew they were a bloodthirsty, murderous bunch. He was stunned that Isaad had deceived him. The man he’d spoken with the previous night had promised to take the American after sunrise prayers and leave Tahir and his family unharmed, but now Ahmad felt an icy knot of fear growing in his gut. He was beginning to shake when Fawzia came back out, pushing the children ahead of her. She had a large canvas bag slung over one shoulder.

Where are you going? Ahmad tried to sound demanding, but the question came out sounding more like a plea.

Away, Fawzia snapped, not bothering to look at him. As far away from you as possible. I don’t want my children here when your new friends arrive.

Fawzia, please, Ahmad said. I’m sure Shahzadi was mistaken. Isaad would never associate with ISIS.

Fawzia spun toward him, eyes flashing. And until a moment ago, I would have never thought that you would betray your own nephew to a pack of killers! Ahmad’s mouth hung slightly open, all his earlier bluster gone. Fawzia wrinkled her nose, sneering at him. I suppose we were both wrong then, weren’t we? She turned on her heel and shooed the children out of the courtyard and up the narrow goat track to the east, up the steep canyon and away from Ziak.

Ahmad could only stand there, watching her go. Doubt and dread nagged at him. He had been a fool. A fool whose reckoning was close at hand.

6:43 A.M.

Ahmad sat in the silent kitchen of his nephew’s abandoned home, staring through the open door at the road leading down the gorge to the larger village of Zebak, several kilometers distant. A cup of tea sat on the table next to him, but it had already gone cold. He wondered where Tahir was at that moment. He wondered what Fawzia would do, where she could possibly go. He was staring off into space, seeing nothing, when the sound of several truck engines interrupted his daydream.

He blinked, and then they were rolling into the village, less than twenty yards from the front door. Three trucks, each loaded with men, all of them clothed head to toe in black. Each truck displayed a large ISIS variant of the Black Standard battle flag - Mohammed’s seal in white with white Arabic letters above reading, There is no God but Allah. Ahmad slowly rose to his feet and stepped outside as men poured from the trucks and surrounded the house.

He has already gone, Ahmad addressed a large man as he climbed from the cab of the lead truck. Forgive me, but he has escaped.

The man glared at Ahmad for a split second, then barked a few commands, sending his men to search the buildings. "How has he escaped, old man? he asked, turning to Ahmad. Perhaps you helped him?"

Ahmad started to protest, but the man struck him in the stomach with the butt of his rifle. Ahmad gasped and collapsed at his feet. The man squatted down, jamming the barrel of his AK-47 into Ahmad’s mouth.

Perhaps, he said, "you have aided this infidel, no?" he pushed the barrel deeper in Ahmad’s throat and leaned against it, making Ahmad gag and struggle. He lifted a hand to try to pull the rifle out, but the big man slapped it away, then stepped on his wrist. Ahmad twisted and squirmed, but the man had him pinned. One of the other men stepped around the house from the rear.

There is no one here, Sheikh, the man reported. There are some tracks, from a cart of some kind, but no one remains.

The Sheikh looked down at Ahmad and smiled. Tell me of this cart of yours, my friend.

Saricha Road

3 Miles NW of Zebak, Afghanistan

7:10 A.M.

Tahir heard the approaching trucks, so he hurried to get the donkey cart off to the side of the narrow road. His goats milled around with little sense of urgency until he pelted them with several rocks, driving them down the shoulder toward the river. He’d have to waste time getting them back up on the road, but that was better than drawing unwanted attention by delaying whoever was in the trucks.

He was doing his best to look unremarkable when the lead truck blew past, then suddenly braked and swerved in front of his cart, heading him off. The remaining goats scattered toward the river bottom, and the donkey brayed in protest as a cloud of dust flowed around them. Tahir looked around as the other two trucks took up blocking positions behind and beside him. The only escape left was down the embankment to the river, where his goats were already grazing, but Tahir stayed where he was. Better to play the hand to the end than give everything away due to a lack of nerve. He held the donkey’s reins and waited as the men piled out of the trucks and surrounded him. A large man with a graying beard and a murderous look split from the rest and approached, an AK-47 cradled loosely in his arms.

Salām, Tahir said to the man, raising a hand.

The man ignored the informal greeting, instead pacing slowly back and forth in front of Tahir, regarding him as one might a filthy stray dog with a particularly nasty case of mange.

The man’s silence was unnerving. His men were all dressed in black, and the ISIS flag adorned each of the three trucks. Tahir knew he was in grave danger here. ISIS gangs were known for their cruelty and violence - diplomacy was not one of their strong points.

How can I be of service, my friend? Tahir asked.

The headman stopped his pacing and glowered at Tahir. Where are you going?

To the market at Eshkashem, Tahir replied, forcing a smile. Allah has blessed me with more goats than I can feed. I hope to sell them there.

The market, the man said in a flat voice. At Eshkashem.

Yes.

That is a very long walk. Why not sell them in Zebak? Or Bazgir? Eshkashem is more than twice the distance.

The market in Eshkashem is well known for its abundance, Tahir tried. My family hopes that I can trade for much-needed supplies.

Such as what?

Tahir’s heart was pounding. He was certain the man could see through his lies, and he scrambled to think of something believable. A new plow, he blurted. My old one is broken.

That can be found in Bazgir. The man set his AK-47 more solidly in the crook of his arm.

Tahir nodded. Forgive me, he said. The truth is… Chocolate.

The man cocked his head to one side, his mask of intimidation slipping for the first time. Chocolate?

Tahir hung his head, trying to look ashamed. I am a poor man. My children have never tasted chocolate. I had hoped to find some at the Eshkashem market.

The big man stared at Tahir for a long moment, then burst into laughter. Tahir watched him, his unease increasing when he noticed none of the other men joining in. Then the big man abruptly stopped laughing and stepped in close.

You are a liar. He swung his rifle, clubbing Tahir in the temple and dropping him where he stood. The donkey shied two steps to one side, then settled again as if nothing had happened. The other men fell on the cart, grabbing sacks and bushels and throwing them into the road in a frenzy.

Ziak, Afghanistan

9:35 A.M.

Ahmad sat in the wreckage of Tahir’s home, at a loss as to what he should do. He absently rubbed at his jaw, feeling the damage the rifle barrel had done. The tooth the Americans had saved years before had been cracked, and a large fragment of it had fallen out as he had struggled. The pain in his mouth was nearly blinding.

When he heard the trucks returning, his heart jumped with the hope that Tahir might have cooperated. Perhaps the men from ISIS would have been appeased, once they found the American. Ahmad’s hopes collapsed as he stepped outside. The same three trucks rolled up, and the same large man the others had called ‘Sheikh’ got out. He scowled at Ahmad, then snapped his fingers in the direction of the third truck. Two men climbed down from the bed before reaching back in and dragging a bound man behind them.

It was Tahir.

Ahmad took two steps forward, raising his hands toward the Sheikh, pleading. The man ignored him, waiting for his men to drag Tahir over. They held Tahir upright between them with his back to the Sheikh. Tahir’s face was a mass of cuts and bruises. He’d been beaten severely, but Ahmad could see that he was still breathing.

Tahir -

A three-round burst from the Sheikh’s AK-47 ripped into Tahir’s back. The two men held on to him as his body jerked from the impacts, then they abruptly let go, dropping him in the dirt.

Thus, ever to the infidel, the Sheikh said, as Ahmad ran to his nephew, weeping. "The Army of Allah thanks you for your assistance in this matter, Malik-sayb." The Sheikh waved an arm, then climbed back into his truck, leading the rest of his men back down the road and away from the village.

Ahmad wept as he cradled Tahir’s lifeless body in his lap. He had been trying to prevent this, but had only succeeded in bringing it about more quickly. He was not worthy of the title Malik-sayb. He had no honor, deserved no respect. The only honorable man in his family now lay dead in his arms, murdered because his fool of an uncle had refused to listen. Ahmad lowered his head in shame and grief.

A faint sound startled him, and he looked up. There, standing at the rear corner of the little house, was Fawzia, her face ashen as she stared down at her husband. Ahmad’s eyes filled with tears again, and Fawzia began to wail, the keening sound of her grief filling the little village before floating away down the valley, carried by a cold wind off the mountain.

2

SANGUINEM LUDO

Zebak, Afghanistan

Tony groaned as he was lifted from the bed of the truck and dragged toward the house. Barely conscious, he struggled to make sense of his new surroundings, but his head was swimming so badly he couldn’t focus. Somebody dealt him a vicious punch to the ribs, making him cough up blood. He was vaguely aware of a shouted argument going on between his captors. One of the men holding him up suddenly let go, as another voice joined the shouting. His remaining guard struggled to keep Tony on his feet.

Tony cracked an eye open in time to see a large man dressed completely in black robes kicking another man, who was cowering in a ball at his feet. The large man shouted at the man on the ground for a moment, then made an impatient gesture to the other guard holding Tony, waving him inside. The guard slid both arms under Tony’s armpits and dragged him backward through the door. As Tony’s head lolled from one side to the other, he managed to focus on one thing before the door closed. There was a large, black and white ISIS flag fluttering on a pole attached to the back of the truck.

I’m dead, he thought, just before passing out again.

Raed Abdul al-Najaf was not a man to be trifled with. As an ISIS field commander, he had been given responsibility for the area around Zebak, which included the smaller village of Ziak, where his American prisoner had been brought after having his unit overrun by a Hazara force several days earlier. Al-Najaf disliked the Hazara, but was secretly grateful they had fought the Americans, rather than his own men. The Hazara were mostly locals; tough men who had a stake in securing the immediate area for their own benefit. Most of them also had a lot of combat experience.

By contrast, most of al-Najaf’s men were foreign fighters, transplanted here from various locations around the globe in the ongoing jihad against the infidel. They had no families here, no homes to protect, no sense of local history. That made them lazy, unpredictable and prone to quitting in the middle of a fight if things started to get difficult. Their combat experience was limited at best - more than half of them were here on their first posting - straight from one training camp or another. Al-Najaf knew they needed experience, but more than anything else, they needed discipline.

The beating he’d just handed out was a perfect example.

His men seemed incapable of understanding the value of a hostage. Every time they took someone prisoner, his men seemed to slip easily into a murderous frenzy, as if killing the helpless would increase their own prowess on the battlefield. Al-Najaf knew better. He’d spent years fighting the Americans and their allies in the urban battlegrounds of Iraq, and he knew that slaughtering an unarmed prisoner, surrounded by your well-armed friends, was a different thing entirely than trying to kill a trained warrior who could just as easily kill you back.

Perhaps I should have allowed them to kill the traitor themselves, al-Najaf thought in passing. No, he reasoned. They wouldn’t have stopped there. Al-Najaf knew they would have gone on a rampage, killing the old man and anyone else they might have found in the little village. By killing the younger man himself, he’d reminded them of his authority and power. In spite of that, he’d still had to beat one of his own men for striking the American prisoner.

There will be a time for that, he’d screamed at the man as he kicked him. Al-Najaf had no problem with killing his hostages, when the situation called for it. But this situation demanded something different. This American would not provide them with increased website traffic or views on Youtube from his recorded beheading. Instead, he would provide them with much-needed cash. The Americans would be made to pay for the return of this Marine, and al-Najaf imagined they would pay handsomely, if only to avoid the threat of public humiliation that a taped execution would bring. Al-Najaf’s cell needed money, desperately. He needed to keep the American alive long enough to bring in that money. He had plans to move up within ISIS, perhaps get out of the backwater of Afghanistan and into the outside world, and he saw the American as a means toward that end.

Al-Najaf watched his man drag the prisoner inside. He glanced back at the other man, still groveling on the ground. Leaning over, he spoke to him in a quiet, measured voice that was in a way much more threatening than his earlier shouting had been.

He is not only to be kept alive, al-Najaf said. He is to be given medical attention. His wounds are to be tended, and he is to be fed well, until I say otherwise, do you understand?

The cowering guard mumbled through his bloody teeth, Yes, Sheikh.

Al-Najaf straightened up and looked at the others gathered around him. As I said, there will be a time for his punishment. But not until we get everything out of him we possibly can. His country will pay to have him back, and we will use that money to hurt them much deeper than simply killing him would accomplish. He looked around at the others for any signs of dissent. Finding none, he turned and walked inside the building.

Introductions would need to be made.

A bucketful of cold water splashed over Tony’s head, and he gasped involuntarily for air as he jerked fully awake. He tried to sit up straight, but found his wrists were tied behind the back of the chair he was in, forcing him to lean slightly forward. The room was dark and smelled of wet earth and diesel fuel. Tony blew out a few weak breaths and tried to ignore the excruciating pain in his chest. Suddenly someone stepped up behind him and grabbed his chin, jerking his head back at a sharp angle, forcing his eyes up. The man in black from outside was standing over him, glaring down with dark, menacing eyes. He had a full beard that jutted out from his chin, giving his expression a sense of accusation. Tony coughed several times, wincing from the pain it caused.

"I should make a spectacle of you, the man said, his English heavy with an Arabic accent. Tony kept quiet, doing his best to limit the stabbing pain brought on by all but the shallowest breaths. But you are fortunate, my friend, the man continued. We - I, intend to ransom you. Your government will pay for your safe return, and do you know why?"

Tony slowly shook his head.

They will pay, the man said, "Because they are weak. As you are weak, you see?"

Tony started coughing again, this time going into a fit that brought stars to his eyes and left him gasping for breath. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.

Just as I said. Now the man spoke in Arabic to the guard holding Tony. "Clearly this man is weak. Clearly, we have nothing to fear from him, or from his friends. Yes, I know they are weak. And I know they will pay. He addressed Tony again. You will be given medical treatment, food and water. You will not be mistreated, unless you make it necessary. Do you understand?"

Tony stared into the man’s eyes, surprised and not sure what to think. He was confused, but too tired to try to figure it out, so he just nodded. I understand.

The big man shot a hand out and slapped Tony hard across the cheek. He would have toppled out of the chair if not for the other man holding him from behind. "You will call me Sheikh," the man said softly.

Tony could feel blood trickling from both his nose and mouth now. Go along to get along, he thought. Yes, Sheikh, he said, his voice cracking like dry bread. I understand, Sheikh.

The Sheikh straightened up and smiled. He had a lopsided grin, caused by a long scar that ran from under his left eye to the center of his upper lip, where it disappeared behind the tangle of his mustache. You see, Ibrahim? he said, still speaking English. Tony assumed that was more for his benefit than Ibrahim’s. Even infidels can be taught respect. Then the Sheikh barked something else in Arabic, before he turned and stomped out of the little room. Ibrahim roughly shoved Tony’s chin away, as if it was covered by some kind of unspeakable filth. Then he followed his leader out the door, slamming it behind him.

Tony was left in darkness, pain and confusion. It was clear that he was a prisoner of ISIS, but why would they offer to treat him? Why not execute him in one of the many brutal ways they had used on captives in the past, and publicly? Tony had seen plenty of videos showing ISIS murdering its prisoners by beheading, firing squad, dragging behind speeding vehicles - even locking them in iron cages and lighting them on fire. He had no illusions about getting humane treatment from these animals, so why would they bother to nurse him back to health?

Clearly, this ‘Sheikh’ had different plans for him, but they still didn’t seem to carry too much weight with his men. One of the guards had proven that by punching him in the ribs as they were dragging him from the truck. Ibrahim seemed to be something of an insider, judging by the way the Sheikh spoke to him, but even he had handled Tony roughly as soon as the Sheikh’s back was turned. Tony knew that he was on very thin ice here. He figured his chances of survival under normal circumstances as a captive of ISIS would be less than one or two percent. But now? The Sheikh had punished one of his own men harshly for mistreating Tony, and then had assured Tony personally that he would be well treated. But he hadn’t hesitated to slap him around as well, when he wanted to make a point.

Less than five percent, Tony told himself. Less than a five percent chance of surviving this.

Two Weeks Later

7:30 A.M.

Ibrahim threw open the door, bathing the cramped little room in the weak light of morning. The American was huddled against the far wall, arms wrapped around his body against the cold. Ibrahim glared at him for a moment as the infidel blinked his eyes. Ibrahim noted how the man was careful to keep them averted, never making direct eye contact. Despite his injuries, the man had been defiant when they’d first captured him. He’d freely glared at the Sheikh and anyone else who came close that first day, but the Sheikh had quickly put an end to that. Now the man cowered like the dog he was, cringing and looking away whenever anyone approached, as if fearing the inevitable blow. That is good, Ibrahim thought. You should fear us. He strode across the room and dropped the plate on the ground at the prisoner’s feet.

Eat. Now.

The man leaned over slowly, still favoring his broken ribs, and took the stale bread from the plate. He dipped the bread in the brown sauce in the center of the plate and carefully took a bite. Ibrahim watched him in disgust. He had no understanding of these western infidels. They projected strength, until they were beaten, then they willingly cowered and scraped before their enemies. They made no sense to him at all. He was turning to leave when the American suddenly spoke, startling him.

Shukran, habibi.

Ibrahim turned back, slowly. The American was busily mopping up the sauce with the remaining bread, looking intently at the plate as if he had said nothing. Habibi? Ibrahim was stunned. How dare this infidel say that to him? The word could mean anything from ‘my love’ to ‘my friend’, but in the proper context it could also be used as a sarcastic insult directed at a stranger or enemy. There was no context, to Ibrahim’s way of thinking, that would justify this American using that word to address him.

He walked over to stand in front of the prisoner. When the man raised his eyes slightly, Ibrahim backhanded him, sending him tumbling on his side and the plate clattering across the floor. Ibrahim dropped to one knee and punched the man once, twice, three times in the side of the head.

"LA, ‘HABIBI’! LA! Ibrahim barked as he punched. NO FRIEND! LA!!"

The American curled into a fetal position, covering his head with his arms. La afham, La afham! he cried out, as Ibrahim continued to rain blows on him.

Ibrahim knew better. He knew the American understood perfectly what he had done, and he was going to teach him a lesson for it. He hit him again. As he drew his arm back for another blow, someone grabbed it from behind and held tight. Ibrahim turned, still enraged, and was shocked to see the Sheikh standing behind him. The Sheikh glowered down at him.

My apologies, my Sheikh, Ibrahim spluttered as he stood, lowering his eyes to the ground. But the infidel insulted me. I could not allow it to pass.

Al-Najaf released Ibrahim’s arm, then clasped his hands together and studied him, like a scientist examining a tissue sample. And what insult, he