Crying erupted and grew louder, the girls’ cries growing piqued as they were delivered to the foyer.
This … this is what Kasra hated. Dreaded. If they did not cease wailing, he would make sure they were quiet—or worse. He had no compunction against beating them. Or raping them. He didn’t care. They were his property and they would submit.
Kasra stepped between his fury and the girls. “They are new. I have not had time to teach them—”
“Take them out.”
Silenced, Kasra startled. Watched as Abdullah grabbed them by the arms and dragged them through the door. She fought the twitch to tell him to be careful or he’d bruise them. Taweel hated the girls bruised or injured for the clients.
If he was taking them to the SUV, then Taweel would not stay …?
Mastering her poise, she hid her reaction. “Will they return? Their rooms—”
“No.”
Heartbroken for the girls—at least here with her, they had a chance—she also felt hope that this monster before her would soon leave. But then … he seemed to be hesitating. He always availed himself of the services of at least one girl—or her, though that had not happened in a year—while at Roud, and his desire to do that now seemed to war with some tight schedule.
“Shall I have your room prepared?” Kasra asked.
Nostrils flared, he pivoted to the door. “Do better next time or I will teach you a lesson.”
“Of course.” It was the only acceptable answer.
Kasra stared holes into his back as he stomped down the steps and climbed into the first vehicle again. She watched to the last possible moment as Fatina closed the door. Then through the lacy curtains monitored the exit of the vehicles. Waited as the gate opened, the SUVs pausing for the lumbering barrier. Held her breath as the leaches slipped through and the dark wood gate swung shut.
Kasra finally expelled that trapped breath. Strode past Razam. “Your slacks are dusty.” Calm and composed, she walked to the kitchen, snagged a scone, and continued to her room. Set the scone on the dressing table, then slipped into the bathroom where she entered the shower, clothes and all. She slumped against the wall and fought the tears.
Such hope existed that she could help those girls. Hated that she had lost the chance to save the two Nigerian girls, who had been so sweet and clearly traumatized. She had seen it in their eyes. A look one cannot describe other than to call it haunted.
As dusk settled that evening, she did her best to stay distracted. Not think about the fact that Taweel would chop her into a hundred pieces if she failed. If they were caught. It was one thing to escape alone. Quite another to strip every source of his income here in the province. It would devastate his estate. He would cut her up into pieces and send one to every other brothel he owned as a warning. She knew because it is what he had done to Basima two years ago.
A knock interrupted her dark thoughts. “Come.”
Fatina’s oval face—a mirror of her own—appeared in the crack of the door. “Madam, the rats you suggested Razam deal with? He said you would want to see it.”
It was time.
Allah, keep us safe.
* * *
Private Airstrip, Kandahar Province, Afghanistan
The armored vehicle whipped onto a private airstrip where a Blackhawk waited, engines warm and pilots in the cockpit ready. Range threw open the door of the armored SUV and hustled with OTG to the bird. He tucked in his comms piece as he sat crammed between Pike and Landry. Airborne two mikes later, he closed his eyes. Mentally walked the compound and the plan they’d developed in the pit. Thought of the woman who had passed girls—children!—off to older men. What kind of sick b—
“Two klicks,” one of the pilots comm’d. “Going silent.”
Adrenaline jacked, Range drew into himself. Thought to pray, but he’d been beyond that for a few years. Still, he hoped God appreciated what he was doing here, snatching innocents from the manicured nails of this vile woman. He recalled the verse written over the orphanage door where they’d found that girl. It’d seared into his brain, along with her body.
“Defend the poor and fatherless; do justice to the afflicted and needy. Deliver the poor and needy: free them from the hand of the wicked.”
Right there in that village, mud and blood on his boots, he’d taken that Psalm to heart. Bled it. Fed it.
When the chopper hovered five feet off the ground, he hopped out. Took a knee, scanning the area down his M4. The open area and road lay awash in green from the night-vision goggles mounted to his helmet. Pulse amped, he was ready to do justice.
A pat to his shoulder indicated OTG had formed up behind him. Like a deadly viper, he snaked through the field. Along a wall where they hunch-ran up to the compound wall, still warm from the Kandahar sun.
OTG flanked the south door. Two and Four scurried in and placed plastique on the door over the lock and hinges, then backed aside.
