At an open doorway, a man lay sprawled in the street, and an older woman was trying to cover him with her hands. A girl was being held by the hair by one of two men in army fatigues who stood over the group.
“What the fuck?” Casey hissed through clamped teeth.
“Do not intervene,” Eli said, grabbing at her. “These men are Morality Police. They enforce strict religious rule. Leave them be.”
“What? Like maybe they saw her through a window singing, or more likely with her hair uncovered? That’s not policing.” She half turned. “What’ll happen?”
“That depends. They may beat them, or maybe just imprison her for her crime.”
“What freaking crime?” Casey’s teeth were bared as she yanked her arm free of him.
Eli shrugged. “They make up rules that suit them. But we cannot get involved.”
“Like hell we can’t,” Casey growled. “Think I’ll show them my rules.” She continued toward the two men, who still held so tight to the girl’s hair that her head was pulled back, exposing her neck.
Casey could see that the elderly father had already suffered severe blows to his face, probably just for the insult of trying to defend his own daughter.
“This will be bad.” Eli tried to keep pace with Casey.
“Damn right it will be,” Casey spoke over her shoulder. “If the strong do not protect the weak, what is the point of being the strong?”
“Shitzn, wait, let me do the talking.” Eli sped to overtake her.
Both men attacking the family paused as Eli and Casey came down the lane toward them. Eli raised a hand. “Brothers, can we help with this foolish family?”
The men looked briefly at each other and shook their heads. “No, be on your way.”
“Then the girl… is she for sale?” Eli put his hand in his shawl. “She is a beauty; what is her price?”
One of the men snorted. The other looked down at the girl, nodding. “Yes, she is that. But she must be taught a lesson. If she acts like a whore, she will be treated as a whore.” He looked at Eli and grinned. “You can have what we leave… for free.”
He started to drag her away. The girl screamed and the mother wailed, wanting to stand, but the father was in too much of a mess to release his bloody head from her hands.
“Well, you’ve had your turn,” Casey said to Eli as she threw her shawl back. Her white crew cut, fair skin and ice pick blue eyes glared at the two Mosul fighters. Both froze momentarily, not sure what they were actually looking at.
The man holding the girl dropped her like a sack and fumbled with his gun. Casey crossed to him in three quick steps and brought a blade up and under his chin, jamming it through his larynx and up into his brain. His mouth opened, showing a hint of dark steel at the back of his throat, and his eyes rolled back.
“Bye bye,” Casey said into his face.
Eli still had one hand in his pocket, and through the folds in the material a soft spitting sound emanated as a tiny hole appeared. The second soldier stood shocked momentarily with a corresponding hole between his eyes, before he fell back like an axed tree.
Eli turned to the family. “We were never here, they were never here.” He pointed at the blood on the ground. “Clean this up and speak of it to no one.” He bowed. “Enshallah.”
Eli then turned to Casey as he grabbed one of the bodies by the shoulders. “Take the other one. We’ll hide them in one of the empty buildings.”
Casey grabbed the other body and together they dragged them twenty feet down the street to the first abandoned building they could find. They pulled them inside, past broken doors and smashed furniture. Piles of rubble created perfect burial mounds. Casey lifted a huge sheet, and scoffed.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” She pointed. There was already a body hidden there, desiccating in the dry air. She grinned down at it. “Would you like some company, pal?” She lifted the sheet higher and then threw the new body on top of the old. Eli added his corpse, and together they dropped the huge sheets and more debris on top.
Eli turned to her, his hands on his hips. “You feel better now?”
Casey shrugged. “Sorry. Hey, what did you say these guys called themselves?”
“Hezar-Jihadi; Party of a Thousands Martyrs,” he responded.
She snorted. “A thousand minus two now, huh?”
“This is not funny.” Eli looked at her from under heavy brows. “You should follow your captain’s orders, and his example.”
“Yeah, right.” She started to turn away but paused. “Come on, and I’m warning you; no distractions this time.” She laughed as she pulled her hood up once again.
Eli groaned and followed.
Alex and Adira sat outside at the café, several hundred feet down from their target building. There were a few other patrons inside, but they were the only ones seated on the street. Half a dozen other tables sat waiting for their food and drinks.
Adira had ordered coffees, and the dark thick rich liquid was poured at the table. A plate of dates was also set down for them. Alex lifted the small glass cup in the ornate gold holder to his lips.
“Whoa, like a triple espresso on steroids.”
Adira laughed softly, the sound muffled from under the folds of her niqab. “It’s Turkish style — brewed, rebrewed and then cardamom pods added. It enhances the flavor and strength. Why do you think they’re all wild eyed in these parts?”
Alex ate a date, and let his eyes travel down the street. “If that’s the right building, then I think we’ve missed the party.”
“Someone may be still inside, but I think you’re right. If nuclear weapons were being assembled and dispatched from that place I would have expected a fortress. Or at least a significant military presence.” She looked at the surrounding rooftops. “And much more security in the adjoining structures.”
“I think they’ve done what they needed to do, and then moved on. Still, we need to go in and check it out,” Alex said. “Front door is too visible from the street.” He looked along the rooftops; the buildings were jammed up against each other and all were of comparable height. “Be better to enter next door, and drop down through the roof.”
“Yes, this might work.” Adira faced the building, peering at the ancient Arabic writing on its façade. “What happened here? That writing is only on the one building. I can partly understand its words, but not its meaning.”
Alex remembered her translation of the script. “Praise those who are chosen to become the fire of god.” He turned to her. “And what better fire than a nuclear one?”
“Yes.” Adira continued to stare at the writing. She turned back. “It is time we take a small risk.”
The café owner was approached. “Enshallah, brother,” Adira said. “We are visiting relatives from over the far side of the city. My brother here,” she motioned to Alex, “is a teacher of languages, and was wondering about the writing on the wall.” She pointed one gloved hand at the Arabic script.
The man looked down the street to the wall. His eyes narrowed. “One day it just appeared. I cannot read it, but an old customer who comes here told me that it is a warning.” He became furtive and leaned toward her. “Dark magic,” he said.
“Shukran.” Alex slid a five thousand dinar note across the table. The man took it and bowed his thanks before departing.
“Dark magic,” Adira repeated. “That would work to keep the superstitious away.”
“Maybe that’s why there are no physical guards — the superstition provides enough of a barrier for the locals,” Alex said, sipping his dark liquid. “And they’re not expecting there to be anyone else in this place.”