Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(29)

Praise Allah!

“It could be,” Haroun mused. “Perhaps she attempted to call him, and his not answering has spurred her concern.”

Hmm. That could very well be the case, especially considering how close Qasim suspected Theodore and his niece were. Flipping through the photos in the old Marine’s wallet, Qasim was privy to snapshots of the pair’s lives together. The photograph on top was apparently the most recent. Theodore had his arm thrown around a stunning, flame-haired woman. A golden turkey sat on a platter atop a long, dark bar in front of them while the sparkle of alcohol bottles stacked on shelves glinted in the background. Both Theodore and Delilah were grinning foolishly, as if they hadn’t a care in the world. A pang of envy sliced through Qasim.

The next picture was slightly older, given the fact that Theodore’s stark white hair was peppered with black. The former Marine was smiling broadly at Delilah, who was dressed in a graduation gown and holding up a diploma in one fist, her other hand forming a V for victory. Qasim growled. So much to celebrate for those two. So much promise for the future…

Beneath the second photo was a third, older still. This one was of Theodore and Delilah on a beach somewhere, both laughing and tan. Theodore looked young and fit, and Delilah had the fresh appearance of a girl who’d just begun to blossom into a woman. Happy times. Blissful times. The kind of times Qasim hadn’t experienced since the deaths of his wife and sons…

And last, but certainly not least, was the final photo. It was of Delilah, aged seven or eight by Qasim’s calculations, pigtailed and giggling while riding Theodore’s broad shoulders. It was this picture that bothered him the most. Because seven years old was the age his youngest boy had been the day that Hellfire missile slammed into his village. The day his life changed from one of simple pleasures to one of vengeance, battle, and…blood.

And he’d tried. For years he’d tried to sate his thirst for revenge by killing Westerners and those of his brethren who’d fallen victim to the poison of Western beliefs. He’d taken lives and watched others as they were burned down to ashes. Alas, no matter how much blood he spilled, it just wasn’t enough. He’d found no solace, no refuge in the deaths of those many innocents. But perhaps this mission, perhaps destruction on this scale, would finally be enough. If he was successful here, perhaps he could finally find peace.

And in a slightly ironic twist, he had a rogue American agent to thank for the opportunity. He never would have believed his salvation would come in that form. Though, come to think of it, perhaps he should have. Winterfield had turned against his own country, turned his back on his motherland, for something as simple as money. A lot of money—those who headed The Cause had deep pockets—but it was money all the same.

Good old American capitalism and greed have come home to roost, and—

“Qasim?” Haroun asked, and he realized he’d been silent for too long.

Shaking himself, he pushed everything but the mission from his mind. “Make sure you are not spotted,” he commanded. The last thing he needed was for Haroun to find himself matched up against a bunch of big, slow-witted bikers. Qasim had watched enough American television to know that the type of men to wear leather and ride Harleys tended to use their fists or pistols first and ask questions later.

Not that Haroun couldn’t defend himself; he’d been trained by the best mujahedeen fighters on the planet. But still…it was better not to take any chances. “Follow them. But do not attempt to take Miss Fairchild while those bikers are around. Wait until she is alone.”

“Do not lose faith in me, Qasim,” Haroun said. “I know what I am doing.”

“Of course you do, my friend,” he assured his second-in-command. Haroun’s pride was easily wounded, like that of so many of the staunchest and most fanatical believers. “I just want to ensure we do not fail in our mission. I want to ensure—”

“I know what you want, habibi,” Haroun interrupted. He only used the Arabic term of endearment and friendship when they were speaking alone. All other times, he remained stubbornly formal. “But we will not fall short this time. This time victory shall be ours.”

“In sha’Allah.” God willing, he said before thumbing off the phone and spinning once more toward his hostage.

The kerosene lanterns were turned low despite the fact that his men had covered the windows with black cloth, assuring no light escaped the dilapidated building to catch the attention of a passing motorist. Though, in truth, the possibility of catching the attention of a passing motorist seemed slim. In the two days they’d been occupying this part of Main Street, they’d only heard one car rumble past. And it was obvious the driver had been lost. The vehicle had turned around at the end of the street before heading back out to the highway.

So, yes, perhaps Qasim was being paranoid by insisting the lanterns be kept at their lowest setting. But he didn’t mind the dark. He embraced it, in fact. It seemed somehow fitting. Dark deeds were usually done in dark places, after all. And even in the dim light, he could see that Theodore’s left eye was now swollen almost completely shut. A deep gash near the man’s temple stained his white hair and leaked blood down his cheek and neck.

The stale air inside the deserted Main Street shop was redolent with the metallic aroma of lost bodily fluid and the much sharper odors of fear and desperation. But even so, even suffering from all that fear and desperation, even though his aged body had to be racked by the pain of the repeated beatings Sami and Jabbar administered with glee, Theodore Fairchild refused to answer Qasim’s questions.