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Sworn Enemies, Secret Lovers
(Complete Series)
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By Eve Rabi
Copyright © 2012 Eve Rabi. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and media used in this book are fictitious and are the product of the author’s imagination. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication use of this trademark is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Table of Contents
CAPTURED
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
CAPTURED FOREVER
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
EXCERPT FROM
Eve Rabi
Romantic Crime and Suspense Thrillers by Eve Rabi
CAPTURED
Sworn Enemies, Secret Lovers
Book one in the Captured Series
Chapter One
THE OUTSKIRTS OF BAGHDAD
June 2004, 15 months after the US and coalition forces invaded Iraq
They prance around us, Iraqi militants, dressed in tunics and baggy pants, scarves coiled into turbans around their heads, victorious and triumphant, automatic weapons dangling from their shoulders.
A man with no bottom teeth and the face of a rodent claps his hands. “American soldiers, we get you good.”
Another man with a red-and-white checked scarf and really bad body odor puts his face in mine and says, “Georgie Bushie, him very big dog.”
I say nothing. I dare not. My eyes, when they’re opened, are fixed to the dirty cement floor.
More militants barge into the room, inspect their trophies lying on the ground, by means of a boot to the ribs mainly, then high-five each other.
Some of them look too young to drive or to vote, yet they are armed with AK-47s, Kalashnikovs, and rocket launchers. Holding their weapons over their heads, they dance a jig.
A boy, probably no older than fifteen, counts their trophies: “Wahed, ithaian, ithatha, arba, kamsa, sita … sita!” He runs to the door, sticks his head out of the room and yells, “Sita!”
“Sita?” More dancing, more jigging, more back-slapping around me.
I know these fuckers. I’ve seen them in my nightmares – fled from them. And now, here I am, in their clutches.
Specialist Jude Stall and I are conscious, so we’re made to sit on plastic chairs. They don’t give a shit that Stall’s Army jacket, in varying shades of dirt brown and dark red, has bullet holes around the abdominal area. They don’t give a shit that I can barely sit because my neck, back and fuck knows what other parts of me are hurt. I suspect a broken clavicle and an injured neck, and anytime now, I expect to pass out.
I don’t want to pass out.
I want to die.
Please let me die. Before they torture me and before I’m subjected to all kinds of shit that’s coming my way.
As I sit with my head bowed and knees apart, blood seeps from a gash on my forehead and splatters on the floor between my Army-issue boots, creating hallucinogenic patterns on the dirty cement.
Fuck! I seriously need a doctor.
Stall is slumped in his chair and moaning. When his moans get too loud, the bastards jab him with their rifles.
I glance at the other members of my convoy lying on the floor in the corner of the room. None of them are moving or moaning. The last I saw any of them move was during our shoot-out with these militants. I quickly look away.
A sudden hush fills the room when a man with
the disposition of an executioner creeps into the room with a camera and a tripod. He places the tripod in front of Stall and slides the video camera onto it. A murmur ripples through the militants, and they back against the wall to give the cameraman space. Carefully, the cameraman sets up, then scans the room. His eyes finally rest on a militant with a gigantic handlebar mustache.
Handlebar beams and steps forward. After a slight bow to his comrades and a thank-you-for-choosing-me smile, he removes a balaclava from his pocket and slips it over his face. Two other militants unroll a banner with Arabic writing on it and also don balaclavas. They stand tall and erect behind Stall and hold up the banner for the camera.
Handlebar takes his position behind Stall and nods. The cameraman hits a button. Handlebar unsheathes a sword from around his waist, the kind of sword you see in movies like The Mummy –ornate, beautiful, and deadly.
In spite of my semi-conscious state, my heart slams around in my chest as I silently and feverishly chant the code of conduct: I’m an American soldier fighting in the forces which guard my country and our way of life . . .
Unfortunately, or fortunately, Stall is oblivious to what’s happening around him.
The cameraman lifts up his finger. Handlebar reaches over and flashes Stall’s dog tag from around his neck to the camera.
He steps back, rips off Stall’s helmet, jerks back his head, and exposes Stall’s jugular.
Even though I expected this, even though every POW expects this, terror engulfs me. I squeeze my eyes tight and gulp feverishly at the stale air in the room.
If I … oh God! If I become a prisoner of … please don’t let them kill him! I will … I will keep … faith with my fellow prisoners … oh God!
A rustle of fabric, a blood-curdling gurgle, then silence.
When I open my eyes, Handlebar is wiping his sword on a muslin cloth.
Stall is lying on the floor, bright red blood pooling around his lopsided head.
I puke all over myself.
Cameraman shifts the tripod and brings it in line with me.
Still masked, the men with the banner shuffle until they’re behind me.
Sweat drips down my bruised back. The urge to scream is there but I’m too weak. Instead, I shut my eyes and will myself to blank out, to pass out, whatever the fuck will prevent me from feeling anything.
Don’t think. Empty your mind.
It doesn’t work – my mind betrays me. I open my eyes and find myself seeking out Handlebar. He’s disappeared from my sight. Even though my neck is hurt, it jerks in all directions looking for him and his sword.
I hear a sound behind me and freeze. It’s him. “Oh God!” I murmur. “Oh God!”
… I will never forget that I am an American fighting for … for freedom … responsible for
my … Oh God! Please! Please!
From behind, Handlebar grabs my dog tag and flashes it at the camera.
I’m only twenty-seven – way too young to die.
Though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death …
The cameraman gives a final nod, and my Army-issue pants suddenly feel warm and wet.
My Kevlar helmet is savagely ripped off. I scream in agony as Handlebar jerks my neck back, exposing my jugular. I wait for the sword, my breathing now in spurts, my body shaking.
The sword flashes briefly in front of me before it lodges against my throat.
“Ogot! Ogot!” the cameraman shouts and frantically waves for Handlebar to stop.
My neck is suddenly released and the sword is removed.
I’m too stunned to question this move.
Cameraman rushes towards me. “It is a wiiimon!”
The rest of the men dash over and crowd around me. They peer at me like they would a circus freak. One of them touches my long blonde ponytail and whispers crude nothings in Arabic.
Also in front of me is Handlebar. His repulsive mug cracks into a big smile. “American wiiimon,” he says as he shakes his ass and circles his nipples. “Very good, very good. Wiiimon is good. Wiiimon is very good!”
Some of the men notice my wet pants and jeer at me.
I don’t give a fuck – I’m too stunned at my stay to worry about my shredded dignity. If I weren’t numb with shock, I’d probably be bawling my eyes out with relief.
As they chat among themselves, their voices rise in pitch and the cameraman rubs his hands together. He turns to me, raises his index finger and says, “Very nice.”
After he leaves with his tripod, the rest of the men herd out of the room. Handlebar remains. He’s lovingly examining his blade for … God knows what. After his careful inspection, he presses the sword to his lips and slips it back into the sheath.
Revolted, I squeeze my eyes shut.
He walks over to me, squeezes one of my breasts, and smiles. “Is nice, eh?”
I freeze.
Thankfully, he leaves the room and locks the door behind him.
For a few minutes I do nothing but stare at the back of the door, expecting them to return. When they don’t, I lean forward and pant loudly – almost hyperventilating. I came so close to death. Being a woman has saved me from having my throat cut. What now? I look at Stall. Maybe he’s still alive. Maybe I can help. I look at my hands. I’m untied. They don’t need to tie me up – my injuries are shackles enough. If Stall is dying, then he shouldn’t die alone. Summoning every ounce of energy
from … fuck knows where, I force myself to stand up and stumble towards Stall. After just three steps, I keel over and black out.
Chapter Two
I try to open my eyes, but congealed blood from my head wound has glued my eyelids shut. My entire face is scaly, my body is tender, and I stink like meat rotting in the midday sun.
I manage to pry my eyelids open and peer around. In my haze, I see that I’m lying next to Stall where I fell. The other members of my unit are still on the floor in a heap. My throat is burning. I desperately need water. Through the curtain of dried blood, I notice someone walking around the room wearing white moccasins.
“Water … please,” I beg.
The person ignores me.
“Please …”
“Said bousak!” A jab in the ribs with the butt of a rifle shuts me up. I drift in an out of consciousness. Could have been for days – I’m not sure.
It doesn’t matter.
I’m dying.
Then, someone is putting water to my lips and talking to me. “Have a sip. Come on.” The voice of a man – soothing but firm.
I lift my head, drink greedily and choke.
“Easy now. It’s going to be all right.” He has a shaved-off Arabic accent. Gently, he coaxes me to drink more water.
Who is this man? This kind man with gentle hands? Maybe I’m dead and he’s an angel.
“Pain … help me …”
“Okay, lie still now.” He injects me in the upper arm. After a few minutes, he bandages my arm and dresses my wounds. At times, I cry out in pain.
“Almost done. You’re going to be all right.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, grateful for his help and kindness.
When he’s done, he brings in a mattress and a blanket.
“Who … are … you?”
He doesn’t answer, but covers me with the blanket.
Later, he returns and feeds me some kind of gruel. It’s awful, but he forces me to drink it.
A few days pass, and with Angel-man’s nursing, I’m conscious and can move a bit without agonizing pain.
Angel-man walks in, sees my eyes open, and stops, a look of relief on his face.
My smile is weak. “Thank you for helping me.”
No answer.
“Where am I?”
“Disneyland.”
Mmm. My team members! I crane my head to look around. All the bodies have disappeared. Startled, I look at him, eyebrows raised.
He shifts about, then mutters, “Sorry.”
“Oh God!” I curl up into a ball and fight th
e urge to sob.
“Hey!”
I look at Angel-man.
“You’re going to be okay. That’s important right now. Understand?”
Slowly I nod, remembering with horror the sword against my throat. I try to think – how long ago was it?
“What day is it?”
He glances briefly at a fancy wristwatch and says, “Yom al-arba.”
“Wha …?” Somehow the Arabic they speak sounds very different from the Arabic the Army linguist taught us.
He sighs, appearing irritated with all my questions. “Wednesday, seventh of July, 2004. That okay for you, or do you want the exact time as well?”
“July seventh… I’ve been here seven days.”
“In that case: happy one-week anniversary!”
I ignore the sarcasm, remembering all the good he’s done for me. Gingerly, I touch my bandaged shoulder. “Thank you for helping me.”
He nods, his scowl softening. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
We are interrupted by the appearance of Handlebar. Today, he looks even more vicious, pure evil. Instinctively, I touch my throat. The fucker’s pointing an AK-47 at me and mouthing off in Arabic. Sounds really pissed. Don’t know what he’s saying. All I can think of is how he slit Stall’s throat.
I glance at Angel-man. Wish he’d say something.
Handlebar steps forward and sticks the rifle in my face. Of course I’m disconcerted – an automatic weapon in your face – who wouldn’t be? But I know he’s not going to shoot me.
Angel-man snarls at him in Arabic and shoves him away from me.
Handlebar argues with Angel-man. After a while, Handlebar slowly backs out of the room. At the doorway, he takes aim at me, then lowers his weapon.
“Nazim!” Angel-man yells.
Handlebar, or Nazim, quickly leaves, shutting the door behind him.
“Sorry,” Angel-man mutters.
“Okay,” I say, really grateful for his protection.
Nazim’s behavior freaks me out. I know he wants to finish what he started the other day.
I have to get the fuck out of here.
In my bid to escape, even though I’m too weak to even consider it, I try to befriend Angel-man. He’s hot one minute and cold the next, frustrating the hell out of me, but maybe, just maybe, after we become friends, he’ll allow me to just stroll out of here. Unarmed.
Sworn Enemies, Secret Lovers