The bus rumbled down the end of her street. The big guy in a head scarf with his gun to William Sr.’s head forced the pastor to sit while he remained upright in the aisle.
“Now that we have all of you aboard, give me your attention.”
He spoke impeccable English without any accent. Emma thought he was one of those terrorists who grew up in the U.S. and then went crazy. But there was a silly, cunning quality to the way he talked, as if he’d patterned his speech after some old movie character, like Dr. Evil, whom she’d seen on cable. Not that ridiculous, but kind of. He drew out his words as if he enjoyed their torment as much as she and the others feared their intent.
“A week ago you tried to defy our plans. You saved people from the train crash on the first day of our jihad. So many Americans think you are heroes.” He smiled, shook his head. “You probably think so too because you had your pictures in the newspapers and on the Internet. Now people will see what happens to their ‘heroes’ when they defy us, because we are taking you on a long trip.” He glanced at his three compatriots, then back at them. “Some of you will make the journey alive.” He paused, as if to let the implication sink in. “And some of you will die because you will do things to try to show that you are brave, or that your Jesus will protect you. But he won’t, and we will kill you.”
He looked them over, making eye contact with Emma, the only white kid on the bus. Maybe he just realized that. Duh! She stared back, thinking over and over, I hate your guts. I hate your guts, hoping to burn his brain with her anger. He didn’t even flinch.
The man’s dark eyes moved from child to child as he talked until they settled on Tanesa. “I should also tell you that our patience is very thin, and that the first person who tries to stop us will get to see something very special before dying.” He thrust his pistol in William Sr.’s face. “You make a mistake, and you will make us shoot him. That’s why he’s right here in the front of the bus, so we can kick his body off. Then”—he smiled, displaying perfectly straight white teeth—“we’ll shoot the offender and kick him — or her — off, too. Two for the price of one. That’s how we’ll get started.”
Emma looked over at Tanesa, who was seated in the row ahead on the other side of the aisle. She was staring at the man. Emma realized that she liked Tanesa a lot. No, it was more than just liking. She admired her. Tanesa was strong, the way she looked right at that guy. Maybe, Emma realized, she wanted to be like Tanesa.
Emma moved her head just enough to look at the thug who’d forced her onto the seat. He crouched in the aisle three rows ahead, so his leader could stare down all the kids. He held an assault rifle, like the model used every week or so in a massacre. But he also had a handgun jammed into his waist. One of the old-fashioned ones, as Emma thought of it, with a cylinder for the bullets that spun around.
When she was six, Emma got an Annie Oakley outfit for Christmas, fringe skirt and vest, with a pair of six-shooters and a holster for each hip.
Emma sure had killed a lot of bad guys back then.
The leader’s glare now returned to Tanesa. Emma could tell by the tension in the caregiver’s jaw that she was seriously pissed off. And then Emma thought Tanesa was exactly the kind of person who would stand up to those guys.
Don’t do it, Tanesa. Whatever you’re thinking.
The jihadists surrounded Candace, raising their Kalashnikovs and semiautomatic handguns in the air. One even wielded a scimitar, which made her fear a public beheading. It didn’t escape her notice that the cameraman kept focusing on the sword-bearer.
They were chanting in Arabic. Something about the Great Satan. She rued her woeful language skills, then felt spittle on her face as they pressed closer, jostling and groping her.
Not the truck, she thought. Don’t put me in there with them.
The men appeared to have claimed her. But a commander of some sort — he wore the semblance of a uniform — bulled his way through the teeming crowd. The cameraman instantly turned his lens on him. The commander, wider than any two of the malnourished-looking mujahedeen, grabbed her arm, wrapping it in his meaty grip. At almost the same moment, a man who could have been his brother came up on her blind side and took her left arm. They pushed her through the shouting mob.
In seconds, she was in the Hummer, an air-conditioned vehicle more lushly appointed than any of the ones she’d driven during her Afghanistan service.
The two beefy men sat on either side of her. Neither had relinquished his grip. Next to the driver was a man in full head scarf. She could not see any of his features until he turned to look at her. Even then his eyes were hidden behind dark lenses. His face was skeletally thin with a beaky nose. His thin lips barely moved when he spoke:
“Agent Candace Anders.”
Although it wasn’t a question, he stared as if he expected a response. She did not answer.
He shook his head and turned back around.
The Hummer headed down the highway. So did the truck with the jihadists, their weapons still waving victoriously in the air, the scimitar catching blinding beams of sunlight.
They turned several miles later onto a desert road. She knew they weren’t going to Sana any longer. They were headed to hell.
Ruhi wished he would die, and he’d never before been that desperate. But he’d never known pain that could compare to waterboarding. Lennon’s men had strapped him down, cinching the leather so hard across his forehead that he thought they’d drive the back of his head through the lower part of the board. Then they bound his mouth with the plastic wrap and poured water down his nostrils. In less than fifteen seconds he was out of air from trying to expel the water. They let him gag for another twenty seconds before Lennon pulled the plastic wrap off his mouth.
Ruhi took four huge breaths, and then saw the big man scoop up another jarful of water. Lennon pulled the plastic back over Ruhi’s mouth and ordered the torturer to give the glass to him.
He took over, pouring it slowly, deliberately, into Ruhi’s nose. Worse this time, because he knew the deadly agony was imminent. As soon as his trachea and larynx filled with water, instinctive raging panic lit up his brain.
He passed out in the grip of horrific pain, certain that he was dying. When he awakened, he was still bound to the board. Lennon’s face hovered right over him. He had jerked the plastic wrap down to Ruhi’s chin.
“Are you here for Al Qaeda?”
“No. That’s Ahmed,” he pleaded. “Not me.”
“We don’t have Ahmed. We have you, Mr. Ruhi Mancur.”
They don’t have him. How the hell—
But Ruhi’s tormented thoughts stopped for yet another scream—“No, no, no”—as Lennon spread the wrap back over his lips.
“No? Did you say ‘no,’ Mr. Ruhi Mancur? But that’s not what we want to hear. We want to hear ‘Yes, I have names.’ We know about your cousin. We want to know more about you and your friends.”
Lennon leaned forward. Ruhi wished he could head-butt the bastard. He imagined Candace would do that. But the only thing he could move were his eyes, and all they saw was Lennon moving that jar of water from the bucket toward him once more. He tried to talk, but couldn’t with the plastic.
“What, Ruhi?” Lennon pulled the wrap down again.
“I don’t know anyone in Al Qaeda in Yemen or anywhere else. I swear I don’t. I just got here. I’d tell you. I hate those people.”
“And do you know who we hate, Mr. Ruhi Mancur? We hate liars, especially the ones who leave our country, and then come back and try to turn it into an American garbage pit. We really hate them.” He leaned even closer. “Names, Mancur.”