Page 43 of Asher

“No buts, Kelsey. You and Judy, Libby, Persia, and China are right. We’ll keep the home fires burning so our men can end Jamah once and for all.”Our men.Man, that sounded good.

“There’s a secret panel—”

“Oh, my gosh! There is? Really?” Marlowe smacked her forehead trying to be funny but immediately regretted it. Her poor skull wasn’t ready for slapstick comedy. “What haven’t you and Alex built into that playroom?”

Kelsey blushed. “It was his idea. It looks like a closet, but it’s a locked gun safe. More like an arsenal. What do you know how to shoot?”

“Nothing. I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”

“How’d you protect yourself over there, use your magic bracelets?”

“Oh, you mean likeWonder Woman?The only way I could do what I needed to do was by staying out of the Taliban’s line of sight. According to them, all Afghan civilians are safe now and there’s no need for personal protection. They’ll protect everyone.” Marlowe coughed at that outrageous lie. “Even if I’d had a weapon, Kelsey, they carry Kalashnikovs, and they travel in packs. I wouldn’t’ve stood a chance.”

“Ah yes, the first rule in conquering your enemy: disarm them, get them to distrust each other. To rat on each other. To publicly shame each other, then—”

“Public executions,” Marlowe whispered, “where people are forced to watch, and the ones who close their eyes are murdered next. Even if you just witnessed them murdering your husband and son, you must keep your eyes open because they’re watching. Always watching.”

“Alex believes some people need to die, Marlowe, and I agree with him. But to stop them, to stop Jamah, he had to take the chance. Either way, we’re in good hands. I’m not worried. Well, I am, but I always worry when he marches off to war.”

The doorbell rang.

“Oh, dear,” Kelsey murmured, making Marlowe’s vehement, “Fuck!” sound extra-vulgar.

Before either of them could ask, a distinctly male voice whispered in their earpieces, “His royal highness Caliph Ibrahim al-Jamah is here, ladies. He’s playing coy, ringing the doorbell. Guess he thinks you’re dumb enough to let him in, Kels. Stay with the kids. Keep quiet and this will be over soon.”

Marlowe’s stomach dropped. Every drop of saliva was gone from her mouth. She was back in the cave, hanging from that tree limb, stretched out and struggling for air, her battered body too weak to withstand one more punch, one more hit.

Until Kelsey’s pretty face came into view. Very firmly, she directed Marlowe to look down at the tablet in her hands. “Marlowe, sweetheart, don’t panic. They can’t get to us, I promise. Here. Let’s watch.”

Watch? It took a second to register what she was seeing, but the moment Marlowe knew, rage exploded from her soul. “It’s him! It’s really—”

Kelsey slapped a hand over her mouth. “Yes, honey. It’s Jamah, but look at the woman with him. Do you recognize her?”

Forcing herself to breathe slowly, Marlowe peered closer. “Yeah, that’s Barbie, the nurse in Germany who flirted with Asher. I don’t know her real name.”

Barbie set a small charge in the center of Kelsey’s beautifully carved wooden front door and—BOOM—blew it off its hinges. The vibration from the explosion rattled the safe room’s ceiling and floor, and— There he was, the self-proclaimed royal highness, the Toad of Syria. Jamah rolled through the smoky doorway and into Kelsey’s immaculate home like he owned the place. He had no arms or legs, just a head and a plump body stuffed into what looked like a black bag. His head and body were held in place by straps stemming from the chair’s back and under the seat. Jamah looked freakishly like something out of a science fiction horror movie, which made Marlowe wonder how anyone who followed the revered teachings of Muhammad could believe Jamah was a prophet. Yet there he sat, the self-proclaimed caliph of all Muslims, strapped onto his high-techthrone, still as proud, ugly, and evil as when he’d had all his limbs.

A high-tech yoke stretched from the rear of the chair’s heavy-duty frame, over his shoulders, and around his neck. With lips and teeth, he worked several toggles on the yoke to control the chair’s movement, as well as the various claws and pinchers extending from the four mechanical arms, also stretching from the chair’s back. Jamah was more of a robotic spider than a man. Someone had tied his long gray hair into a sloppy bun.

His black brows looked plucked and his winkled face was clean-shaven, not bearded like most men from that part of the world. Unlike the Muslim women Marlowe knew, who were punished for not covering every bit of their bodies, Tippetts wore a black, skintight bodysuit. A sword scabbard was strapped to her back. Two hefty pistols in holsters hung off her full hips. The bandoliers crisscrossing her chest made her too-big-to-be-real boobs stand out.

These two had obviously never read the Quran. They weren’t faithful Muslims in any sense of the word. They were nothing more than deviants spawned from the bowels of Hell.

“Who does he think he is?” Kelsey whispered. “A villain straight out of a James Bond movie?”

“And she looks like Catwoman. Shouldn’t we warn the others?”

“No need. They’re on their tablets the same as we are.” Kelsey jumped to her feet and palmed the bathroom door open. “See for yourself.”

Persia fluttered her fingers at Marlowe from the other room where she sat beside China, both sharing a tablet.

“Yes, thanks. That helps,” Marlowe breathed. Seeing really was believing.

“Let’s go join them,” Kelsey said.

“Good idea.”

They had just settled onto the same couch in the safe room and were watching from the same tablet, when Jamah bellowed from the kitchen, “Find Stewart’s brats! Find them both. I want his little girl on this table. Now!”

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