Page 6 of ELITE Justice
She hoped it didn’t mean trouble.
Oh, no. Not in my place.She wouldn’t put up with bullying. If these young men were anything like the children she’d helped in Afghanistan and Iraq during her downtime while stationed there, they’d come from a special hell.
Children born and raised in the USA had no concept of life in a war-torn country. Sure, they had to look out for gangs there in Dallas, but in the desert, they could be snatched by the Islamic State for training as child soldiers, tortured to make their parents do whatever IS wanted, or sold into the sex trade to raise money for guns. Even the smallest of children worked land that had the nutrients sucked dry three thousand years ago, trying to grow enough food to feed their family. In the cities, stray bullets, forgotten IEDs, or starvation could take their life in a heartbeat.
Gwen stripped off her apron and headed to the dining room to stave off any confrontation. At the last second, as a means of covering her intent, she grabbed her laptop on the way to the counter. She positioned herself so she could see all the teens in the corner mirror or through her peripheral vision. Glancing straight up to the pass-through window, Luis had moved into the prep area with a perfect line of sight to possible trouble. When their eyes met, he gave her the slightest of nods.
They were on the same page. Thank goodness.
With a practiced smile, the waitress took the newcomers’ order, helping them as they struggled, only a little, with English. She gave Gwen a long sideways glance as she went behind the counter to post the order and get their sodas. On the way back to the table, balancing a tray of full glasses, the server gave her an appreciative smile. Everyone had felt the tension rise.
Gwen wasn’t surprised when the boys spoke quietly in Arabic, commenting on the restaurant with approval, the typical complaints about their new school and neighborhood.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee or a soda, Gwen?” Her server interrupted her concentration on translating. A cold drink sounded perfect. After ordering her favorite, she refocused on the table at her back.
“We’ll get them.” The Arabic words jolted through Gwen. She clamped down the automatic reaction to turn toward the young men in the booth behind her. Instead, without moving her head, she looked into the mirror.
Her Arabic was rusty, and their dialect wasn’t familiar, but she got the meaning of the conversation.
“These Americans think they’re so great,” Red Shirt said with contempt.
“They’ll see.” The boy in the royal blue grinned.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she typed in the recognizable words and basics of their discussion.
Their older brothers, at least one uncle, and several men in their newly established community, were planning something big “to put the Americans in their place”. They often referred to the grand day when their people had brought the United States to its knees. It took Gwen a few minutes to figure out they were talking about 9/11.
There’d been a great deal of discussion about American planes, how they’d hit their mark in New York City but failed in Washington, D.C. Their voices carried in angry tones when they talked about the jet that had gone down in Pennsylvania.
“Al-Qaeda failed because they were not blessed by the true caliphate. This is why the Islamic State will succeed.”
Gwen understood those Arabic words completely as she typed them into her computer. Seemingly ignoring the boys behind her, she’d been tuned into every word.
Gwen pretended her phone rang and covertly used it to take pictures of the five boys, who had quickly devoured the hamburgers and fries they’d ordered. They were sipping the last of their soft drinks when the uniformed girls passed by on their way to pay their bills.
“Eahira.” The Arabic word for whore and the sight of the innocent-looking Catholic girls clashed in Gwen’s brain.
“I get mine in six weeks, on my fifteenth birthday.”
Gwen made a note of Red Shirt’s comment.
Mine? His what?Had she missed something?
“I shot off the moment I got inside mine the first time.”
That’s a new voice, she thought as she glanced up to see it was the boy with a three-inch scar from cheek to jaw.
He shrugged and added, “The uncles laughed, but later my father told me he’d done the same thing and most boys do their first time.”
Sex. These boys were having sex at fifteen. Before her first tour to the Middle East, Gwen had been privy to reports of how deplorably many factions of IS treated women. This sounded like some kind of rite of passage.
“Was she naked?”
Gwen missed which eager boy asked that question.
“Of course,” the scarred kid answered.
“Did they tie her to the bed or did she take you willingly?” That was Blue Shirt talking. Gwen recognized his voice. “My brother told me his first time was our uncle’s whore and she took him to her bed while our father and the council told him what to do.”
