Striking Distance

The women bowed, and she bowed with them, standing up straight once more before performing

Sujood

, prostrating herself, her nose, hands, knees, and feet touching the carpet, her belly pressed against her thighs as was proper for a woman, the odors of sweat and dust rank in her nostrils. She rose, caught a glimpse of the mirror across the room, but could not see her own reflection. She prostrated herself again, the prayers and motions flowing together in a rhythm that was familiar, even comforting, as they finished the first Rak’ah and moved without pause into the second.

But as they began the third Rak’ah and prayed at last in silence, her heart began to pound. It was time for her nightly rebellion. She clenched her hands to hide their trembling, afraid that Zainab, Nibaal, Safiya, or one of the other women would notice her nervousness and guess what she was doing. If they knew what she was thinking, they would surely denounce her to Abu Nayef.

Then he would do what he’d always promised to do and cut off her head.

Pulse racing, she reached secretly for her Swedish and English, words she didn’t dare to speak aloud burning in her mind like a fever.

Mitt namn är . . .

My name is . . .

My name is Laura Nilsson.

* * *

SHE LAY IN the dark in the corner of the small back room that was hers, her bed an old blanket, her head pillowed on her neatly folded burka. Her mind ached for sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come, chased off by the knot of dread in her stomach. It was the same dread she felt every night until she was certain everyone was in bed asleep.

In the next room, Safiya’s baby girl cried.

She would have offered to help. She

wanted

to help. Safiya was only twenty-four and already had six children. But Safiya wouldn’t let her near the baby. No one would. They all believed her unfit.

A creaking door. A man’s deep voice. Footsteps.

She held her breath, listening until the footsteps faded away.

Would he come tonight?

She’d seen him take Nibaal to his room. Surely, Nibaal would be enough for him and he would leave her alone.

Inshallah.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping with everything inside her that he would stay away. Angeza had once told her that Zainab struck her only because Abu Nayef came to her bed so often. But she would gladly have traded places with Zainab. If only she could! She cared nothing at all for Abu Nayef. In truth, she hated him.

She hated the feel of his old man’s hands on her. She hated the sour odor of his skin, his breath, the coarseness of his beard. He was always rough with her, even when she lay still and didn’t fight.

Stay away. Stay away. Stay away.

She drifted off, only to jerk awake at the sound of a man’s voice.

His door opened, closed, soft footfalls sounding in the hallway as Nibaal made her way back to the room she shared with her four children.

She exhaled, certain she’d been spared for the night, her body relaxing, sleep stealing over her at last.

Screams.

She sat bolt upright on a rush of adrenaline and grabbed her burka, drawing it over her head just as the door to her room crashed open.

A dark shape filled the doorway.

A man with a weapon.

He aimed it at her, a red dot dancing over her chest.

Too terrified even to scream, she shrank back against the wall, her heart hammering, her mouth dry, fear making her mind go blank.

A light blinded her.

He aimed his weapon at the corners as if he expected someone to be hiding in the room, then shouted in heavily accented Arabic. “Come with me!”

She

wanted

to do as he’d asked. She didn’t want to be shot and killed. But fear kept her grounded to the spot, her breath coming in terrified pants.

“Clear! All clear! Got another female here, senior chief.” He crossed the room in two big strides. “Bring her to the courtyard. Roger that.”

The sound of his American English made her breath catch.

“Come.” The man spoke more softly this time, motioning for her to get to her feet and come with him.

As if in a dream, she rose, her heart beating erratically in her chest, his uniform and his American accent awakening something nameless and terrifying inside her.

He nudged her ahead of him, his weapon still raised. “Go!”

Her legs seemed to be made of water as she walked down the stairs, across the main room, and out into the frigid night, where the other women stood in their veils huddled together with their children, all of them crying, some praying aloud.

“Hanan!” One of them reached for her, called to her in Arabic.

Zainab.

“Hanan, sister, come here to us!”

She felt a rush of warmth to hear Zainab call her “sister,” something comforting in Zainab’s concern for her. The older woman’s fingers dug into her arms as she drew her roughly into the cluster of women, pushing her to the center, where other hands reached out, grabbed her, held her.

And then she saw.

There, in the center of the courtyard, lay Abu Nayef.

All but naked, he lay facedown in the dirt, his wrists bound together behind his back, a tall uniformed man standing guard over him.

A dead man lay on his side not far from Abu Nayef, his eyes open, part of his head missing, a spray of blood and brains on the wall behind him.

Her stomach seemed to fall to the ground, vague memories of another day, images of blood and dead men flashing through her mind. She looked away and swallowed hard, fighting to keep down her supper.

“They are going to kill us all!” Nibaal sobbed.

“Is this true?” Angeza whispered in frightened Pashtun.

She shook her head, whispered back. “They won’t hurt us.”

She couldn’t say why she was so sure about this, but she was.

Armed men in heavy uniforms seemed to be everywhere—on the rooftop, in the courtyard, inside the house. Their faces were covered in black paint, making them look like shadows in the darkness. They seemed to be searching for something.

“Where are your tears, Hanan?” Zainab pinched her. “Do you see what has become of our husband? Do you see what these Americans have done to him?”

Americans.

The nameless terror inside her grew stronger.

But she couldn’t bring herself to weep, not for Abu Nayef. She loathed him. Instead, she listened to every word the men in uniform said to one another.

“Hey, JG, we’ve got a dozen terrified women and kids here. Are they going to be safe when you blow those caves?” asked the tall one standing over Abu Nayef, speaking into a slender mic near his painted lips. “Roger that.”

“Hey, senior chief, we got nine hard drives, four cell phones, a handful of flash drives, and a box full of CDs, along with some files.”

“Bag ’em,” the tall one said. “Boss, we’re good to begin our exfil. Yo, boys, it’s time to go!”

Americans.

Chills shivered up her spine.

“What is that? Do you hear that?” Zainab looked up.

It was the thrum and whir of distant helicopters.

She looked up through the mesh of her burka at the starless sky, saw nothing, the night having taken on an air of unreality.