Chapter 1

It was night in Raqqa, the moon a mere sliver partially obscured by the clouds scudding through the dark sky. Four men stood on the shore of the Euphrates, invisible in the shadow of the bridge under which they sheltered. The wind was strong, making the cold weather feel even colder.

"I hear it," whispered one of them, pointing in the direction of the sound he had just barely sensed. The others cupped their ears, and turned. Soon they too heard the sound, the muffled, "chuff chuff chuff" of the new American stealth helicopter.

"We'd have had a hard time hearing that, if we hadn't known it was coming," said another of the four. Although they were in Syria, and were all members of ISIS, they spoke in English, the lingua franca of the fanatics who travelled from overseas to join up. Two were from the U.K. and while they understood Arabic, could barely speak it. Another was from Morocco, and his Arabic was practically unintelligible to natives in this part of the world. They stuck to English, and thus avoided any misunderstanding.

They watched as the chopper came in, flying low. It hovered a few feet above a river sand flat not more than a hundred yards away. A single man jumped out. The chopper rose, and then fled, and within seconds silence reigned once more.

The Moroccan, who was leader of the four, raised his flashlight, and pointed it towards the solitary figure. He blinked the light rapidly twice, and then once more. The four watched as the man made his way towards them, his stride easy and rapid despite the backpack that burdened him. As the man approached, they could see that he had a pistol in one hand.

"Who one the World Series in '94?" the man asked when he got within easy handgun range.

"No one. There was a strike that year," said the Moroccan.

The recognition code complete, the American holstered his pistol, and stretched out his hand.

"Ramirez," he said, shaking the Moroccan's hand. The Moroccan tightened his grip, twisted, and in an instant the American was down, his backpack stripped from him, his hands cuffed. Then his captors raised him.

"In case you haven't figured it out, Yankee, you've been betrayed. Welcome to the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant."

"And fuck you, too," was the only reply the American could make before they gagged him, and placed a black hood over his head.

Jose Ramirez woke the next morning in his dark cell, cold, frightened and hungry, but to his surprise, unhurt. He'd been handled roughly and had a few bruises, but that was the extent of his mistreatment. The biggest damage was to his ego, for he was naked, and with his clothes he'd lost the suicide tablet sewn inside seam. He heard the harsh metallic sound of a lock, and then his door was thrown open, the sudden light causing him to shield his eyes.

"Up, Yankee," said the guard, punctuating his command with the point of his boot. Jose stood, his hands automatically covering his crotch, his body stooped and cringing with obvious fear.

"Face the wall." Again, the guard used his boot to encourage his prisoner. A mistake on his part. Ramirez had expected the boot, caught it, and effortlessly broke the guard's ankle with a quick twist. The guard's shriek of agony brought immediate help, and saved his life. Outnumbered now, Ramirez submitted to the retaliatory kicks and blows, and allowed himself to be handcuffed and marched out of his cell and down a corridor, smiling at the sound of the moans of the guard he'd damaged.

"I'll have to be careful with this one," Zara said, having observed Ramirez's antics on a video feed in her office. She looked over at her superior officer, who was watching the same feed.

"Indeed," said Captain Hamid, nodding in agreement. "The guard was a fool to be so easily taken in. The prisoner is from the Yankee special forces, and the guard ought to have known the man's craven meekness was just a ruse."

"From the sounds of his screams, I'd say he's been punished for his mistake," said Zara, her beautiful face breaking into a cruel smile.

"You are mistaken," said the Captain. "The guard has not yet been punished enough, for his injury renders him useless. Even when his wound heals, his fighting value will be diminished. His only use to us now, is as an example."

"Do you want me to -"

"No, he won't receive your special punishment," said Hamid, "instead, we'll just have him publicly executed on some pretext or another. Neglect of duty, or attempted desertion. Something like that. It will be good for moral." And ISIS could use a morale booster. They'd had too many desertions since the enemy bombing campaign had intensified.

Hamid stood up, and Zara immediately rose too, for she could not be seated in the presence of her superior, especially when that superior was an ex-Iraqi army officer who was utterly intolerant of any breach of discipline. The fact that at 5'11" she towered over Hamid by a good six inches only made Zara more wary of the man. for she knew that her height offended some men. She saluted, her ample breasts jutting out under her tight uniform.

"We have little time," said Hamid. "I want you to start on this prisoner now. Break him. Break him quickly."

Zara veiled herself before leaving her office and starting the trek down the underground corridor to where Ramirez was being taken. Hamid permitted her to be unveiled in her office, provided only he was present. She could be unveiled in her own quarters as well. And she could uncover herself in one other place, was where she was headed right now. As she walked down the hall, men passing in the other direction saluted, and were careful to stare straight ahead. The men had learned early on that to stare at Zara's breasts, or to admire the tight behind that made her army skirt look fit for a runway model, or to make suggestive remarks, or indeed, to do anything at all that the beautiful lieutenant found irksome, was a quick ticket to a suicide bombing mission. And so they all pretended that they did not notice the woman's hourglass figure. Even though Zara was always veiled in their presence, they knew exactly what the woman's face looked like. And they knew her body intimately, too. They'd all seen the videos. The videos of her interrogations were always popping up on the web, before been taken down.

Zara reached her destination. "Is our prisoner restrained?" she asked a guard.

"Yes, Madam. His hands are cuffed in front of him as you directed. His legs are shackled, and the shackles chained to his bed. He has only the limited freedom of movement that you said to allow him."

Zara nodded. Then she opened the door to the interrogation room, stepped in, and closed it behind her. With her back to her prisoner, she removed her veil, then turned to face him.

"You!" she heard the man say.

"You know who I am?"

The man nodded.

Zara approached him, placed a hand under his jaw, and raised his head harshly. "You will speak only at my invitation, and with the greatest respect, or I'll twist this until your temporomandibular joints break. Do you agree to my rules?" Ramirez nodded his agreement, his fear real now, not like the feigned terror he'd exhibited when he'd been taken from his cell.

"You recognized me the moment I came into the room," said Zara. "I know why you recognized me, but you're going to explain it. Tell me why I want you to tell me what I already know."

"We are on video right now," said Ramirez. "You're using me for a propaganda video. And that's why I know who you are. I've seen some of your other propaganda videos, where you torture prisoners into giving up military secrets."

"Close, but not quite," said Zara, unbuttoning her jacket and kicking off her shoes. "The videos you have seen, and there are lots of them out there, never show torture, at least not by your own government's definition. After all, according to your government, waterboarding isn't torture. Leaving a man tied up for hours in a stress position is not torture. A severe beating is not torture, however often repeated, how ever intense, provided it does not lead to organ failure. Your government says that it is not torture, if we insert a red hot chili pepper in your mouth, your nose, your urethra, or your rectum. And then there's rape, which your government used in Iraq, and they said that wasn't torture, either." Zara's voice rose and rose with her indignation as she spoke, her milk-white face reddening with anger as she catalogued the crimes of the U.S. government and its military. She also continued to remove her clothing as she shouted, her rage a strange contrast to her strip tease. She shrugged off her jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Her hands went under her army-issued t-shirt, and in a trice it was off, too. Her heavy, 38-D breasts swayed and struggled against the contraband Victoria Secret bra that she'd smuggled in. Then she touched the clasp, and the bra flew off her body.

Her breasts spilled out as she stood a few feet away from her prisoner. Her skin, naturally pale, was paler still from living in an underground bunker. But her nipples were very dark, and her areolas even darker. She stood tall, her hands on her hips as she lectured her prisoner.

"Everyone talks in here. Everyone. And you'll talk, too."

"Fuck you, bitch," said Ramirez, "I'm not telling you a goddamn thing."

The retribution that followed this brief declaratory statement was swift and severe. Zara grabbed Ramirez by his hair, and shoved a finger onto a pressure point. He gasped in shock. The pain paralyzed him, and in an instant, Zara shoved her other hand into his mouth. His mouth was wide open now, and then wider. She stopped just before the point where Ramirez thought something might break. Then Zara stepped back, and turned around. She swayed her hips and she lowered her skirt. Then her panties came down, revealing her firm and perfect behind. A pause, and then she turned around.