Who in God’s name decided to call this a harem? The only word to describe the compound was prison.

Olivia hadn’t expected to be housed in luxury, but the word “harem” denoted an inherent modicum of comfort. Inside, the building was institutional and rundown in such a dilapidated state, it needed to be condemned.

There were no lavish furnishings adorned with satin pillows. There were no rich damask trimmings or Persian carpets. No water fountains surrounded by statuary and exotic plants. No whiffs of heady perfume, no happy girls dancing to the reedy strings of the qanun and tambourine.

The windows were barred, the walls bare. They slept atop mats on the hard floor. Olivia had a crick in her neck and a migraine exacerbated by the female guards blowing whistles at dawn.

She sat up and pushed her hair from her face. The hostages were moving fast, making up their bedrolls. Across the room, a guard gave Olivia a nasty glare. Obviously, she should hop to as well.

Next came the queue outside the WC. Olivia followed, taking up the rear while the guards looked on. Though she’d seen male guards outside, all the guards inside were women.

She’d caught a couple of curious glances from the girls around her, but no one said a word. Their shoulders drooped. No one smiled. Their expressions were blank, hopeless.

There were no doors on the toilet stalls and after Olivia had taken care of business, two girls cornered her. One pointed to a camera and inclined her head to a corner. “Did you come in last night?” she whispered in French, but her accent was German-sounding.

“Yes,” Olivia said, introducing herself.

“Gabby,” said the one who’d pointed to the camera. She was a natural beauty, had friendly green eyes and looked like she wanted to smile.

“Mina,” said the other. Mina was pretty, too. In fact all the girls were attractive.

“German?” Olivia asked.

Gabby shook he head. “Dutch.”

Olivia arched her eyebrows. “Are there any others? Dutch, I mean.”

“Just us,” Mina said. “The rest are French or German.”

A pregnant pause filled the air. “I’m English.”

“You’re the only one.” Gabby shook her finger. “You need to know the rules, else you’ll feel the wrath’s of Jadaa’s cane before breakfast is over.”

Mina nodded. “I think they enjoy caning newcomers on the first day.”

From the hallway, a guard hollered to hurry up.

Gabby glanced over her shoulder. “There’s no talking.”

“Ever,” said Mina.

“And prisoners are encouraged to report violators.”

Taller than her two new friends, Olivia looked over their heads and regarded the stragglers. “Are we in danger now?”

Gabby shrugged with a look of disgust. “Only when Camile and her chums are in here.”

“They have the most points,” said Mina.

“Points?”

“You earn points if you report violators.”

“And you buy sweets with your points.”

“Camile eats dessert at every meal.”

“Is she getting fat?” Olivia asked.

Gabby clapped a hand over her mouth and muffled a snicker.

“Don’t laugh,” Mina warned. “These people are sadistic pigs.”

The guard stepped inside and brandished her rifle. “Alssamt!” she yelled, demanding silence.

Biting her lip, Olivia followed Gabby and Mina to the mess hall where a sea of blonde heads filled the room. She stood there for a time taking it all in. Four guards, one cook spooning slop into bowls. The tension in the air alone was caustic.

When there was no one left in line, Olivia picked up a bowl and held it out while the cook ladled in soupy porridge. She then spotted the Dutch girls and made her way to the last table to eat with them. Eyes slanted her way as she walked through the aisle of tables while sounds of metal spoons hitting ceramic bowls muffled the hiss of whispers.

The guards patrolled the room, appearing to each have a section that they paced.

Neither Mina nor Gabby glanced at Olivia as she took a seat where she’d be able to look out over the girls—she counted fifty-two, ten times more than ICE knew about, and five times more than they’d thought they would need to rescue.

When the guard moved away from them, Gabby glanced over with a sad smile.

“Why are they imprisoning us here?” Olivia asked, in the quietest whisper she could manage.

Both girls stopped eating, but Mina looked up. “You don’t want to know.”

Gabby tapped her friend with her elbow. “She needs to know.”

“Sex slaves,” Mina said so softly her voice was barely audible.

Olivia clapped a hand over her mouth and pretended to be mortified. “Have you?”

“Once,” said Gabby, her lovely eyes filling with tears.

“Not yet,” said Mina. “Now keep quiet or else.”

Olivia nodded.

The guard walked past and gave Olivia a thump in the back with the butt of her gun—not too painful, but the jab was a warning. Olivia’s bowl clattered with the jolt of her hands.

Gabby gasped, fear filling her eyes.

Olivia looked to her bowl to bring on a moment of meditation so she wouldn’t do anything rash. Then she gave a nod to the girls, indicating she wasn’t hurt and waited for the guard to move along. Without a serviette, she dabbed her lips with her fingers. “Tell you what. It looks like were outnumbered here. I’ll watch your back if you watch mine.”

The two exchanged glances. Mina shook her head. “Just keep your mouth shut. If you say anything bad about Jadaa or anyone else, they’ll hear about it. If you talk about escape or home or your boyfriend, or anything, you’ll be punished.”

“Sh,” warned Gabby.

A girl who’d been sitting at one of the front tables stood. It seemed she commanded a leadership role, because a number of others followed suit, all looking at her expectantly. She was pretty and, as she moved toward Olivia’s table, this girl carried herself as if she thought she were queen bee.

Gabby glanced over her shoulder, then turned with a grimace. “That’s Camile,” she said behind her hand.

But Olivia had shifted her attention to another of the girls in the entourage. Mathilde Petit looked just like her pictures, even without makeup. Her eyes were wide and scared. Obviously, she and the others were terrified.

“Fresh meat,” Camile whispered in French as she walked past and ran her finger across Olivia’s shoulders.

As fast as a cobra, Olivia grabbed the queen bee’s hand and squeezed as she rose to her feet. She didn’t utter a word, just stared the girl in the eye and applied enough pressure to prove she wasn’t about to become an easy mark. Camile tried to pull away. Olivia held fast.

Everyone stared.

“What’s going on over there?” a guard shouted in Arabic, moving toward them.

Camile grimaced in pain.

Olivia gave the French girl a wink then lowered her lips toward her ear. “Nice to meet you, too.”

***

By the next day, Olivia had learned the routine. There were four female guards on duty at all times. The girls were divided into four groups and spent their days cleaning or gardening. An hour after dinner each evening was dedicated to prayer, though there was no religious leader. There were no books, no magazines, no music and no television. And with no talking permitted, it was like being in solitary confinement even though there were more than fifty girls in the compound.

The only talking they did was in hushed whispers when out of earshot of the guards. Most of the prisoners were tense, their features drawn as if afraid to do anything to draw attention to themselves.

Olivia didn’t understand why there were so many hostages. What was al-Umari planning to do with them? Would they be used as rewards all at once or doled out one at a time? She knew Gabby had endured horrors and used to reward a soldier, but had others gone before her? Had any girls been murdered?

Regardless, her intuition told her something had to be afoot. Her intuition also told her that though a girl might be used here and there, the majority of the victims would be used to reward militants after something big—some vital win. ISIS wasn’t the type of organization that would pay to feed fifty girls for long.

A chill spread down her arms as she raked the courtyard with her group of workers which included Gabby, Mina and Camile and her cronies. Olivia’s mind raced with the horrors of savagery that riddled the internet. Islamic State militants saw infidels as objects, not human beings. They hated western women as much as they hated the men, and Olivia had no illusions the harem was experiencing the calm before the storm.

What kind of storm? Where? When?

After their guard received a call on her walkie-talkie, the woman left her post and went inside. Olivia swept her gaze across the courtyard. The male guards always kept their distance and, presently, two stood shoulder-to-shoulder under an awning of what looked to be barracks. The men were smoking and talking, not paying much attention to the group of girls.

Olivia dragged her rake over the hard desert earth, moving closer to Gabby.

The Dutch girl looked up nervously.

“How long have you been in this place?” Olivia asked.

Gabby glanced over to the guards and then to the door where the lady guard had disappeared. “Forty-eight miserable days.”

“Do you know their plans for us?”

“I told you before, sex slaves.”

“I’m just wondering why there are so many of us here.”

“You’re better off not asking.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes girls are taken and they don’t come back.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Twice since I’ve been here.”

Olivia gulped. So there had been more.

“That’s right,” said Camile proudly as she sauntered up to them, her chin held high. “If you don’t please your date, he will kill you. If they find out you’re not a virgin, you’ll be stoned…”

“And if you refuse to submit, you go before the firing squad,” said Mathilde, though she sounded nowhere near as self-assured as her friend.

Camile nodded with a haughty smirk. “And talking is forbidden.”

“Why are you talking to me now?” asked Olivia, meeting the French leader’s gaze.

“I’ll allow it this once. Everyone needs to know what to expect.” Camile’s proud façade cracked a bit. “And I don’t want to see anyone die—not even you.”

Olivia glanced at the male guards. One looked up, and she quickly busied herself with raking, but stayed nearby the others. She still had questions. “Has Jadaa told you why there are so many of us here?”

“Do you have a death wish?” whispered Gabby. “You don’t ask questions like that.”

Camile pushed her rake forward and stopped Olivia’s. “The Dutch girl is right.”

Olivia shifted her rake aside. “Don’t you want to go home?”

“Never say that again! I could have you sent to the pit for such abomination.” Camile stepped nearer and craned her neck so she was nose-to-nose with Olivia. “There are many rules around here, but the only two you need to remember are to keep your mouth shut and honor your superiors.”

“Is that so?” Olivia asked, trying not to sound flabbergasted. “Don’t you mean my captors?”

“I mean me.” Camile tossed her head like a snot. “I’m reserved for al-Umari himself. And that puts me at the top of the pecking order.”

Olivia drew her hand over her eyes so the girls wouldn’t see them rolling. No one on the planet should be proud about being favored by al-Umari, especially a blonde teenager who, in that sadistic pig’s eyes, was an object to satisfy his lust before he murdered her…quickly if she was lucky.

“Jadaa listens to everything she says,” said Mathilde. “If you speak out against Camile, you will be punished.”

“Severely,” said another.

Olivia made her eyes pop with surprise as she shifted her gaze between the girls. “W-what kind of punishment?”

“The pit…in the hot sun.”

“Without water.”

“What else?” Olivia asked.

Camile smirked. “There are points. You have nil.”

One of the guards under the awning turned his attention to them while he tossed his cigarette butt down and ground it into the dirt with the toe of his boot. Narrowing his gaze, he started toward them, but his mate caught his arm, starting up another conversation.

Olivia raked. “How do you earn points?”

Camile didn’t budge. The girl must have a modicum of immunity because she wasn’t half as afraid as the others. “If you tell me when someone has misbehaved you receive one point, but if you lie, you lose two. If Jadaa sends you to a hero’s arms, you receive five points if he is pleased. If he is not pleased, you spend two days in the pit.”

“If he doesn’t kill you first,” mumbled Gabby.

Camile leaned on her rake and stood akimbo like she was queen of the dunghill. “Make sure he’s pleased because two days in the pit will kill you.”

Olivia curled her fingers into a fist. Dear God, how she’d like to bury her knuckles in the French girl’s arrogant face. “Have you been in the pit?”

“Not me. Like I said, I’m al-Umari’s favorite.”

“Have you met him?”

Camile’s eyes grew dark. “Enough questions.”

Right. Eyes never lied. Camile had never seen her admirer, or else she’d be scared shitless like the rest of them.

“Silence!” Jadaa hollered as the door opened. “Olivia, come.”

“What?” Camile jammed a fist to her hip. “She only just arrived.”

Camile was met with a vicious glare. Evidently, the dunghill queen wasn’t considered to be quite as high and mighty by her jailers.

Jadaa beckoned with an impatient wave of her hand.

Gabby gave Olivia a light shove. “You’d better go or else there’ll be hell to pay.”

Steeling her nerves, Olivia handed the rake to her friend and followed the older woman into the same office she’d been in for her initiation.

Once inside, Jadaa hastily straightened Olivia’s veil. “You look disgraceful,” she said in Arabic.

Olivia pretended not to understand. “When are you going to let me go home?”

The woman dealt a quick slap to the side of Olivia’s head, above the ear where it wouldn’t show a bruise. “Sh.”

Did Jadaa have some understanding of what she was saying? Was it the word home? “Do you understand me?”

Another slap followed by another “sh”.

Maybe she didn’t.

Olivia rubbed her head and closed her eyes against her instinct to hit back. Again, she reminded herself of her mission. Those poor girls needed a hero and if Olivia had to swallow her pride a hundred times before her opportunity came, by God she’d do it.

Jadaa grasped Olivia by the shoulders and urged her to stand straight.

Then the side door opened and in walked a man in a black ISIS commander’s uniform with a matching turban. Over his shoulder, he carried an AK47. He was ready for battle with a holstered sidearm and black ammunition vest.

Olivia’s gut squeezed. Were they going to force her already? Perspiration stung her pits.

Jadaa grinned, showing a missing tooth—right front. “See what I mean? She’s the prettiest yet.”

The uniform stepped forward with a squint. Then he yanked off Olivia’s veil. He cocked his head and, using his pointer finger, he pushed her chin from side to side.

Though she knew why he was scrutinizing, Olivia didn’t want to appear too willing. “I beg your pardon?”

“English?” the man asked.

Jadaa nodded rapidly. “Yes.”

His lips curled up as he stepped back and checked out her boobs. “He will like the idea of fucking the English even more than the French.”

Olivia stole a downward glance at her attire. As far as she was concerned, she looked about as sexy as a bear. And her experience in the two years she spent undercover with Khalil proved jihadists were as red-blooded as any other men when it came to women’s sexiness.

“Camile has grown too insolent.” Jadaa stepped in, folding her arms with a critical eye. “And I think this one will please the caliph more.”

Olivia kept her face impassive while her stomach lurched. The caliph? Would she finally have her chance to meet al-Umari face-to-face?

The commander stroked his fingers down his beard. “And you do not think this one will be difficult? She has fire in her eyes.”

“But the caliph likes a challenge. I say her fire is maturity.”

“I don’t see the fear.”

Olivia clasped her hands under her chin. “Could someone please tell me what’s going on? If the pair of you have any questions, I am more than willing to explain, especially if it will buy me a ticket home.” She pointed to the cell phone on the desk. “Translation app?”

Jadaa boxed Olivia’s ear. “Sh.”

Shuffling back, Olivia held her fists tighter.

Then the commander stepped in and squeezed her chin, flipping up her top lip and looking at her teeth like she was a bloody mule.

Olivia couldn’t mask the shot of anger making her eyes twitch.

He patted her cheek and laughed. “You have learned self-control. I like that in a woman, even if you are the spawn of the infidel.” He turned to Jadaa. “This one will be difficult, but I will show her photograph to the caliph. He may change his mind about the other.”

“He will like this one. Mark me.” Jadaa shouldered in and arranged Olivia’s veil, then pinched her cheeks. “Smile,” she said in Arabic, grinning and pointing to her mouth.

The man held up a camera. Olivia complied, wishing she would have had a decent night’s sleep and a bit of makeup. She’d put on a swimming suit and strut down the catwalk if it meant she’d have a chance at al-Umari.

The flash nearly blinded her.

“Ensure that she understands her place,” the officer said as he strode to the door.

“She will be ready.”