Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) by M. H. Sargent, Shelley Holloway Read Free Book Online

photos out of the camera.”
    He gave her an exasperated look. “Digital card. You can’t take the photos out. Just the card.”
    “That’s what I meant.”
    He nodded. He knew he was being irrational and taking out his frustration on her. Finally he smiled and said, “I did it. I really did it. I’m a photojournalist now.”
    She gave him a warm smile in return, then turned her attention back to the television. They were showing footage of the American dressed in an orange jumpsuit and kneeling before the men who were about to kill him. Daneen’s heart went still. What must Americans think of them? And if it continues like this, Daneen thought, the Americans will leave. Then where will Iraq be?
    “Timothy Quizby worked for the American company Halliburton,” the newscaster said, as if that somehow explained why he was about to be murdered in cold blood.
    “He needs a bottle,” Maaz announced, getting up.
    “There’s one there,” Daneen said quietly, waving a hand toward the kitchen, her eyes riveted to the small screen.
    “Where?” Maaz asked from the kitchen.
    “On the burner,” Daneen said automatically. “Check it didn’t get too warm.”
    Maaz took the bottle out of the small pot of heated water and turned off the burner. He dripped a few drops of milk on his wrist. Just right. He offered the bottle to the baby who greedily took it in his mouth. Maaz moved back into the living room just as the television replayed the beheading, the first strike not quite doing the job. How many times had they shown it today? Over and over and over again. Now the second strike and the head was completely severed from the body. The camera followed the head as it rolled across the floor, blood spraying from the neck. Another roll, blood now splattering the pant legs of one of the terrorists. Then it listed to one side, teetered for just a moment and then stopped completely.
    Daneen let out a shriek, covering her mouth with both her hands. She stared at the television. The head was now motionless, the pant legs behind it also frozen. She had seen those bloodstained pant legs before. That’s Adnan, she thought, her mind reeling . Adnan was there! He was there!
    “No, no, no!” Daneen wailed. “What have you done!? What have you done!?”
    Maaz hurried to the television and quickly turned it off. He stared at his wife, unsure. She had seen such beheadings before. What was wrong with her? She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “No, no, this mustn’t be! This mustn’t be! Oh, no, no, no!”
    Maaz could only watch as his wife slid off the couch and started banging her hands against the floor, screaming, “No, no, no..!”
    Frightened by his mother’s screeching, the baby dropped his bottle and started bawling. What the hell , Maaz thought. What the hell just happened?

CIA Station Somewhere in Kuwait Wednesday, April 12th 8:16 p.m.
    “Get her to elaborate,” she heard Gonz say in her ear.
    “I’m not sure I understand,” Dr. McKay said. “You brought us the head. But that wasn’t the plan?”
    “They were scared,” the Iraqi woman explained, gesturing with her hands which were still shackled in front of her. “They were young. Maybe eight, nine, ten?”
    “Boys,” McKay prompted.
    “Yes, yes. Boys.”
    “Did they know what it was?” Searching for clarification, McKay added, “They know what was in the shawl?”
    She suddenly laughed. “Of course.”
    “But they were scared,” McKay said, again encouraging her to explain what happened.
    “Yes. They knew. They had been paid, and they wanted to help al Mudtaji, yes? You may not understand, but it would allow, what do you call? Bragging rights, yes?”
    “And you saw them get the head?”
    “I told you, I left car, what? A block before? Then I walked to where the men were talking to the boys.”
    “Who were the men? Their names?”
    She smiled patiently. “I do not know. No one knows anyone’s real name, just al Mudtaji knows. You’d have to