Free Blaze of Glory by Jeff Struecker, Alton Gansky Page B

captive’s mouth.
    “What did you do to her?” the man asked.
    Delaram stared at him for a moment, uncertain she had heard right. “I did nothing to her.”
    “What is in the bottle?”
    “How should I know?”
    “Look at it.”
    The man didn’t want to touch the body. He took a step back. Delaram moved closer, leaned over the dead woman, and picked up the small plastic bottle. “Sleeping pills. The bottle is empty.” Looking closer, Delaram saw spittle and a small amount of vomit.
    “And you know nothing about this?”
    Delaram faced the man. “No, she was already in bed when I was brought here. She was alive then.”
    “How can you know?”
    “She spoke to me. Just a few words. I also heard her crying.”
    “Why was she crying?”
    Delaram tilted her to the side. Idiot. “Why do you think she was crying?”
    He looked at her. “Fool. She could have died a martyr instead of a coward.”
    Delaram considered slapping the man. She was destined for death, what difference would it make. Then she thought of her parents.
    “Shouldn’t you tell someone?”
    The man looked at the door. “Come with me.”

    THE MANSION’S RECREATION ROOM had been converted to a dining hall. Where once a billiard table stood, there were now folding tables set end-to-end. White sheets served as tablecloths. Thirteen women sat at the table, heads down, eyes fixed on the empty plates before them. Delaram made the fourteenth. An empty chair across from her seemed to mock her presence.
    Delaram said nothing. She had spent the last week struggling to shut down every emotion. Tears would rise, but she would blink them away and, with sheer determination, squash every other emotion. Emotions did nothing to help her or solve the situation. She doubted anything could.
    Slipping into her chair, she joined the others in staring at her empty plate. A moment later she cut her eyes to the end of the table. The guard who had retrieved her from the coffee shop the night before sat there. The man with the scruffy beard approached him and whispered in his ear. As he listened, he closed his eyes and tightened his jaw.
    “That was your assignment?”
    Scruffy beard nodded. “From midnight on.”
    “Take care of it.”
    “But—”
    “Take care of it. Take two men with you.”
    The man with the machine gun spun and marched from the room. Delaram wondered what they would do with the body.
    Two women emerged from the kitchen with bowls of fruit and breads, setting the items on the table. They exited and returned a moment later with more bowls of fruit, pitchers of juice, and carafes of coffee.
    The tall man at the head of the table, the one she had overheard the driver call Abasi, rapped his knuckles on the table. “Allah has provided this feast. You will eat to honor him.”
    Abasi turned and left the room.
    Delaram took a roll and an orange and began to eat. She could taste nothing.

    EZZAT EL-SAYYED SAT AT a wide, golden oak table, eating while drinking strong coffee. He ate alone, just as he preferred. Over the years he had trained himself to appreciate each moment of life, especially if it involved something that stroked the senses. When El-Sayyed ate, he blocked all other business from his mind. When Abasi entered, El-Sayyed was thinking of a woman.
    “I apologize for interrupting your meal,” Abasi said.
    It must be important. Abasi would never disturb him unless it was something that demanded his immediate attention.
    “What is it, Abasi?”
    “One of the women has died.”
    “Died?” El-Sayyed set his cup down. “How?”
    “Sleeping pills. One of the men found her this morning while retrieving the women for breakfast.”
    “Suicide.” El-Sayyed shook his head, then chuckled. “Allah loves irony.”
    “May his name be praised.”
    El-Sayyed pulled the linen napkin from his lap and dabbed at his mouth. “An inconvenience; nothing more. It is why we have more sacrifices than we need.”
    “Just one of the many brilliant jewels in