Holding Out For A Hero: SEALs, Soldiers, Spies, Cops, FBI Agents and Rangers by Tawny Weber, Opal Carew, Sharon Hamilton, Lisa Hughey, Denise A. Agnew, Caridad Pineiro, Gennita Low, Karen Fenech Page B
Authors: Tawny Weber, Opal Carew, Sharon Hamilton, Lisa Hughey, Denise A. Agnew, Caridad Pineiro, Gennita Low, Karen Fenech
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what that would look like, red or yellow hair between their creamy thighs, not black, like he’d seen in the pictures of girls at home. Black hair wasn’t sexy. He wanted them young and ripe, before they had any hair at all, or blonde. That was his dream every night before bedtime.
God is good. If it is your will, I shall serve the prophet in this way.
He rubbed himself at the excitement of it all. Underneath his woolen robe, his hardness was growing.
“So we have been given an order from the Mosque in the Great White City. We will follow the warrior SEALs, but you must keep your distance. We will lure them with their women.”
These boys grinned, obviously delighted to play with Legos or new comic books. They had no idea what they were getting into or that some of them would be sacrificed. Their parents were being held hostage in most cases, convinced the White City Mosque could run interference and they’d be purchasing protection at home in exchange for them giving up their precious boys. Only the most cunning would ever make it out alive. Those would turn into ‘coyotes,’ as the sheikh in Chicago was fond of calling them. It was their version of the Mexican coyotes who brought people across the border, he was a bringer of boys to further the cause.
“You will tell us, Assad, how we do this,” the handsome one questioned. His dark eyes and shiny curled eyebrows made him resemble a young attractive girl. No doubt, his ass could be mistaken for a young girl’s to some of the older followers and the ones who had spent much time in prison. Or so it was said.
“Sayid, you beautiful boy, they will fall in love with you and your eyes. You will speak to them in soft hushed tones. You will read them Rumi.”
Several of the boys reacted. Rumi was not allowed in the schools.
“Yes, you will read about being their beloved.” Assad continued. “You will massage their breasts,” and he demonstrated it with a smattering of “Ohhs” from the boys. “And tell them you are devoted to them forever and forever. You will kiss them, this way,” He grabbed Sayid and forced his tongue down the young boy’s throat. Sayid protested and finally broke away, wiping his lips with the back of his sleeve as the others laughed.
“To some girls, if you feel them up, down there,” he pointed to between his legs, “they have to marry you. Some churches actually preach that.”
“It is forbidden to read Rumi, my teacher, or to buy the books,” one of the other boys said. “So how do we obtain such poems of love you speak of?”
“Amazon. I have an account. I am a Prime Member! Free shipping, two days!”
The boys were impressed and let him know their approval.
“I will arrange to give each of you a book. You will memorize the lines to one poem, and then we will burn them so you don’t have to tell your parents you have touched something unclean, these books of Rumi.”
While the boys were smiling and agreeing amongst themselves, Assad was thinking how very few of them would ever see or hear or be able to talk to their parents again. They were cannon fodder, but useful and essential cannon fodder.
“When you find the woman you want—and you will find many beautiful women in Nashville, unlike Chicago—when you find one, she must be yellow or red- haired. Promise me you will not fall for a dark-haired or tan-skinned woman, okay? You will all take proper wives of that color, and you will love them and make their bellies ripe with your seed, but these women here in America, before you have done the good work to cleanse yourself to be worthy of a good Syrian bride, these women must be of the pink-skinned type with yellow or red hair.”
He never questioned why the sheikh was so hell-bent on the blondes or red-heads. He knew lots of the ladies here made their hair that color. He figured he was on a need-to-know basis, and whatever the reason was, it wasn’t going to be made public anytime soon.
“So when do we
God is good. If it is your will, I shall serve the prophet in this way.
He rubbed himself at the excitement of it all. Underneath his woolen robe, his hardness was growing.
“So we have been given an order from the Mosque in the Great White City. We will follow the warrior SEALs, but you must keep your distance. We will lure them with their women.”
These boys grinned, obviously delighted to play with Legos or new comic books. They had no idea what they were getting into or that some of them would be sacrificed. Their parents were being held hostage in most cases, convinced the White City Mosque could run interference and they’d be purchasing protection at home in exchange for them giving up their precious boys. Only the most cunning would ever make it out alive. Those would turn into ‘coyotes,’ as the sheikh in Chicago was fond of calling them. It was their version of the Mexican coyotes who brought people across the border, he was a bringer of boys to further the cause.
“You will tell us, Assad, how we do this,” the handsome one questioned. His dark eyes and shiny curled eyebrows made him resemble a young attractive girl. No doubt, his ass could be mistaken for a young girl’s to some of the older followers and the ones who had spent much time in prison. Or so it was said.
“Sayid, you beautiful boy, they will fall in love with you and your eyes. You will speak to them in soft hushed tones. You will read them Rumi.”
Several of the boys reacted. Rumi was not allowed in the schools.
“Yes, you will read about being their beloved.” Assad continued. “You will massage their breasts,” and he demonstrated it with a smattering of “Ohhs” from the boys. “And tell them you are devoted to them forever and forever. You will kiss them, this way,” He grabbed Sayid and forced his tongue down the young boy’s throat. Sayid protested and finally broke away, wiping his lips with the back of his sleeve as the others laughed.
“To some girls, if you feel them up, down there,” he pointed to between his legs, “they have to marry you. Some churches actually preach that.”
“It is forbidden to read Rumi, my teacher, or to buy the books,” one of the other boys said. “So how do we obtain such poems of love you speak of?”
“Amazon. I have an account. I am a Prime Member! Free shipping, two days!”
The boys were impressed and let him know their approval.
“I will arrange to give each of you a book. You will memorize the lines to one poem, and then we will burn them so you don’t have to tell your parents you have touched something unclean, these books of Rumi.”
While the boys were smiling and agreeing amongst themselves, Assad was thinking how very few of them would ever see or hear or be able to talk to their parents again. They were cannon fodder, but useful and essential cannon fodder.
“When you find the woman you want—and you will find many beautiful women in Nashville, unlike Chicago—when you find one, she must be yellow or red- haired. Promise me you will not fall for a dark-haired or tan-skinned woman, okay? You will all take proper wives of that color, and you will love them and make their bellies ripe with your seed, but these women here in America, before you have done the good work to cleanse yourself to be worthy of a good Syrian bride, these women must be of the pink-skinned type with yellow or red hair.”
He never questioned why the sheikh was so hell-bent on the blondes or red-heads. He knew lots of the ladies here made their hair that color. He figured he was on a need-to-know basis, and whatever the reason was, it wasn’t going to be made public anytime soon.
“So when do we
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