Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) Read Online Free

the glove’s talcum powder. “Pleased to meet you. Al Salamu Aleykom .”
    Taking the man’s hand, Derek said, “ Wa Alaykom el Salam .”
    As the doctor gripped Derek’s hand, he held his left hand in front of his chest. He raised three fingers. Then one. Then five. Then two. One of the codes they were to use to identify their contact in Aleppo.
    Keeping his expression neutral, Derek said, “Who’s in charge here? Where are we?”
    Dr. al-Atrash made a small nod of his head. “I believe you will be meeting him soon. His name is Hussein Nazif. I must be going now. When your friend wakes up, make sure he doesn’t move around much. He can drink sparingly, but no food. I’ve left a bedpan for him. I will try to come back to check on your wounds tomorrow.”
    Stepping to the door, al-Atrash rapped smartly and stepped away. A moment later the door slid open. Red Scarf and Black Scarf were there, AK47s aimed at the door. The doctor held his hands up in a surrender pose and spoke in what Derek was pretty certain was Arabic. Red Scarf lowered his assault rifle and entered. Black Scarf stood in the doorway and kept Derek covered with the AK . Red Scarf helped the doctor with his supplies and backed out of the room. Dr. al-Atrash nodded to Derek just before the door closed with the sound of a latch being shot home.
    Derek considered John Hammond’s unconscious body for a moment, then stretched out on the cot to get some sleep. For a long time he was awake, though. He couldn’t really sleep on his right side or back and the mattress was thin and lumpy; so thin that his hipbone rested on the hard floor underneath it when he tried lying on his left side.
    His mind was otherwise busy. The way the doctor had provided the signal suggested he thought the room was bugged or in some way under surveillance. And it was also possible that the doctor’s allegiances—if he was indeed someone who wanted to get evidence of sarin gas being used by the Syrian Arab Army to the West—were antagonistic to their captors’ intentions or interests.
    I hate the Middle East, he thought.
    During his years in the Army, then the CIA , the U.N., as a consultant, and for Homeland Security and the State Department, he had worked and even lived in many countries around the world. He had grown up in Sierra Leone mostly, with some time spent in Sri Lanka, West Africa and Cuba. He’d spent some military time in Panama and Argentina and the Baltics, and he now regularly visited Russia, but for the most part his career had focused on Iraq, Iran, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia and now Syria.
    What a screwed-up part of the world.
    He dozed off when the door burst open. Red Scarf and Black Scarf were back, this time with a powerfully built man wearing camo and heavy boots. About average height, he had broad shoulders, a thick barrel chest and had the sort of belly that Derek thought of as “hard fat.” His skull was shaved bald, but he had a thick black beard.
    While Red Scarf stood at the door, Black Scarf came over to Derek and kicked him in the ribs. “Stand up.”
    With a sigh, Derek climbed to his feet. The new guy’s eyes were a dark brown, almost black. Derek wasn’t a big believer that the eyes were the windows of the soul—he’d met some stone killers that could be perfectly charming with a twinkle in their eyes as they stuck a knife between your ribs—but this guy’s eyes reminded him of the unblinking emotionless stare of a snake.
    “I am Sheikh Hussein Nazif. What is your name?”
    Derek cocked his head. “Are you with the FSA ?” He knew the man wasn’t.
    Nazif continued to stare at Derek. Finally he said, “What is your name? What country are you from?”
    “My name is Bill Black. I want to speak with the local FSA commander.”
    “Are you an American?”
    “Who are you affiliated with?” Derek said.
    Although Nazif was a couple inches shorter than Derek, he had a large presence. He held his large, blunt-fingered hands out in a helpless