Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [65]
Sara worked in a small office at the College of Islam, processing applications for new enrollees. She had immigrated from Yemen when she was nineteen after tragedy struck her family. Her brother—a young man who had given so much to her—died in an explosion, an innocent victim. Her desire to come here was fueled by the fact that it was the new battleground for their faith. The city, awash with Muslims, was sometimes referred to as Londonistan. It was meant as a pejorative, but both Abdal and Sara found it inspiring, proof that they had a home here and that there were those who feared their presence.
You do not wait for the enemy to come to you, Abdal believed.
It was not until they shared their first night in bed that Abdal confessed there was much more to him than a simple computer repairman. That he was one of Allah’s chosen who had killed in His name.
And would surely do so again.
But Abdal did not tell Sara about the Hand of Allah. He had been sworn to secrecy by those who had recruited him, and he told her that the trip to America was for business. She suspected he had ties to a group of freedom fighters, but she didn’t push for details—not then. She merely told him how proud she was of the work he did, calling him her aswas jundi.
Her brave solider.
But Abdal didn’t feel very brave these days. In the week since he had returned to Newham, he spent most of his time praying, hoping that Allah—and Imam Zuabi—would spare him. He didn’t want this for himself only. As much as he had come to depend on Sara, he knew that she needed him as well.
And then he discovered the dark side of that need, and of keeping his secret.
Abdal went to her flat after she’d failed to answer her cell. It was the longest, most agonizing journey of his life. He had knocked on her door, again and again, and was ready to force it open when she finally let him in. She was wearing nothing but a bed shirt, her face pallid, her beautiful brown eyes puffy from crying.
“What is it?” he said with alarm. “What happened?”
Sara fell into his arms and sobbed against his chest, and Abdal stood there feeling helpless, wondering what terrible thing could have happened. When she finally calmed down, they sat on her sofa and she told him that a student at the college—a student she had helped enroll—had been found stabbed to death. A young man from Lebanon who had wanted nothing more than to further himself. A young man who had reminded her of her brother … and of Abdal. She said she couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to lose him. She had looked directly into his eyes as she said this, and Abdal fought to keep from looking away, afraid she might see the truth behind them.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he told her.
But as the lie escaped his lips he felt ashamed for deceiving her, for his inability to tell her that his future was uncertain at best …
She had kissed him, then. Brought those beautiful lips to his, and as if trying to bury one emotion with another, she kissed him harder, letting him know that she needed to be loved. She lay back on the sofa, pulling him toward her, unbuckling his belt as he slipped his hands beneath her bed shirt, sliding them along her ribs.
He felt her excitement, her hand gently squeezing him, as the other hand pushed his pants to his knees.
Getting to his feet, Abdal quickly shed his clothes, then grabbed the bed shirt and pulled it over her head, exposing her flawless flesh. He had never seen a body more perfect. Had never known a woman who enchanted and possessed him so completely.
And as he guided her down to the carpet he wondered, Is this our last time? Would there even be a grave for her to stand over, or would he simply disappear?
Concentrating on the sound of Sara’s moans, the feel of her hands gripping his back as their bodies moved together, he tried to drive these thoughts from his mind.
She was getting close.