34

ADEN, YEMEN

Once again, the warehouse erupted in laughter.

Tanya Brighton was laughing so hard she was practically snorting. So was Hannah Weiss. Even the guys were laughing, though they were supposed to be working. Then again, these dozen young men from a potpourri of Asian, African, and Latin American countries seemed to laugh at just about anything Mia Minetti said, even if English was not their first language.

Of the three American girls who had come to Yemen to volunteer for the year, Mia was the prettiest and most outgoing. The nineteen-year-old had long jet-black hair, dark-brown eyes, and lovely olive skin. Not a day went by when Mia didn’t keep them all spellbound or cracking up with stories and jokes.

Then Hannah spoke up. “Hardy har har, Mia, but I can do you one better.”

“In your dreams, Weiss,” Mia teased to the cheers of the guys now gathering around the table.

“Oh, really, Minetti?” Hannah mused. “Care to make it interesting?”

“Absolutely,” Mia said. “Name your terms, girl.”

“Now, now, ladies, this isn’t Vegas,” said Tanya, the elder of the team at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. “You know the rules.”

“Fine, fine, no money,” Hannah said. “Let’s play for dishes.”

“Dishes?”

“That’s right. If my joke is better than yours this time, then you’re doing the dishes every night for a week. If not, then it’s my dishpan hands, not yours.”

“You’re going down, Weiss,” Mia laughed. “But fine, you’re on.”

The warehouse echoed with the oohs and aahs of the sweat-drenched young men enjoying a welcome respite from their backbreaking work amid the hundred-degree temperature and brutal humidity. Tanya smiled as she pulled out a handkerchief from the pocket of her overalls and wiped her brow.

Hannah, who would turn twenty-three in a week, was an attractive brunette from East Texas. She was certainly a firecracker, smart as a whip and hilarious to boot. Tanya had been impressed with Hannah the moment she had arrived in Aden almost a year earlier, and even more so when she learned that Hannah had graduated summa cum laude from Liberty University and was going to begin medical school at Harvard in the fall. But first, she’d told her parents, she wanted to take a gap year and care for the poorest of the poor in war-torn Yemen. In less than a month, she’d be returning to Texas, and Tanya was going to miss her sass and can-do spirit.

“All right, Weiss, put up or shut up,” Minetti said.

Standing, the Texan turned away from Mia and looked in the eyes of each member of her international jury.

“Okay, boys, now listen up,” she began as she cleared her throat and the room settled down. “A German, an Italian, a Frenchman, and an American all walk into a bar, you see? And they all get talkin’ about whose language is better. And of course, the American says, ‘Come on, let’s be real, English is the most beautiful language in the world. I mean, just take a word like butterfly. It’s a beautiful word for a beautiful creature. Butterfly. Am I right?’

“But the Frenchman takes offense.” Now Hannah shifted into her best Inspector Clouseau accent. “‘What are you talking about, you fools!’ he says. ‘French is the loveliest language on planet earth. Butterfly? What kind of word is that? Nonsense. We say papillon. Papillon. Is there a more beautiful word than papillon?’”

Out of the corner of her eye, Tanya saw Mia smirk. But she also noticed how quiet the guys had become and how quickly Hannah had captured their full attention.

“Up to this point, the Italian has been quiet, but now he is becoming upset,” Hannah said, then shifted into her best Italian accent. “‘Butterfly? Papillion? You’re both touched in the head. No, no, Italian is not just the most beautiful language; it is a work of art. For example, we say, la farfalla. Come, say it with me, la farfalla. So beautiful—la farfalla,’ he says, touching his fingers to his mouth and tossing that kiss into the air as if he has just finished a most delicious meal and costly bottle of wine.”

Hannah now raised her own finger as if to say, Wait.

“But the German is getting more and more angry by the minute,” she said. “‘Vat are you talking about?’ he says. ‘Haff you all gone mad?’ The German’s face is red. His forehead is covered with perspiration. A vein in his neck is bulging. ‘Butterfly? Papillon? Farfalla?’ he asks in disgust. ‘And vat is wrong vit Schmetterling?’”

Once again, the warehouse erupted in laughter. Even Mia was laughing. Until everyone heard the screeching of tires out front.

✭

Two dust-drenched SUVs slammed to a halt.

Nasir Bhati stepped out of the lead vehicle, surrounded by four men in black hoods carrying Kalashnikovs. Both engines were still running as six more hooded men jumped out of the second vehicle and Bhati stormed through the front doors of the humanitarian relief center and into the reception area.

The first person he saw was a young woman behind the front desk.

“What are you—?”

Bhati raised his pistol and shot her in the forehead. Two male volunteers—a Spaniard and a South Korean, Bhati thought—suddenly rushed to the reception area from the warehouse. Bhati and his colleagues immediately opened fire on them, felling the men instantly.

Panic erupted throughout the building. Bhati could hear people screaming, scrambling for the exits, not knowing they were all covered. He heard squealing tires as a third SUV skidded to a stop beside the loading dock out back. Then he heard gunshots from outside—Yaqoub al-Hamzi and the three jihadists with him had just taken care of whoever was trying to escape in that direction.

Bhati strode farther into the warehouse and came upon two Filipino men taking cover behind a pallet of rice. Pointing his pistol at them, he ordered them to come out and show their faces. Trembling, they complied. Bhati then grabbed one and shoved the gun against the young man’s temple.

“Where are they?” he shouted in English, though his Pakistani accent was thick.

“Who?” the man replied, as all color drained from his face.

“The Americans—where are they?”

When the man hesitated, Bhati pulled the trigger. The explosion thundered through the warehouse. Blood and bone and brain matter sprayed all over the other Filipino volunteer, whose entire body quaked with fear.

“Where are they?” Bhati shouted. “The Americans. Tell me now.”

The man did not answer. He seemed to be mumbling to himself. Perhaps he was praying. Bhati heard the name of Jesus at least twice. He had no intention of hearing it a third time. So he pulled the trigger, killing the man instantly.

Throughout the building, Bhati’s men were shooting everyone they found. They still had not located the Americans. Bhati reloaded his sidearm and headed for the restrooms. Rushing into the women’s room, he found all the stall doors shut. He kicked each in, one by one, but they were all empty. Wheeling around, he brushed past al-Hamzi, who had come up behind him, and stormed into the men’s room. But this, too, was empty.

Bhati cursed in his native Urdu, then heard one of his men shouting that they had found them. He headed that way immediately. The three Americans were hiding in a large pantry in the kitchen, located just off the east side of the warehouse. The women were sitting on the floor, huddled together, tears streaming down their faces.

“Get them in the truck,” he ordered al-Hamzi as more gunfire echoed through the warehouse.