Part 1

West Hartford, Connecticut (9:58 a.m.), May 11, 2006

The excruciating pain inside of her was starting to ease as her vaginal walls were involuntarily starting to lubricate. She lay naked, hunched over an elegant mahogany coffee table in the family living room, arms tied to the table’s far legs. She was kneeling, legs spread wide. She moved in unison with the cock that penetrated her violently from the rear. It had been such a beautiful and peaceful morning. Then the mayhem began. The newspaper that she had been reading lay strewn throughout the room. The remains of her morning coffee lay in a broken porcelain cup on the floor. Ironically, the paper was open to the Style section showing a picture of her in an elegant black evening gown which showed off her ample curves at a recent fund-raiser for Israel. She certainly was not the same person this morning.

There were additional signs of chaos in the room: the travel books that once decorated the coffee table lay about the room; the coat rack in the foyer lay on the floor near the front door; flowers which only moments before sat in a vase decorating the living room, now cluttered the floor of the living room, the vase slowly dripping water. Her clothes, ripped off her body as she had run from her attackers, lay about: tattered white line Capri pants at the entrance of the room; a flesh colored body suit midway into the room; and finally, her mid-heel black sandals near the table.  

Her eyes were closed and her neck was craned upward. In addition to the penis currently splitting her vagina wide open, she was also entertaining a large penis in her mouth. She was receiving crisp instructions in broken English from a young stocky, short Arab man with a mop of course black hair directly in front of her. He held her soft mid-length silky brown hair clenched in his right hand. Suddenly, he slapped her across the face rocking her head to the side. Blood soon trickled out of the corner of her mouth. His directions were very precise: tongue on top, down . . . tongue down. . . , up. . .  down  goot, very goot”.  . . . Her instructor’s English may not have been perfect, but she knew what she had to do to survive this nightmare. He was pleased with his pupil. Mrs. Cathy Glickman, attractive and prominent Jewish socialite, was performing skillfully, though he knew that she detested oral sex. The home invasion team had known much about her, long before they had arrived here this morning.

Other than the noise of violent sex, the living room had fallen quiet once she had  been subdued. The music from Mozart’s “Magic Flute,” which only moments before had brought her peace as she sipped her morning coffee, still played softly in the background.  An expensive grandfather clock ticked in unison with the grunts and moans of the man whose cock was slamming into her vagina from the rear. She swayed back and forth, sandwiched nicely between the two invading poles. She drooled as she tried to open her mouth wider to accommodate the penis scorching her throat. The expensive clock’s deep chimes announced the quarter hour as both men exploded into the woman. Cum spurted into both her mouth and pussy as she coughed and gagged. All was proceeding as planned. Allah be praised!

“Every passing day, the peoples’ hatred festers.”

            Part  2

Nineteen year-old, Jan Glickman, had first heard the commotion downstairs as she combed her red hair in the upstairs bathroom. She was in a bad mood. She hadn’t wanted to be home, but her mother, in an attempt to bond with her, had asked her to keep her company while her father was out of town attending a gala honoring the new Israeli President in New York. He would not be returning until tomorrow Friday, before the Sabbath began. This had been planned for quite some time. Cathy had wanted to take her daughter out for an expensive lunch later in the day. Jan had reluctantly agreed having arrived the night before. Hearing some noise downstairs, she came out of the bathroom. She wore a red tomato colored V-neck chemise nightgown with shoulder ties. The nightgown came down just above her knees keeping her creamy thighs hidden.  

Quizzically, she came out into the upstairs foyer. She saw him at the top of the stairs and froze. He was a young, tall, swarthy and muscular, sporting a neatly trimmed black beard that matched the color of his short-cropped hair. He wore jeans and a baseball cap. His muscular chest was bare, but he had a pack strapped to his back.  He smiled menacingly and raised his right hand. She saw an object in his hand. Her eyes recognized the object and her eyes widened in terror. It was a slender black-handled switch blade. When he touched a button on its hilt, a four inch stainless steel blade flicked out, cruelly glittering from the light of a nearby window. 

“No move.  I cut you bad.” 

He spoke accented English. He moved to her as she shivered in terror. He swiftly cut both shoulder ties to her nightgown with the blade and watched it slowly tumble down her body onto the floor, snagging for a brief moment against her big breasts. She had not been wearing underwear and stood naked before him. The young man eyed her greedily. Her skin was creamy white. Given her big-boned structure, some might have said that she was a little chunky, but that was debatable. Her pubic hair was red, matching her hair, kept short and layered with a center parting. He breasts were stunningly large with big rosy nipples. In fact, at the lunch that they had planned for today, she was hoping to talk with her mother about having breast surgery to reduce her 38 D sized breasts. The same surgery that her mom had undergone years ago college. She had once laughed with her mother that “tits ran in the family!” The man, named Faisal, was the Imam’s top lieutenant. He was pleased at everything that he saw. Then a thought came to the girl: Careful, what you dream about, girl. It just might come true! Is this a coincidence, or is this guy really into my head??

Jan had been sexually active in high school. But, unbeknownst to her mother, there was a very dark side to her daughter that was starting to become obsessive now that she was away from home and about to complete her first year at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. She had started experimenting into the world of bondage and discipline. Slowly, she was spending more time on B & D websites and now loved having sex while bound. She even had a “date” pending a fellow student she had met online to explore B & D a little further. Also, she had recently started to fantasize about being taken and used by a stranger. She was a young woman   exploding into womanhood in a very kinky way.  However, this game would not be played out in the manner of her naive fantasies. This man would hurt her badly.

Faisal pushed her into her parents’ spacious master bedroom where he led her to the bed.  He ordered her arms behind her back. He quickly removed the backpack and pushed her violently onto the king-sized bed. He removed strands of rope of varying sizes, laying them in order on the bed. He then came back behind her and started to bind her arms at the wrists. Faisal ordered her onto the bed arranging her near the end of the bed, for he knew that she would be spending at least an hour there before he would rape her. He then grabbed her feet and placed them side by side, tying them as tightly as he had her wrists. He attached a short link rope to her ankles and ran it twice over her wrist ropes. Now came the fun part. Faisal slowly pulled the link rope, forcing her legs to bend and drawing he ankles toward her wrist and forced a tie there. Jan’s body suddenly contorted into a cruel bow-like “V,” nearly lifting her big tits off the bed. She was a hogtied package of teenage helplessness! Her eyes bulged in pain and sheer terror.

“Ohhhhh, God, you’re ki. . . —mmmmppphhhhppttt!!! He had stuffed a jaw-widening rubber ball-gag down her throat and tied it behind her head.

“Silence!”    

He then reached again into the backpack and pulled out wooden paddle and started to  cane her buttocks. “Whap! Whap.!!” One cheek than the other quickly reddened until they both were beet red. The paddle then turned to her breasts which were also beaten to a color matching her hair as she wailed and moaned into her gag.    

“I’ll be back for you. Be still.”   

With that, he walked out of the room and down the carpeted stairway to check downstairs. As his footsteps receded, Jan tested her restraints, but only for a moment. In the shape of a pretzel, she was tied so tightly it would only cause her pain to try and fight the bindings. Her wrists soon started to ache and were fast becoming numb. She strained to listen to the happenings downstairs. She heard two different men moaning and grunting. The men were laughing and speaking in Arabic. The one thing that she did not hear was her mother and only imagined what was preventing her from talking. “An all time first,”she wryly thought, “the Glickman girls with nothing to say! Jan had always had a macabre sense of humor that she would use in difficult times in her life. She thought again of her mother. Their relationship had always been problematic. Frankly, they had never bonded and she really never liked the woman. Always the proper socialite; always wanting to surround herself with the “right” crowd.  Though feeling guilty, she still couldn’t help hoping that she was being raped and humiliated downstairs.   

Part 3

               Downstairs, Cathy Glickman had been removed from the coffee table. She had pleaded for, and was given, a very public and humiliating bathroom break and then ordered to her knees before the two young men. She had a sharp blade at her throat that had just cut her throat slightly to ensure her enthusiastic cooperation in the task at hand. Though bleeding slightly, she nevertheless sucked in fear and anxiety, moving from one penis to the other. She held one in her right hand as she cranked her neck to lick the man’s balls. She moved to the other for worship, and then back again. Oh God, please let me live. Pleeassse!, was all that she kept praying. Faisal entered a room that smelled of a brothel. The aroma of vaginal secretion, sweat, and sperm permeate the air in the room. Faisal laughed and encouraged his fellow foreign fighters as he left them to their new sex toy. He had plans of his own for the college student. He entered the kitchen and made a sandwich from the contents of the refrigerator. He sat and ate, watching a little t.v.  Soon the hour had passed. He had wanted the young woman to stew in her tight bindings and then see if her resistance had weakened. He looked at his watch. It was now time. As he went upstairs, he passed his compatriots dragging the blood streaked mother into the kitchen. They held her arms, still naked. As she passed, she tried to frantically ask Faisal about her daughter but was quickly slapped into silence. Please don’t hurt my baby.!! He heard the anguished pleas of a tortured mother as he ascended the stairs to violate her daughter.  

He walked with anticipation into the bedroom. Hogtied, Jan was in a in a pool of sweat, breathing heavily. They eyed one another knowing that the moment was at hand. She trembled in horror.      

“Are you ready to do as you are told.”    

She nodded slowly with a surprising lack of resistance.  He undressed in front of her until his muscular naked, dark body was fully exposed to her. He grinned and stroked his penis to full mast. He forcefully rolled her over on the bed so that she was now on her back. He removed her ropes, leaving her gag in place not wanting to hear any of the “talky” sex that he had been told she enjoyed. . . not yet, anyway. This was his conquest, not hers. He mounted her in a missionary position. The young coed stared at the ceiling, trying to contain her emotions. Unlike her mother, the coed was already well lubricated. He entered her slowly moving up and down inside of her. Through her gag, the coed emitted a low guttural painful moan.  He quickened his pace. Faster now – in and out. Harder. Jan thought that the cock might very well come out her on the other side! He slapped her thigh and hand-signaled to her that he wanted her to wrap her legs around the small of his back. She did as her rapist commanded and held on for dear life.        

         Incredibly, the telephone/answering machine in the bedroom chose that exact moment to start ringing. The men had prepared for this possibility. They were going to let the call come in, given the fact that the women had been scheduled to leave for lunch and should not be there at the moment. After several rings, the answering machine kicked on. Jan heard her father’s voice leaving a message telling her mom that he missed them both and he was having a good tim at his conference. Before hanging up, he remembered that they had planned to go out to lunch and wondered where kind of food they were having. Jan couldn’t believe it . . .Her mind raced with various thoughts . . . Thanks dad! (Ohh, ugh. .) Where the hell are you? Good protecting your women! I’m being fucking raped on your own damned bed – by an Arab man no less – you know, the guys that you blast on t.v.! and  you’re wondering what type of food mom and me are going to eat for lunch?! Well,  Daaaaaaa, Dad. . . How about Arab food, you jerk.! The only thing on your daughter’s menu is COCK SHISHKEBOB, Dad. . and my waiter is insisting that I take it!!! I only hope that you’ll be able to see your precious daughter again. What an asshole!

As her father’s voice faded into the answering machine and the right light on the phone started to flash, he exploded and spurted his juices into her.  He jerked wildly as their wet bodies smacked together like two seals mating at a zoo. Afterwards, they lay panting for a few minutes before he rolled off the bed. He looked at her, still quivering in fear. He laughed. . . American women are best served silenced, naked, and totally fucked!   He took her to the bathroom to relieve herself, but stood over her and played with her tits as she tinkled. She had never been more mortified in her short life. 

“Get up, my whore. Let’s see how your mother is doing?”  

This should be interesting, she thought to herself. Unbelievably, she suddenly found herself getting aroused at the possible sight of her mother getting a well-deserved fucking. Faisal reached into the backpack and extracted a leash collar which she placed around her neck and locked it in place. Her arms were then harshly retied behind her back and, for the final touch, he placed a pair of ankle cuffs, attached to a short chain, around both her ankles. When he started pulling her downstairs by her leash, she literally had to shuffle like a prisoner in a chain gang. Her brain was uncontrollable. Her absolute fear conflicted with images Arab slave girls serving their men.  Ironically, this was not far removed from the truth that she and her mother would soon encounter.  Faisal removed her gag, and Jan gratefully moved her jaw around as she gasped in volumes of fresh air. He now led her downstairs tied, leashed, with her breasts swaying and striking one another as she tried to delicately walk down the stairs without falling.   

Part 4

Outside the Glickman home (1:35 p.m.)

Outside, the Imam was now sitting inside of the air-conditioned commercial landscaping truck. He could not contain his excitement as to how efficiently the operation was proceeding!  There were seven men in all in this party, including himself. It had been almost ten that morning when they had arrived in this stately tree-lined community. Four of the men, none older than twenty-one, had recently arrived from Shia sectors of Iraq with student visas, received after pains-staking background checks which still could not uncover their true purposes. This had been a carefully planned operation. For the past two months, they had canvassed the community at this same hour using various ruses and means of transportation, studying the community and its idiosyncracies. Most of the residents kept to themselves and were not overly friendly. The Imam had uncovered that Mrs. Glickman, once her husband left for work, had no particular routines, i.e., walking dogs; jogging; morning coffee with the girls, etc. Her one vice was expensive shopping at an upscale mall which she did approximately once a week. The area had absolutely no police surveillance at this time. They had only needed an opportunity which soon arose.

They had ridden in a commercial landscaping truck bearing the name of an actual landscaping company so as to try and appear authentic. The Imam, clip-board in hand, had exited the truck after it had come to a stop in the driveway, and, with three men at his side, had begun examining the stately home’s grass and shrubbery as if preparing for work. The other three men had walked slowly to the front door and simply eased a shocked Cathy Glickman into the home’s foyer before she could react when she answered the door chimes. They had closed the door slowly to make it appear to anyone that may have been watching from afar (no one had been) that they were expected.  The Imam had initially walked the premises with his men, and then left them actually working the front and back lawns. For anyone who could possibly see among the tall trees that surrounded the house for privacy, they appeared to be nothing more than the usual dark-skinned maintenance crews who catered to the homes of the wealthy. After about twenty minutes outside, the Holy Man had retreated into the air-conditioned truck to await completion of the first part of the plan (rape, humiliation, debasement, then submission of his victims) and then enter the home. Then, these pampered American women would, no doubt, be in the right frame of mind to follow orders and be easily transported to their new lives.

The Imam was Abdullah Abd-al-Aziz, the thirty five year old bearded, overweight, self-proclaimed spiritual leader of a local radical Shia mosque and Muslim community Center in Hartford.  Connecticut. Aziz was a quiet supporter of the so-called “New” Al-Qaeda which was transferring power from a central authority, Osama Bin Laden and his staff, now in western Turkey, to  more independently operated “regional” cell group operations in key locations throughout the world, as his Center in Hartford. The Community Center supported various covert operations throughout North American and was a key location for harboring Islamic “warriors”  operating throughout all parts of North America. His newfound radicalism was only now starting to flourish into action. Aziz, therefore, had the perfect cover as his Center had always been a “legitimate” Muslim faith-based operation.

What had now drawn Aziz and his followers into this operation was the appearance of Morris Glickman, head of the American Jewish Foundation, Americans for a Viable Israel, on Larry King Life some months ago. Glickman had spoken with contempt of what he had labeled as “murderous radical Muslim thugary” that was leading the world into chaos. He had vowed that he and his organization would support Israel in the development of new weapons technology and make sure that Hamas, the newly elected Palestinian government, would be destroyed because of their bellicose stance against the State of Israel. This had been too much for Aziz who had already hated Glickman. The man must be eliminated, or was there a better way to extract his revenge? Through his surprisingly elaborate intelligence network, he had uncovered some rather interesting information on the Glickman family. Glickman and his wife were currently having marital difficulties and were in counseling. Aziz had sent a pair of his operatives for an appointment with the Glickman therapist to seek “counseling.” What the couple was actually doing was getting the lay of the office so as to know where the confidential files were kept. Once that information was obtained, an undercover team entered the office under cover of night to electronically copy the Glickman files. The files contained some delicious information. It seems that Morris Glickman, age forty-nine, was currently experiencing erectile dysfunction and was unable to satisfy his attractive, shapely forty-year old wife. Mrs. Glickman had candidly lamented to the doctor that she had even tried oral sex, a practice that she, up-to-then, found repulsive to

assist her husband get aroused. However, even that had failed, leaving them both sexually frustrated. 

Aziz had also sought information on the Glickman daughter. He did indeed undercover  her B & D world. Moreover, he found her internet blog and web-cam under a sexy pseudonym.  Perfect. Why not seek revenge by, first, striking at the women . . . His wife wasn’t fond of oral sex. Well, then give her more than enough cock to gag on! And if his cherished “Princess” was interested in learning about bondage and submission . . . then, by all means, let her have what she desires, but with real pain and serious consequences. Then, only after seeing Glickman live through this humiliation, would he then have him killed! It had all fallen into place rapidly. Having learned of Glickman’s plans for the week well in advance (even the daughter had assisted here by stating on her blog that she would be going home “three weeks from today”). This had the right moment to strike. 

Aziz looked at his watch. It was now time to go inside of the Glickman home. Looking around, the community outside was still quiet. Leaving one man with cell phone outside as a lookout, he entered the home.  He first went quietly upstairs. He heard rumblings in the master bedroom and looked in. He burst out laughing at the sight of the Glickman daughter spiked on Faisal’s pistoning cock. Her face though youthful and full of freckles, was contorted in pain. Aziz saw that the coed’s pussy was literally sucking Faisal inside of her like a powerful vacuum cleaner. He backed out of the room to allow Faisal to enjoy his conquest. 

Aziz then went back down to the kitchen where he had heard his men’s voices. As he entered, he first made eye contact with the prominent socialite, Cathy Glickman. Only yesterday, he had seen this woman’s picture in the Style section of the Hartford Courant, laughing alongside the Mayor of New York at a fashionable Upper East Side restaurant. Her trim, shapely figure accented an elegant silk evening gown. Now, the contrast in her appearance was dramatic: She was naked and bloodied. She looked disoriented, her resistance weakening. The rape had obviously demoralized her. She was now no more than a glorified waitress, a naked one at that, her firm melon-sized breasts in full display, pouring coffee for her men as they sat at the kitchenette. Seeing the Imam, the men smiled and asked him in Arabic if he wanted to partake in the woman.  As they asked, they were pushing her down onto the table top. She struggled briefly and then lay still, sobbing uncontrollably. She was fully exposed for the Imam to take if he wished. He had a rush of excitement and was seconds away from giving in, but then thought that, as spiritual leader of these men, he should not give in to his passions but, rather, set an example of a detached teacher of the word of Allah with no earthy vise (but he knew that this was a lie). Trying to resist, he forced himself to recite the noble Muslim prayer, first in Arabic, then in English:

“God is great. God is great. I declare that there is no God but God. I declare that Mohammed is the messenger of God.”

But alas, the prayer did not subside his desires and he knew that he could no longer be in the presence of this sexy female, wife of his enemy, without taking her. And so he did. Cathy Glickman, mother and socialite was indeed the final piece de resistance: presented up as a dessert to consume with coffee.

No sooner had the Imam climaxed, then Faisal entered the kitchen with Jan in tow.  Cathy, still sobbing and bent over the kitchen, slowly looked up to see her naked daughter in restraints. She tried to get up from the table and run to her daughter but the men kept her head down on the table. She suddenly growled in a surprising fierce voice: “My baby, my baby. What have you done?!! May you all rot in hell,!  Cathy had sudden fire and purpose. The men’s scornful laughter resonated throughout the kitchen. They suddenly pounced on the mother and slapped her into submissive silence. For her part, Jan remained calm and watched intently. 

“Please, mother, don’t make it worse.” She was surprised by her own sense of calm and scorn toward her mother.

“NO TALKING, BITCHES!” Aziz roared. He instructed the men to re-gag the women.

They made sure that Mrs. Glickman was given the special gag that they had brought for her: an inflatable rubber penis gag with a pump handle. The men roared with laughter as Aziz pumped the handle and watched Cathy’s eyes bulge as the penis inflated some two inches inside of her mouth. If you looked closely, Jan had a small smirk on her face. But before it could grow into a smile, she too was fitted with her familiar rubber ball gag that Faisal stuffed deeply inside of her mouth.  

The women were now forced to their knees on the kitchen tile and ordered to place both hands on the tile and bow down as the men began their noon-time prayers right in the kitchen. Quite a sight: Muslim men, turned toward Mecca, recited their mid-day prayers to Allah, with two silenced American Jewish women kneeling naked, bowed down, and spread out before them. 

Afterwards, mother and daughter were herded upstairs. As they climbed the stairs, Cathy made eye contact with her daughter. Jan looked somewhat bemused: though in fear, she still couldn’t resist giving her naked mother the once-over. Still a beautiful lady, she thought.  Once upstairs, Aziz figured that there were forty minutes left before their scheduled departure.  He found it sufficient time to allow the men who had stood outside as gardener decoys to amuse themselves with the women. After the women were allowed brief very public bathroom breaks, the action moved to the spacious master bedroom: the mother was thrown onto the bed, near the bottom. One of the “gardeners” then climbed onto the bed and straddled her, pinning her arms with his legs, and removed the penis gag. His cock dangled directly over her face. With a nod from Aziz, he reached down and grabbed her hair and viciously forced her upper body off the bed, stuffing her mouth with his cock. Aziz held the knife in view this time. With her head in his iron-grip, he began to whip-lash her head up and down. Aziz screamed at her that she was to service this man and be done with it as quickly as possible or lose her tits to his blade. Cathy went to work and did as ordered. In less than three minutes, the man’s semen was jet-spurting into her mouth as she tried unsuccessfully to swallow it all.   

Meanwhile, her daughter was on the opposite side of the bed. The other outside man was backhanding her face, back and forth, as she lay on her back. Her pain and moans through her gag only seemed to increase his lust. He then maneuvered her to her knees and entered her from the rear. He, too, climaxed quickly. The women again made eye contact. Cathy could only manage a horrible moan, “Dear God, my ba”---– before being quickly re-gaged.  Aziz watched and sneered wondering what Morris Glickman was doing at that exact moment. If he only knew.    

Three in the afternoon. Time to go.  The women were given a final humiliating bathroom break, cleaned with wash cloths, and given something to eat in preparation for their long journey.  Mother and daughter were then bound with masking tape at the ankles and had their wrists cris-crossed on their chest, and wrapped in large sheets of drop cloth with air vents as if they were Egyptian mummies. Aziz checked with his man outside. Nothing. The truck was then backed closer to the house near the entrance. The men then carried the two bulky drop cloths into the truck unceremoniously laying them in the empty rear area. The truck slowly pulled out of the driveway and left the serenely quiet neighborhood.

Part 5

            Bradley International Airport (8:00 p.m.)

On a tarmac near an isolated terminal used for diplomatic cargo flights, a private Saudi owned Boeing 737 cargo airplane sat, engines humming noisily. A caravan of three cars: two Mercedes sedans and a Hearse, pulled up and slowly came to a stop near the terminal. Eight men, including Aziz, exited the automobiles. Seven of the men, all in Arab garb, formed a tight ring around Aziz. The entourage then marched toward the aircraft. As they did, the driver of the Hearst and three others inside, opened the back and wrested two metal caskets from the rear and placed them onto folding gurneys. The coffins had been sealed with tape as proof that they had already been x-rayed and cleared Customs.

As Aziz’ group moved forward, the Imam suddenly moved out in front and walked purposely to intercept the lone Custom’s Agent who strode forward to meet them.

“Your papers, please,” the Custom’s Agent asked politely.

Aziz showed the man the shipping order for the corpses. According to the orders, the caskets contained the bodies of an Arab mother and her teenage daughter who had both been killed and mangled in an automobile accident and its subsequent fire. The bodies were being returned to the family home in Iraq for burial. The party with him was part of the grieving family. Now reaching inside of his robe, Aziz brought out all the passports and other documents for the traveling party. The official scanned the documents quickly and uttered a brief, “”I’m sorry for your loss,” to the man who stood next to Aziz. With that, the official departed and the entourage went on to the awaiting airplane as the caskets were placed on the airplanes conveyer belt leading to the cargo area.

At exactly 8:52 p.m., the airplane lifted off the ground, speeding away to begin the next leg of the journey: Bagdad, Iraq. Aziz’ time in the United States had now come to an end.   

Epilogue

It had now been a week since his wife and daughter had been violated and abducted. Morris Glickman sat in the study of the family summer home in East Hampton, New York. His face showed all the anguish and tears of the last week. The police and all other branches of the Federal government had sealed off the Glickman estate and were still combing for clues. No fingerprints had been found, but semen stains found in the living room, kitchen and master bedroom, had provided sufficient quantities for the DNA testing that was currently underway. There had been one major break in the search of the home. Tossed into one of the upstairs bathrooms, stuck to sperm stained piece of tissue paper, was a partially torn verse from the Koran. The authorities were currently investigating. To date, the investigation had uncovered that the closest Islamic Center was that of Imam Abd-al-Aziz’s in Hartford. But there was no definitive proof that the sheet was from there. There were many Muslims, most good and peace-loving people who lived in the general Hartford area. One thing that stood out, however, was the fact that the Imam had suddenly left the country and was not expected to be returning in the near future. The authorities suspected Aziz, but were not sure. The cargo plane, owned by a distant cousin of the current Crown Prince, had contained two coffins, but all the papers had been in order and the airplane’s owner had told authorities that he had allowed the Aziz party to use the plane only as a favor to the Muslim community in Hartford, and that he did not know Aziz personally. As for Aziz and the party, they had all quietly disappeared into the bowels of Bagdad. The United States had to tread carefully here, given the complicated relationship between the U.S. and Saudi Arabia. But key questions remained and nagged the authorities: Why had Customs let the party simply board with just a check of their papers, and not a physical inspection??? Security was simply no better now, then it had been prior to 9/11.

Morris sat in his study, eyes glazed over in tears. He had been filled in by the authorities. The semen stains found is what pained him the most. He could only imagine the horrors that his wife and daughter must have endured. And what about now? What were they being forced to go through? Were they even alive??? Glickman bowed his head and wept bitterly.  

Though the government was not completely sure about Aziz, Glickman was. As he sat weeping, he now knew what he had to do. He got up and went over to his private study and picked up the encrypted telephone that sat in a dark corner of the room. He placed the call and a harsh voice answered after the third ring with a brusk,”Yes.” The voice belonged to an old friend, Major Barak Ben-Ami (ret.), once the most feared assassin for Israel’s intelligence agency, the hated Mossad.  Ben-Ami had once been intrusted with identifying, then tracking down Palestinian terrorists who infiltrated into Israel for bombing operations. However, he had been forced into early retirement because of pressure exerted on the Israeli government by the United States. It seems that in carrying out his orders, Ben-Ami would always kill everyone in sight. No one was ever taken alive. Additionally, there would always be cruel and vile retribution to the terrorists. In one case, he and his men had surprised a group of five Palestinian terrorists who were trying to infiltrate the country by night. After extracting information from the group as to a planned suicide bombing mission in Jerusalem, Ben-Ami’s men had mutilated the men with bayonets, castrated them and left them with their cocks hanging out of their mouths. He had only then shot them dead after wishing them a most pleasant trip into “Paradise” and all those cute virgins that awaited them as martyrs to the cause.

“Hello, my old friend,” a grief stricken Glickman said softly into the phone. The

Major immediately knew who was on the line and why he was calling. Glickman told him what he had been told and what he wanted: find his family and terminate, in as cruel a manner as possible, Aziz and all others responsible.

 “Say no more, dear friend, it is as good as done.”

Bagdad, Iraq (at the same moment)

Darkness had fallen across Bagdad. In the eastern half of the city, bright lights shown upon a wide modern avenue and gleamed from the windows of barricaded government Ministries and illuminated the still crowded city bazaar. West of the Tigris River, the cramped alleys were lit only by the dim lights spilling from tiny shops and from the windows of older homes. In one of the shops off the darkened alley, men in traditional kafias, prospective buyers for the abducted American women, stood on the small stage of an amphitheater examining the merchandise. The women had been fastened to an eleven foot tall medieval wooden stockade, hands and heads protruding through a center crossbar as they stood naked and hunched over with their legs spread wide, tits dangling under their chests.  One of the men had walked behind the younger Glickman and thrust his middle finger deeply into her cunt as if he were a proctologist examining a patient. Jan wore an expression of complete agony as she squirmed under his touch. Next to her, mother had her mouth open as ordered while another man examined her teeth. All the men appeared to be enthusiastic about these two new slaves. As the bidding was set to begin, Aziz stood to the side and watched with amusement.  Yes, it indeed would be a great payday for him with the anticipated sale of the Glickman women this evening. The next step would be to plan Glickman’s death.      

But he had no idea of the impending catastrophe that would soon befall him. His death warrant had just been signed and sealed, with delivery pending shortly. . . . 

. . . . . to be continued in Part II