The Pox of Mohammed
Dane Dahl
Paperback, 6x9 in, 496 pages
Wheatmark, June 2008
ISBN: 9781587369414
Description
What would you do if you—or your daughter, sweetheart, or
wife—were kidnapped by a gang of international criminals and
forced into sexual slavery?
When Rachel Johnson, a beautiful young Justice Department
liaison, is taken into this hidden world of suffering and
exploitation, the two men who love her join forces in a dangerous
rescue attempt.
The events that follow will change their
lives—forever.
About the Author
Dane Dahl is a lifelong student of history who has traveled and
lived abroad for several years. The experiences he encountered
while residing in Europe resulted in the creation of this book.
Excerpt
It was a warm, late spring evening in the former Soviet Republic of
Ukraine. The sun was sinking below the horizon in a fiery display
of orange and red. Like the bodies of two lovers coming together
the overarching sky merged with the flat landscape of the drab city
of Kharkov, veiling everything in a continuous shroud of pale light
and underlying shadow. Located on opposite sides of the city, two
interconnected but very different scenes were unfolding:
one—an act of violence—was situated in the decayed
industrial area; the second one—a scene of affection and
hope—was playing out within the confines of a small and
tattered apartment building located on the outskirts of the
sprawling metropolis.
“Alexi, I’m only going to ask you once,” the
Albanian mafia lieutenant said. His speech was soft but the tone
was menacing. The effect was that of a muted snarl. “Out of
this shipment, how much of our merchandise did you give to the
Russians?”
The victim squirmed helplessly in the chair. His terrified gaze
fixed on the two men standing over him. The menacing glare in their
eyes made the man struggle against the ropes tying his wrists and
ankles to the chair. His bonds were too strong; escape was
impossible.
“Gergi, please,” he sobbed. “Those bastards
were going to kill my wife and son. Give me a chance to make things
right with you and Mejdani.”
The tall criminal he was talking to turned to the third man and
grimly nodded. The other hoodlum, a muscular thug named Adan was
bearded and had a large scar on his cheek. Adan leaned over the
victim and pressed the tip of his knife into Alexi’s throat.
The blade punctured the skin and pushed inside. Rivulets of blood
streamed down the victim’s neck. The knife cut deeper. The
blood increased. The front of his shirt turned red. The stain grew
larger and spread to his pants. It soaked the crotch; the first
crimson drop fell to the floor.
Howling in agony the man screamed, “Eight! The Russians
took eight whores.”
Gergi stared at him in disbelief. “Eight whores?”
his voice echoed. The criminal’s face reddened in anger.
“You son of a bitch! Are you telling me there’s only
four left, out of the whole fucking group?”
The mafia lieutenant turned away in disgust and nodded another
silent command to his associate. In two quick movements Adan
slashed the long stiletto through Alexi’s flesh. The first
jab severed an artery; blood showered over the writhing victim. The
second slash was slower and more deliberate. The blade sawed
deeply, cutting the man’s windpipe and slashing backward
through muscle and cartilage all the way to the vertebrae; Alexi
was almost decapitated. With the connective tissue of the neck
muscles chopped in two, his eyes gaped in terror and the
victim’s cranium flopped to the side, mimicking the posture
of a limp rag doll. The rest of his body flailed against the ropes,
shivering and twitching in the rigors of violent death.
Adan withdrew his knife and casually wiped the blade on the
victim’s shirt.
“When was this asshole supposed to meet the remaining
whores?” he asked Gergi.
“In two days,” the mafia lieutenant replied. His
eyes narrowed and he added, “We’ll have to stay here
and handle the rest of this delivery. Instead of the train,
we’ll use one of the vans so this bastard’s new friends
won’t be able to track us down.”
The corpse became rigid and puddled blood cooled on the concrete
floor of the warehouse; less than twenty kilometers away, the
second scenario was playing out. A slender, twenty-one-year-old
Ukrainian woman named Irena carefully withdrew a folded sheet of
paper from the tattered envelope in her hand. She gazed at the
neatly written words. Irena had received two love letters from a
man named Yosh Smith; he lived in America. She cherished both
missives and read them over and over again, especially the second
one.
“. . . Yes, I am still amazed that I have discovered
such an angel, a living jewel in far off Ukraine. It’s hard
for me to understand how you could be unmarried. Are all the men in
your country mad with blindness and stupidity? After viewing your
lovely photographs and reading your gentle letter, I can say that
you are a miracle. My wonderful miracle! I’ve never known
someone who suited me so perfectly. You seduced me with your
beautiful body and happy smile. Even if I never have you
completely, I am content. A part of you has become a part of me.
And that is enough . . .”
Both letters were scribed on expensive watermark stationary and
each had been carefully penned by hand, expressing the affluence
and devotion of the man who wrote to her. Over her
grandmother’s strongest objections, Irena had boldly written
to Mr. Smith, sending her reply in care of a wedding bureau she had
subscribed to. She told Yosh Smith she wanted very much to meet the
man who wrote such compelling words. Then she waited.
