Betrayals (Black Cipher Files series Book 2) Read Free

gave thanks for my freedom, I gave thanks for my life. As I glanced at the shallow hole I’d dug, in the shifting dirt and sand, a burlap bag with the outline of guns caught my eye, and I gave thanks for the weapons to aid my escape.
    As the gong tolled again, signifying the end of prayer time, I crawled over to the shovel and scooped at the dirt again and again.
    I dug faster, praying no one would look in Fariya’s hut while she was away at work. A dog barked and women in burkhas bustled quietly past the window, not far from me.
    With short strokes of the shovel, I uncovered the hidden stash. I pulled out the burlap bag and emptied the contents onto the dirt floor.
    The bag contained a virtual United Nations of firepower. Two Russian rifles. One AK-47, a Kalashnikov 7.62 x 39 mm assault rifle weighing in at nine and a half pounds without the magazine. No way could I carry it.
    An AK-101, a compact assault rifle, standard for NATO forces. Much lighter. And there were more of the 101 cartridges buried with the weapon.
    Two handguns. One Italian pistol, Beretta 92G, with no safety, used by the French military, a little over two pounds. And lastly, an Austrian Glock 17, a favorite of the Afghan National Police force, and a full 12 ounces lighter than the Beretta.
    I hoped I didn’t need to use any of them because the recoil just might knock me on my ass and I didn't know if I could even hold the damn thing to fire it.
    No way could I bring all four. I couldn’t carry them all. Carefully I lifted the AK-101 rifle out of the bag.
    I didn’t see the "jingles", a cascade of little bells attached to the stock, until I heard them jangle. I held in my breath, waiting for discovery.
    As I crouched low to the ground, I heard another jingle and my pulse stuttered again. I realized it wasn’t from the weapon I had, as my fingers were still slick with sweat and gripping the jingles on the AK. A guard patrolled by outside, his bells masking my own thumping heart.
    When he was past the window, I carefully removed the bells, then lifted the smaller, lighter Glock 17 out of the shallow hole. Sweat trickled between my breasts as I tried to keep my breathing slow and even.
    I laid the weapons in a Keffiyeh scarf and fashioned a sling to carry the assault rifle and handgun. Quickly I scraped the dirt back over the bag with the remaining weapons and then pulled a small rug from the corner to cover the slight impression.
    Rummaging through Fariya’s bride trunk, I found a pair of men’s sandals and slipped them on my abused feet.
    The pungent scent of Chai tea drifted in the air. My stomach growled in response. The aroma of sizzling sheep’s meat from a wood-burning fire assaulted my senses. My mouth watered but my stomach revolted.
    I swallowed hard, hoping to keep down the little bit of rice I’d eaten last night. I needed all of my strength to survive. I put the pre-wrapped package of bread and dried fruit she had left for me in my pocket. I would eat later.
    The women would be serving the men, then the children, and it seemed a perfect time to escape. Now that the sun was up I could slip out of the walled complex with little notice.
    Most everyone should be in the main compound area eating. There would be guards posted at the massive front doors and the back area, but Fariya had promised that the East side of the complex would not be well-guarded. The current group of men forced to be drug mules were gone, so the guards would be very young men, in their early teens and the least experienced.
    I skirted the edge of the compound, almost to my exit point, when a dog started barking furiously.
    Shit .
    Had the dog somehow noticed me? Smelled me? I wasn’t moving with my usual agility or speed, but I hadn’t thought I was that out of place.
    Perhaps the dogs had caught my scent, as my body still carried the stink of the prison.
    Someone approached. My body quivered with tension as I continued to walk slowly. A wizened old man scurried past