I squinted into the eyepiece of my tarnished brass spyglass. My grandfather had used it in the jihad against the British a century ago. To hold it made me feel like I too was a great man, especially as I now watched my carefully orchestrated plans unfold beautifully through its milky lenses.

There stood Ayham, that was a son of a whore. He was the son of my favorite whore to be exact, and it was my "affection" for her that had kept the brat alive. Pregnant whores fetched a higher price from those that fancied such perversions, and as such were good for business. The problem was the babies. Most of the time the whores were treated roughly enough that they miscarried, but Fatima was different.

She had been one of my first catches, the lovely daughter of a horse breeder, with soulful and self-possessed eyes. From the first moment of seeing them I knew I wouldn't be satisfied until I had taken that spark away from her. This turned out to be harder than I bargained for. She was a strong woman. A degraded, broken spirited whore to be sure, but strong in the way that one sees perhaps only once a decade.

She could, and had endured the most terrific humiliations and beatings. She hadn't cried when I first took her maidenhead. She hadn't made a peep later when I pushed red hot wires through her nose, lip and nipples and twisted them into slave rings. And miraculously, she had kept her baby alive, delivering it unassisted one cold night while tied to a pole.

Out of respect for her fortitude, (and the hunger strike threat I knew she would follow through on) I allowed boy to live. What harm could he do? Of course when Fatima became too withered and mutilated to continue being profitable I had to let her go. Sure, she was naked, with bound hands in the jackal infested desert, but who could say I had not given a merciful farewell to my most esteemed slut?

Ayham went with her. And now here he was, no longer a boy, but a man. Did he really expect I was foolish enough to think he was here for any reason other than to kill me? Did he think he could wow me with the gift of a western white whore and I'd somehow lose my keen wit that had kept me alive all these years? Little did he know that he was falling right into my trap.

As our vehicles began their crawl back up the mountainside, I folded up my spyglass and turned my attention to the two new girls strapped naked to boards. The brass wire in the fire was just about hot enough.