24 He was treated well, his injuries tended to. They did not guard him. He wouldn’t get far in his condition. But precaution dictated that they cuff him to the cot. There were no threats, no abuse. His time as a prisoner of IS was quite peaceful. Perhaps the most peace he had experienced since he was freed from Tadmor prison, ironically by another IS commander.
Aslan Terzi sat, favouring his injured side. He grimaced, lifted his dirty shirt, regarded the ugly purple bruising. Like a disease, he thought. Nearby was water and a loaf of bread stuffed with lamb mince. His meals were regular. And delicious. He wondered if the cook was a prisoner who churned out delicacies, hoping his captors would look kindly upon him when the reckoning hour struck. Terzi ate, savouring, daydreaming.
Where wo
