Covert Assassin

by Ethan Jones

  No answer came right away, just static and a scuffling noise. Then the SUV began to pick up speed. It climbed over a low hill, then bounced over it, dropping on the other side.

  “We’re taking fire,” Ying shouted.

  Justin’s foot slammed the gas pedal. He held the steering wheel tight with both hands as he felt the tires sliding over the sandy path. A loud rattle came from the back of the truck from the ammunition boxes and the machine guns.

  Carrie slid into the backseat. She pulled the collapsible butt stock of her American-made M4 rifle and pointed it at the nearest searchlight. While they did not have visual confirmation that the SUV was under attack, Ying’s words were sufficient for their rules of engagement. The opposition had initiated combat, and Justin and Carrie were at liberty to respond with use of force.

  She fired a couple of tracer rounds, to determine the location where her bullets were landing. They were a few feet to the left of the target. Carrie readjusted her sight and fired a quick three-round burst. The nearest searchlight erupted into a million sparks, then went dark.

  A couple of bullets thumped against the side of the truck. Two or three skimmed over the hood.

  Justin yanked at the wheel. The truck drifted on the sand and slid to the right. It went through a series of small dips, then Justin jerked the wheel hard to the right, to avoid a deep hole. The truck climbed over a small hill, and a bullet shattered the rear glass.

  Carrie turned her rifle to the second searchlight. She fired a long barrage, killing the powerful light. A few more rounds thumped against the truck, but Carrie heaved a sigh of relief. “That should make it better.”

  Justin nodded. “Good job.”

  “Watch it,” Carrie shouted.

  They flew over the next hill and became airborne for a long moment. When it landed in a patch of shrubs and rocks, the entire truck shook and rattled as if it was going to come apart at any moment. “How far are we?” Justin asked.

  “Not sure. We should be in Iraq right away.”

  He looked over his shoulder. The vehicles were still there. Now that the searchlights were gone, he could make out their general shape. They seemed to be Humvees or some very wide trucks. “Are they still firing?”

  “Can’t tell.”

  Ying’s worried yet excited voice filled the truck’s cab: “Justin, Carrie, we’ve crossed into Iraq.”

  Justin squinted. He could not see the SUV. About a hundred yards away he thought he spotted the box-shaped rear of the SUV, but he could not be certain. “Where are you?”

  A moment of static, then Ying said, “Your five o’clock, Justin.”

  He glanced in that direction. “Yes, I see you. Keep going.”

  A bullet struck the back of the truck.

  Justin swerved, while Carrie returned fire. She squeezed off single shots, carefully aimed at the vehicle shortening the distance. “Reloading,” she shouted.

  Justin turned the steering wheel right, then left, making them a harder target. “Ying, Ying, get going.”

  “Al-Rawi ... he’s ... he’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. He’s dead, Justin, bleeding all over me.”

  “And you, you’re okay?”

  “Yes, I ... I think I’m okay.”

  “Then drive, drive. Go, go,” Justin said.

  “Okay, okay.”

  He kept his foot on the gas. The truck sped up, as much as the broken terrain would allow, jumping over holes and dips. Justin felt as if he was bouncing on the back of an untamed stallion. More bullets banged against the truck, but none entered the cab. Still he did not slow down for another long minute, struggling to keep control of the swerving vehicle. “We should be in Iraq by now,” he said.

  “We are,” Carrie said. “They’ve stopped firing and are falling back.”

  Justin reached for the radio. “Ying, slow down. We’re coming to you.”

  “Are they ... are they gone? I can still see them.”

  “They’re back there, but no longer a threat.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Find a good place to park and wait.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Justin drove for another half a mile or so until he came to the SUV parked on the side of a narrow trail. Ying was standing near the driver’s door and pacing back and forth. “What happened, Justin?” she asked as soon as he stepped out of the truck.

  Justin shrugged. “I don’t know. Jordanians aren’t easily rattled, especially the border guards.” He made his way to the front passenger seat.

  “Maybe they thought we were someone else.” Carrie grabbed the first aid kit from the back of the truck.

  Justin glanced at al-Rawi slumped against the seat. Blood was oozing from his mouth and his chest. Justin put two fingers on al-Rawi’s carotid artery, checking for a pulse. He found one, very weak and irregular. “He’s still alive,” he said. “Barely a pulse.”

  Carrie drew near him. “Let’s see if I can stop the bleeding. Cut open his shirt.” She handed Justin a pair of sharp scissors. “Hold the Maglite. Yes, right there.”

  Carrie mopped up the blood from al-Rawi’s chest, which had started to turn pale. Then, she began to clean the wound, which was where the bullet had exited.

  “Side wound,” Justin said.

  “Yes, but this one first.”

  Justin cleaned al-Rawi’s mouth, making sure his airway remained clear. His breathing was almost nonexistent. Justin shook his head. I’m not sure he’ll make it. Not here in the desert. Iraqi border guards could show up at any time.

  Carrie worked as fast as she could. When she was finished bandaging the first wound, Justin and Carrie turned al-Rawi slightly to the side, so she could access the side wound. It was just under the ribcage, and blood was flowing from the bullet hole.

  Justin asked, “How does it look?”

  “It will be a miracle if he makes it. But we’ll keep him alive as long as we can.”

  He readjusted the Maglite so that the beam would fall at the right place.

  In a couple of minutes, Carrie was finished. “That’s all I can do for now.”

  “We’ve got to go,” Ying said, her voice still ringing with panic. “The shooting has drawn attention.”

  Justin nodded. He sighed and looked at the Jordanian side of the border. In the distance, the yellow headlights of the two vehicles shone bright with a slight flicker. It resembled the eyes of hungry hyenas circling around their prey, waiting for the right moment to sink their teeth in the flesh. “Well, that direction is out of the question.” He turned around. “We’ll drive away from the border, praying we don’t run into border patrols. Perhaps we can find a doctor, who can save al-Rawi’s life.”

  Carrie nodded.

  Ying said, “What about the mission in Rutbah?”

  “This takes priority now.” Justin gestured toward the SUV. “Without al-Rawi, the op has become almost impossible. He was our guide, and a fighter.”

  “I know how to get us to Rutbah, and I can fight.”

  Justin shook his head. “No offence, but if you can’t fire a gun...”

  Ying frowned. “So, we’re aborting the mission?”

  “Postponing it for now. Let’s get al-Rawi to a safe place, then we’ll reassess our sit.”

  Ying shrugged. “If it has to be that way.” Her voice had a slight tinge of disapproval.

  “It does. Let’s go now.”

  He headed toward the driver’s door. “You’ll ride with Carrie in the truck.”

  “But I was—”

  “Follow the order, Ying.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Justin gave her an angry glare, but otherwise ignored her almost sarcastic voice. “Carrie, let’s go east, as far away as we can from the border. Then, when we find a decent trail, we’ll head toward the highway.”

  Carrie nodded. “We’ll do that.”

  Justin climbed into the SUV and glanced at al-Rawi. His eyes were closed, and his head was tilted to the s
ide. Al-Rawi’s face seemed to be losing color by the second. “Hold on for another hour or so, man,” Justin whispered. “Maybe we can bring you back from the dead.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  One mile west of the Jordan-Iraq border

  Thirty-five miles southwest of Rutbah, Iraq

  They drove in relative silence for the next twenty minutes. A series of small villages dotted the area, but Justin was reluctant to stop at any of them. According to intelligence reports, they were in the hands of extremist groups linked to Al-Qaeda and the Islamic State. If Justin made a mistake, it would cost the life of everyone on his team. It was vital to get medical help for al-Rawi; but even more crucial was to ensure the survival of everyone under Justin’s command.

  They pressed on close to the midway point between the border and Rutbah. A couple of villages along Highway 10 were supposed to keep a neutral position amidst the fighting, opposing insurgents of all creeds, but also not throwing their support behind government or army forces. Justin could only hope the reality matched the intelligence reports.

  As they drew near the first one, Al-Zemrah, Justin glanced at al-Rawi. The man had not made a sound throughout the entire trip. Justin slowed down and leaned closer to al-Rawi’s face. A very low, barely noticeable breathing came from him. Justin wondered if the man’s life was worth the added risk to the team. But he’s a team member too. If I were sitting there, with two bullet holes in my body, I would want someone to do everything possible to save my life. He nodded. As much as he might not like it, it was the right thing to do.

  As anticipated, a crude checkpoint was set up near the entrance to the village. The skeleton of a burned-out army truck and heaps of debris, along with coils of barbwire, stretched across a wide section of the road. Only a narrow one-lane gap was open, and that led between two white Toyota trucks with heavy machine guns mounted on the backs.

  “Justin, are you sure about this?” Carrie’s voice filled the SUV through the radio.

  “We have to go in. Al-Rawi’s life hangs in the balance.”

  “All right. Let’s hope they like the Peshmergas.”

  “Yes. Who doesn’t?”

  Justin heaved a deep sigh then slowed down as he headed toward the checkpoint. His arrival had been noticed by the fighters. One of them swung a machine gun toward Justin. A couple raised their rifles. Another gunman pointed his rocket-propelled grenade launcher in the SUV’s direction. Even if the gunman was the worst shooter ever, at a distance of thirty yards, it was unlikely he would miss.

  I hope this isn’t a grave mistake.

  Justin stopped when he was about ten yards away from the barbwire. He rolled down the window, then called to the men, “Salam alaikum.” It was the customary Muslim greeting that meant Peace be with you. Justin spoke in Arabic in a warm tone, “We have a wounded fighter who needs a doctor, urgently.”

  “Alaikum wa salam,” came the reply in a loud gruff voice. Peace to you too. “Leave all guns inside and get out.”

  Justin was not certain about the source of the voice, but it sounded like it came from a stocky man standing by the left-side Toyota. “We come in peace and our brother—”

  “Get out now,” the voice rose to a shout.

  “Right away, I’m doing that.”

  He removed his Beretta pistol and placed it on the console between the two seats. Then he stepped outside and walked toward the man.

  “That’s good, stop, stop. Stay there,” the man shouted. “Go search him,” he called to one of the young gunmen armed with assault rifles.

  The gunman dashed toward Justin and gave him a thorough pat-down. The gunman removed two grenades from Justin’s ammunition pouch, then a knife from an ankle holster. “Hadi said no guns.”

  “Those aren’t guns.”

  The young man’s face produced an evil grin. “You should have left them in the SUV.”

  When he finished, he shoved Justin toward the Toyota. “Walk. Faster.”

  Justin glanced at the SUV. “Please bring a doctor to my—”

  “Keep walking.”

  The man with the rocket-launcher drew closer to Justin. “I’ve got him now. Go check the others.”

  Justin looked at the new fighter. He had a clean-shaven face but for the obligatory mustache worn by almost every Iraqi man. He gestured toward Justin’s arm patch. “YPG?”

  Justin shook his head. The man was referring to the People’s Protection Units, the largest Kurdish army fighting Syrian and Iraqi government forces. “No, we’re Peshmergas, fighting only against terrorists who sow hate and bring about the death of innocents.”

  The fighter seemed to give a small nod. He tipped his head toward the Toyota. “Let’s go.”

  Justin crossed the distance and looked at the stocky man, whom the first gunman had called Hadi. He had a weather-beaten face and dark, deep-set eyes that gave Justin a piercing gaze. “Peshmergas?” he asked in a voice louder than necessary.

  “That’s right,” Justin said and looked around.

  The fighter sitting behind the machine gun had turned it toward Justin. Another gunman stood ready near the other Toyota. His rifle was also pointed at Justin.

  Hadi said, “You’re quite far from your base outside Rutbah. What are you doing in this area?”

  “Coming up from the border. We were meeting a few comrades but ran into trouble.”

  “Patrols?”

  “Yes. One of our brothers is gravely wounded. If you can—”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Halmat Mardini.”

  “Where are you from?”

  Justin stifled the frown forming on his face. “I’m from Irbil, but I grew up in Egypt. My teammates are foreign fighters, who’ve joined our cause.”

  Hadi nodded. “Yes, I noticed a hint of the dialect.”

  Justin had been told by many native Arabic speakers that he spoke like a native Egyptian. Justin had served in Cairo, the capital of the North African country, for the first few years of his career. Youthful stamina, a natural talent for languages, and an overdose of stubbornness had allowed him to master the language. “You’re right, and you’re a keen observer.”

  Hadi nodded his big head, which had a badly receding hairline. “You know survival in these areas isn’t for fools. You really think I’m going to take your word for it that you’re a Peshmerga?”

  Justin shook his head. “No, of course not.”

  Hadi stepped closer to Justin and took hold of the collar of his jacket. “Uniforms like this sell for a few dollars all over Iraq.”

  “You’re right.” Justin nodded. “I invite you to check my words. My team reports to Commander Sharifi, operating in Tal Afar. And you can check with many Peshmergas across Iraq and Syria. They will all verify what I say.”

  “I will do that.”

  “I’ll give you their names and phone numbers,” Justin said in a confident voice.

  He had already contacted Commander Aza Sharifi looking for his support, as he had done in a couple of other operations. The commander would not blow Justin’s cover. The other names were fighters with whom Justin had battled jihadists and Turkish occupation forces. They would be telling the truth, albeit not all the truth.

  “But while we wait, if you give me a gun, I can show you my skills.”

  Hadi gave Justin a sideways glance. “I don’t think so.”

  Justin shrugged. “It would move things along.”

  “Where are your teammates from?”

  “Al-Rawi’s from Rutbah. The two women are from China and France. Now, can we get that doctor?”

  Hadi thought about it for a moment, then gestured to one of the gunmen. “Call the doctor.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You and I aren’t finished.” Hadi motioned for Justin to walk in front of him. “You’ll come with me and wait until I’ve checked your story. And there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “
Can’t you tell me?”

  “I can, but it’s better if you find out for yourself.”

  Justin stopped. “My team’s coming with me.”

  “Of course not.” Hadi shook his head. “But they’ll be in the best care my men can give. Nothing will happen to them. But if you lied to me and it ends up you’re an Iranian spy, then—”

  “I’m not an Iranian spy.”

  “We’ll see. Now get going.” Hadi tipped his head toward the nearest Toyota.

  One of the gunmen ran in front of them and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  A second gunman walked behind them, his rifle still pointed at Justin.

  When they reached the truck, Hadi took the front passenger seat, while the gunman sat next to Justin. He drew in a deep breath. Who is this mysterious person, and why do they suspect I’m an Iranian spy?

  Chapter Twenty

  Al-Zemrah, Iraq

  Justin was taken to a small one-story cinderblock house, like most buildings in the village. It was very nondescript; perhaps the only noticeable feature was the black wrought-iron door of the gate, adorned with a heart-like motif. He found it ironic, in this land of so much violence and bloodshed. But he reasoned there were still people who loved and dreamed of a time without fighting and wars.

  Hadi’s men escorted Justin inside the house, then took him to a room near the back. He was not exactly detained, as he was not told he could not go out. However, the implication was clear, since one of the gunmen—a young man in perhaps his early twenties sporting a thin goatee—sat across the floor and kept his Kalashnikov rifle pointed at Justin.

  When he got comfortable sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor, Justin asked the gunman, “What’s your name?”

  He hesitated for a moment, then replied, “Ali.”

  “Ali? That’s a Shia name. What are you doing in this Sunni region?”

  “This is not Sunni. This is my home.”

  “But Sunnis make up almost ninety percent of the people.”

  “So?”