Covert Assassin

by Ethan Jones

  “They’re not your men, or you don’t trust them...”

  Isaac shrugged. “That doesn’t matter to you. It’s a tactical move, and all I need from you is to take care of it. Now, will you do that?”

  “Do I have a choice in the matter?”

  “Yes, you can say ‘no.’”

  Justin grinned. “Right. Who else is going with me?”

  “You can take your foreign fighter from France, who is a CIS operative, right?”

  Justin nodded.

  “What’s her name?”

  “O’Connor, Carrie.”

  “Yes, you can take Carrie and leave the Chinese—”

  “No, she comes with—”

  “No, she doesn’t. I need to make sure you’re going to keep your word.”

  “I will.”

  “I’ve heard that way too many times, from people I thought were noble and men of honor.”

  “I’m not like that, Isaac.”

  “That’s exactly what they said.” Isaac’s voice had turned firm. “She stays, and nothing bad will happen to her as long as you complete your task.”

  Justin opened his mouth, but Isaac cut him off with a stern headshake. “I’m not changing my mind, Justin.”

  “All right, all right. When are we leaving?”

  “Right away. They needed to be in Syria two days ago.”

  “And why didn’t that happen?”

  “There were some complications. Now let’s get you ready.”

  Justin nodded slowly. A sliver of doubt crept into his mind. He felt he was making a serious mistake. He shrugged. Justin always felt a bit nervous when readying for an operation, especially one he had very little control over. The adrenaline rushed through his body, sending his mind and senses into overdrive. He drew in a deep breath, then walked in front of Isaac.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Seven miles south of the Syria-Iraq border

  Justin peered through the dusty, cracked windshield at the winding trail in front of the battered Nissan truck. They had been traveling for over an hour and thankfully had not come across any checkpoints. Isaac had given Justin a detailed road map, and the team had followed it without any detours. So far, it had not let them down. Still, Justin could not shrug off the feeling that soon they were going to run out of good luck.

  He glanced at the rearview mirror, at the faces of the two handcuffed men whom Isaac had simply described as “foreigners,” without providing any details. They were both wearing grayish thobes—the local robe that came to men’s ankles—had long unkempt beards and hair, and remained silent most of the time. The older of the two—who was perhaps in his early forties—had exchanged a few words with Justin when they had first boarded the truck and shortly after they had left the village. Justin could not determine the man’s accent, but he could tell that his Arabic did not have the accent of the Iraqis. And it did not sound like the Arabic that Justin had heard in Syria, although he could not be sure.

  Isaac had labelled the two men “foreigners,” but what exactly did that mean? Were they Jordanians? Saudis? Why were they being dispatched to Syria? Isaac had described that as a “tactical” decision. Tactical in what sense? And for the benefit of who? Mossad? Syria’s newly-formed “democratic” government? Or any of the dozen rebel groups still fighting against the new regime?

  Justin shrugged. So many questions, but no answers. He moved the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of the white SUV following about thirty yards behind. Carrie was behind the steering wheel and another “foreigner” was in the backseat. In the absence of radios for their communication, Justin and Carrie had agreed to maintain the same distance, unless one of them noticed something unusual. So far, that had not happened. Still, Justin felt something was going to go wrong at any moment. It usually did when they traveled these treacherous, lawless lands.

  He took another couple of sharp turns, and the truck came to a long stretch that curved around a small hill. Justin sat tall in his seat and looked ahead as far as he could. Because of the darkness, the dim headlights, and the terrain, he could not see anything around the bend. He peered hard, but still saw nothing. This is the perfect place for an ambush.

  Justin slowed down, then glanced in the rearview mirror. The “foreigners” were calm, and their faces showed no sign of excitement. They may be unaware, or perhaps they’re very good at keeping their emotions in check. He wished he had a radio to communicate the potential danger to Carrie. She’ll clue in soon.

  He pulled his pistol out of the holster and held it tight in his right hand. Then he continued to drive slowly, following the narrow road.

  Justin was expecting the checkpoint that came into view. It was a large Iraqi Army truck, which looked like an old Soviet model. Two black-clad gunmen waving assault rifles were standing on each side, and two trucks were to the side, practically blocking the entire road. Machine guns were mounted on the backs of the trucks, but no gunners were sitting or standing behind them.

  One of the gunmen waved for Justin to park to the left side.

  Justin peered but could not make out the gunman’s facial features. He was a bearded man wearing a black-and-white headdress. When Justin’s eyes went to the rearview mirror, he noticed the younger of the “foreigners” was sitting upright in his seat. Justin asked, “Are they here for you?”

  Before the young man could reply, the older man lurched toward Justin. The man went for Justin’s pistol, but he was able to move his hand out of the reach of the man, who tried again. Justin pushed the man’s cuffed hands away, then threw an elbow that caught him in the face.

  Undeterred by the blow, he lunged for the pistol. Justin raised his left fist, but before he could punch the older man, the young one threw his body over Justin and tried to wrestle the pistol away.

  Left with no other choice, he turned the pistol around and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet found the young man’s side.

  He groaned in pain as blood spurted out of the wound, but his body remained on top of Justin.

  So he fired again.

  The young man shouted, then his body went limp. Justin pushed him away, and the man fell in the front passenger seat.

  The old man’s fists connected with Justin’s ear. He felt the pain shoot through his head and shoved the pistol under the old man’s body. He was faster, and his hand pushed the pistol away. It was just an inch, but enough for Justin’s bullet to miss.

  He tried to turn his wrist, but the old man had clenched it with both his handcuffed hands. Justin shoved the old man back with his shoulder, then twisted his hand holding the pistol. He fired another time, and the bullet struck the old man’s arm.

  He shouted in pain but dove again at Justin.

  He pressed the pistol’s muzzle into the old man’s chest and pulled the trigger twice.

  The old man’s body stopped moving.

  Justin shoved the dead weight onto the backseat, then glanced through the windshield. The nearest gunman was about thirty yards away. He seemed to have noticed the fight inside the truck’s cab and had not yet fired a round, although his rifle was pointed at Justin. But now that the movements inside the cab had stopped, the gunman was probably wondering whether his friends had overpowered the driver.

  The gunman took a few steps forward, closer to the truck. He cocked his head to the right, apparently uncertain of the fight’s aftermath. He took a couple more steps.

  Justin could not let him get any closer. With a quick flick of his wrist, he aimed the pistol at the gunman and fired twice through the windshield. Both bullets struck the gunman in the chest, before he could fire his rifle.

  Justin dropped his head and threw the truck into reverse.

  Bullets began to hammer the front of the truck. The windshield was shattered, and glass fragments rained over his head. He kept his foot on the gas and turned the wheel.

  More bullets pounded the truck, and Justin felt it drop as the tires blew up. The wheels dug into the dirt, and the
truck slowed down.

  The torrent of bullets did not.

  Justin pulled his M4 rifle from underneath the young man’s dead body, then threw his shoulder against the door. He rolled to the ground and flattened his body against the truck. Round after round slammed the other side of the truck. Justin readied his weapon and made his way to the rear. He peered over the side. Muzzle flashes flickered next to the two white trucks. Justin fired quick two-round bursts at the left-side location, then moved his aim to the right-side shooter.

  Both flickers died out.

  Justin looked over his shoulder. Carrie’s SUV was parked about twenty yards behind him. It was within the direct line of sight of the shooters, but he could not be certain the SUV was under fire. The windshield seemed intact, and no one was outside the SUV.

  As he turned his attention toward the checkpoint, a bright orange flare went up from it.

  Justin knew what it was: a rocket-propelled grenade.

  He dove to the ground.

  A split second later, the grenade slammed into the truck.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Seven miles south of the Syria-Iraq border

  The explosion threw shrapnel over Justin’s body. A sharp piece cut through the outer part of his left thigh. A glass fragment sliced his left arm. He covered his head and face, while his ears kept ringing. He crawled further away from the truck, dragging his rifle along with him.

  The hail of bullets continued to pound against the truck. Justin reached the edge of the road and rolled into a small dip formed by heavy truck tires. He swung his rifle around, ignoring the pain shooting from his wounds, and aimed at the checkpoint.

  The targets were partially hidden by the truck, which had caught on fire. A gunman’s silhouette moved toward Justin. He fired a short burst, and the man collapsed onto his knees. Justin fired again. The man fell backwards and did not move.

  Justin turned his rifle toward one of the trucks at the checkpoint. A gunman was swinging a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Justin tapped the trigger, but the rifle did not fire.

  It was jammed.

  Justin pulled back the bolt and tried again.

  Nothing.

  The gunman shouldered his launcher.

  Before he could fire it, a long barrage came from behind Justin.

  He turned his head.

  Carrie had taken a knee and was squeezing off round after round.

  Justin’s eyes went to the gunman. He was not in the last location but had fallen a couple of steps to the left. Justin fumbled with his rifle, but it was still jammed. He tossed it to the side and pulled out his Beretta pistol. He then glanced back at Carrie and shouted, “Cover me.”

  “No, wait.”

  “All right.”

  Carrie dashed across the road, while Justin studied the checkpoint. No gunmen were visible, and no muzzle flashes.

  A moment later, Carrie dropped behind the truck. “Go, go, go,” she said.

  Justin got to his feet and ran bent at the waist.

  Carrie laid a heavy curtain of suppressive fire as Justin advanced toward the truck to the left. He had barely covered half the distance when a gunman appeared from behind the other truck. He fired a quick burst that kicked up dirt around Justin’s feet. The bullets missed by mere inches. Justin fired once, a well-placed round that hit the gunman’s head.

  Justin swung his body toward the left-side truck as two more gunmen popped up near the army truck’s cab. He double-tapped his pistol and dropped the first gunman. As Justin turned the pistol to the second gunman, the man’s chest exploded as Carrie’s barrage cut through him.

  Justin glanced at Carrie for a brief moment, then turned his attention to the truck. No more gunmen materialized around the checkpoint. He studied the bodies strewn about on the ground. One of them, the closest to Justin, was still moving. The man seemed to be clutching at his chest. Under the truck’s headlights, Justin could see blood had stained the man’s khaki jacket. As Justin took a step forward, the man shouted, “Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar.” God is greater.

  A grenade rolled out of his hand toward Justin.

  He had but a second to drop behind the truck.

  The grenade exploded the next moment.

  Shrapnel battered the truck and everything around him. Justin had crouched next to the rear wheel, making his body as small as possible. The truck’s glass shattered, and a curtain of dust began to veil the area around the checkpoint.

  Justin’s ears kept ringing, but still he could hear Carrie’s quick bursts. She was advancing swiftly toward the checkpoint, although he could not be certain of her targets. He climbed to a knee and looked through the thinning dust cloud. No one was moving, but Justin was taking no chances. He pointed the Beretta at the nearest body and planted a couple of rounds in the man’s body. If he was not dead before, he was now.

  Justin shouted, “Clearing the area.”

  “Got it,” she shouted back.

  Justin advanced slowly, double-tapping his pistol as he went. He circled the large army truck and found two dead bodies stretched on that side. Carrie must have taken them out. He checked the other smaller truck. Another dead gunman.

  When he had cleared the checkpoint, he glanced at Carrie, who was standing by the army truck. She was bleeding from a small gash at the left side of her face. “What happened?” Justin asked.

  Carrie shrugged. “You should see the other guy.”

  “He jumped you?”

  “Bad idea.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “No, I thought he might tell us about this.” She waved her arm.

  “I had to kill the two in my truck.”

  Carrie nodded. “I saw the fight. I couldn’t intervene, but I knew you had it.”

  “Barely.” He rubbed his ear and felt the throbbing pain. “Let’s see if we can find something about who these people are.”

  “I’ll interrogate my ‘friend.’”

  “We’ll leave in five.”

  “Let’s take the army truck. My tires are shot up.”

  “Will do. Can you grab my rucksack?”

  “Got it.”

  Justin rummaged through the pockets of the dead men. He collected a couple of Iraqi and Syrian identification cards and three cellphones. He took pictures of the gunmen’s faces, then climbed into the Russian-made truck. It took him a few tries, but he was able to start the engine. The truck sputtered, then belched out a cloud of black smoke, but kept going.

  When he stopped next to Carrie, she gave him a worried look. “I’ve got bad news, Justin.”

  “Worse than that?” He cocked his head toward the checkpoint.

  “Yeah.” She opened the door and climbed into the small cab.

  “Is ‘the foreigner’ dead?”

  “Yeah, but not before telling me about the shooters.”

  “They were trying to free them?”

  “Yes, but he told me who they were. They’re al-Qaeda.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, and the ‘foreigners’ were al-Qaeda fighters from Tunisia.”

  “That’s ... that makes no sense.” Justin shook his head. “Why would Mossad treat and send back al-Qaeda fighters to Syria?”

  “Good question. Isaac might have the answers.”

  “Yes, Isaac.” Justin frowned. “Do you think he knew about the ambush?”

  “No, but he most likely suspected it. That’s why he didn’t want to risk his life or send his men for this op.”

  Justin nodded slowly. “This may not have been avoided, but he should have told us about the package.”

  “Yes, but we’re dealing with Mossad. What do you expect?”

  “Integrity, since we’re allies...”

  “Integrity? That’s a curse word, Justin. The Israelis aren’t anyone’s ally, if what we’ve learned is true.”

  “We have IDs and phone numbers. We’ll find out. The techs in Vienna will put this together.” He gestured at the dashboard, where he had placed the cellpho
nes.

  “Yes, but Isaac’s admission will be crucial.”

  “If there is an admission.”

  “Oh, we’ll get one, even if we have to extract it from him.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Al-Zemrah, Iraq

  It turned out that no extraction would be necessary, whether metaphoric or literal.

  Isaac listened carefully to Justin’s and Carrie’s long, detailed account without interruption. When they were finished, he heaved a deep sigh. “Perhaps I should have told you the whole truth.”

  Justin’s frown deepened. “They were al-Qaeda fighters?”

  Isaac cocked his head and shrugged. “Not exactly. Technically, they could be, but they operate under a different name.”

  Justin shook his head. “What name?”

  “The New People’s Front.”

  “Really? And how are they not al-Qaeda?”

  Carrie said, “They’re financed and trained in Pakistan and Yemen, by al-Qaeda affiliates.”

  “Yes, and that’s why I said ‘technically.’”

  “Well, semantics aside, you should have told us who we were transporting and why.”

  “It would have made no difference. The ambush was planned—”

  “Quite the opposite, Isaac. It would have made a world of a difference. For starters, I would not have agreed to provide safe passage to terrorists.”

  “You had no choice.”

  “I did, but you tricked me. This wasn’t our deal.”

  Isaac shook his head. “I didn’t trick you,” he said in a firm voice. “I just didn’t tell you everything, but I didn’t have to. I told you enough to get your job done. And you didn’t complete it.”

  Justin stepped closer to Isaac. “Did you miss the part about us driving into an ambush?”

  “No, I paid attention. Like I said, it was unavoidable.”

  Justin shook his head but did not say anything. He cursed the turn of events, then asked, “Why didn’t you escort those terrorists?”