Covert Assassin

by Ethan Jones

  Even worse, he did not know the enemy.

  Sun Tzu would be so disappointed, Justin thought of the ancient Chinese war strategist, whose well-known book, The Art of War, contained the famous quote: Know your enemy.

  Justin shook his head and picked up his rifle. He held it in the high ready position, then glanced at Carrie. She arranged the straps of the bulletproof vest, then she shouldered her knapsack. Justin and Carrie were dressed in their desert tan camouflage fatigues, but they had removed any insignia. The rest of their teammates wore a variety of mismatched clothes. The purpose was to confuse anyone observing their advance as to the identity of the team. If the team could not be easily recognized, perhaps this might hold off any gunfire barrage from the militants defending the village.

  “Ying, we’re moving in,” Justin said into his throat mike and looked through the darkness at the third SUV, which had stopped about fifty yards away.

  “Copy that, Justin.”

  “Stay with the rearguard and the vehicles. We should be back soon.”

  “Inshallah,” said one of the fighters standing next to him. God willing.

  Justin nodded at the small-statured skinny man holding a PKM machine gun, which looked way too large for him. “Yes, if God wills it.”

  “Got it, we’ll stay here, and wait for your return,” Ying said.

  “Good.” Justin turned around. “Isaac, what’s your location?”

  “Up ahead. Taking the first right turn.”

  Justin nodded. The path to the house, at least on the map, went through a right turn, followed by a left. Then, there was an almost straight stretch for about three blocks. Most of the houses were between Justin’s current position and the straight section. If they made it to that point without drawing anyone’s attention and starting a firefight, the rest of the operation would be a breeze.

  “Following right behind you.” Justin gestured to Carrie, then nodded at the two fighters.

  “Let’s finish them,” said one of them in Arabic.

  “No, this is an extraction op,” Justin said. “The objective is to go in and come out without firing a shot, if possible.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” the second fighter said.

  “Probably, but we’re not going to be the ones to open fire. Got it?”

  The fighters nodded.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “Yes, understood,” said the first one.

  “It’s good, it’s good.” The second one nodded, then waved his hand in a gesture to indicate that Justin should relax.

  He drew in a deep breath. One of these guys will expose our position. “Let’s go,” he said in a low voice and hurried down the narrow alley.

  Justin reached the corner of the first house in almost complete silence, but for the sound of his boots tapping on the hard-packed dirt. A dog howled in the distance. Justin stopped and flattened himself against the coarse cinderblock wall. He waited for a moment.

  Silence.

  He peered around the corner.

  Nothing.

  He stepped forward, then whispered into his mike, “Cleared the first house.”

  Justin rushed along the wall, identical to the first one. He suspected the houses were built at the same time, probably by the same masons. When he reached the gate of the second house, he stopped and peered inside the yard. A white Nissan sedan was parked by a series of jerry cans and a wheelbarrow. Justin looked over his shoulder and met Carrie’s eyes. She gave him a firm nod. Justin waved his hand and darted past the gate.

  His team had covered almost half the distance when Isaac’s voice came into Justin’s earpiece, “There’s movement. Two young males.”

  “Armed?” Justin asked.

  “Of course.”

  Justin tightened the grip around his rifle. “Which way?”

  “Heading toward you.”

  “Team, you hear me?” Justin switched to Arabic. “Two gunmen coming at us.”

  “Where?” asked one of the fighters.

  “Up ahead, near the next right turn,” Isaac said, also in Arabic.

  Justin repeated his words for Carrie.

  Then an engine noise came from the yard of one of the houses. A moment later, a gate opened with a loud metal screech.

  “They’re picking up someone—”

  A gunfire burst cut off his words.

  “Contact,” Isaac’s calm voice rang into Justin’s ear.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Rutbah, Iraq

  Justin leaned against the wall. He turned his rifle toward the direction of the gunfire, although he could not see anyone. That could change any second.

  It did.

  The silhouettes of two gunmen appeared through the dimly lit alley. Then the front of a white sedan came into view through the open gate. The headlights fell on the gunmen for a brief moment. They were dressed in brown thobes, bolting toward the sedan, about fifty yards away from Justin.

  He pointed his rifle at the closest gunman but did not open fire. He hoped they would climb into the car and drive in the other direction. They were not a threat, and they were not Justin’s objective. The house where Lim was hiding was still four blocks away.

  One of the gunmen looked at Justin, then brought up his rifle.

  Justin fired first.

  A single, well-placed round struck the gunman in the thigh. He fell against the hood of the car, then disappeared behind it.

  “Engaging the enemy,” Justin said into his mike.

  Across the alley, Carrie fired a quick burst. Her bullets hit the second gunman in the chest. He toppled to the ground and did not move.

  The driver turned the wheel and steered away from Justin’s position.

  He kept his rifle aimed at the car but fired no shots.

  The driver’s maneuver exposed the wounded gunman lying on the ground. He turned his rifle toward Justin, who squeezed off a couple of rounds. They punched holes in the gunman’s chest, and he did not move.

  Justin turned his head to the rest of his team. One of the fighters zipped through the alley swinging a rocket-propelled grenade launcher and ran behind the car. He bolted ahead of Justin, who shouted at him, “No, no, wait, wait.”

  The fighter shouldered the launcher and pulled the trigger. The grenade screamed through the alley, leaving behind a thin trail of smoke. It slammed into the back of the sedan, lighting it up and turning it into a large orange fireball.

  Justin cursed under his breath. The explosion had woken up the whole village, had given away their position, and was going to turn everyone into an enemy combatant. Whatever advantage of surprise the team might have had was now gone.

  The fighter waved at Justin through the thinning dust veil left from the weapon’s breech. Before Justin could say or do anything, the fighter dashed around the corner, going in the opposite direction of the car. “Let’s go, go, go, run,” Justin said into his mike and broke into a sprint.

  Loud machine gun fire erupted from at least two locations.

  Justin hoped one of the outbursts, if not both, were from Isaac’s team. Stephan had a Russian-made PKM 7.62mm, the standard general-purpose machine gun, one of the most common weapons in Iraq. Justin had seen another PKM stashed in the SUV’s trunk but could not remember if Hadi had taken it with him.

  Carrie raced behind Justin.

  He slowed down when he reached the corner, uncertain of what lay beyond. He took a few steps and then peered around the wall. The fighter—or perhaps it was one of the village militiamen—was lying on the ground, about twenty yards away. He was not moving, but the alley was dark, and Justin could not be certain the man was dead.

  Carrie knelt next to him. “Clear?”

  “Negative. Man on the ground. Not sure if he’s dead.”

  Justin glanced around the corner again. A couple of muzzle flashes flickered in the distance, about fifty yards away, on a rooftop. No bullets thumped around him, but Justin was not going to wait. Anyone firing toward him was co
nsidered a justifiable target.

  He squeezed the trigger, sending a few bullets at the flickering fireflies, which went dark. “Isaac, where are you?”

  Static, then Isaac said, “...house ... second house from ... target.”

  “Isaac, I can’t hear you.”

  Static again, then the line went dead.

  Justin glanced at Carrie. “Isaac’s team seems to be close to Lim’s house.”

  “Does he have anyone on rooftops or inside the houses?”

  “No—well, I don’t know. He shouldn’t.”

  The plan was clear that no one from the teams was to take up position inside the houses. The operatives were to stay in the alley, or seek cover just inside the yards, but only if it became a necessity. One of the greatest dangers of urban combat was being mistaken for the enemy and wounded or killed by friendly fire.

  “Let’s go then.”

  “Wait, I hear something.”

  He aimed his rifle, then looked around the corner. In the middle of the alley, a small silhouette was leaning over the wounded or dead man. It had to be a child or a small adult. Justin heard crying, but then an explosion came from somewhere behind them.

  Someone with a flashlight stepped out from one of the houses and dimly lit the alley.

  The explosion interrupted the sobbing. The silhouette stood up. It was a small boy about seven, eight years old. He looked in the direction of the flashlight and in a wavering voice said something inaudible. The person holding the flashlight turned it in Justin’s direction and shouted at the boy in a loud voice full of terror, “Come back home, my son.”

  Justin turned his rifle toward the mother. She presented no immediate threat, but only the hand holding the flashlight was visible. The other one was to her side. What if she has a pistol or a grenade?

  He stood up, keeping the rifle pointed at the mother. “Cover me,” he whispered at Carrie, then shouted at the boy in Arabic, “Listen to your mother. Go home.”

  The boy cocked his head, then turned his body toward Justin. “You ... you killed my dad,” he screamed.

  Justin shook his head and took a couple of steps forward. “No, I did not. I’m sorry it happened.”

  The boy shook his head, then crouched near his father’s body and picked up a rifle. It was heavy and unwieldy, and the boy struggled under the rifle’s weight as he tried to turn it toward Justin.

  His mother hollered, “No, no, leave it. No!”

  “Don’t do it,” Justin said.

  He had aligned his rifle’s sight with the boy’s head. If the boy fired the rifle, especially in the automatic fire mode, it was very likely the bullets would strike Justin. The distance was twenty yards, at the most. He would hate to kill a boy, but Justin would pull the trigger if he had to.

  “Put down the rifle,” he shouted at the boy.

  “No, no, don’t shoot,” the mother screamed.

  The boy had almost turned the rifle completely at Justin.

  He lowered the sight a hair and aimed at the boy’s left leg. He hoped the bullet would cause very little, only temporary damage. He began to pull the rifle’s trigger...

  Then a bullet struck Justin in the chest.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Rutbah, Iraq

  The impact knocked Justin off his feet. He dropped to the ground, struggling for breath, groping for his rifle. He felt as if someone had punched the air out of his lungs. The bulletproof vest took the brunt of the impact, but he still felt the pain. No matter how many times he got shot, he could never get used to the feeling.

  His right hand found the rifle, and he tried to get up.

  “Stay down, down,” Carrie shouted at him.

  Then she fired quick bursts.

  Justin glanced at the boy. He was gone, but the rifle was on the ground, next to the dead man. The boy’s mother had also disappeared. Justin remembered the boy had not fired the shot. But who did?

  Carrie squeezed off a few more rounds, then zipped toward Justin. “How are you?”

  “Good. Who shot me?”

  Carrie gestured toward the nearest house. “Second window. Anything broken?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Good to go?”

  “Yes.”

  Carrie motioned to her left.

  A fighter ran from the corner and darted ahead of them.

  Carrie stood up and glanced around.

  “Two o’clock,” Justin said and pointed to his right.

  Carrie fired a three-round burst at the muzzle flash. “Sharp eye. You’re back already.”

  “I was never gone.”

  She wrapped her arm around Justin and helped him to his feet. “You’re good?”

  “Yes, I only got shot.”

  “Must have been small cal.”

  Justin touched the right side of his chest. The bullet had torn a small piece of the vest but had missed the Maglite in the chest rig pouch. He nodded, then he glanced at the window from where the shooter had fired his pistol.

  Carrie’s eyes met Justin’s. “I took care of him. Let’s hurry.”

  She stepped in front of him, and they ran through the alley. “What happened to the boy?”

  “His mother dragged him home. Were you going to shoot him?”

  Justin did not answer right away. “I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

  Bright headlights lit up the alley in front of them. A couple of gunmen fired from positions they had taken along the walls of one of the houses.

  Bullets kicked up dirt around Justin’s feet. Others whizzed overhead.

  Carrie returned fire, planting three bullets into the first gunman.

  Justin pulled the trigger of the 40mm M320 grenade launcher mounted underneath his rifle. The round struck near the truck, shattering the headlights. Some of the shrapnel must have struck the second gunman, because his gunfire ceased.

  Justin caught up to Carrie. They advanced toward the next house and reached it without exchanging gunfire with anyone. When Justin leaned against the wall and neared the house’s gate, the earpiece rang with an inaudible sound. He tapped it, trying to see if the wire had been damaged. As he wiggled it, he heard the voice of one of the teammates: “Help, we’re—”

  Two gunshots cut off his words.

  “Who was that?” Carrie asked.

  “Don’t know. It sounded like one of the rearguards. Ying? Ying? Come in.”

  No answer.

  “Ying? Ying? Can you hear me?”

  Still no answer.

  Isaac’s voice rang with some background crackle. “Has anyone seen Ying?”

  A couple of negative answers.

  “Justin, we’re at the house. Bad news: No Chinese here.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. We’ve torn up the place.”

  “No hiding places? Tunnels? Holes in the yard?”

  “Nothing, but Hadi and Stephan are searching. Now for good news...”

  A screech of static muted Isaac’s words. Then an explosion came from up ahead. The blast came into Justin’s earpiece, while bright orange flames shot up just outside the target house about fifty yards ahead. A truck turned into a large fireball and fragments rained over the area. “Isaac, Isaac, come in?”

  “Yes ... we’re...” More static, then the line went dead.

  “Go, go, go,” Justin shouted.

  He scurried along the wall, ignoring bullets whizzing overhead and all around him. He was running too fast to see any targets or to return effective fire. So he slowed down just for a moment when he reached the next gate. He aimed at a gunman who had popped up over a rooftop parapet and squeezed off a quick burst. The gunman fell over the parapet, crashing to the ground about ten yards to Justin’s left.

  He then turned his rifle to the right and studied the one-story house. The windows were dark, and no silhouettes were visible along the rooftop, atop the walls, or at the gate. “Cover me,” he whispered at Carrie.

  “Copy that,” she sa
id.

  Justin dashed for the last section. After he covered about fifteen yards, a slender silhouette appeared near the burning truck. It was a woman or a skinny man dressed in dark clothes, shouldering a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. The silhouette turned the launcher in Justin’s direction.

  “RPG, RPG.” Justin jumped toward the nearest gate.

  Justin kicked the gate, but it remained in place. He kicked it harder, throwing all the weight of his body into the action that could save his life.

  The gate swung open.

  Justin rolled inside the yard as the grenade exploded on the other side of the wall. It punched a man-sized hole through the wall, and cinderblock fragments, shrapnel, and dust covered him. Justin’s head was protected, but some of the pieces struck against his legs. One more second. One extra second, and this could have been the end. One of these days, I’ll run out of extra seconds.

  He sighed and crawled away from the gate. He aimed his rifle at the gap. The silhouette was gone. Where did she go?

  Justin stepped closer to the gate and into the alley. Carrie gestured at him from about twenty yards away, then her voice whispered into his ear, “She’s inside the target house.”

  “Cover me.”

  “No, I’ve got this. I’m closer. Cover.”

  “Roger.”

  Justin swung his rifle, covering all directions as he rushed behind Carrie. A couple of bodies were sprawled further up the alley. One of them was the fighter who had lit up the sedan with the rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

  Carrie slipped past the burning truck and stopped as she neared the gate of the target house. Then she took a quick peek.

  Someone must have fired from inside the yard, as Carrie dove for cover along the wall. She ran toward Justin as the wall behind her erupted in a geyser of cinderblocks and shrapnel. The force of the explosion threw Carrie to the ground.

  She remained there for a moment, without moving, as a dust cloud began to cover her.