by D S Kane
They were still just inside the perimeter of the Claymores. Now, when Tariq Houmaz and his men came for them, they’d cross the infrared tripwires coming inward.
They all waited.
Jon realized he had no idea where Houmaz’s men were. The implication rocked him: the plan he’d made might not work. Too late. He scanned the area, his gun hand cramping. Seconds passed and there was an explosion. Must be one of the Claymores. Flesh and blood spewed into the air, coating everything.
Jon swept his gaze left, then right, looking for a tactic that could reverse their fate. “Avram, I don’t see them. How can we fight when we don’t know where they are! Is there any military maneuver that’ll work for us?”
Jon waited for a reply while William found a target and pointed his Beretta at it. The hacker’s shot went wild, but many of their attackers moved away as they shot back in William’s direction.
From the muzzle flash Jon could see where they were. “They’re at my two through my four.” With that, everyone in both his teams fired back and three of their attackers fell from behind a booth, less than ten feet from them. Too close. How’d they get this close?
Now he knew precisely where they were. “Avram, I have a plan. We’re surrounded but the Claymores might work for us if we turn them off until we retreat back through the intersection we came from. It doesn’t appear guarded. Then we draw them after us until they’re within the perimeter. We leave the mines where they were, we just move ourselves and draw the targets within range of the mines. Then turn them back on, trapping them within the perimeter. Turn the mines off right now, then move your team southeast, back the way we came, following me and my team.”
“Right.”
Jon touched William’s shoulder. “Follow me.” Jon and William retreated, laying down covering fire to slow their attackers. He remembered the old military saying, no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.
Jon’s two teams were closely grouped now, and Avram stopped them. “Wait.” He flipped the switch to disarm the mines and led them across the perimeter. “They’ll follow right behind us.”
Jon nodded. “Set up twenty feet past our current position, on both sides of this hall.” He waited twenty seconds before he told Avram to rearm the Claymores. “When they trigger the mines, it’ll kill a few and show the locations of the remainder. It’s our signal to open fire and try to take down the remnant.”
Avram nodded and they waited.
Jon took deep breaths, trying to recover his ability to think. A shattered perfume bottle from one of the vender stalls scented the air. Lisa’s scent. He tried to focus but all he could see were olive-colored eyes in a splash of red hair. He shook his head. And saw Houmaz, smiling, ten feet away, aiming a handgun right at him.
Jon knew he should duck. Houmaz grinned, a nasty twitch at the corner of his mouth. Jon took aim at the bomb maker who had murdered his fiancée and sucked in a deep breath.
He squeezed the trigger, just as Houmaz did. He felt a round pierce his chest. He strained through the pain to keep his eyes open, pulling the trigger again and again, and saw blood arc from Houmaz’s torso in several places before the bomb maker hit the ground.
The souk revolved around Jon as he fell. He bounced on the ground and saw his own wound pulsing blood. Laying there, gazing at the carved ceiling of the souk, he felt his head grow light as though he rode an out-of-control merry-go-round. A set of equations depicting what had just happened swirled in his head and abruptly disappeared.
Jon’s consciousness swirled away. Lisa!
Chapter Thirty-Nine
20 meters east of Al Fursani Rug Merchant, Muttrah Souk, Muscat, Oman
September 24, 10:54 p.m.
William’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light. If he could see, he was sure the darkness wasn’t an obstacle for any of the terrorists either. He looked around at the continuous stream of muzzle flashes. Both their teams were firing at Houmaz’s men. And the Arabs were shooting back. Shit! The firefight made so much noise he couldn’t tell if anyone would hear him.
Less than three feet away, he saw Jon fall, his chest soaking in dark liquid. Jon’s blood. He touched and sniffed it, to be sure. Yes, blood. Then he realized the liquid on his own face wasn’t perspiration. It’s Jon’s blood. All over me! I’m not CryptoMonger here. He pulled the ear bud from Jon’s ear. “Avram! Jon’s hit. It looks real bad. What should I do?”
He heard Avram’s voice. “Keep shooting. And try hitting your targets for a change.”
William saw six Middle Eastern men break cover and charge them. He heard shots from the Mossad weapons just in front of him.
Avram counted their targets as Jon’s team hit them. “Six. Seven. Eight.”
William heard Avram shout, “JD’s hit.” Seconds later he saw one of their attackers launch himself between him and Jon’s body, holding some kind of automatic weapon.
The man was just a few feet away when William pulled the trigger. His first shot went wild, and his target smiled as he pulled the trigger, but his shot went wide. William aimed fast and fired until the clip was empty. Two of his shots hit the man, and one blew a small hole in the man’s forehead. William watched the man’s body fall. He felt dinner coming back up his throat. Jon was right. I’m in over my head.
He picked up the dead man’s automatic.
He looked forward and saw another of Houmaz’s men emerge from behind a corner passageway, holding a similar weapon. William sneered and lifted the gun, aiming it into the target’s body. He was surprised when the bullets came from his gun before he even realized he’d pulled the trigger. His shots went high, but one opened a large hole in the attacker’s throat.
Another loud explosion indicated a Claymore had found its mark. William heard Avram yell, “If Gault told us the truth about how many men Houmaz brought, I think they’re all down. William, we must leave now. Just in case I miscounted or Gault lied about this, too. Hurry. I’ll circle back and pick up Jon. I’ve turned the Claymores off. You just head out as fast as you can.”
William was shocked to find he could only see what was directly in front of him. He felt something wet in the crook of his elbow. It was blood. My blood! He touched the spot and it didn’t even hurt. Rats! The blood seeped so it must not be critical. But seeing it made him dizzy. He turned his head left and right around him. He seemed to be alone. He bolted, sprinting for the entrance and the safety of the street.
As he breached the souk’s exit, William could hear sirens closing on them. Reaching Al Fursani Street, he turned south onto the Muttrah Corniche. Avram caught up, sprinting, and William could see Jon laying slack across Avram’s shoulder. Four of the other coverts from Israel trotted several feet behind, one of them helping JD, who was having trouble walking. One of the Israelis walked backward, facing the souk with his weapon pointed back just in case.
“Avram, is he breathing?”
“Yah, but not for long if we don’t get him to a doctor. Get us a cab!”
William ran out into the street and stood in one of the traffic lanes. He pointed his gun at the driver inside a car. He used his other hand to motion for the driver to stop. As the car halted, he signaled to the driver and the man opened the door and fled from the vehicle. William yelled and the team members converged on him.
As the light of sunrise filled the private room of the doctor’s office, Avram and William stood around the bed. The bandage strapped around Jon’s chest still leaked blood.
The doctor opened the door and walked in holding an iPad. He stared at William. “I was told you are all family.”
William stared back with defiance. “Brother-in-law.”
“Ah, well then. Your family member is no longer on the critical list. He’ll be out for a while longer, and there’s still a chance that he could worsen, from a blood clot or infection. If we can get him to a hospital, he’d have a better chance.” He checked Jon’s vitals and made a note in the iPad. “At least he’s young and strong.” With that
, the doctor left the room.
But, they weren’t safe yet. Would Jon be okay without a hospital? Was Houmaz dead, or still at large?
The SHABEK team that Ben-Levy had sent said goodbye and left to travel back to Israel. Before leaving, Lester Dushov paid the doctor in cash and threatened his life if he told the authorities about his wounded patient. Lester promised Avram an exfiltration team for Jon, William, and him.
But, as the doctor and Jon’s two team members stood at his bed, the door burst open and two burly men entered holding guns. They announced themselves as detectives from Muscat’s local police force. One of them examined Jon and nodded to the other. “Get an ambulance here now. He’ll go to Royal Hospital and these others to the station.”
Avram asked, “What are we charged with?”
One of the men pointed his gun at Avram. “Place these on your friend’s wrists. And then, do the same for yourself.” He handed Avram two sets of handcuffs.
“The charges?” Wing’s voice was just above a whisper.
“Damaging merchant stalls at the souk, for starters. But more important, there are twelve dead bodies you left lying among the ruined merchant stalls. Murder.”
Chapter Forty
Royal Hospital, Muscat, Oman
September 24, 2:32 a.m.
Jon could see her now. She reached for his hand. You did what you promised. I still want you. Come to me now.
Jon reached out. Dying, he realized he still loved her. Even though he hated her. Both feelings raged at each other in the tempest of his mind.
He yearned for her. Touched her outreached fingers. Yes. It was time. It would be so easy now, to give up what he’d become. A murderer whose way was to seek revenge. And become something else.
But the tone of her voice rose. He is dead, Jon, isn’t he?
Jon’s smile vanished. Don’t know. I shot him. Several times. But I wasn’t able to confirm the kill.
She withdrew her hand. Then you can’t. I won’t let you come to me. He was alone again.
Jon’s eyes cracked open. “Whazit?” He coughed and a bolt of pain shot through him from head to toe. He tasted his own blood. “Where am I?”
“Easy now.” The detective touched his shoulder. “You’re in a hospital bed. Looks like you’ll live.” He pointed to the other detective behind him. “You have to answer our questions.”
“Get me something to drink first. And get my doctor.”
The two detectives faced each other and shrugged. One left the room.
Jon modeled the scene in a series of formulas. I’m in an Arab country, albeit an enlightened one. But it’s not a democracy and murder here is still punishable by death. Jon looked at the remaining detective. “Where are my friends?”
“In jail. What happens to them depends on what you tell us. Clear? We don’t torture prisoners in Oman. But if you fail to tell us what we need to know, it will look bad when you are all tried in court.”
Jon was certain the police detectives would pass this case to military intelligence very soon. The Oman government would use torture to get every last bit of intel from them, if they had enough time. Given that, he was sure Ben-Levy would send an exfiltration team. If the timing was poor, he, Avram, and William would be caught in a crossfire. He’d have to get his teammates released from jail before a team arrived.
He stared into the detective’s eyes. His throat was so dry he found it difficult to speak. “Release my friends or I won’t tell you anything. Bring them here.” He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He drifted into sleep.
It was dark outside when he woke. The two detectives were still there. One of them, heavy, with long, oily black hair, asked his name. In the back of the room, he could see William and Avram.
Jon remembered that when he’d gone out hunting Houmaz, he carried no passport. He remembered that Avran and William cleaned their hotel rooms before they all walked to the souk. He was sure they wouldn’t have given his name to the detectives. He wondered, which identity would evoke the least suspicion? Michael O’Hara, Jon Sommers, or Salim al-Muhammed? Not much of a decision. “My name? I’m Salim al-Muhammed. Born in London. Live now in Karachi, Pakistan.”
The older of the two detectives nodded and used a stylus to scribble onto the screen of his iPad. “What about the bodies you left behind in the souk? Shot to death.”
Jon shook his head. “Listen, I murdered no one. It was self-defense.”
The detective entered more notes into his iPad. “You claim you shot all of those men in self-defense? This story of yours is unbelievable. You have no identification, and no permit to carry a gun.”
Jon stared back. “They must have stolen my wallet. I don’t own a gun. Uh, listen. We were attacked while we were leaving the souk. Those men tried to rob us. My friends fled. They must have thought I was right behind them. But one of the robbers caught up to me and I wrestled his gun from him. We fought and I shot him. Then another came after me and shot at me. I used the first man’s gun to kill him. I shot all the others.”
The detective frowned. “Your friends didn’t return to help you?”
Jon took a deep breath to give him time to think. “No. My friends fled. By the time they returned, I was wounded and dying. They found me a doctor and saved my life.”
The detective shook his head. “You’re saying you killed twelve men?”
Jon gawked. What happened to the thirteenth? Hadn’t the three slugs he fired ended Tariq Houmaz? This was something he couldn’t ask. But now he knew someone had helped the bomb maker, just as his team had saved him. Probably Gault. And Houmaz might have survived his wounds that night. “I didn’t count them. It all happened so fast.”
He closed his eyes, bitter tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’m tired now. What happens next?”
The detective pulled out a tape recorder. “Repeat everything you told me, but don’t leave out any details. Start with the moment you entered the souk.” He turned on the unit and motioned toward Jon.
Jon told the story. A complete piece of fiction. He thought as he spoke, making sure everything he said made sense. When he was done, the detective switched off the recorder.
Jon asked again, “What happens next?”
The detective motioned behind him. “We go and file our report. Soon the crime scene reports, ballistics and fingerprints, will come to us. We’ll decide then what to do with you. Your friends can stay in the room with you, but the hallway is guarded by a team of detectives. And this part of the hospital is empty now, occupied only by us and your friends. No one else here. Very quiet. The guards will hear everything you say when you speak.”
The detectives walked out the door, and Jon heard it latch.
Part Four
Chapter Forty-One
Royal Hospital, Muscat, Oman
September 26, 5:29 p.m.
As the sun set outside his hospital room’s windows, Jon tried to sit up in the bed. The excruciating pain drove him near to unconsciousness. He tried rolling on his side instead, and felt his insides twisting within him. He worked to hoist himself into a sitting position.
Avram and William both slept in chairs near his bed. If what Avram whispered to him after the detectives left was true, an exfiltration team would arrive within hours. William had tried the door but it was locked from the outside.
He needed to be ready to leave with them. He wondered if his blood-stained clothing had been taken as evidence. No doubt, yes. He touched the hospital gown. He was naked underneath it. Can’t travel like this.
When the pain had subsided, he braced himself and dropped to the floor. As his feet bounced on the linoleum, pain roiled through him. But, with clenched teeth, he stood and tried to take a step. Not too bad. Another. Yes, I can do this. He took tiny steps, walking to the dresser. Were any clothes within? Could he bend over without losing consciousness? As he bowed, the world spun. No. He took some deep breaths.
The door behind him burst open but the light didn’t go on. “Jon, don’t mo
ve. We’ll help you.” It was the voice of Shula Ries. “Grab his arms, Harry, Samuel. Esther, put the bag of clothes on the bed and undress him.”
Jon tried to smile but his pain forced it out as a sneer. “So pleased to see you, Ms. Ries. And aren’t you sweet, bringing friends to visit.” Jon’s visual field began to stipple. “I, ah…”
When he regained consciousness, he was sitting in a wheelchair, dressed in jeans and a blue-and-white-striped oxford shirt. He scanned in front of him and saw four unconscious uniformed men on the floor, gagged and bound.
Esther led the way, dressed as a nurse. She swung her head left, then right. The other members of Shula’s team flanked Jon.
Shula pushed the wheelchair. Avram and William were gone. He wondered what had become of them. They walked through the emergency entrance and loaded Jon and the chair into an unmarked white van. No one tried to stop them or even asked who they were. He winced as they pushed him into a seat. Avram sat in the driver’s seat and William was parked in the shotgun seat.
The ride along the Muttrah Corniche was bumpy. Every twist, pothole, and rut in the road shot bolts of pain through Jon. He replayed the scene where he was hit and still continued pumping bullets into Houmaz. How could the bomb maker still be alive?
His plans, every one, he thought, had been watertight, yet all of them had failed. And the last plan, so haphazard, had worked. What was the difference?
A sudden realization shocked him. All the teams before had been assigned to him by someone else. By Mossad. By MI-6. The last team, William and Avram, had worked so much better with him. The difference was his faith in his team, not his faith in the plan! The team had formed with a common purpose, to seek justice for what they’d lost.
The key ingredient was trust in each other. He smiled against the pain echoing through him as the van stopped at the edge of the water and its doors sprung open.
