Danger Close

by S L Shelton

  As I jostled him backward, he spilled a generous portion of the cheap liquor down the front of my shirt.

  I reached down with my right hand and grasped the would-be mugger’s wrist, squeezing it tightly before turning it roughly to the side and down. The pain in his wrist caused him to release his grip from my throat and his bottle, which shattered on the ground at my feet.

  “Shhh,” I hissed at him.

  He began to raise his voice, so I quickly threw my left arm around and grabbed his face with my hand, pulling him down to my hip. I pressed his head against the side of the building, muffling his cries with my thigh. I pushed him further backward along the sidewalk, getting as far from the corner and the street light as possible.

  I was worried the noise would draw attention, despite the rumble of the truck’s engine. I held him tight against the wall as the truck began to pass, my hand still over his mouth and his wrist still grasped tightly with my other.

  “I’m almost there, Monkey Wrench,” I heard Apollo say in my ear, his breath labored.

  But I couldn’t wait. I released my mugger's wrist long enough to free my right hand and then pounded my fist into the side of his head. He dropped to the ground with a thud as I launched myself out and away from the building.

  I ran hard, falling in line directly behind the big truck so they couldn’t see me in the side mirrors. I couldn’t see inside the canvas-covered back as it began to accelerate down the street, so I pushed my legs as hard as they would go to make up the distance. Just as the truck reached the corner, it slowed enough for me to close the remaining few feet. Stepping up onto the heavy trailer hitch on the back, and reached up, grasping the metal tailgate.

  If there’s anyone in the back, I’m screwed.

  “Spartan, Monkey Wrench is on the truck,” I heard Apollo say.

  Tattletale, I thought.

  “Monkey Wrench, place the tag and get off, now!” Nick hissed into my ear.

  I could have probably spoken without being heard by the driver and Ukil, but I still didn’t know if there was anyone in the back of the truck. As it began to accelerate again after its turn, I peeked over the edge.

  Stacked neatly inside the truck were long metal cases with Russian writing on them—no people. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  I climbed into the back of the truck and peeked over the edge of the boxes to make sure I hadn’t been detected. Once satisfied, I clicked the latch open on one of the cases and then cracked it open.

  They were the Strelets rocket arrays Nick had ordered from Ukil. This truck wasn’t going back to the nukes…it was meant for delivery—to Nick.

  “Spartan, MANPADS,” I whispered.

  There was a short delay in his response.

  Good boy, Nick. Think about it before responding.

  “Monkey Wrench, this is Momma. You’re on site. It’s your call,” John said into my ear.

  I bet that pissed Nick off.

  I had to move forward. It would be useless to tag the truck. I could only hope the driver was a Serb—then maybe I could tag him with a tracer.

  I began climbing over the cases until I could see the driver and Ukil through the cutout in the canvas behind the cab. The two men appeared to be in a heated discussion, giving me a little time to move toward the front, hoping I could catch something they said.

  “—drop off,” I heard Ukil say.

  “You have keys? There are no keys. We couldn’t move truck,” the other man said—the accent sounded like the Bosnian Serbs I’d faced in the Czech Republic back in May. He was my target.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out the active tracer tag and tried to get closer to the window cut out. The back window was folded out at the bottom, giving me hope there might be enough room for me to slip my hand through.

  Like a cat stalking in tall grass, I lowered myself as I slowly crawled over the tops of the rocket cases toward the open flap between the bed and the cab. Holding my breath, I began to reach my hand through the side of the window when the Serb slammed on the brakes.

  I rolled to the side and landed hard against the front of the truck, barely able to get my hand away from the window before one of the cases came crashing down on top of me.

  “No!” the Serb yelled. “You give me keys and I cut deal with Syrians.”

  A disagreement over the arrangements. I was still trying to figure out what was going on when the Serb pulled a gun on Ukil.

  Please don’t fight, I thought.

  Ukil stood his ground. “I already paid you for the rockets,” he said, not backing down from the gun in his face. “You didn’t pay for the other truck. The truck is worth more than the guns on it, so they can unload it themselves.”

  I tried to quietly move the case that had fallen on top of me, but sadly, luck was not on my side. It tipped forward and slid off the side, making a huge BANG.

  I heard both doors open and footsteps running around the sides. I quickly pushed up and forward, squeezing myself between the last rib of the canvas support, before pulling myself through on top of the cab outside. I yanked my feet through just as the two men opened the gate on the back of the truck.

  “You didn’t strap them down?” I heard Ukil ask incredulously.

  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  They hadn’t seen me. I slid down the hood as quietly as I could and then lowered myself to the pavement. I could hear the two of them banging the cases around, trying to get them back in position.

  “Monkey Wrench,” I heard Nick say.

  Shut up, Nick.

  I quickly moved around to the driver’s side door and opened it. The Serb’s jacket hung on the back of the driver's seat, so I slipped the wafer thin tracking device into the inside breast pocket.

  “Monkey Wrench, respond.”

  Please, Nick. Just a few more seconds.

  Then I heard feet hit the pavement at the back of the truck. I quickly closed the door without latching it, so as not to make any more noise, and then dropped to the ground, rolling under the vehicle. I watched Ukil’s feet walking back to the passenger side and disappeared above me as he climbed in. I was about to start crawling backward when the Serb dropped down as well and walked around to the driver’s side.

  “Monkey Wrench,” Nick called.

  I clicked twice on my radio.

  “Status,” he said.

  What?!

  I clicked once. If two clicks meant yes, then one must mean no.

  Jesus, Nick! Give me a minute.

  Lying in the street, beneath the big machine, I flinched when the gears above me engaged and the drive shaft began to spin.

  I took a deep breath and watched as the truck moved over me, like lying on the ocean floor watching a whale pass over. My only hope was that it made no sudden turns until it had passed; it wouldn’t do to have my head crushed by the rear tires—completely unacceptable in fact.

  I lay there for a second after it had cleared my head before rolling to my feet. Once I was up, I walked to the side of the street like nothing had happened.

  Thank God for quiet Saturday nights in Manbij, I thought as I looked around and saw only a handful of people on the street. None of them were paying attention to me.

  “Spartan,” I whispered. “I tagged a Serb. They’re moving away from me now, just turning left about two streets north.”

  “Roger,” he said, then after a couple of beats. “Are you injured?”

  “Sorry, Grandma, I thought I was talking to Spartan,” I snarked with a grin as I trotted back to the corner where I had left my mugger.

  “Foxtrot Oscar, Monkey Wrench,” Nick replied without emotion. I smiled at his subtle reproach— “fuck off” in military phonetic slang.

  “Coming up on the corner, Apollo,” I said.

  “Roger. Aspen, what’s your position?” Apollo asked.

  There was no response. “Aspen, respond,” he repeated

  There was a short pause and then two clicks came across.

  Shit.
Something’s wrong.

  “Apollo, meet me on the street,” I said as I turned and began running back toward the corner around which the Serb and Ukil had disappeared.

  “Roger.”

  As I doubled back the way I had come, I tried to get my brain to focus on what the Serb and Ukil were doing. The information I had, started slipping into flowchart form in typical visual hallucination. Because I was running, the overlaid information created a little vertigo in my head. As soon as I mentally complained about the sensation, the imagery dimmed and the effect ceased—I was able to focus on details. Lines and connections streamed from one detail to the next.

  -Ukil is picking up the rocket launchers from the Serbs.

  -Arguing about another truck with weapons that weren’t as valuable as the truck. (That certainly wasn’t the rocket arrays, so he must have been talking about the weapons for the Syrian rebels.)

  -Ukil must’ve provided the weapons that the rebels were getting. That's the only reason Ukil would have the keys for a second truck. (Then why was he driving a car into town when I saw him the first time?)

  “Spartan. Does Skidmark have a weapon stash in Manbij?” I asked as I ran down the sidewalk.

  “Monkey Wrench, wait.”

  There was a moment’s pause as I looked over my shoulder to see if I was being followed or if Apollo was nearby yet. No to both.

  “Monkey Wrench, we don’t have any data indicating he does,” he said. “But he has passed through Manbij a number of times in the past month—and the Serbs—”

  “Yeah,” I replied, cutting him off after remembering the data I had compiled earlier. “This is a Serb crossroad.”

  “Right,” he replied.

  “How friendly is he with the Serbs?” I asked. “I mean, would they share a secure storage facility?”

  I heard two clicks on my radio. There was no reason for Nick to answer me like that. “Aspen, is that you?”

  Click, click.

  “Are the Serbs at your location?”

  Click, click.

  “And the rebels?” I asked, getting more excited.

  Click, click.

  SCORE! YES! I thought. We’ve got this.

  “Roger, Aspen. On route to your location,” I said. “Apollo, where are you?”

  “Coming your way now,” he replied.

  I looked over my shoulder and saw him turn onto the street. When he pulled up beside me, I jumped in and pulled the computer off his lap. The tracker interface was already running, but now there was a new tag showing for the one I had slipped into the Serb’s coat.

  “Aspen, are you safe for the moment?” I asked as we peeled off down the street, flying through intersections in the dark.

  Click.

  Shit!

  “The tag that I placed on the Serb has stopped two blocks up and one block over,” I said to Apollo as I reached into the backseat and pulled his tactical bag up from the floor of the backseat. “Stop at the next corner and find a place to park.”

  Apollo sniffed in my direction. “You smell like a distillery,” he said quietly.

  “The mugger spilled on me.”

  “You aren’t gonna be able to get close enough to do anything,” he replied. “They’ll smell you coming.”

  “Let’s see what the situation is before we start deciding what can and can’t happen.”

  He sped through the last intersection and pulled up next to a large industrial structure. I closed the screen on the laptop and stuffed it under the seat before getting out.

  We were both running toward the next corner when Nick rasped across my ear. “Monkey Wrench, please don’t tell me you're moving forward on foot,” he said.

  Apollo slapped my shoulder and shook his head, making a cutting motion with his hand.

  But I had to respond or Nick would hound me until I answered.

  Click, click, I responded.

  Several seconds passed and I still didn’t hear a reply as we moved to the next corner. I looked at Apollo as he signaled me to get down before he raised his rifle and peered through the scope.

  He began communicating with me using hand signals, but I had no idea what he was saying. I tapped him on his shoulder and shook my head, letting him know his hand gestures were being wasted on me.

  He shook his head in agitation as he leaned over to whisper into my ear.

  “Aspen is under the car on the corner. The Syrians and a Serb are arguing about something, and Ukil is watching them load a truck,” he said, recapping.

  “The truck I tagged?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No. Delivery truck, parked inside this factory or whatever it is,” he whispered, pointing to the wall we were leaning against. “The back is facing the street.”

  “Aspen, did you place any tags?” I asked.

  Click, click.

  Awesome!

  “On the Serbs?” I asked.

  Click.

  Shit. Well it was worth a shot. I only hoped the jacket I put the tracer on went with the Serbs when they left the site—especially if I didn’t get another chance to tag them.

  I looked around for an idea that would distract the bad guys without giving us away. An idea suddenly occurred to me, but Nick was not going to like it.

  “I’m going to slip back around the block and create a distraction,” I whispered. “Aspen, can you move on your own if the Tangos are preoccupied?”

  Click, click.

  “Good. Apollo is on the corner behind you, he’ll cover your exit,” I said. “I’ll be on the other side. When the party starts, make a break for it.”

  Apollo nodded his agreement with my plan, raising his rifle and night scope to his eye as we got two clicks in reply from Aspen.

  I quickly stripped off my jacket, shoulder holster, and shemagh and then patted Apollo on the shoulder, letting him know they were behind him. Running back down the street the way we had come, I immediately began missing my Glock. Thankfully, I still had my backup, but it would be hard to get to in an emergency.

  I was almost to the truck-loading area in the middle of the block when my earpiece cracked to life again.

  “Monkey Wrench, what are you doing?” Nick asked.

  “Spartan,” came John’s voice, gruffly. “Switch to Lima Channel.”

  THANK YOU, John! Get the babysitter off my back.

  When I reached the cut through at the loading entrance, I turned right and ran past the trucks that were backed up to the docks, waiting for the next work day. As I came around the corner, I stopped behind a cluster of trash cans and looked around.

  I could see the truck the rockets were on, parked along the curb. My Serb and some of the Syrians were arguing about something.

  Here goes everything, I thought and then bounded out into the street, knocking down three trash cans on the corner—then came the musical interlude.

  “Ein Prosit, ein Prosit,” I sang out drunkenly—the only German drinking song I could remember—as I stumbled over the cans. “Der Gemütlichkeit. Ein Prosit, ein Prosit. Der Gemütlichkeit. OANS ZWOA DREI! G’SUFFA!”

  I spoke enough German to be dangerous, but it was Oktoberfest German, as most of my vacations had been arranged around that particular German tradition. Speaking Oktoberfest German only required a rudimentary understanding of the language and a penchant for the profane—I qualified on both counts.

  I stumbled into the street and continued to sing. In my peripheral vision, I saw the Syrians draw their weapons, but the Serb put his hand out for them to stop.

  “Ein Prosit, ein Prosit,” I belted out again as the Serb and two of the Syrian’s slowly walked in my direction. “Der Gemütlichkeit. Ein Prosit, ein Prosit—aw Scheiße.” I fell in the middle of the street.

  The Serb walked up to me and said something belligerent but he had a smile on his face. The Syrians didn’t seem as amused.

  I looked up at them and squinted as if in a drunken stupor. “Zeig mir deine Pflaume!” I yelled brazenly, asking them in German to
show me their “lady parts”.

  The Syrians reached down to grab my arms, but I shooed them away, rolling to my back. “Hoer auf,” I slurred, telling them to get off me and flailing my feet—the perfect portrayal of the self-reliant drunk, though I was thankful for the dark.

  “I’m clear,” I heard Aspen say into my ear.

  The Serb was being more genial. He was laughing as he bent to help me up. I took the opportunity to tear another tracer tag off the sheet in my pocket and slip it onto the underside of the holster. I shakily grabbed onto his waistband to climb to my feet.

  “Danke!” I slurred into his face prompting him to turn his head away from the strong smell of cheap liquor that had spilled down my shirt.

  The two Syrians moved forward to grab me too, so I stealthily slipped a tracer on one of them as well.

  I had to be careful with all this “touchy feely” help I was receiving. If any of them brushed against my leg, they’d feel the Baby Glock strapped to my ankle—and then it would get ugly. As soon as I was on my feet, I pushed them away again. “Danke!” I replied, brushing them off. “Mir es gut.”

  They stood, blinking, not knowing exactly what I would do next. I leaned forward, as if I were about to speak, finger in the air—and then abruptly spun around and started to walk away.

  “Ein Prosit, ein Prosit, Der Gemütlichkeit,” I sang out again, weaving down the center of the avenue, and then I turned to wave good-bye to my new friends. “Guten Abend!” I yelled at them before launching back into my song. “ein Prosit, ein Prosit. Der Gemütlichkeit. OANS ZWOA DREI! G’SUFFA!”

  The Serb was back to laughing at me as I wove down the street. I kept my act up for two blocks, tipping over a few more trashcans for good measure before an old woman poked her head out of a second-story window and yelled something at me in Arabic.

  “Guten Abend, Frauline,” I said in a super heightened whisper and put my finger to my lips, “Shhhhhhhhh.”

  By the time the bad guys had lost interest in me, I was nearly three blocks away and started aiming for the side street.